Untitled

“Javi? You know what I can’t stop thinking about?” I lean closer to his ear while we slow dance, everyone around us watching our first dance as husband and wife.

“Hm?” he mumbles.

“About tonight… about you pushing your fingers inside me again. About you making me come with the same hand that’s only been wearing that ring for a few hours,” I whisper, lightly running my finger over the wedding band sitting on his finger. “The ring that says you’re my husband now.”

I feel him go stiff instantly. His heart starts pounding even harder against me. “Cariño…” he says through gritted teeth. “That is really not something I need to hear while your dad is standing five feet away trying to enjoy our first dance.”

But I know exactly what he’s thinking. About dragging me back inside. Throwing me onto his bed. Peeling this wedding dress off me piece by piece. I know him too well.

And the way his body reacts only proves it. He pulls me closer until my breath catches in my throat. And there it is. The hard bulge pressing against his slacks and fuck, the feeling alone sends heat straight through my stomach. God, I want him so bad.

But we still have the rest of the night ahead of us and I let out a quiet little groan against his ear. “Javi… I seriously don’t think I can wait that long…”

He laughs. Bastard.

I immediately make a face at him so he knows he’s annoying the shit out of me on purpose.

Javi just keeps smiling in that smug teasing way I love so much and honestly? I think the fact that he’s my husband now is turning me on almost more than anything else.

»»—— ⍟ ——«« 

I barely even remember how the rest of the night goes. Some guests already left, some are still staying. Perfect time to disappear. The backyard’s lit up with what feels like a hundred little lights, salsa still playing somewhere nearby. Not as loud as before, but the guests that are left are still drinking, dancing, laughing.

My eyes instantly find Javi.

He’s leaning against the bar talking to John, his best man. His shirt sleeves are rolled up now, bow tie slightly crooked. His hair’s a little messy and he’s got that look on his face that’s half tired, half happy. A look that’s honestly pretty rare for him.

And like I’m fucking hypnotized, my eyes stop on the wedding ring sitting on his left hand again. My breath catches. Heat immediately spreads low in my stomach. God, that ring looks so good on him. Fits him perfectly. On the hand that can be rough and gentle at the same time. The hand that carries a gun and flashes a DEA badge. The hand that knows exactly how to make me fall apart once the apartment door closes behind us.

And immediately my brain flashes back to the last time we had sex. A week ago. I genuinely don’t know how we survived an entire week without jumping each other, but… pre wedding stress. Which only makes me want him even more now. Need him even more. I press my thighs together like that’s somehow gonna help.

And right then, I feel his eyes on me. And I know he knows. I just know it. That stupid smug smirk appears on his face and he slowly runs the fingers of his other hand over his wedding ring on purpose. And yes. He’s absolutely doing it on purpose. He remembered what I whispered in his ear during our first dance. About wanting him to use the hand wearing proof of our vows to make me see fucking stars.

I stop processing anything around me after that. Thighs still pressed together, breathing getting heavier.

And just when I’m about to interrupt his conversation with John and announce that I’m stealing my husband for a while, Javi excuses himself first, pats John on the shoulder, and starts walking toward me. Finally. He steps right up to me, leans down for a kiss, softly brushing his hand along my arm. “What’s wrong, mi amor?” he whispers against my lips.

I pull back just enough to breathe out, “Javi… take me upstairs… please.” That’s it.

His pupils darken instantly, his whole expression changing, that dangerous little smile pulling at his mouth. And then suddenly he picks me up into his arms hard enough to make me laugh.

I swear, I love how playful he gets. But at this point I can barely wait for him to tear this dress off me.

Still laughing quietly, he carries me through the remaining wedding guests toward the house. 

Everyone thinks it’s cute. Sweet. Nobody has any idea what’s actually about to happen once the bedroom door closes. And honestly? That only turns me on even more.

»»—— ⍟ ——«« 

The door to Javi’s old bedroom at the ranch barely even shuts behind us before he’s got me pressed against it, both hands on my face, kissing me hard. Deep, messy, hungry kisses. Like he’s been thinking about this all damn day and honestly? I think we both have. His hands are already all over me. He reaches for the back of my dress, fumbling with the zipper for a second before finally getting it down. Then he pushes the straps off my shoulders and the dress slips all the way down to my feet.

Thank fucking god I didn’t go for some giant princess wedding dress because that probably would’ve killed the entire mood right there.

Javi pulls back just enough to look at me.

I’m standing in front of him in nothing but my panties. And the way he’s staring at me immediately sends goosebumps over my skin.

“Oh fuck…” he mutters lowly. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” Then he’s right back against me again. His mouth drags along my neck while his fingers toy with one of my nipples, slow and lazy at first.

“Javi…” I breathe out against his ear.

“What do you want, cariño?” he whispers. His free hand slides down my stomach to my panties, thumb brushing slowly along the waistband before he taps lightly over my pussy through the fabric. “This what you want, hm?”

I push my hips against his hand without even thinking and the tiny bit of friction makes my whole body tense. Fuck. I’m already getting wetter.

“Mmm… so wet already,” Javi murmurs, sounding way too pleased with himself. “So perfect… so fucking mine…” His words go straight to my head.

I start unbuttoning his pants, where there’s already a very obvious bulge straining underneath. “Javi…” I gasp when he suddenly pinches my nipple a little harder. “That ring…” I mumble breathlessly while trying to get my hand inside his pants. “You’re not taking it off, right?”

He looks straight at me for a second like he’s enjoying this way too much. “Wasn’t planning to, mi amor.” Then he finally stops teasing me and backs me toward the edge of the bed. He pushes me down gently and I move farther onto the mattress on my elbows, still wearing my panties.

But since he keeps staring at me like that, I slowly start pulling them down myself. Slow. On purpose. I lift my hips and once they’re hanging around my ankles, I kick them off onto the floor beside the bed.

Javi watches every second of it without looking away once.

So I spread my knees for him. And fuck, I actually see him swallow.

He finally finishes unzipping his pants, the zipper I didn’t manage to fully undo before, then shoves both his pants and boxers down around his ankles. Now he’s standing there in nothing but that white shirt, a few buttons at the top still undone. Classic Javier Peña. His cock is hard as hell, standing thick and heavy against his stomach like he really fucking likes what he sees.

I slide my hand down between my thighs and start rubbing circles over my clit with my fingertip. Slowly dragging it between my folds while my other hand squeezes my breast. I’m turned on so bad at this point I can feel it everywhere in my body.

And it gets even worse when Javi grabs his cock and starts stroking himself slow, eyes completely locked on me the whole time.

I keep touching myself, already so fucking wet. The second I push two fingers inside my pussy, a soft wet sound fills the room and I let out a shaky moan. Fuck. It feels good. But I want his fingers more.

Javi’s breathing gets heavier watching me. Watching the way I finger myself for him. “Hermosa… fuck…” he mutters quietly, still jerking himself off. “You’re driving me fucking crazy like this… I love that sound you make."

My fingers speed up. In and out. In and out. And I can’t stop staring at the hand he’s using. The one with the wedding ring. The symbol of our forever. And god, I’m so wet now the slick sounds coming from between my legs just keep getting louder.

That’s what finally snaps something in him. Javi lets go of his cock and moves closer to the bed, climbing over me on his knees. The mattress shifts slightly under his weight.

I still have my fingers inside myself. Never stopped.

He keeps staring straight into my eyes the entire time. Even when he gently grabs my wrist and slowly pulls my fingers out of my pussy. Then he lifts my hand between us and looks at my wet fingers for a second. “Hm… this for me, cariño?” he says softly. And without breaking eye contact, he slides my fingers into his mouth. His tongue moves around them slowly, licking me off like he wants every last drop. Like he’s obsessed with the fact I’m this wet because of him. Always because of him.

After a few seconds, he pulls my fingers from his mouth and puts my hand back down beside me. “My turn,” he murmurs.

Fuck. Just hearing his voice like that sends heat through my whole body.

The empty feeling between my legs after he pulled my fingers out disappears immediately when he pushes his own fingers inside me instead.

I moan right away, one hand grabbing the pillow behind me while the other keeps rubbing my nipple.

Javi pushes that hand away too, pinning it above my head with the other one. He doesn’t say it out loud, but I know exactly what he means. Keep them there.

Then he starts moving his fingers inside me again. Slow at first. So fucking slow. He pushes them deeper and I feel the cold metal of his wedding ring brush against the inside of my thigh and somehow that turns me on even more.

Because holy fuck. This is the first time he’s fingering me as my husband. And god, I fucking love it. Javier Peña fingering his wife after their wedding with the same hand wearing his wedding ring is genuinely a deadly combination.

His fingers know exactly what they’re doing. Precise. Confident. He knows my body perfectly by now. Knows exactly where to touch me, exactly where I’m weakest. His fingers curl right against my G-spot and I can’t hold the sounds back anymore.

“Javi… please… mhm… don’t stop…” I moan helplessly. I catch the little smile on his face right before my eyes fall shut and my head sinks deeper into the mattress.

“Wasn’t planning to, baby,” Javi whispers. And right when he presses harder against my G-spot, he leans down and starts kissing and biting at my neck.

Fuck, I love this. I’m twisting underneath him at this point, hips lifting on their own.

“Stay still,” he murmurs against my skin, pushing my hips back down into the mattress.

I listen. Or at least I try to. But I honestly don’t know how much longer I can take this.

Javi starts moving his fingers faster now, harder, more intense, like he’s trying to completely ruin me. Like he wants me to feel him everywhere tomorrow. Every time I sit down. “Mm, love it when you squirm for me, baby… tells me how good I’m making you feel…” he whispers into my ear and fuck, I’m completely gone at this point.

Then his thumb presses against my clit while his fingers keep driving into that spot inside me over and over again. Slow circles. Hard thrusts. He wants to make me come. And the way he keeps switching between slow movements and rougher ones is driving me absolutely insane.

“Javi…!” I cry out when he pulls his fingers out for a second only to shove them back inside me again. One deep hard thrust of his fingers and pressure against my clit at the same time and suddenly I’m clenching violently around him as the orgasm hits me all at once.

I cry out loud and Javi doesn’t even try to quiet me down. I can feel my pussy squeezing hard around his fingers and the bastard actually spreads them apart inside me on purpose just to drag it out longer.

“Javi… I can’t… I…” I whine and gasp, practically crying at this point for him to stop while not actually wanting him to stop at all because the orgasms just keep rolling through me one after another and I swear to god I never want it to end.

But then suddenly Javi pulls his fingers out of me completely and moves away.

I let out this pathetic broken sound and my eyes fly open instantly, glaring at him. My knees are shaking so hard I can barely handle it. “Javi… please…” I don’t even care how desperate I sound.

He’s towering over me, cock still hard as hell, and I already know what’s coming next. And yeah.

Javi doesn’t make me wait anymore. He grabs my thighs, spreads them even wider, and drags me closer to him. And then he pushes his cock inside me. One hard thrust. "Oh baby, you're so perfectly wet... and tight... I love it so fucking much," he moans.

I sob out loud instantly, hands gripping the sheets beneath me. “Javi, oh my god–” I’m basically crying out nonsense at this point. I can feel my pussy tightening around him and I honestly can’t even tell if it’s still the aftermath of the first orgasm or if he already dragged another one out of me. My brain’s completely gone.

Javi starts moving inside me. Deep. Slow at first. Filling me completely.

I moan loudly and he leans over me, kissing me again while he fucks me, in and out, in and out, his rhythm getting rougher by the second.

Then his left hand finds mine.

My fingers immediately brush against the wedding ring on his finger. “I love you… fuck, I love you so much, Javi…” I gasp against his mouth.

Javi doesn’t answer. But I feel him smile.

And then his thrusts speed up and the sounds he starts making tell me he’s getting close. A few more deep thrusts and suddenly he pulls out of me with a rough groan, jerks himself a couple times, and then all I hear are his broken moans matching the waves of his orgasm. Hot cum lands across my stomach and pussy while Javi groans through it, emptying everything onto me.

And somehow that’s so fucking hot it makes my body clench all over again even with him outside me now. I moan and grip the sheets harder while another orgasm crashes through me.

I don’t even know how long it lasts. But eventually both our breathing starts calming down.

When I finally open my eyes, Javi’s hovering over me, hair sticking up everywhere, skin slightly sweaty, looking exactly like a man who just got off insanely well.

My pussy’s still stretched open around the entrance because yeah… Javi is definitely not a small man. Then he slowly drags the tip of his cock through my folds, spreading some of his cum there carefully. Not pushing back inside. Just teasing.

We’ve talked about kids before. Someday in the future. Not now. Although honestly… we’re clearly not being very careful either. The thought makes me laugh quietly to myself.

Javi grins and finally collapses down onto the bed beside me, pulling me onto his chest. Shirt still on, because obviously he never even bothered taking it off. “Next time…” he mumbles into my hair while I lay there breathing him in, “I’m bringing condoms with me because I’m not spending our entire honeymoon cumming outside you.”

Then he kisses the top of my head and I smile. I reach for the hand with his wedding ring and lace our fingers together.

Honestly? If this is what the honeymoon’s gonna be like, I’m suddenly even more excited for it.

Thank you so much for reading ♡ Likes, comments and reblogs always make me happy and help the fic find more people ♡

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THEN

Frankie's dad loves to slap the back of his head. Whether it's in jest or disgust, Frankie can usually anticipate a sharp sting at the base of his scalp. 

He was sitting there eating cereal in the kitchen when the sharp snap came. He yelped, hand going to rub the sore spot. 

His father stands next to the table, posture rigid. He has a buzz cut, square jaw chiselled, his shave as close to smooth as possible. 

Frankie touches the brim of his hat as he pops it on anxiously. It's safer that way - his father doesn't usually hit him upside the head when the hat is on. 

"You can't bring that with you to base," Frankie's dad mutters, plopping his heavy body at the end of the table. "No personal items." 

"I know. I'm going to drop it off at a Pip's." 

"Why the hell would you do that?" 

Frankie feels his cheeks get warm. How can he explain that he just wants to see you before he goes? Wants to ask you to write him while he's gone. 

"It's her hat. She just lent it to me." 

His dad makes a scoffing noise as his mother brings a cup of fresh coffee, placing it at his elbow. 

"That girl's whole family is trash," he says with a shake of his head, sipping his coffee. "I'm glad you're getting away from her and that Santiago boy."

Frankie doesn't understand how they can all be so similar socioeconomically, and yet his dad can have so much disdain for people like Pip and Santi. 

"I caught her mother coming out of the liquor store at ten in the morning. She was already three sheets," he says with a shake of his head. "No wonder her oldest is always getting into trouble. Little slut."

Frankie hangs his head, hair falling into his face, feeling like a traitor when he says nothing to stick up for you or your sister. But he's learned the hard way that the less his father knows the safer.

"Jesus, Francisco," his father snaps. "It's a good thing you're headed to basic. You look like a fucking girl with that hair." 

That's the last thing Frankie remembers of his family before he left for basic. The interaction that will stay with him forever. 

Since the funeral Frankie sometimes goes over that last morning with his father. The ugliness in the senior Morales, his mother's turned back at the stove as her husband rained down insult after insult. The thought makes him sick sometimes. 

The first few days back home had been hell. Family, planning the funeral, insurance workers, the bank and everyone with an opinion on what to do with his life and the house. 

But when he saw you that day, felt the softness of support as you sat next to him on that sofa, all he wanted was you. And without the parental figures that haunted this home, it felt he could acknowledge it fully. 

The two of you rested on towels over the grass of his backyard the following week. The day was sunny and sweet and the wind tickled along gooseflesh dotted arms. Cold glasses of lemonade rested at your elbows. 

"Do you think Santi knows about us?"  Your voice is soft and a little tentative. You’re leaned back, face basking in the warmth of the day. 

Frankie moves to rest his head on your belly, eyes closed behind his aviators.

"No. He's so distracted with girls he has no idea."

"You're sure?"

"Mhm." He cracks open one eye, seeing the pinched expression you wear. "Why?"

"I'm just scared of what he'll say." 

You can't relax and he can feel the tension in your tight muscles. He feels a sudden surge of guilt. 

"Is this stressing you out too much?" He asks, his own nerves catching up to him. "Did you want to stop-"

"No."

Your answer is immediate and Frankie has to tamp down the delighted grin his mouth wants to curl into. 

"Me neither." 

He sneaks a glance at you behind his sunglasses, to the small contented smile you wear. 

If only every day could have you in it. 

He wants to hold you and take care of you and atone for all the times his dad disparaged you and your family while he remained silent. He wants to protect you from anyone and anything that might harm you.

He wants a family that was nothing like his own. 

"It's so weird to see your hair so short," you murmur, fingers moving to card through his shorn locks. He makes a soft purring noise, like a contented cat.

"You should grow it back." 

"Can't," Frankie says around a yawn. "Have to keep it short for service." 

He goes quiet for a moment, cheeks warming as he thinks back to so many years ago, the scars of which never seen to heal. 

"Besides, didn't you think my longer hair made me look like a girl?"

He feels you look down at him strangely, but he keeps his attention on something in the distance, shielded by his frames. 

"Of course not," you answer gently. "Your hair is so beautiful, Frankie." You start to stroke his short hair once more. "Everything about you is beautiful." 

He loves you, he acknowledges. He's known for a while but this perfect moment, this mending of his soul makes it so apparent. Soon after he has a thought that makes his body break out in delicious warmth. 

He's going to marry you one day. 

"Pip? Can you hear me?" 

The sound of a deep, husky voice startles you into wakefulness, your heart tapping unsteadily.

You groan, body aching all over. You feel disoriented, eyes struggling to blink open.It takes you a moment to realize you're slumped over your steering wheel. 

When you look closer you see a dark smear of something marked along the edge of the steering wheel. 

Through the spider web of cracks along the windshield you take in the side of the building the truck skidded into from the road. It blocks your driver's side, casting a shadow that makes you winced. Your water bottle and mom’s old prescription bottles have flung everywhere, your purse contents spilled in the collision. 

The tick of the cooling engine is like a frantic heartbeat and something warm is dripping from your forehead. When you swallow you realize its blood. Why are you bleeding? You hiss when a pulse of pain throbs behind your eyes, slamming them closed. 

"Pip?"

The voice is back. 

It’s  raspy and familiar. It soothes you. And you immediately realize who it is. 

You slowly crack open your eyes in the direction of the voice. A familiar shadow is standing there at the passenger’s side of the truck. 

Frankie. 

Everything looks fuzzy at the edges, like someone put Vaseline on the lens of a camera.

You’re dead. This is the afterlife and somehow Frankie is there to greet you. You're scared, but the thought of Frankie being there gives you a sense of calm. 

You raise a shaky hand his way.

"It's you." 

He's beautiful and broad and he's tugging at the door, swearing in frustration. 

"It's me, baby," Frankie says in a choked voice. You can't see much, but you make out his dark eyes which look wet. 

All the feelings you've been biting back for ages are fighting to escape. Like the proverbial floodgates being opened. You need to tell him everything. 

"Frankie I wanted to tell you-"

"Later," he says, eyes intense. "Right now we need to get you out, okay? The doors are wrenched shut. Can you unbuckle and crawl over to me?" 

Yes, you realize after a few moments of fumbling. You can and your do, knees scraping some of the safety glass that landed on the bench seat. 

But you don't care about the pain. All you want is Frankie's arms around you. To be held by him. To tell him everything. The pain of not being with him all these years hurts worse than the scrapes and bruises along your body.

He's reaching through the broken window towards you. You see he's removed his jacket and placed it along the edges to ensure you don't cut yourself. 

"Frankie-"

You're so close, almost about to raise your arms in return when you hear the sound of your own unsteady breathing. 

"I've got you," Frankie's encourages, arms outstretched your way. His fingertips manage to graze your cheek. 

But his voice starts to sound muffled and far away. When you blink it gets darker at the edges until Frankie is a pinprick. 

"Pip, keep going-" 

You try to focus, to respond to Frankie's call but your head is so heavy and the darkness is overpowering. 

THEN

Frankie's throat is caked with dirt, his face smudged with perspiration. He wishes he could wipe at his face with his arm, but the sleeves are rolled down to keep from scrapes despite the sweltering heat. 

On top of that his ballistic helmet sits snugly over his head, his night vision goggles making it easier to see.  

The fatigues he and the rest of his team wear are muted greens and beige that help them blend into the environment. Pope's is in front of him, body coiled tight. He wears the same gear as Frankie, but his is worn and well lived in whereas Frankie's is more meticulous. 

Just like his dad expects.

"Left clear." 

Will and Tom flank Pope, their faces firm lines of intense focus. They've been on several missions together and training at base. Somehow Frankie stumbled upon a group of friends he wasn't expecting. 

He hadn't expected to see Santi sailing into basic a day after he did. Didn't expect the relief he felt at the friendly face. He didn't expect the haughty Tom and the quiet and calm Will to gravitate to them after their first mission together. But soon they were a strange little family all their own. 

Now after a gruelling rehearsal earlier, they are here at drug kingpin Charles Moss' compound in Argentina, ready to take him down. 

The magazines and rifles are held tightly to their bodies. Despite the amount of times they've done this, Frankie still feels that initial hiccup behind his heart. 

These are the moments, these calms before the storm where his mind plays cruel tricks, where his thoughts betray him. Where they distract him from what he should be thinking about.

A dark baseball cap.

A kite in a tree.

Lightning bugs.

Pip.

He hates that you can find her way into his head during moments like these, but you always do. 

He hates it because it causes him to imagine a world where he doesn’t survive his mission. It makes him imagine a world where he never sees you again.

And considering how you broke his heart he should be over that by now.  But he's not. 

Frankie watches as Will raises his left hand, curling a fist and that drags him back to the present. The group of them pause, taking stock of their surroundings and clearing the corners. 

They move swiftly as Tom deploys the first flash bang. They flood the room like a broken dam, weapons raised, voices clipped.

"Left clear."

"Right clear."

"Moving."

Another flash bang is detonated, white light blasting like thunder. The men moved through the ringing aftermath with their heavy rifles at the ready. 

A large man stumbles from a doorway with a hand over one ear. He's disoriented from the flash bang and reaches clumsily for his weapon. 

Will closes the distance in two strides, the butt of his rifle knocking the man out. Frankie is quick with the zip ties, securing him.

The man swears at them in Spanish, spittle flying from his lips. But it doesn't matter; they've come for who they needed. When his goons come sailing in they're all easily taken out by the four soldiers. It's done with calm efficiency and stoic expressions. 

They've done this countless times before. And today's the earlier rehearsal has them prepared. They just have to stay on script. 

Unfortunately Pope has never been particularly adept at playing by the rules. Especially not when the sound of a woman's cry is heard echoing from somewhere deeper in the compound. 

"Left stairs. Let's go." 

"Not the plan," Tom hisses, eyes scanning the perimeter. "Not how we rehearsed. Simple extraction of Moss, which we've done." 

"I don't give a shit," Pope snaps. "I hear a civilian." 

Frankie can see the strain on his friends face from where he stands. But he doesn't defend  Pope because Frankie plays by the rules. And yet as the cry is heard once more, he doesn't hesitate to follow his friend. 

“Let’s go.”

Will and Tom swear under their breath, but Frankie is already trailing after Pope, whispering his name. They round the corners, feet scraping against dirty stairs. Frankie is focused, advancing room by room. Pope is always out front, attention keen. 

He pivots, covering a doorway while an approaching Will moves past him. Tom is nowhere to be seen, likely still with Moss. 

A shout echoes from somewhere ahead. Pope is jogging, gear clinking as he moves. Will is close behind him, sweeping the corners. 

"Hostages located!"

When Frankie pushes into the room after them he can see several frightened female civilians huddled against a crumbling wall. These are drug mules that Moss uses. 

There are at least six of them, all shackled by their feet to the cement floor. 

Pope and Will sweep the room, making sure there are no immediate threats. There's no other door, no windows.

It's safe.

Frankie stands in the center, scanning the room. The adrenaline is already beginning to fade, leaving only exhaustion behind. Will and Pope begin working on the women's metal shackles, blades popping the screws. 

Frankie copies Pope and lowers his rifle slightly when a woman with dark makeup looks up at him from the ground in fear. 

"¿Vas a hacernos daño?". 

Frankie kneels next to her speaking in a calm voice.

"Estamos aquí para rescatarte a ti y a tus amigas."

His rifle is tossed over his shoulder as he reaches down for her shackled feet. She wears many layers, covering the ground under her. 

He looks over at Will who announces he's going to take the first batch of girls with him to a secure location. He watches the women leave after Will, their bodies thin and shaking. 

The sharp pain in Frankie's shoulder catches him by surprise. A painful blast of hot, stinging pain causes him to yelp in pain. 

"Fuck!" 

He looks at the woman in confusion before he twists away, realizing that it’s a sharp blade sinking into his shoulder. He realizes now she's not bound like the other girls in here. She likely works for Moss collecting girls for trafficking and probably enjoys the power of her station. 

She pulls the blade from his shoulder as Frankie kicks her off of him. The woman snarls at him, teeth bared as she raises the blade again. 

"¡No te llevarás a mis hij-"

She doesn't finish the sentence before Pope has her knocked face down in the dirt, securing her wrists behind her. He looks down at Frankie with concern as he ensures she properly restrained. 

Frankie can feel as blood bubbles forth from the wound. It's warm and there's so much of it. His breathing is uneven, starting to come out raspy. 

"You okay, Fish?" 

Frankie is trying to respond but he's starting to feel lightheaded. The smell of gunpowder and old sweat is causing his stomach to churn. 

Outside, helicopters are whirring away in the distance, but they are growing muted. And there he falls onto his back, eyes on the dirty ceiling. 

This will be the last thing he ever sees.

He's going to die now.

He can feel death coming for him like an old friend covering him with a blanket, whispering soothing words. And he's not upset because he's afraid of dying. No, the bone deep  fear is never seeing you again. Never holding you, never kissing you, never forgiving you. 

He could have forgiven you.

He loves you. 

It's getting foggy in his brain, dark at the edges of his vision. Pope is saying something but he's so cold and he's so tired. He can say only one thing as he surrenders to unconsciousness. 

"Pip." 

"Pip."

You hear the sound of tires over gravel. You're in a vehicle and it's moving steadily. But that's Frankie's voice, worried and tight.

"C'mon baby, stay awake."

You feel a seat belt over your chest, the chair pushed back so you're in repose. 

Didn't something happen to you truck? What happened again? 

You try to ask about where you are but it comes out mumbled gibberish. Your tongue re feels too big for your mouth. You close your eyes, slumping back.

"Stay awake," Frankie's worried voice tells you. "Can you hear me? Don't fall back asleep." 

You go to sit up, groaning when a sharp pain slices through your temple at the attempt. Your hand flies to your head, eyes squeezed shut. 

"Fuck!" 

"Relax. Just relax. We're almost there." 

Your eyes flutter open slowly, eyes slanting to the left in the direction of the voice. 

"Frankie? How are - Where am I?" 

"We're almost to the hospital." 

Frankie is driving quickly, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel as he maneuvers through traffic. Your body goes cold, fingers gripping either side of the seat.

"Hospital? What happened? Is it my mom?" 

Frankie makes a soothing cluck under his breath, hand groping for yours across the bed of the truck. His hand dwarfs yours, warm and steady as he squeezes. He doesn't tremble like you do. 

"Slow down. Breathe. Your mom is at home with Hilary." His eyes shift your way and then back to the road "We're going to the hospital for you." 

"For me?" You pause. "What? Why?" 

"You don't remember?"

"No."

"Some asshole blew through a stop sign and totaled your mom's truck." 

Fragments of memory are starting to come back, the sound of the crunching truck frame, the jerk of you against your seat belt. 

“We’re here.”

Your eyes hurt, blinking as the emergency room comes into view. Frankie parks quickly, looking over at you with scrutiny. 

"Look at me for a sec." 

You glance over at Frankie, hissing when his big hand moves from covering yours to brush back the stray hair across your forehead. 

"The cut on your head isn't bleeding anymore. Good." He unbuckles your seat belt and then his own. "Let's go." 

To the ER? While your mother lays dying at home?

Not just that, you think of the insurance that won't be accepted in a Florida hospital. You think of the bills that will await you. 

"It's too expensive-"

"I don't give a shit," Frankie interrupts, tugging his key from the ignition. "We're here and you're going to be seen by a doctor." 

He reaches over, unbuckling your safety belt.

"I can't," you say, briefly shaking your head until the motion makes your skull ache. "They'll keep me all day. I need to get back to my mom." 

"No." 

The single word is a boom in the cab of the truck. You stare at Frankie open-mouthed as he exits the truck, tall form stalking around to your side. His hair is sticking out from under his cap, muscled body held taut under the T-shirt, like he's going to fall apart if he doesn't.

When he flings open the door his eyes are sharp.  "Come out." 

"No. Just take me home," you whine, your head pounding, irritability flooding you. You want to go to sleep in your own bed. You just want to sleep. “Please, Frankie.”

Frankie steps even closer, voice low. 

"I'm not arguing with you about this." 

When he reaches his long arms out to you, you try to angle away from him but his hands are on your hips, gently removing you from his truck. You're too exhausted to fight back. 

His grip is surprisingly gentle as he tugs you out onto the sidewalk. He makes sure you're stable, feet planted firmly on the ground before he crouches, making sure he's eye level with you. 

"Either you walk into that ER right now or I carry you." 

"I can't, Frankie," you whimper. Everything feels too bright, too loud, too overwhelming. "Just take me home." 

His hands cover your shoulders, squeezing ever so gently. 

"Baby, listen to me," he says, voice low and tender. "I'm taking you into the hospital and I'm not leaving until I know you're okay."

He points over your shoulder at the emergency room but you can't look away from his face. From the fierceness in his expression, the burning intensity in his eyes. 

“I have always tried my best to protect you. So go ahead and keep on hating me if you need to." His cheek twitches as his eyes take on a glassy look. "But I'm not losing your stubborn ass, do you understand me? Not this time."

The tone of his voice is intense, but the words border on melodic. His voice holds that power, the rough touching the soft. You gaze up at the man you want nothing more than to care for. At the man you wasted so many years apart from. 

And as he pulls you gently to the emergency room, all you can do is let silent tears fall down your cheeks, the same words going over and over in your mind.

I don’t hate you Frankie. I love you.

THEN

You remember the carnival coming to town one summer. It was one of those cheap things that moved from place to place setting up overpriced cotton candy stalls and rusted rides as tired looking staff, tried to persuade you into paying extreme sums to throw darts at balloons. 

However, growing up with little cash meant you knew to avoid those classic money traps. All you wanted to do was ride the roller coaster, the flashing sight of its neon green track greeting you the entire week you took the bus to and from school. 

Santi promised to take you when you told him about it, and true to his word showed up with an excited look on his young face that Friday night. 

"No rollercoaster," he tells you as you scramble to pull on a light jacket. ""I'll go on any other ride but that." 

Hilary in a rare moment of sisterly tolerance agrees to come that evening as well. She even drives the three of you in your mom's pickup truck, listening to you whine to Santi about the ride. 

"Please, Santi."

"No way, Pip. I hate those things." 

"But Santi-"

"I'll take you on the stupid roller coaster," she says as you sail down the street towards the flashing lights. "Just stop whining about it." 

Frankie and Travis are there at the entrance waiting for you both. Travis seems delighted that your sister has shown up. 

"Hey Hilary."

Hillary is sixteen and has grown into her shape in a way that has you endlessly envious. You’re thirteen and still in that awkward phase where you feel uncomfortable in your own body. 

Frankie greets you both with a muted hello, eyes tired. You don’t overlook the bruise on his upper arm peeking out from under his T-shirt. The humid night means no sweaters. Clearly his dad had been in a mood, something Santi knew all too well. Something the two of them bonded over. 

Sometimes you wondered what it would be like if your mom just didn't drink but beat you every so often as well. You don’t like to linger in that frame of mind. 

Especially not tonight. You're on a mission and weave through the crowd to buy tickets as the group calls out to you. The guys eventually join you, voices loud and obnoxious when a cute girl walks by. You have to fight not to aggressively roll your eyes. 

You're patient though, following the older kids with a spring in your step. You watch Frankie and Travis go on the bumper cars while Hilary and Santi ride on the Ferris wheel. You buy cotton candy and take your time letting it melt on your tongue, fingers sticky. 

Soon the place full of chattering teens and families, the hour growing late. You wait on a bench for the guys to grab mini donuts. Hilary is standing near the ring toss game cultivating the attention of nearby boys in oversized basketball jerseys. 

One of the boys motions to the game and Hilary gives a shrug, as if she couldn't care less. As the boy begins to play, Hilary brings out a cigarette, looking like she practiced it in the mirror as she pops out between her pouty lips. 

"Lines pretty short for the coaster now," your cousin informs you as he draws closer. "Should probably head over there."

"I want to, I'm just waiting for Hilary." You twist around, waving and calling her over.

She shoots you a dark look, moving towards you with a frown.

"What do you want you little turd?" 

"You said you'd go on the rollercoaster with me."

She gives you a dramatic roll of her eyes.

"Jesus, just go on it by yourself.”

"What? I can't go on by myself."

"Why not? You're not a baby anymore." 

"You said you'd go on with me," you whine gently, brows furrowed. 

"Yeah, well, now I'm gonna hang out with that guy," she shrugs, motioning to the young man with baggy jeans and an oversized jersey. 

"But Hil-"

"I'll meet you at the car at ten," she promises.

You watch as she leaves, shoulders slumped and tears stinging your eyes. Travis pauses for a moment before his tone turns coaxing.

"C'mon, Pip," he says. "I'll walk you over. You'll be great." 

"Will you go on with me?" 

You don't want to go on a rollercoaster with Travis. You don't feel safe with him like you do with your sister or Santi... Or Frankie. 

"Nah. Got no tickets left." 

"Oh. Then no, I don’t feel like it." 

He looks at your down-turned face, pausing before reaching into his pocket and rustling inside. 

"Oh wait. Just found one more. C'mon, let's go." 

You're desperate to go on the coaster, even if it means doing it with Travis. And at first as you walk alongside him towards the ride you're excited. But it seems the closer you get, the higher the coaster goes, becoming more and more foreboding.

You pass Santi and Frankie on their way to the pirate ship ride, giving them a nervous wave. They give you a concerned look back, but Travis just smiles their way. 

"Taking Pip on the coaster." 

Frankie frowns and Santi nods, pausing a moment you scan your face before you and Travis keep walking. 

"This'll be fun," Travis promises as you get closer to the screaming passengers. "We can sit right up front." 

You line up behind a large group of giggling teenagers, feeling shy as they look your way and smirk. It makes you wish Hilary was here. 

A screaming group rattles by you on the coaster, some clutching the seat, others throwing their arms up. 

Suddenly your heart is in your throat, the sound of the ride, the group of teens waiting in line, the wooden railing making it impossible for you to leave. And then more people line up behind you, boxing you in. You won't be able to exit without embarrassing yourself. 

When you get to the front you expect that you'll be able to slink off to the back seats. But the group of teenagers has started to amble onto the ride, moving decisively, leaving only the two front seats free. 

A teen in a stained red shirt indicates you should step up and take your seat. You stare at it, eyes widening when you see how unsafe it looks. What if something happens? Travis can't save you! The entire situation is too daunting and you turn to Travis, voice a squeak. 

"I changed my mind-"

"C'mon," Travis insists, not allowing you to move back. His arm blocks your path. "You gotta face your fears, Pip." 

The pimply faced youth running the ride gives you a bored look as you stand there, fingers wringing anxiously. 

"You getting on or not, kid?" 

People in line are starting to whisper, their eyes on you, irritated that you're holding up the line. You want to cry. 

"Travis, please-"

"C'mon," he cajoles, tugging you by the arm. "There's still room in the front."

You allow yourself to be pulled to the front of the roller coaster, a terrified lump in your throat. Travis helps you step into the seat, hands clammy. You notice his hair is damp with sweat. He's looking at you strangely, almost cagey. 

The teen running the ride is there at his elbow, frowning. He looms over you with his hand extended. 

"Tickets?" 

"She's got hers," Travis says, pointing at you. You reach into your pocket, handing it off.

You wait for Travis to do the same, but he just steps back out of the box, shaking his head at the guy.

"What are you doing?" You ask eyes like saucers. "You said you were riding with me." 

"I just said that to get you up here," he grins. "You need to face your fears, Pip." 

"What?"

You look back in front of you at the thick iron track. You can hear the teens snickering behind you. 

"Just ride," Travis is saying, looking gleeful. "Stop being a wuss." 

You're frozen in fear and humiliation body stiff as the teen straps your lap belt. You want to scream but you feel like you're made of ice. 

"I'll meet you at the bottom," Travis tells you, giving you a thumbs up.

"Travis, wait!" 

"You're gonna be great. Just don't puke!" 

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can only sit there, watching him disappear until he's a dot in the crowd. The ride operator steps out, facing the waiting crowd of miserable faced onlookers.

"We have a single rider," the teen calls out, unaware of your distress. "Got any singles who want to catch this ride?" 

Of course no one volunteers which only adds to the wretched lump in your throat. Tears are starting at the corner of your eyes. You can't hide them anymore.  One rolls down your cheek before you can brush it away.

"Holy shit, are you crying?" A voice says from behind you. "How old are you?" 

You don't have to turn to know it's the teen with overly gelled hair.

"It's just a ride," another jeers. 

Your heart is going like mad at the unwanted attention, more tears are slipping down your cheeks and the snickers behind you cause your face to burn. 

"No singles?" The teen asks again. "Okay, let's get this going, folks." 

You're going to be on this ride all by yourself. This terrifying experience will be done solo and the thought makes your stomach twist. Your eyes squeeze shut as you make a frantic silent entreaty to the universe. 

Please let something happen to the ride. A mechanical failure. Let someone throw up right now and have us evacuate. Please don't make me-

"I'll go." 

You know that voice.

Your head spins around just in time to watch Frankie settling into the seat next to you. You stare over at him in quiet awe.

“Frankie.”

He's so tall his long legs keep knocking against yours as he busies himself with the lap belt. The teens who were snickering before all go quiet when he shoots them a dark look over one broad shoulder. And in the moment you're so grateful for him, you think you might start crying again. 

You look at him with a nervous grin, hands gripping the bar lowered over your laps. Frankie does the same, his grin broad. 

"You still wanna do this, Pip?" He asks as the teen starts to lower the lap bars on the cars behind you. 

"Yes." 

You don't hesitate and not because you aren't afraid of the ride, because you are. And not because you want to prove something to Travis. No, it's because you want to do this for yourself and with Frankie Morales at your side, you know you are protected.

The emergency room is blissfully sparse given it's the middle of a workday. But even if it wasn't, it turns out a car crash victim with blood down the side of her face takes priority. 

You're in a private room within minutes, Frankie pacing alongside the hospital bed you lay on. 

"What the fuck is taking this doctor so long?" Frankie says angrily throwing his arms up in the air. "We've been waiting here at least 10 minutes."

"Frankie, please," you say wincing. Your eyes are tired from tracking his going back and forth at the foot of your bed. "It's been maybe 2 minutes."

"Yeah, well you have a head injury from a car crash. I guess I thought that was important enough for immediate care." 

You catalogue his features; the shine to his dark eyes, the plump of his lips, the way his hair is curling under one ear.

"You're still okay?" Frankie asks, fingernail wedged between his two front teeth. "Headache isn't getting worse?"

"Nope."

He rips off his baseball cap, his fingers carting through his curls before readjusting the hat over them once more. 

"Frankie, just... Just sit," you say motioning to the seat next to the hospital bed. It's an ugly mint green color, full of holes. 

He does as you ask, coming to sit the edge of the chair as he rests his large hand over yours on the bed.You stare at him for a moment, reveling in his touch. You can feel him, taking in every detail of your face 

"You scared the shit out of me," he says, thumb tracing soothing circles along your knuckles. "When I saw that truck and all the broken glass." 

It comes back to you in fragments, bits and pieces of the accident. You remember the screech tires, the scent of burning rubber, and a weightless feeling for half a second. 

"How did you find me?" 

"Hilary called me saying you left in a frenzy and she was worried. And then something in me just told me I needed to drive to find you. I can't explain it." 

You go quiet, thinking of Frankie coming across the truck, of you passed out behind the wheel. You can't imagine what you would have done in his place, if you'd seen him slumped over the steering wheel. 

You think of all the things you haven't told him. All the things you might never have been able to voice. You drag your eyes back to his and suddenly notice he's wearing the standard oil heating hat. 

The sight of it is enough to have your chin starting to quiver. 

Frankie, sweet Frankie. 

"I was so scared," you whimper, eyes closing as tears rush down your cheeks. You're so fucking tired of crying but you can't stop. "I was so scared I never got to tell you." 

His brows pinch. "Tell me what?"

"The truth about that night," Your voice is cracked. "That night at Travis' party-"

Frankie shuts down a bit, mouth thinned. You can see the indifferent mask he forces over his features. "We don't have to talk about that."

Before you can insist, the doctor arrives, checking your name and information. But you're distracted, eyes stuck on Frankie who looks pensive.

"I found her at the side of the road, unconscious. Her forehead was bleeding but it stopped pretty quick. I’m worried about a concussion." 

The doctor barely looks up as he makes notes on his computer. "Mhm. Great great." 

He spins back towards you, peering at you before glancing over at Frankie who remains seated there, gazing at you with concern.  

"Sir? You'll have to leave while I examine her."

Frankie jerks to a stand, tapping the brim of his hat absently. 

"Oh. Oh, right." He glances your way. "I'll give your sister a call. Let her know what's going on." 

"Frankie-"

Your hands reach for him in desperation, but he's already gone out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

THEN

Frankie finishes up with the sweeping, head cocked to listen to Jeopardy playing on the TV. He hears the voice of the host and your mother's enthusiastic guess. 

"COMOROS!"

She's wrong about the capital of Madagascar, but she's so damn enthusiastic it doesn't matter. Frankie grins to himself, dumping the latest pile of dirt into the garbage. 

He's been doing this for months, coming by once or twice a week to do some cleaning, making a few frozen meals. Sometimes he comes more often, taking your mom for a walk or bringing brownies. 

He likes having something to do, something to mark his days. He misses flying so much it aches, but when he's here with your mom he feels of service, like he has value. 

When Santi mentioned your mom was struggling and that Hillary was pulling up the slack, Frankie figured he could visit once or twice. Your mom had always been kind to him. He didn't count on how good it felt to be of service to someone else. 

And he can admit that one of the boons of being with your mom means hearing stories about you. Little crumbs of information sate him for days. Where you're living, how you like your job. It's pathetic that he thinks that, but it's the truth.

He doesn't love hearing about your relationship with Greg, but at the same time feels a bit relieved that you're with someone who sounds respectful and kind. 

Over the years his anger has grown less and less. Maybe it's the NA meetings teaching him about forgiveness, maybe it's just the passage of time. Whatever it is, he feels softened. 

The door opens and Frankie glances up to see Hilary walk through the door. She gives him a tired smile. She's not getting enough hours at the hospital, so she's been out all day searching for side jobs. 

"Hey stranger. The place looks great," Hilary says, brows rising when she spots a familiar glossy box on the counter. "Did you bring her brownies?"

"They're her favorite," Frankie smiles to himself, pouring soap into the sink. 

Hillary shrugs off her jacket, hanging it on the hook as she looks over his way. 

"Was she okay today?"

"Oh yeah. Took a walk, had dinner. Now she's watching Jeopardy." 

Hilary nods, moving into the living room where Frankie can hear the little mumble of mutual conversation. She returns shortly thereafter looking a little more relieved. She watches him continuing to tidy, placing plates into the drying rack. 

"You really have to let me pay you for all this, Fish."

"No," Frankie says shaking his head. "No, Hil. Anything extra you make at work just put towards getting a nurse. You need the help." 

And so does your mom, he wants to add.

Frankie can't do the things a nurse can. He can't shower or help your mom use the washroom. He doesn't know medication rules and he doesn't want her in danger because of his inexperience. 

Plus if he gets his license back he's going to return to work the second he can.  

"I think I found someone actually. She was visiting a patient in the hospital and we got to talking. Her name's Rose-something."

"See?" Frankie emphasizes with the point of his soapy hand. "That's who you should be spending money on.""

Hillary nods, leaning back to crack her spine before she opens the fridge, crouching over to scan the contents. He hears her rattle a few bottles. 

"You want a beer?"

"Uh, can't," Frankie says awkwardly, turning to busy himself with some dishes. His face burns with shame. 

"Oh, shit," Hilary mutters. "Sorry, Fish. Totally forgot." 

"S'okay, don't worry about it." 

He continues to do the dishes as Hilary sits herself at the kitchen table with a groan. She pulls a pack of cigarettes out, lighting one between sips of beer. 

"You still seeing that woman from the bakery? Fiona?"

"Nah, that's been over for a bit." 

Fiona is to date the longest relationship he's ever had. Four months that ended when his license was suspended. 

When he had to go into recovery and attend NA meetings Fiona decided that he 'wasn't any fun anymore' and promptly left. It was a blessing in disguise because without her hard partying lifestyle it was easy to stay on the wagon. 

"How about you and Justin?" He asks, thinking of her boyfriend. When she takes a moment to respond he looks over his shoulder to see her head tilted down. "Hil?"

She's got a distant looking her eye, cigarette dangling out the corner of her mouth.

"He's chill I guess." 

Justin is actually the first nice guy Frankie has seen with Hilary who normally draws assholes to her like a moth to a flame. Justin works at a local pub, all smiles, very sweet. When Frankie isn't here and Hilary is slammed he comes by to visit your mom as well. 

"He seems like a good guy," Frankie shrugs. "Your mom likes him."

"He wants to get married and move to Canada." 

Frankie can't help but let out a huff of amusement. "Really?"

"Yeah, apparently he has family there, and where his folks live is way less expensive than here. I mean we can't even afford an apartment out here by ourselves and we're not all going to live with my mom." 

Frankie understands that all too well. With housing prices the way they are the only reason he owns his place because of his parents passing. 

She gives a rueful laugh, shaking her head. "I don't know why he wants to bother getting married anyway. Not like it changes anything." 

"I don't know about that,” Frankie says thoughtfully. "Maybe it's not about the actual marriage, but what it symbolizes."

"Tax breaks?"

"Wanting people to know you chose one another?"

Hillary frowns, taking a long drag from her cigarette. "Seems performative."

"Or he's just proud of the love you two have and he wants the world to know," Frankie shrugs. 

The minute the sentence leaves his mouth Frankie realizes that he shared too much. A sensation not unlike the dizzying effect of being at a tall height overtakes him.

That's exactly how Frankie felt with you moments before the disastrous end of that party. Wanting to ask Santi's blessing, desperate to let everyone know that you chose one another. Relishing with you two had created. 

He goes silent, hating that all these years later he can't stop thinking about you. Knowing that he's never been in love before or after you. Will he ever be able to trust someone enough to let them? Or will he constantly go back to that moment, where the rug was pulled out from under him?

Your mom gives a cough, calling out for a tea. 

"I'll bring it in a sec," Hilary calls out. She crosses her arm, frowning deeply, a crease forming between her brows. "Pip should be here. But no, she gets off scot-free because she's in Seattle." 

Frankie swallows. "Well, she has a whole life there, doesn't she? Isn't she living with some guy?" 

That sentence hurts to say out loud. He knows the guys name. Knows what he does for a living. Tried stalking him on Facebook until he found out the guy didn't have an account. 

"You mean Greg? That loser? She broke up with him a long time ago," Hilary says tapping the ash of the cigarette into her cup. "He cheated on her with some chick from work."

Frankie stills, hand mid-scrub. Greg cheated on you? Since when? He forces himself not to whip around, calms himself from shouting question after question. 

"I'm so glad she didn't marry him," Hilary clicks her tongue, not realizing the bomb she's just dropped. "I never liked him. And she didn't either, not really. I don't know why she stuck around so long." 

Hilary yawns as she stands, tamping out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table. 

"I'm gonna get Mom her tea."

"You just got home," Frankie says shaking his head. "I'll do it."

"I can't ask you to do that-"

"You're not asking," Frankie states, drying his hand and flicking on the kettle. "Just relax."

Some nights like tonight Frankie lingers because he enjoys the warmth of your home even without you in it. He likes the familiar scent of cinnamon from your mom's toast and the cheap perfume Hilary wears and the sensation of the carpet under his feet. It's familiar and comforting. 

He also likes it because this house is alive with voices and television. With the warmth of people living. Something his own house is sorely lacking. 

Sometimes he dreams of packing it all up and starting somewhere new. Somewhere no one knows him. But you exist in that house. The rooms you touched with your laughter or gasps or moans. The windows where the sun cast you in a golden glow. The kitchen table you played cards at. He can’t let that go – it’s all he has left of you.

Hilary remarks that she might run herself a bath as Frankie finishes preparing your mother's tea. He feels her tired eyes on his profile.

"Thanks for everything, Frank." 

She strides from the room, squeezing Frankie's shoulder as she passes. 

He brings the mug of warm chamomile tea to your mother who sits in front of the television on the couch, her feet propped up with fuzzy slippers.

When she thanks him for the tea he can smell alcohol on her breath. She probably has a bottle hidden away in the cushions. He'll tell Hilary about that later. But for now he just smiles and watches as she takes a sip.

"Come and watch," your mother encourages him, patting the empty cushion beside her. He drops down next to her on the couch/

Your mom is slowly declining, not too apparent right now. Most of the time Frankie forgets she's ill until he catches sight of her shrinking body inside her pajamas, or the way her hair started to fall out from chemo that wasn't effective in the end. 

The two of them continue watching as the final Jeopardy question is revealed by a grinning Ken Jennings. 

"The United States’ 3 most densely populated municipalities lie along a 3.5-mile stretch of Palisade Ave. in this state.”

"New Jersey," Frankie murmurs. 

"Oh that's a good guess," your mom nods. "I think that too."

It turns out New Jersey is correct and your mom announces that Frankie isn't only handsome but brilliant as well, which causes him to blush shyly, chuckling under his breath. 

"Pip made us watch it all the time when we, uh, when we were kids," Frankie finishes awkwardly when he realizes what he's just said. You're on his mind so much tonight, it's like you can't stop bringing you up. 

"I remember the four of you huddled around the television after dinners," your mom says laughing gently. "I used to have to tell Santi off for sitting so closely."

She brings the mug to her mouth, blowing gently on the steam. 

"You know I always thought you and my daughter would get together," she says casually. 

Frankie seated next to her feels his fingers tighten around his thighs. "What?"

“That night you came to the hospital to ask for her number I was really hoping…” she trails off, looking somber. “Well, anyway… I really thought you were going to be my son-in-law one day.”

Frankie is quiet, letting this information flow over him like a tide.

"I mean you were always spending time together," your mom continues, eyes on the television. "I figured it was inevitable she'd date you or Travis. I always hoped it would be you."  

"Why's that?"

"You were always so gentle with her, so patient. I wasn't nervous when she was with you." 

She gives a wistful look in the distance.

"And the way she looked at you over the years. Like you hung the moon. My husband and I never looked at each other like that in the years we were married." 

It's hard for Frankie to imagine how the outside world would have viewed he and pip. They kept so many things close to the chest, and yet some things must have gotten through. 

"You still care about my daughter, don't you?" Your mom says quietly.

"I think I always will," he replies.

“You love her?”

Her eyes stay on his face when he nods. 

“Yes, ma'am."

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People would say he was a coward, no doubt his legacy would be tarnished, but if he escaped with his life, so be it.

He didn't bother with spare clothes, just an extra set of sandals and food thrown into a satchel before he crept down the dimly lit hallway, careful not to wake one of his many servants.

He loved his palace. It was a place of peace and comfort for him, but come morning, it would be ripped away and he would be thrown into the pit. A general, Rome's deadly sword and the Emperor's right hand man, would become a lowly gladiator. Trained to perform and kill for amusement.

And all because he refused to play the Emperor's sick game.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't help train another legion of young men half his age to fight and die for their vanity. For their greed. When the Emperor announced his new task, all he could think of was his unborn son. He would be of age now, had he lived. He could have been training him to die.

He padded down the stone steps softly, hardly making a sound, his combat training serving him well. He managed to get just outside the city limits while it was still dark, but he could see the glow from the sun breaking the horizon. He didn't have much time to find a place to hide. He was still too close, and no doubt warriors would be looking for him once Geta realized he had fled.

Gods above, if they found him... his fate would be far worse than one of a gladiator.

He stumbled across a small clearing, head twisted around to make sure he was not being followed when he tripped over something large and heavy.

"Oh, shit!" he heard a young male voice exclaim.

Quickly, he unsheathed his sword and aimed it toward the voice. Confusion painted his face when he saw the unusual clothing and utterly strange contraption behind him. Before he had a chance to say anything, leaves rustled and he swung is sword towards the noise. Another young man, similarly dressed to the other, emerged from the thicket.

"State your names. Quick."

"Uh..." the first man trailed off, hands raising slowly in the air. "D-Danny. Daniel. And this is... Victor."

"Dude! C'mon! You know I -"

"Silence!" the general roared as loud as he dared. "What is your business here?"

"Science! Just... experiments. And the like," Danny said hurriedly, glancing at Victor for help. He nodded.

"Yes. Experiments."

"And are you citizens of Rome?"

They paused and looked at one another again.

"We are citizens of... York," Danny said.

"It's new," Victor added.

The general looked back and forth between the two men before ultimately deciding he did not have the time to quarrel with them and they did not appear to be a threat. He dropped his sword to the side and glanced around.

"You did not see me," he said sternly, turning to leave.

"Wait!"

He glanced back over his shoulder, pausing.

"Are you running away?"

"Fleeing," Victor added quietly.

"Fleeing?" Daniel repeated.

"I do not see it fit for you to ask such questions of someone above your station," he snarled. The two men exchanged worried looks before continuing.

"We're leaving. If you're looking to jet, you can... y'know," Danny said, jutting a thumb over his shoulder towards the strange looking contraption.

"Can you get me to Greece?"

They grinned and nodded.

"Sure, dude."

The general glanced around once again, his brow furrowing when he saw the light stretching high into the sky, brightening the landscape and soon, giving his position away.

"Then I accept."

He sheathed his sword and stomped over to the men, startling them both with his intensity.

Victor turned to unlock a door, struggling a bit before it popped open and crawling inside. Danny stuck out a hand and gave him a nervous smile.

"What's your name?"

His eyes dropped down to the frail looking hand before him, then slowly, as if he couldn't decide, lifted his arm to grasp the inside of Daniel's forearm, giving him a vigorous shake.

"General Marcus Acacius."

"What the fuck?" you grumbled under your breath, rereading your brother's text.

Danny: I have a friend crashing on the couch, won't stay long

Shuffling your bag onto your other shoulder as you walked down the bustling city street, you tapped out a response.

You: It better not be Lizard.

Danny: It's not, but he's here 2

Danny: Just visiting

Fucking Lizard. You've known him since he was maybe ten years old and you were fairly certain he never matured past that age.

Given you had two extra people waiting for you in your already cramped apartment, you decided to grab a couple pizzas on the way home instead of the sushi you had been thinking about all day. Choosing to be a little selfish, you made one of them a white pizza, it being your favorite, and made your way home with the last bits of energy you had left.

Nothing could have prepared you for what you walked into that day.

You stopped dead in your tracks when you stepped into your apartment, door wide open behind you, two pizza boxes balancing in one hand as you stared blankly at the massive man standing with his back to you in the middle of the living room. He was dressed in some strange type of robe that fell just above his knee and his head was bent, looking at something on your coffee table.

When you cleared your throat, he swung around and defensively placed a hand at his waist. That was when you noticed the massive and very real looking sword at his side and your blood ran cold.

"D-Danny!" you yelled, your eyes glued to the stranger's hand. As if he finally sensed your fear, he dropped his arm and straightened up.

"Apologies-"

"Danny!" you yelled again, louder this time.

"Yeah? Hey! Sorry," Danny said, hurrying into the room with Lizard following on his heels.

"Oh, pizza? Sweet," Lizard said, reaching for the boxes and brushing past you as if an armed man wasn't standing in the middle of your home.

"Who the hell is this?!" you exclaimed, pointing towards the stranger while glaring at your brother.

"I told you already, he's a friend who's crashing on the couch for a few days," he replied, following Lizard into the kitchen, pizza the only concern at that point.

"My lady," the man began again, "please allow me to explain."

"My lady?" you repeated with a scowl. "I thought you guys stopped playing Dungeons and Dragons after high school."

"That's not -" Danny shook his head with a mouthful of pizza, "this is General Acacius."

"General?" you said quizzically, raising an eyebrow first at Danny, then towards the large man in your living room. "Be serious, Danny."

"He is!"

"I promise, what he says is true," the general chimed in, taking a step closer and stretching out his hand. You sighed and dropped your things onto your table.

"I'm too tired for this, it's been a long week."

The general frowned, hand still outstretched. "Daniel, please explain to your mistress she is not to challenge men above her lover's ranking."

You balked and gagged. "Lover?!"

"Mistress?" Danny said at the same time with a similar look of disgust. "Gross, dude, she's my sister."

Something in the general's face shifted when he learned you were siblings and he looked at you with renewed interest. "Ah, so you do not belong to another?"

You rolled your eyes and grabbed a plate, tossing a piece of white pizza on it before Danny and Lizard ate it all. "I don't have a husband, no. And that's a super sexist thing to say, I don't care if you're role playing or not."

Turning around to exit the kitchen, you were surprised to find the general somehow snuck up on you. Standing just a few feet away, you nearly ran into his strong, broad chest. He lifted a hand to tilt your chin up and whatever biting remark you had locked and loaded died on your tongue. You finally allowed yourself to get a good look at him. Dark, brooding eyes. Thick, brown curls dusted in grey, the color matching his beard. Sharp, angular nose and pouty lips.

Okay, so he was good looking. That didn't negate the weird dress and obvious mental illness.

"Your name?" he murmured softly, finger still hooked under your chin.

You cleared your throat and responded with your name, to which he nodded before dropping his hand. His gaze drifted to your plate and his nose wrinkled. "What is this you are eating?"

"Pizza?" you replied, squeezing up against your counter so you could get past him and get some space. "Help yourself."

"What is pizza?" you heard him ask Danny. You collapsed onto the couch with a groan and took a bite, fully not in the mood for whatever weird shit your brother had going on.

"It's Italian, you'll like it," Danny replied.

The three men trailed in from the kitchen to join you in the living room, your moment of peace and quiet over.

"This appears to be some bastardized version of flatbread," the general said, lifting the piece of pizza and giving it a tentative sniff. "What is this red? Some kind of pepper paste?"

"It's tomato sauce."

"Alright, enough with this bullshit please," you said, but the men ignored you.

You watched as he took a bite and almost instantly spit it out. "This is vile."

"Hey, that's authentic New York City pizza. Nothing vile about it," Lizard said. You pinched the bridge of your nose in frustration.

"General - I'm sorry, I'm not calling you that. What's your real name?"

"That is my real name," he answered, cocking his head at you from the other end of the couch.

"General Marcus Acacius," Danny told you, cursing under his breath when he dropped some cheese on his shirt.

"Okay, Marcus," you began, but he shook his head.

"It is quite inappropriate for you to -"

"I don't give a shit, I'm not calling you General like I'm in the fucking army!"

The room fell quiet as you glared at Marcus, daring him to say another word. When it became evident he wasn't going to, you took a deep breath and continued.

"If you don't like the sauce, there's another pizza in the kitchen without it. Go try that," you said, voice a little softer now. He nodded and rose to go find the white pizza, leaving just the three of you for the first time.

"What the fuck, Danny?!" you whispered angrily. "Why the hell is there a guy in a dress pretending he's a fucking general in my home?"

"He is a general," Danny whispered back. "From Ancient Rome. I'll explain everything later," he said, straightening up when Marcus's footsteps approached.

"This is far better. Thank you, my lady."

"Oh, look at that. You already have something in common," Lizard said with a fake, syrupy voice. "You both love gross pizza."

"Thought you just said authentic New York City pizza can't be gross?" you sneered.

"Boom! She got you, Lizard," Danny laughed. Marcus looked around the room, confused.

"You said your name was Victor, did you not?"

You burst out laughing, covering your mouth with a napkin.

"Lizard's just his nickname. His real name is Victor," Danny explained.

"Yeah. No one calls me Victor. Just like no one calls you Marcus," Lizard explained.

"Only those dearest to me are allowed to use that name," he explained. "Such as a parent or a lover." His eyes flickered up to you quickly before focusing on his pizza once again.

"Does that make you his lover now?" Lizard teased. You kicked a foot out and jabbed him in the hip.

"Shut up," you grumbled.

"Do you not follow the proper steps to obtain a lover in your land?" he asked, genuine curiosity painting his face. "It is much more than simply calling another by a name. If a man were to deem a woman acceptable, he would make an arrangement with her father to wed." He scratched his chin in thought for a moment before adding, "unless, of course, she is a whore."

Lizard and Danny doubled over, howling with laughter while you stared daggers at them both.

"Did I say something to warrant such laughter?" Marcus asked you. You rolled your eyes.

"No, you did not."

"Rule number one, General," Danny said, gasping for air and wiping the tears from his eyes. "Don't call girls whores."

Marcus looked taken aback.

"I meant no offense. A whore is a common profession where I am from. There is no shame in it."

"Alright, can we stop talking about whores?" you asked, exasperated.

"Yeah, good idea. Let's find you some clothes to wear and we'll set up the couch so you can sleep. It folds out, don't worry," Danny told Marcus.

"My tunic should suffice," Marcus said, glancing down at his clothes.

"Uh, not in New York, man. Might stick out a little," Lizard joked, then stood to take his plate back in the kitchen for seconds.

"Depends on what side of town you're on," you mumbled under your breath.

"You can borrow something of mine," Danny said, standing up to go to his room. "You're a little bigger than me but I think I have something that'll work."

You eyed Marcus up over your plate, taking in the finer details of his appearance. "Where are you from? Really?" you asked. He turned to you with a sigh.

"Rome."

"Come on. You can drop the act, they're gone," you said, narrowing your eyes at him.

"I promise, I am telling you the truth," he replied, his gaze boring into you so intensely that it left you spellbound for a moment. "Your brother and his comrade found me on the outskirts of the city with some... contraption. They said they would take me to Greece, however it is clear this is not Greece."

"A contraption?" you repeated nervously. Oh, fuck.

He nodded. "I had never seen anything like it. I do not know what happened but once I entered, there were bright lights and a loud crack and... I must have lost consciousness. I woke in your lounge, utterly confused."

"Shit," you whispered, putting your plate down so you could angrily scrub your face with your hands. Danny, although very irritating and far too dependent on you for basic survival, was incredibly gifted. His intelligence stunned his teachers since he was three years old. He was doing long division at five and became fluent in Spanish at seven. By the time he entered high school, he had grown extremely interested in science, where he met Lizard. For years you had witnessed failed experiments and fireballs in your backyard, but you saw all their successes, as well. Since they were fourteen, Danny and Lizard talked about time travel and you always brushed them off, even when they began to build different devices throughout the years that claimed they were on the verge of a breakthrough, but of course, nothing ever came of it.

Until now.

No, that was crazy. There's no way they actually travelled back in time to Ancient Rome and returned with a Roman general... right?

"Why were you going to Greece?" you asked, tiredly dropping your hands in your lap.

He paused for a moment and you could see the hesitation in his eyes. He opened his mouth to reply right when Danny emerged from his bedroom with an armful of different clothing options.

"We'll go shopping tomorrow and find something else that will fit," he said, sheepishly handing over the clothes. Marcus slowly reached out and set them down on the cushion next to him.

"Thank you."

"Hey, I'm gonna take off," Lizard said from the kitchen doorway.

"Yeah, alright. Hey!" Danny said, swiveling around before he left. "You'll be back tomorrow, right? I need your help with the... thing."

You narrowed your eyes in his direction but remained silent. Once Marcus was asleep, you planned on having a very heated conversation with your brother, so you saved that little tidbit for later.

"Yeah, sure thing, man."

You stood to clean up the leftovers while you listened to Danny explain the concept of a pull-out couch to Marcus, then after that, a bathroom. The more time that passed, the more nervous you became. What if this was real? Was it even possible?

Quietly, you stepped out from the kitchen. Marcus was sitting on the edge of the pull out mattress, hands clasped together between his knees as he stared blankly at the floor. For the first time, you felt bad for him. If everything he said was true, he had to have been so confused and scared.

"Hey," you said softly. He lifted his head with a jolt of surprise. "Here's some water," you said, offering him a plastic bottle. He took it and frowned. "You twist the top to open it," you explained, ignoring how ridiculous it felt to tell a grown man how to open a bottle of water.

"Thank you," he replied, setting it down on the floor next to his bed.

"Do you need anything else?"

He shook his head and gave you a small smile. "No, my lady. Thank you for your hospitality."

"You're welcome," you said shyly, inching towards the little hallway that led to your bedroom. "We'll get you back home, Marcus. Don't worry."

He swallowed and smiled again. "Of course."

You smiled back and awkwardly clapped your hands together. "Well, if you need anything at all, just knock on one of our doors."

He nodded and with a sigh, began to peel back the sheets.

"Good night, my lady," he said once your back was turned. You swiveled back around and gave him a little wave, his deep brown eyes looking breathtaking in the evening light.

"Good night."

Flustered, you knocked into the doorframe on your way back to your room. Cursing under your breath and rubbing your shoulder, you slipped behind your door, finally putting an end to your humiliation.

The next morning you sipped your coffee in your kitchen as you replayed the argument you had with Danny the night before once you were sure Marcus was asleep.

"You need to get him back home. Tomorrow, Danny," you had said sternly.

"There might be a slight hiccup with that," he replied, bracing himself for your anger. "The machine needs repairs."

"What the fuck do you mean?!" you seethed as your paced around his cluttered room.

"Don't worry, sis! We can fix it! But we just need a couple days."

"How many days?" you asked with a glare.

Danny shrugged. "Two. Three."

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose.

"A week, tops."

"A week?!"

"Shh! You'll wake him up!" he scolded, pointing angrily towards the door. "Lizard's coming over tomorrow, we'll get working on it right away. Something happened on impact when we returned, I didn't factor in modern day atmospheric pressure originally, but -"

"I don't give a shit what the reason is, you just need to fix it! You have no clue what the ramifications are by keeping him here! You could alter the course of history or something!"

"You watch too many movies," Danny chuckled, but quickly stopped and cleared his throat when he saw the look on your face. "I'll fix it. Promise."

The caffeine hadn't even had a chance to enter your bloodstream before Danny woke and dropped yet another problem onto your lap.

"Do you think you can take him shopping for some clothes today while me and Lizard work on this thing?" he asked as he poured cereal into a bowl.

"So now I'm running errands for you?" you snapped.

"C'mon, don't be like that," he replied as he put the carton of milk back in the fridge. The dynamic between you and your brother was wearing thin. It was always up to you to be the levelheaded one while he just allowed the wind to take him wherever it pleased, completely carefree while you harbored all the stress of basic responsibilities.

"Try to just enjoy the adventure for once," he added before messily scooping cereal into his mouth.

"Yeah, right," you grumbled under your breath before bringing your mug to your lips and taking another sip.

"So, is that a yes?"

"Fine," you said with a roll of your eyes. "If only so I can get away from this apartment and the inevitable chaos those repairs will bring. Just don't piss off my neighbors, okay?"

"Deal."

"Good day," you heard Marcus's deep voice rumble behind you. You jumped and swiveled around, gaze flickering down briefly to take in his borrowed clothes. Danny was right, he needed something that fit.

"Morning, General," Danny said with a grin. "Sleep well?"

"Surprisingly, yes. Even with all the noise outdoors... tell me, is it ever silent here?"

"No," you both said in unison. He nodded and looked down at his tunic, which was crumpled up in his fist.

"Do you have a servant I can give this to for washing?"

"That would be me," you said, stretching out your arm. Marcus hesitated for a moment.

"The lady of the house shouldn't have to perform such arduous tasks."

"I agree, yet here we are," you said, taking the tunic and tossing it over your shoulder. "I have to put in a load, anyway."

You changed your clothes and freshened up while listening to your brother scrape together some type of meal for Marcus that he found acceptable, then pressed the button on your tiny washing machine before heading back into the kitchen.

"Ready?"

Marcus glanced between you and Danny while chewing the last piece of a baguette.

"My sister's gonna take you shopping for some clothes," Danny explained. Marcus looked down at his attire and nodded.

"To the market, then?" he asked you, trailing after you as you tossed your bag over your shoulder and walked down the hallway towards the elevators.

"Something like that."

"I have plenty of denar," he said as you jabbed the call button.

"Denar?" you asked, cocking an eyebrow at him. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small leather satchel filled with unfamiliar coins. You grinned and shook your head.

"Don't worry, I got it."

"Please, your hospitality has already been gracious enough," he said, following you into the elevator when it opened.

"If you can find someone who will take that, then be my guest," you said, tapping the lobby button. He was about to say something else when the doors closed and the car violently jolted, startling him.

"What is this?"

"It's an elevator. It lifts us up and down so we don't have to take the stairs."

His jaw hung open in disbelief until the doors slid open to reveal the lobby, then he broke out into a huge smile.

"Incredible."

But once he followed you out onto the busy New York City street, peppered with pedestrians, bicyclists, couriers, and a sea of vehicles, then his eyes practically bugged out of his head.

"I see now where all the noise comes from," he said to you, raising his voice a bit over the commotion as you walked. It was actually endearing to see him experience the city for the first time, something you took for granted every day leaves most people in awe. It was easy to forget that.

"Stick close," you said with a small smile when you saw him tip his head back to gaze up at the towering skyscrapers.

"What is your profession, then?" he asked as he walked by your side. You noticed with envy that others on the sidewalk veered out of his way, his massive shoulders and hulking frame no doubt the reason, instead of brushing past him, like what most do to you every day.

"I write for a fashion magazine."

"Oh, so you're a poet?" he asked, intrigued. You shook your head with a small laugh.

"No. I write about romance in the lifestyle section. I have a column every month on a different topic and I also pick three reader questions to answer and publish on the website every week."

It was clear he hardly understood what you were talking about, so you stopped at the nearest newsstand and grabbed your magazine. After paying, you ushered him over to a bench and sat down while you thumbed through it.

"Ah! Here we go," you said, proudly handing over the magazine and tapping on the corner of the page.

"'Are Soulmates Real'?" he read aloud the title before frowning at you. You nodded.

"Yeah, I talk about the idea of soulmates and how it's putting too much pressure on the modern woman to find this perfect partner when in reality, they don't exist."

"And how do you know this?" he asked, clearly amused.

"I don't, but I wrote from experience," you shrugged.

"So, since you have not found a soulmate, that means they do not exist?"

"No, it's an opinion, Marcus," you explained, "the magazine pays me for my opinion and outlook on things."

He sighed and closed the magazine with a shake of his head. "I am sorry you feel that way."

"Are you saying you believe in soulmates?" you asked.

"Well, I cannot say one way or another from experience, but I like to believe they exist, yes."

"Do you have a wife or family waiting for you back home?" The thought hadn't even occurred to you before now and you felt guilty, but he shook his head.

"My wife died many years ago during childbirth," he said sadly, and your heart plummeted. "She was young and I had just made rank, so her father arranged our marriage in order to ensure a safe and comfortable life for his only daughter." He looked down at the magazine in his hands but he wasn't really reading it. He was too lost in thought.

"She was with child very quickly after we wed. I had not even known her a year by the time she passed, but the time I had with her was enjoyable. I thought very much one day we would learn to love one another," he said, giving you a sad smile. "Was not meant to be."

"I'm so sorry," you said softly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "That's horrible... I don't even know what to say."

"It was a long time ago now. I never did remarry, although I had many offers. I became entirely focused on war, fighting to keep Rome and her citizens safe. It is what I was meant to do," he said, exhaling loudly and looking around. "Is this what you feel you are meant to do?" he asked, holding up the magazine. You laughed, grateful for the change of subject.

"No, probably not."

He grinned and nodded in agreement. "Yes, I imagine you are destined for much more, my lady."

"You think so?" you asked, scrunching your nose self-consciously.

He nodded, his gaze drifting over your face solemnly.

"I do."

If elevators impressed Marcus, then the escalators within Bloomingdale's practically floored him. He was so enraptured with them that you had to nudge his shoulder to remind him to step forward before he tripped when you got to the top.

"This is unlike anything I have ever laid my eyes on," he said to you in wonder, his head rolling around on his shoulders as he gazed around at all the lights and signage.

"Yeah, Bloomingdale's is special," you said dreamily. "Sometimes I get to tag along with girls from work to pick out fashion samples for the magazine. It's always so much fun."

You led him over to the men's section and turned to study his broad frame. "You're probably an extra large," you said as you began to sift through the racks, picking out various shirts in different styles and colors and draping them over your arm. He watched you without saying a word, just occasionally feeling the material between his fingertips whenever he saw something that caught his eye. When you got to the pants, you paused and pursed your lips. Glancing around, you spotted a measuring tape left on one of the registers. Grabbing his hand in yours, you dragged him over and shoved the shirts in his arms.

"Here. Hold these while I measure your waist and inseam."

He frowned for a moment but did as you asked, then jumped when you wrapped your arms around his middle with the tape.

"Sorry, it will only take a second," you murmured, ignoring how muscular and firm he felt under your hands. You took note of the number and flushed when it came time to measure his inseam. You chewed on your lip and glanced around, searching for a worker to maybe do it instead, but none were nearby.

"Okay, I'm going to have to measure the length of your leg," you began to explain. "I need to... put my hand close to..." you trailed off and gestured vaguely towards his lap and it finally seemed to click.

"Oh," he said in surprise, glancing down. He cleared his throat and nodded but you could see the pink creeping up his neck.

"I'll be fast," you assured him, "unless you prefer I find someone else."

"No, that is quite alright," he told you, standing tall and tucking his hands behind his back. Glancing around the store once more, you fell to your knees with the measuring tape. You tried not to think about it, tried not to look, but his clothes were too snug as it was and it was right fucking there.

Jesus Christ, you had to get it together. You were not lusting after a time traveling Roman general in the middle of Bloomingdale's. But it was impossible to ignore the impressive looking bulge right at eye level.

"Okay," you said quickly, standing up so fast your head spun. "Got it, let's go."

You hurriedly dropped the measuring tape back on the counter and swiveled around, looking for men's pants while trying to hide how flustered you were. You grabbed a few pairs of jeans and khakis before adding them to Marcus's pile, and avoiding his eye, you pointed over to the corner.

"You can try them on in there."

You waited outside patiently, listening to him struggle with a zipper. You had to draw the line: there was no way you would help him with that. But when he emerged from the dressing room for approval wearing a nice fitting pair of jeans and a white polo shirt, you kind of missed those tight clothes from before. You gave him a smile and thumbs up and he grinned before stepping back into the dressing room. When he turned around and you saw his ass in those jeans, you tilted your head to the side and raised your eyebrows.

Okay, the new clothes weren't so bad, either.

You picked him out two pairs of pants, an assortment of shirts, and paid before going to the intimates floor to grab some underwear, socks, and pajamas. On the way to the men's section, you passed by some mannequins wearing lacy lingerie and robes. Marcus frowned and tugged on your elbow.

"What is that for?"

You glanced in the direction he was pointing and inwardly groaned.

"It's undergarments women wear," you explained, hoping to leave it at that, but he still had questions.

"What is the purpose of the colors if they are under your clothes?"

You sighed and pinched your nose. "It's for sex, okay?" you whispered to him, looking around quickly to make sure nobody could overhear you.

"Sex?" he repeated at full volume. You shushed him, your cheeks flaring with heat, but he just gave you a bewildered look. "Why must I be quiet?"

"We don't talk about sex in public here," you told him, voice still lowered. "It's inappropriate."

"Why on earth not?" he asked, but he kept his voice soft for your benefit as he followed you into the men's section. "Nothing is more natural or beautiful than sex."

"Yeah, well, I don't have all the answers, Marcus."

"And why would a woman drape herself in such garb? A woman's body is a work of art. It is meant to be worshiped and admired just as it is. One would not hang ornaments off a statue of Venus, so why would a woman -"

"I don't know, Marcus!" you said, grabbing a pack of boxers and then a pack of white socks. "Men just like it, I guess."

He scoffed and shook his head but chose not to say anything further when he picked up the agitation in your voice.

You paid for the rest of the clothes and handed him the bag to carry as you led him to the exit. "Are you hungry What do you usually eat around this time of day?"

"It varies. I quite like fish with some bread and cheese."

You thought about it for a moment before your face lit up and you snapped your fingers.

"I have an idea."

Right around the corner from Bloomingdale's was one of your favorite bagel places. You found a table outside and made him sit then hurried inside to order two lox bagels. You almost grabbed Diet Coke but then thought that might kill him, so instead you got two waters and met him back outside in less than ten minutes.

"Try this," was all you said, handing him a warm bagel wrapped in paper and smelling absolutely divine.

Carefully, he peeled the paper away and sniffed the bagel before taking a hesitant bite. You waited, your own bagel untouched, for his reaction. His eyes snapped up to yours and a slow smile spread across his face.

"This is magnificent."

You giggled and tore into the paper covering your own lunch. "I had a feeling you would like it. Fish, bread and cheese."

He nodded and took a bigger bite. "Very wise. Tell me," he said, wiping the corner of his mouth with a napkin. "How has no one asked your father for your hand in marriage? You are bright, strong and beautiful. I am shocked you are not taken."

You decided to let the taken comment go that time and swallowed your food before replying. "Our parents are dead, first of all. But secondly, even if someone was interested in marrying me, they wouldn't need to ask my father. They just ask the woman directly now."

He raised his eyebrows in surprise. "My apologies. I was unaware of your parents' passing."

"That's okay," you shrugged. "It was a long time ago. Danny was a teenager and I had just graduated high school." You looked up at him, realizing he wouldn't understand what that meant. "I was nineteen. I had to grow up fast and help keep an eye on Danny," you settled on saying, figuring that would sum it up enough.

He nodded and looked down at his food, quietly thinking over what you said. "Has a man ever asked for your hand?" he asked before taking another bite of food.

You laughed. "Uh, no."

"Why is that humorous?"

You sighed and glanced around. "I haven't exactly dated many winners." He cocked an eyebrow at you and you added, "I seem to only attract assholes."

"Ah," he said in understanding. "I am attracted to you. Does this make me an... asshole?"

Your eyelids fluttered and you nearly choked on your water. "W-what?"

"I said, I am attracted -"

"No, I heard you, I just needed a second to process what you said," you told him, feeling your heart beat loudly in your chest. He tilted his head at you curiously.

"Does this surprise you?"

You laughed and fanned the back of your neck nervously. "Um, yes, a little. People don't usually go around just announcing when they're attracted to someone. They're a little more subtle than that."

"Oh. Have I made you uncomfortable? I do apologize," he said, his deep brown eyes softening as he gazed at you across the table.

"It's okay, I just didn't expect it," you chuckled, waving him off and focusing on your food with a stupid smile stretched across your face. He watched you eat for a moment, the corners of his mouth twitching as he replayed what you just told him.

"You did not say if you are attracted to me," he said, drawing your attention back up to him. "Is this because you are not, or are you being... subtle?"

You grinned and shook your head. "You have a weird way of flirting."

He smiled back, the creases next to his eyes deepening. "I told you. Where I am from, sex is not something to be ashamed of. It is enjoyable and discussed often. Unless one has devoted themselves to a life of celibacy."

Definitely not, you thought. He let the subject drop as he finished the rest of his lunch and sat back in his chair, looking around at the cars inching by and beeping their horns angrily. You remained quiet for a few minutes, debating on what to say, if you should say anything at all until you finally decided fuck it.

"I'm attracted to you, too."

His head swiveled in your direction and he grinned. "Thank you," he said sincerely.

You giggled in disbelief before you said, "you're welcome."

Something had shifted between you on the walk back to your apartment. It felt so different from just a few hours ago, and it wasn't just the shocking confession over lunch. You had learned a little more about each other, let the other in and shared personal details about your lives, trusting one another with your vulnerability. And for once, you didn't feel raw and exposed. Strangely, it felt like you could trust him. Maybe it was because you knew he would be gone in a few days and it didn't feel like you had much to lose.

However, when you got off the elevator and walked toward your apartment, the sounds of power tools and shouting coming from the other side of the door, Marcus stopped you. He plucked your hand from your side and brought your knuckles to his lips, brushing over them gently while maintaining eye contact, the entire moment making your hands tremble and your heart to flutter excitedly in your chest.

"Thank you for today, my lady. I had a lovely time with you."

You smiled shyly at him and looked down at the ground.

"Me, too," you replied softly.

And it was then you realized you very much might have something to lose after all.

JOEL

Joel, get up.

The last thing Joel remembered was the whistle of something slicing through the air and the crack that followed it, and then, just final blank. He feels like his bone meeting metal and the sound of something ending.

He's die.

He remembered Ellie’s voice tearing itself open above him.

get up, joel---

Get up.

Joel, get the fuck up.

fucking get up.

He remembered wanting to answer her. Trying to get up just for her, and only her. Wanting to say her name back. Get his head up from the damn floor. Wanting to promise something he wasn’t sure he could keep, 'cause he already broke all his promise for her. But, there’s nothing, just a dense, not quite it was a silence for suffocating pressure that erased the edges of himself until there was no border left between thought and dark.

When he came back, it was violent.

It’s like air punched into his lungs and his chest convulsed and make his body jerked against something soft, and feels wrong under him. Too soft. There should have been cold concrete and smell of dust. Blood thick in the back of his throat.

Instead there was light above him. Something too white and flat to his eyes, almost hurt his eyes. also, He caught a faint smell of chemicals, something sharp and sterile, that pulled at an old memory of hospitals from back in the day.

He blinked, and the world did not shift into nightmare. It stayed clean and then he felt it.

Something that warmth. Warm from other person that live, not like fever or pain. But a hand? Like the hand hold his. Feel like live and soft? Wrapped around his own like it had been there for a long time.

His fingers twitched and brushed skin that did not belong to him. He move his finger again, it’s his index. He felt the curve of a cheek resting near his knuckles. A faint, even breath against his wrist.

He lay still, listening to the mechanical beeping near his ear and the hammering of his own heart, trying to reconcile the impossible fact of being alive.

He should not be alive.

He remembered the certainty of it. The way the world had tilted. The way he had accepted the end without ceremony. He had outlived enough people to know when his number had been called.

This did not feel like heaven.

Heaven, he thought, would be softer than this. It would not carry the faint, sterile sting of antiseptic in the air, sharp enough to settle at the back of his throat. It would not be this quiet in a way that felt watched rather than peaceful. And it would not, under any circumstance, feel gentle toward a man like him. He had never known what heaven was supposed to look like, never even tried to imagine it.

So the thought of this being heaven felt strange, almost absurd, like his mind had reached too far for something it didn’t understand. no, if this were heaven, it had made a mistake, but it wasn’t hell either.

Hell would have greeted him properly, maybe. It would have been loud, unbearable, honest in its cruelty. Fire, or something close to it. Pain that didn’t leave room for doubt. In hell, at least, he would understand where he was. There would be no confusion, no slow unraveling of thought.

And he would have accepted it, because that, at least, would make sense to him. He wasn’t a good man, after all.

He had done too much for anything else to fit. Too many faces that never left him, no matter how hard he tried not to remember. Too many moments where the line between survival and something darker blurred until it didn’t matter anymore which side he stood on.

So this? this quiet, more silence with something live behind the door, this almost-kindness, felt wrong in a way he couldn’t name it.

Like standing somewhere he hadn’t earned.

He tried to move but pain hit him fast, sharp enough to knock the air out of his chest before he could brace for it. It tore up his side and settled there, heavy and throbbing, like something inside him had been pulled apart and stitched back wrong. A rough sound slipped out of him, low and broken, before he could swallow it down.

The air smelled clean more like chemicals and something bitter sitting at the back of his throat. His mouth felt dry, tongue thick, like he hadn’t used it in days or months. There was a weight on his chest, or maybe just the feeling of it, pressure that made each breath slow and careful.

Something moved near his hand. Warm.

The weight shifted. A chair scraped lightly against the floor, the sound sharp in the quiet.

Joel’s vision dragged downward, slow and unsteady, like it didn’t want to cooperate. The light hurt his eyes, somehow. Everything looked washed out, edges blurred, shapes not quite holding still. He forced his eyes to focus anyway.

There was someone there.

A figure at his side, close enough that he could see the outline before the details came in. Hair. Shoulders. A face that felt familiar before he could place it.

Ellie?

His throat worked, tried to say her name, tried to push it past the dryness, past the weight sitting in his chest. But nothing came out, just air.

A low hiss escaped him before he could stop it as he tried to lift his arm, wanting nothing more than to brush the hair from your face. The pain flared hot through his chest, pulling a rough groan from deep in his throat. He hadn’t meant to wake you. In that half-second, a quiet sorrow settled over him, heavy and tender; he was sorry to pull you from whatever fragile rest you had found, sorry that even now, broken and useless, he still managed to disturb the one person who had stayed.

You stirred at the sound.

Your body tensed, shoulders lifting as if surfacing from deep water, and your eyes snapped open with the wide, startled clarity of someone who had trained herself to wake at the smallest sign of him. For a breathless moment you simply looked at him, hair tousled and falling loose around your face, the faint crease from the mattress still pressed into your cheek like a secret the night had left behind. The dim light caught in your eyes, turning them soft and luminous, and something in Joel’s chest tightened at the sight of you, impossibly alive in a world that had forgotten how to be gentle.

The slight flush still lingering on your skin. The way your lips parted, trembling just enough to betray the storm behind them. Everything about you felt etched with care, with sleepless hours and he drank it in without a word, letting the feeling settle somewhere deep where words could not reach.

"Joel?” you breathed. oh god, escaped from your lips.

The sound of his name in your voice slid through him like honey, low and trembling, almost fracturing on the second syllable. “J-Joel…”

It tasted fragile on the air between you, sweet and aching. He stared, the fog in his mind thinning slowly, and realized with a deep, visceral pull that you were not Ellie.

He didn’t know who you were.

You moved toward him without hesitation. Your hand rose, and when it found his face, the touch was so unbearably soft it made his chest tighten. Your palm carried the faint roughness of calluses, yet the skin was velvet-warm, alive with the pulse of your blood. Your thumb traced his cheekbone slowly, deliberately, sending small sparks of sensation racing across his jaw and down his neck. He could smell you clearly now, something faintly sweet, like crushed herbs or the inside of your wrist after a long summer night. You leaned in closer. Your breath brushed his lips first, warm and humid, carrying the ghost of water and exhaustion. Then your mouth pressed to his forehead, soft and lingering, the heat of it blooming across his skin like sunlight soaking into dry earth. He felt the gentle pressure of your lips, the faint tremble in them, the way your hair fell forward and tickled his temple.

His eyes closed on instinct. His body remembered everything his mind had not yet reclaimed, the quiet thunder of your heartbeat so close to his. A slow shiver moved through him, deep and involuntary, like the first touch of skin after years of winter.

Joel’s mouth opened, the words already forming somewhere deep in his chest. Who the hell are you? Where’s Ellie? What is this place? but nothing came. His throat was a dry riverbed, cracked and empty, the kind of desert silence that had swallowed whole towns back when the world still made sense.

He pushed again, harder, air scraping uselessly against raw tissue, and his brow pulled tight in that uneasy frown she knew too well, the one that carved lines between his eyes like he was bracing for a fight he couldn’t even start.

he saw that you noticed right away.

“Hey,” you said softly, thumb still moving in slow, steady circles over his knuckles like muscle memory. “It’s okay. The doctor just took the tube out. They said your voice is coming back, it just needs a little time. Just take it easy, okay?”

Tube.

The word hit him sideways. A tube? In his throat? The confusion sharpened, pressing in behind his ribs until it felt like something alive trying to get out. None of this lined up, He stared at you, eyes narrowed, trying to force the questions through the dryness anyway, but his lips only twitched uselessly.

you didn’t wait for him to try again. you reached for the plastic cup on the side table, the condensation cool against your fingers, and slid your other arm behind his shoulders with the careful ease of someone who had done this exact thing more times than she could count. She lifted him just enough, no rush, no fuss, and brought the straw to his lips.

“Here,” she murmured, voice low and close. “Drink some.”

The water touched his tongue, and slid down his throat like forgiveness he hadn’t asked for. He took small sips, eyes never leaving your face, the desert in his mouth easing just a fraction while everything else inside him stayed cracked wide open. you watched him the whole time, patient and steady and a little scared, like you were afraid the next thing he tried to say might break whatever was left of them both.

“where's Ellie?” he rasped. The word scraped out, dry and uncertain, barely more than breath.

Your expression faltered, just a small, exquisite fracture across your face. “She’s fine,” you whispered, the words warm against his skin, heavy with relief and unspoken nights.

The answer didn’t sit right. He doesn't know why? Just the word fine didn’t belong anywhere near the world he remembered.

He frowned, pain tightening behind his eyes, and the idea unsettled him more than the pain.

He closed his eyes for a second, overwhelmed by the quiet intensity of your presence. The warmth of your skin. The steady brush of your thumb over his knuckles. The way your body leaned toward his without calculation.

He hadn’t been touched like that in a long time. Not with softness that wasn’t earned through blood or apology. Not with care that didn’t feel conditional.

your forehead dipped gently against his temple, careful of whatever bandage lay hidden there.

“You scared me,” you whispered. There was no anger in it, just exhaustion. your fingers tightened more securely around his, like you were anchoring him to something solid. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake,” you said, he can hear the way your voice barely holding together. “You can’t do this to me. I… I can’t do it without you.”

He felt like a man standing in a house that used to belong to him, but the furniture had been rearranged and he no longer knew where the doors were. and not knowing what to do.

He opened his eyes this time, when he feel you pull away from him. you were watching him with your doe- alike eyes like he might disappear if you blinked.

Joel studied you. The soft press of your hands lingered on his shoulders as you eased back, just far enough to study him. Your gaze moved over his face with careful, practiced intensity, as though you were reading symptoms written in the lines of his brow and the tension around his mouth.

“Is anything hurt?” you asked, your voice low and steady. “Any pain I can’t see?”

He guessed you were a doctor, but the thought didn’t quite fit. A nurse, maybe? No, that didn’t sit right either. You wore a simple white fitted tee and jeans, nothing clinical about you. Still, there was something in the way you looked at him that made him wonder exactly who you were. He couldn’t put a name or title to it, only that you felt like someone who knew how to look for what wasn’t being said.

"Yeah,” he muttered. “Yeah… there’s pain.” His voice carried the heaviness of someone unused to admitting weakness aloud. Like the confession itself sat wrong in his mouth. He didn’t even know why he was telling you this. Maybe because your hands had stayed still the whole time. Maybe because you looked at him like he was something breakable and not just a man stitched together by old violence and stubbornness.

Or maybe because, somehow, it felt right. Joel swallowed hard, eyes fixed somewhere past your shoulder, toward nothing at all. “Side,” he added after a moment, the word catching slightly in his throat. His hand drifted unconsciously toward his ribs before stopping midway, fingers curling into his palm instead. “Right side… feels like it’s been torn open.”

The room settled around the silence between you. The low hum of the light overhead. The faint smell of antiseptic and rain clinging to his jacket. His breathing had gone uneven now, careful, measured, like every inhale needed permission first. “Head too,” he murmured quieter this time, jaw tightening. “Keeps poundin’.”

And when he finally looked at you, it wasn’t with embarrassment. Not exactly. It was something softer than that. Something almost boyish beneath all the exhaustion. Like he hated that you were seeing him like this.

“okay, okay. You’ll be okay,” you said. “And I’ll tell the doctor after this.” you sound somehow a little too excited for what Joel is about to see.

Joel stared at you for a second too long, and in that second he became suddenly aware of everything at once: the faint crease between your brows whenever you worried, the careful way your fingers hovered near him without forcing contact, the scent of soap and cold air lingering in your sweater. Small things. Forgettable things, maybe. Yet they reached him with startling precision, lodging somewhere beneath the ache in his ribs.

“You said…” His thumb brushed unconsciously against the edge of the blanket draped over him, fingers tense, uncertain. “You’ve been waiting. For me?”

And God, the way he said it, almost hesitant, made the question feel larger than it was. As if he already feared the answer before hearing it. As if some part of him couldn’t quite believe anybody would wait for him at all.

She nodded once, and the small gesture seemed to carry more weight than it should have. Two months, she said, and the number landed in him like a quiet shock, something too large to hold all at once. He looked at her as if the space between them had changed shape, as if her patience had been sitting there in the room all along, waiting with her. Her hand stayed around his, steady and unshowy, but it made him feel suddenly aware of his own pulse, the fragility of being touched with such care. He had the strange sense that he was being looked after in a way he did not know how to ask for, and maybe had never once expected. It unsettled him, and softened him at the same time. He wanted to understand why she had waited, why she had stayed, but all he could do was stand there inside the quiet of it, feeling the tenderness of her concern like something almost unbearable.

He was trying to summon something, a memory of her voice, her face, the way her thumb traced his skin like she had mapped it a thousand times.

“Where… what hospital is this?” he asked.

“You’re at St. David’s Medical Center,” you said

The thought flickered, distant and half-formed. His eyes shifted past you, taking in the room again. the steady light, and quiet, the way everything felt… intact.

“what? no, no, no…” he started, then stopped. its just came out as a disbelife and whisper to himself.

His hand shifted against the sheets, slow, like even that took effort. He looked back at you, really looked this time, like maybe the answer was in your face instead of the room.

“…How?” he asked finally, quieter now. “Is it still in Jackson?”

joel could see it in the way your breath caught, like something fragile inside you had been nudged out of place. your eyes searched his face, not for an answer—but for how much he meant by that.

“No,” you said after a beat, her voice gentler now. “It’s not in Jackson.”

Joel frowned.

The word no didn’t settle right. It only made things worse. His gaze drifted again, slower this time, like he was trying to force the room to make sense if he looked at it long enough.

"Then where the hell am i—” he muttered, the curse fraying at the edges before it could even finish, stolen by the sudden weight of exhaustion that pressed down on him like wet concrete.

He swallowed, the motion pulling a faint wince across his face as fresh pain bloomed raw along his throat. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each inhale a careful negotiation, like his body was still learning the rules of this impossible place.

“you're in Austin, Texas, joel....” you added.

That made him freeze.

This was not the quiet, measured stillness Joel had learned to carry — the kind a man develops after twenty years of surviving, when every decision could mean life or death. No, this was something altogether different. Sharper. Colder. It seized him completely, freezing the blood in his veins as though winter had come from inside his own body.

Austin. Texas.

The words echoed strangely in his mind, hollow and unnatural, like hearing someone speak your childhood language in a dream. Austin no longer existed. Not like this. Not clean and bright and humming with life, with machines that worked and lights that stayed on and warm hands holding his as if love were still a simple thing.

"...are you okay?"

In the world he remembered, Austin had burned. It had died screaming along with everything else — swallowed by infection and fire and the long, merciless collapse of civilization. It had taken his daughter with it. Sarah. To hear that name spoken so easily now, in this bright, impossible room, felt like a kind of blasphemy. As if someone had quietly dug up her grave and expected him to be grateful that the earth had given her back.

His eyes lifted back to yours, sharper now despite the haze still clouding the edges of his vision, the confusion hardening into something edged and dangerous.

“…What do you mean?” he said under his breath, the question low and rough, barely more than gravel dragged across concrete. Then the suspicion broke loose, raw and unfiltered, the old instincts clawing their way up before he could stop them. “Are you fucking kidding me?” His voice cracked on the words, still hoarse from the tube they’d pulled, but the accusation burned through anyway. “Are you a one of FEDRA? Is the girl that shot me one of your people... or your leader?”

The questions hung between you, heavy and trembling, carrying every nightmare he’d lived through: the blue uniforms, the quarantine zones, the cold efficiency of people who called slaughter order. His fingers tightened in your grasp without meaning to, not pulling away but holding on like the contact itself might keep the floor from dropping out beneath him.

“Joel…” Your voice came out small at first, cracked and uncertain. “What… what are you talking about?”

He didn’t answer right away. The anger was already sharpening, turning his jaw to stone. He could feel it in the way his fingers flexed inside yours, but pressing harder, almost accusing.

"just tell me?" his voice getting angrier somehow

Because if this was some new game, if you were part of it, if the clean white room, the way you looked at him like he was yours were all just another way to break him—then he’d rather the club had finished its swing.

Your breath hitched, the sound soft and unsteady. You leaned in closer without thinking, “I’m not with anyone like that. I'm willow, and I’m yours. I’ve been yours for years.” Your voice cracked, confusion and hurt braiding together until it was impossible to tell which was winning. " y-you even give me this ring, remember?" the ring on your finger catching the light like a taunt.

willow

It started low, a slow burn behind his ribs, the kind that had kept him alive for twenty years. He watched the way your shoulders tensed, the way your free hand hovered halfway to his cheek before dropping, trembling. That look, wide-eyed and lost, like he’d just spoken in a language you didn’t understand, only fed the fire. Because if this was real, if you really didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about, then either the world had gone completely insane… or you were lying to him. And the thought that you, of all people, this woman who kissed his forehead like it was a promise, might be lying made something ugly twist tight in his gut.

“Joel, babe. There’s no... there’s no one who shot you. It was a car accident. On the highway. You swerved to avoid a truck and… and you don’t remember any of that?” you went on, words tumbling faster now, laced with a panic that only made his chest burn hotter. Your free hand rose again, hovering near his face like you wanted to touch him and didn’t dare.

A car accident. The words sounded so clean, so ordinary, they made his stomach turn.

He let out a short, bitter breath that scraped raw against his ruined throat. “A car accident,” he echoed, voice low and edged with disbelief. The anger was fully awake now, crawling higher, licking at the base of his throat. “You expect me to believe that? After everything? After the way the world ended? You’re telling me I’ve been lying here two months and the whole damn thing was just some fucking fender-bender in Austin, Texas?”

“what?… please, tell me what’s going on in your head. I don’t understand any of this. We... we can get through this. Us. you, me, the girls—” The plea only stoked the anger higher.

He could see it in your eyes—the genuine bewilderment, the way you looked at him like he was the one breaking something precious—and it made him want to shove the words back at you, make you feel the same fracture splitting open inside him.

“Yeah, well I don’t understand a goddamn thing either,” he rasped, the roughness in his voice turning sharp, ugly. His fingers tightened around yours, not gentle anymore, the grip almost bruising. “One minute I’m on the floor in Jackson with Ellie screaming my name, the next I wake up in some fairy-tale hospital with a woman I’ve never seen before telling me we’ve got daughters and a life in a city that shouldn’t even be standing. So forgive me if I’m having a hard time buying the ‘car accident’ story while you sit there looking at me like I’ve lost my mind and throwing around some bullshit about us—”

You flinched this time, but you didn’t pull away. And that, more than anything, unsettled him.

Are you out of your goddamn mind, kid? he thought. If this body weren’t already half-dead on me, I could put you down easy. But you stayed there anyway, close enough for him to feel the warmth coming off your skin, close enough that your hand still rested against him like you had forgotten it was there. Joel watched the confusion in your eyes shift slowly into hurt, quiet and unguarded, and the sight of it only made something uglier coil tighter inside his chest.

Because part of him had already begun to believe you.

“Joel,” you whispered again, voice trembling now, “I’m not lying to you. I swear I’m not. I don’t know what have you been through to this, or Jackson, or any of it. I just know I’ve been sitting here every day waiting for you to wake up and come back to me. To us.”

The room felt smaller suddenly, the beeping monitors too loud, the space between your faces charged with everything neither of you could quite name. His anger simmered there, hot and restless, while your confusion pressed back like a mirror, reflecting every fracture until it felt like the beginning of an argument neither of you had the strength for—but both of you were already stepping into.

The word us hit him like a gut punch.

His face twisted into something ugly, something mean and disbelieving, the kind of look he used to give raiders right before he pulled the trigger. Who the fuck is us? The thought roared through him, hot and vicious. There is no us between you and me. There never was. He didn’t know you. He didn’t want to know you. This soft, pleading stranger with her ring and her tears and her gentle hands had no right to that word.

“No,” he said suddenly, his voice rough and low. “No. No, that’s not what happened.”

you turned to look at him. Joel’s breathing had grown sharper, the anxiety clawing its way back up his throat. He pushed himself up slightly against the pillows, ignoring the burn in his side.

“Someone… a girl,” he continued, the words tumbling out faster, more urgent. “She shot me in the knee. Point blank. Then she beat the shit out of me. She had this goddamn club and she—” His voice cracked, but he forced the rest out. “She swung it at my head. That’s what happened. I’m not crazy. I didn’t get hurt in some fucking car accident. I know what I felt. I know what I saw.”

The room went completely still.

“Joel… hey, what are you talking about? There was no girl. It was a car crash on I-35. You swerved, hit the guardrail hard. They had to cut you out of the truck.”

Joel shook his head, jaw tight, eyes wild with frustration. “No. You’re wrong. All of it is wrong.” His gaze flicked toward you by the window, then back to you. “I was in Jackson. Ellie was there. She was screaming at me to get up. This wasn’t some accident on a highway that doesn’t even exist anymore. This was real. The blood, the pain, the way my leg gave out .... that was real.”

His chest was heaving now, the panic rising again, hot and suffocating. He looked between the two of you like you were both part of some elaborate lie meant to break him.

“I’m telling you,” he rasped, voice cracking with exhaustion and anger, “a girl beat me half to death with a golf club. She wanted me to suffer. That’s the last thing I remember. Not some fucking truck. Not Austin. Not any of this.”

The silence that followed felt suffocating. you glanced at him helplessly, clearly at a loss.

Joel’s hands were shaking where they gripped the sheets. He didn’t know who to trust anymore. Everything he said sounded insane even to his own ears, but it was the only truth he had left.

You cut him off mid-sentence, voice desperate, trying to reach the man you thought you still knew. “Joel, please—just breathe. tommy, ellie, and sarah are all waiting for you to wake up, okay. all of them is fine, there's no such a things like that, ”

"Sarah." the name landed like a blade between his ribs. "she so worried about ya,"

His eyes snapped to yours, the kind of look that had once made grown men step back. Anger surged through him in a white-hot flood, pure and blinding, drowning everything else. How dare you say her name? How dare you speak it so casually, like it was just another word, like you had any right to it? It felt like mockery. Like you were twisting the knife in the oldest wound he had, the one that had never healed, the one that still bled every time he closed his eyes. Sarah—his Sarah, his little girl, gone in a spray of bullets and screams—was not yours to claim. Not like this.

“Who the hell do you think you are?” he snarled, voice low and trembling with fury, the words scraping out like broken glass. “You don’t get to say her name. You don’t get to stand there and mock me with it. My daughter is dead. She’s been dead for twenty goddamn years. And you’re using her name like—like it’s some fucking game to you?”

You blinked, confusion crashing over your face like cold water, eyes wide and glistening. “Who?" you asks. "Ellie? Sarah?” The names tumbled out of you in helpless bewilderment, soft and uncertain, as if testing them might make any of this real. his eyes snapped at you. “Joel, I—I don’t understand. Sarah’s our-" joel see when you corrected yourself. "....your daughter. she is at school right now with Ellie and Tommy waiting for the doctor to say you're awake. She’s been so scared—”

His eyes snapped again at the second mention of Sarah, harder this time, the rage and raw grief colliding until his vision blurred at the edges. The anger was everywhere now, choking him, making his chest heave with the effort not to shout.

Part of him wanted to tear his hand from yours, wanted to shove you back hard enough to wipe that look from your face, to split the hurt between you so he wouldn’t have to carry it alone. The instinct came fast, ugly, familiar. Like anger was easier to survive than fear ever was.

But the other part of him: the worn-down, splintering part that had been holding itself together by habit alone, couldn’t stop looking at you.

At the tears beginning to gather in your eyes, shining stubbornly even as you tried to blink them away. At the way your voice cracked around his name, soft and trembling, as though it meant something sacred to you. As though he meant something.

It was unbearable.

Not because you were weak. Not because you pitied him.

But because you looked at him like you still believed there was something left in him worth reaching for.

And God, that was crueler than anything. Crueler than the pain in his body.

The room seemed to draw inward around the two of you, walls bending closer with every sharp pulse of the monitors. The sound filled the silence too loudly, too steadily, until even the air between your faces felt alive with it, thin and electric and breaking apart by inches.

Joel kept staring at you with that same ugly look—suspicion tangled with anger, exhaustion sitting underneath it all like something ancient and incurable. His hands trembled inside yours despite himself, not with weakness alone but with the effort of holding everything in. And your expression only undid him further: the confusion there, the hurt slowly opening across your face like light through cracked glass.

You looked at him as though you could not understand how someone already half-destroyed could still keep choosing to wound himself further.

The feeling hit him again before he could outrun it.

Anxiety came down hard and sudden, vicious as a storm breaking through rotten wood. His chest seized violently, breath catching halfway in as though invisible hands had wrapped around his ribs and begun tightening, until even the smallest inhale hurt. A sharp pain bloomed beneath his sternum, hot and blinding, spreading with every frantic beat of his heart.

"you okay?"

For one terrible second, he thought his body might simply split apart from it.

Old grief rose first. Then fear. Then something worse than both.

Because beneath the panic, beneath the confusion and fury and pain, there was the unbearable feeling that he was losing something again before he had even remembered what it was.

And you were still there, holding his shaking hands like they belonged to someone worth saving. but then, “I don’t know who the fuck you are, okay?” The words tore out of him, raw and cruel, each one aimed to wound. “I don’t know you. I don’t remember your face, your voice, that goddamn ring on your finger—none of it. You keep talking about us and daughters and some perfect little life like I’m supposed to just nod and play along. But I don’t feel any of that. You’re a stranger to me. You’re a fucking stranger holding my hand like you own it, saying my dead daughter’s name like it’s nothing, and I can’t—”

He stopped, breath ragged, the anxiety clawing higher, tighter, making his voice shake with something ugly.

“I wake up and everything’s gone. Jackson. Ellie. Tommy. My Sarah. And instead I get you. Some woman I’ve never seen before telling me I’ve got a whole family I don’t remember. How the hell do you think that feels? Like I’m losing my goddamn mind. Or maybe I already lost it and this is the joke.”

The words landed like stones. He saw them hit you — watched the way your shoulders curved inward, the way your lips pressed together to trap whatever sound wanted to escape. He saw the fresh hurt bloom in your eyes, bright and devastating, and still he couldn’t stop the poison spilling out.

“You want me to believe you’re mine? That I chose this? That I gave you that ring and built some goddamn white-picket life in a city that shouldn’t exist anymore?” His laugh was bitter, broken. “I don’t even know if I could love someone like that anymore. Not after everything. Certainly not someone I can’t remember.”

But even as the venom left him, even as the anger tried to keep its grip, something inside his chest fractured wider.

He looked at your eyes: They were the saddest eyes he had ever seen in his life. for one brief second, felt something close to shame crawl beneath his skin.

Not just guilt but the terrible understanding that he was hurting someone who did not deserve to be hurt.

A tear slipped from your eye before you could stop it. Joel watched it trace a slow path down your cheek, catching the pale hospital light as it fell. And then came the flush blooming beneath your skin, delicate and sudden, spreading across your face like your body itself was embarrassed by the honesty of your grief.

You looked away for half a second, as if ashamed to be seen hurting in front of him.

That nearly undid him. Because beneath the exhaustion and the confusion and the anger twisting inside his chest, you suddenly looked unbearably young to him. Young in the way bruised things are open and exposed. Still foolish enough to care. And God, he did not know what to do with that.

Something tightened low in his stomach, sharp and uncomfortable, almost like grief but not quite. The sight of your tears made him feel clumsy inside his own skin, like his hands had become dangerous things without him noticing. Like every hard word he threw at you landed somewhere tender he hadn’t meant to touch. For the first time since waking up, Joel looked at you not like a threat, not like a stranger hovering too close to his bed—

but like someone he might already have ruined.

Joel watched as you lifted your hand and wiped the tear away roughly, almost angrily, like you were punishing yourself for letting it fall in front of him. The motion was jerky, ungraceful, nothing like the gentle way you had touched him earlier. It hurt more than he expected it to.

Then something buzzed in your pocket.

You pulled out a slim, sleek rectangle, a phone? but not like any phone or even radio they usually use, he remembered from before the outbreak. those thick and got keyboard on it. but now It look too thin as the screen glowing bright and alive with color. Just a perfectly functioning piece of the old world, as if the last twenty years had never happened. Joel stared at it, a fresh wave of unease crawling over his skin. Phones didn’t work anymore. Not like that. Seeing it in your hand felt wrong. Unnatural. Like proof that none of this was real.

you glanced at the screen, hesitated, then answered.

“Hey… no need, can you just come here, please” you said, your voice quieter now, trying to steady itself.

You turned slightly away from him, but not enough to hide anything. Joel could still see the shine of tears in your eyes, the way your free hand gripped the edge of the bed until your knuckles paled. “No, he’s awake. He just woke up a little while ago.” someone on other side say something, and you says. "yeah, he talking, i mean we are,"

He watched you the whole time.

His eyes didn’t leave your face, not even for a second. There was a tight, animal caution in his chest, the old instinct still working even though his body felt half-broken. Part of him kept waiting for the shift — for your hand to move suddenly, for something sharp to appear, for the gentleness to crack open and reveal what was really underneath. He wouldn’t have been surprised if you pulled a gun. In his experience, that was how these things usually ended.

While you were still on the phone, he turned his head slowly to the side, jaw clenched against the pain that flared down his neck. Through the gap in the thin curtain, the window showed him the city. They were high up. Very high. Buildings stood straight and whole, lights moving along the streets below, everything clean and ordinary in a way that made his stomach feel hollow. It didn’t look like a world that had ended. It looked like one that had simply kept going without him.

“Okay,” you said into the phone, voice quiet and tired. “Can you tell the doctor on the way here? Yeah… okay.”

You hung up and slipped the phone back into your pocket. For a moment you stood completely still, looking down at the floor like you needed the extra second to collect yourself. Then you lifted your head and met his eyes again.

Joel didn’t say anything. He just watched you. The flush was still on your cheeks, faint now, and your eyes were red at the edges. You had wiped the tear away so roughly it was like you were annoyed at yourself for crying. He noticed the small things how your fingers kept gripping the edge of the bed rail, even after everything he had said, the way your shoulders carried a weight that wasn’t just physical.

“Tommy’s downstairs,” you said quietly, without looking at him. “He’s going to come up in a minute.”

The squeaking sound of the chair cut through the silence like a small wound.

You dragged it back toward the wall with a slow, tired scrape, the rubber legs protesting against the linoleum. Joel tensed instantly, every muscle in his battered body pulling tight. His pulse spiked. For one sharp, instinctive second he was certain you were going to lift it — swing it hard across the room and bring it down on his head, finishing what the world had started. He braced for it, breath shallow, eyes never leaving you.

But you didn’t.

You simply collapsed into the chair, throwing your body down as if all the strength had suddenly left your legs. The movement was heavy, defeated. You curled forward, back rounding like a question mark, elbows digging into your knees, and buried your face in your palms. The posture was so raw, so private, that Joel felt he shouldn’t be watching. For a moment he was sure you were going to cry, really cry! the kind of crying that tore itself out of the chest and refused to be quiet.

He waited for the sound of it.

Instead, you stiffened, as though reminding yourself you were still in the room with him. You straightened your back just enough to look composed, though your shoulders stayed heavy and your head remained low. Your gaze fixed on the floor between your feet. Then, almost absentmindedly, your fingers began to move — tracing the band of the ring on your left hand, turning it slowly, nervously, around and around your finger like it was the only real thing left in the world.

Joel watched the small motion with a strange ache blooming behind his ribs. The way the light caught on the simple silver band as you twisted it. The way your thumb kept brushing over it, again and again, as if checking it was still there. As if checking he was still there.

There was something unbearably intimate about it. Something that made the air feel thick and warm between you, even with all the distance and silence and cruel words he had thrown at you earlier. He could see the exhaustion in every line of your body, the quiet war you were fighting just to keep yourself from falling apart in front of him.

And still, those eyes, when they eventually lifted again, held that same devastating softness.

He didn’t know what to do with any of it. The fear, the suspicion, the strange pull in his chest. So he simply kept watching you, silent and unsettled, as the fluorescent light hummed above you both and the city glowed indifferently beyond the window.

The silence stretched between you for a long moment, heavy and alive.

Then you lifted your head slightly, eyes still fixed somewhere near the floor, and asked in a voice so soft it barely disturbed the air:

“You don’t really remember me at all, do you?”

The question came out small and fragile, almost apologetic for existing. With it, a sad smile touched your lips — weak, trembling at the edges, the kind of smile that wasn’t really a smile at all. It was more like surrender. A small, tired curve that knew it wouldn’t reach your eyes and didn’t even try. It made something inside Joel tighten painfully.

He stared at you, chest still aching from the earlier surge of anxiety, his body heavy against the hospital bed. The question hung there, simple and devastating. He could see the way your fingers kept turning the ring around and around, slower now, as though the motion could steady you.

For a second he didn’t answer. He just looked at that weak, sorrowful smile and felt the strange weight of it settle deep in his stomach. It wasn’t fair. None of this was fair. You were looking at him like he had once meant everything, while all he could offer back was confusion and suspicion and the cold certainty that he had never seen your face before today.

“No,” he said finally, his voice low and rough, scraped raw from disuse. “I don’t.”

Your sad little smile faltered but didn’t disappear completely. It only became sadder, thinner, as if you had already known the answer but still needed to hear it out loud. Your eyes shimmered again, that unbearable softness returning full force, and Joel felt the now-familiar twist in his chest — guilt and something else he didn’t want to name it.

You nodded once, barely perceptible, still playing with the ring like it was a lifeline.

“okay... ” you whispered, almost to yourself. “at least you didn't forgot your family.”

You simply sat there in the chair, back slightly curved, wearing that small, broken smile like armor, while the city lights glowed quietly beyond the window and the distance between you felt wider than ever.

Joel kept watching you, unable to look away, the image of that weak smile burning itself into him long after you lowered your gaze again.

His eyes were fixed on you as you shook your head, then you let out a small, broken sound, almost like a chuckle in disbelief at what had happened.

“I don’t know what’s worse, Joel. That you don’t remember me… or that some part of me still believes if I just wait long enough, you’ll come back to me anyway. Even though I can see in your eyes that you already left.”

Joel felt the words sink into him like hooks.

Something heavy and painful lodged itself in his throat. He stared at you, at that small, devastated smile still clinging to your lips, at the way your shoulders curved like the weight of loving him was slowly crushing you. The anxiety in his chest tightened again, but this time it was mixed with a guilt so sharp it almost made him flinch.

Jesus Christ, he thought. How do you say something like that to a man who doesn’t even know your name? How do you sit there and bleed like this for someone who looks at you like a threat?

He hated it. He hated how your sadness made him feel small. He hated that some broken part of him wanted to reach out and touch your hand anyway. Most of all, he hated that he had nothing real to give you.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he rasped finally, his voice low and rough, almost angry at how unsteady it sounded. “I can’t lie to you. I look at you and… I feel nothing. Not the way you want me to. There’s just this blank space where you say my life used to be.”

He swallowed hard, eyes dropping to your hands, to that ring you kept touching like a wound.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, the words feeling foreign and insufficient on his tongue. “I’m sorry you’re hurting like this. But I didn’t ask for any of it. I didn’t ask for you to wait two months by my bed. I didn’t ask for daughters I don’t remember. I woke up and everything I know is gone… and you’re looking at me like I’m supposed to fix that. Like I’m supposed to love you when I don’t even know who the hell you are.”

He met your eyes again, his own gaze tired and conflicted.

“I’m not him,” he said quietly, almost gently this time. “Whoever the man was who looked at you like you were his whole world… I ain’t him. Not anymore. Maybe I never will be again.”

Joel looked away toward the window, jaw tight, the city lights blurring slightly in his vision. Inside his chest, the guilt twisted deeper. Because even as he said the words, even as he tried to push you away, a small, terrified part of him wondered if he was making the biggest mistake of his life by letting someone who loved him this much slip through his fingers.

You looked at him for a long moment with those blank eyes, eyes so full of sadness they seemed emptied of everything else. There was no anger left in them, no fight. Just a vast, quiet exhaustion that made the room feel colder.

Then a sudden scoff from you that broke the silence, almost a sneer, like you were disgusted with yourself for still caring.

“i hope you do a little better and put a effort when you see the girls,” you said, your voice low and flat. “They’re your daughters. You’re their only hope right now.”

He stared at you as you said them. There was no longer any plea in them, only a weary resignation that somehow hurt more than any accusation. Joel watched as you pushed yourself up from the chair. Your movements were slow, heavy, like your body had grown too heavy to carry. You walked over to the large window he had been glancing at earlier and pulled the thin curtain open with one sharp tug. afternoon light flooded the room, softer and warmer than the harsh fluorescent glow. The city stretched out beneath you... alive, glowing, impossibly intact.

Joel stared past you at the view, his chest tightening again at the sight of a world that refused to match his memories. You stood there with your back to him, arms wrapped around yourself, silhouetted against the glass. The light caught in your hair and made the ring on your finger glint faintly. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t say anything else. You just stood there, looking out at the city like it might give you answers he couldn’t.

Joel felt something shift uncomfortably inside him. Those blank, sorrow-filled eyes stayed burned into his mind even now that you weren’t facing him. He wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. The silence between you felt thicker than before — full of everything you hadn’t said, and everything he didn’t know how to feel.

He stayed quiet, watching the gentle rise and fall of your shoulders, wondering how much longer you could keep holding yourself together when he kept breaking you apart.

The door burst open.

Both of you turned at the sound, your body pivoting fully from the window in one fluid, instinctive motion, no longer offering him your back. The golden sunlight that had been outlining your silhouette now spilled across your front, catching in your eyes and illuminating the quiet exhaustion etched into your features. Joel felt the shift like a current passing through the room. Your gaze landed on him first before moving to Tommy.

Tommy came in fast, boots loud against the floor, breathing hard like he had run the whole way from wherever bad news lived in this too-bright city. The rush of air that followed him carried the scent of outside—dust, engine oil, and the faint metallic tang of evening settling over concrete. His hair was disheveled, jacket half-buttoned, eyes wide with that familiar mix of panic and fierce love Joel almost recognized.

“Joel—Jesus Christ, willow said you were awake,” Tommy’s voice cracked as he crossed the room in long strides, stopping short when he saw you standing by the window, rigid and silent. "Jesus, you scared the hell out of us." His gaze flicked between the two of you, reading the thick air, the way your arms hugged your ribs like armor. Something in Tommy’s face softened with understanding, then tightened again with worry.

Tommy obviously knew you. There had been no hesitation in his brother when he looked at you, none of that suspicion Joel had first clung to because suspicion was easier than the alternative. Easier than believing you were exactly what you said you were.

Because if Tommy knew you, really knew you, then you hadn’t lied to him.

Which meant the look on your face earlier had been real too. The silence after his cruel words. The way your mouth parted slightly, as if you had almost said something back before deciding against it. He remembered it now with painful clarity. That quiet kind of hurt people try to hide because they don’t think they’re allowed to feel it in the first place.

And God, he had done that to you.

he’d rather die than speak to you now, knowing he was the one who hurt you.

...

YOU (WILLOW)

You sat in the parking lot with the food balanced on your lap, the paper bag already going translucent with grease. The Coke beside you had started sweating down the cup, dampening the fabric of your coat where it rested against your thigh. You could hear children somewhere outside laughing too loudly, backpacks slamming against lockers, car doors opening and closing in quick succession. Life continuing with this terrible ease.

when the doctor spoke, somehow made it worse.

Like if he had sounded alarmed, or uncertain, or visibly disturbed by any of this, maybe you could have matched his emotion properly. But he spoke in that careful, measured tone doctors used when they had already accepted the situation long before you had.

You sat across from him in the consultation room with your hands clasped so tightly together your knuckles hurt. There was a coffee stain on the sleeve of your sweater from two days ago. Or maybe three. You couldn’t really remember anymore. Time had begun collapsing strangely since the accident. Nights folding into mornings without edges between them.

“He remembers his brother,” you said. “his daughters.”

The doctor nodded once. “Yes.”

You stared at him. The fluorescent light above buzzed softly. Somewhere outside the room a phone rang twice and stopped. “But not me.”

Another pause.

You hated the pauses most. The pauses were where reality entered the room.

“Memory retrieval after brain trauma can be selective,” he explained. “Sometimes emotionally significant memories remain accessible. Sometimes certain relationships become… disconnected temporarily.”

Disconnected. The word made something sharp twist low in your stomach.

“He knew me before,” you said.

“Yes.”

“He loved me.” you murmur.

The doctor lowered his eyes briefly then. Not avoiding the question exactly. Just moving carefully around it, like somebody stepping over broken glass.

“I understand that.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your voice sounded strange suddenly. “Because if he remembers Ellie, and Tommy, and Sarah, then why not me?”

The question stayed there between you.

Why not me.

You realized then that you had been thinking it over and over since Joel opened his eyes.

Not: Will he recover?

Not: Will things go back to normal?

Just: Why not me.

The doctor folded his hands together on the desk. “The brain doesn’t organize memory according to fairness,” he said gently.

You almost laughed at that, not because it was funny, because the sentence felt obscene somehow. Fairness. As though this had anything to do with fairness anymore.

“He looked at me,” you said after a moment. “Like I frightened him.”

The doctor didn’t answer immediately. You kept speaking anyway because stopping felt impossible now.

“He kept asking for Ellie. He remembered Sarah immediately. Tommy too. He remembered things that apparently don’t even exist anymore inside his head. But when he looked at me,” your throat tightened suddenly. “Nothing. There was just nothing.”

Your voice cracked slightly on the last word and you looked down immediately, embarrassed by it. The doctor waited. You hated that too. The patience. The gentleness. As though your grief had become medically predictable.

“But he did know me,” you insisted again, quieter this time. “You understand that, right? We've been together like... almost five years. seeing him every single day, and we-we going to married, and-and i don't know have another kid. He used to…” You stopped.

'Used to' is the saddest phrases you could ever say. The phrase hollowed something inside your chest.

The doctor leaned back slightly in his chair.“Miss Grant,” he said carefully, “people often assume memory is purely factual. But autobiographical attachment is extremely complicated. Sometimes after trauma the brain preserves certain identities while suppressing others associated with emotional intensity, stress, or disorientation.”

You blinked at him. Suppressing others. The words sounded almost violent.

“So I’m stressful?” you asked.

“No, that’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?”

He hesitated.

And again you thought: there it is. That terrible little hesitation before somebody says something that changes your life permanently.

“What I mean,” he said slowly, “is that memory loss is not always random. Sometimes the mind protects itself in ways we don’t fully understand.”

You stared at him for a long moment. Then shook your head immediately. “No.”

He stayed silent.

“No,” you repeated. “Because that makes it sound intentional.”

“I’m not suggesting he chose this.”

“But why me?” you asked again, suddenly unable to stop. “Why am I the missing part? Why does he remember everyone except me?”

Your voice had gone thin now. Almost shaking.

You pressed your palms hard against your eyes for a second, breathing carefully.

“He remembered his daughters,” you whispered. “Do you understand how strange that is? He remembers being a father. Just not being my.....”

The doctor’s expression softened almost imperceptibly.

And somehow that softness finally broke something in you.

“He used to know me better than anyone,” you said quietly. “He used to look at me and…” You swallowed hard. “God. He used to look at me like I was home to him.”

The room stayed silent after that.

Then finally, very softly, the doctor said:

“I know this is painful.”

And the strange thing was, hearing him say painful almost made you angry. Because painful sounded far too small a word for what this actually was.

Painful was a migraine. A broken wrist. Bad news over the phone.

Because if Joel truly felt nothing, this would actually be simpler. Cleaner. You could grieve properly then. People survived rejection every day. Survived divorce. Survived widowhood.

But this was something stranger.

He looked at you like there was something inside him trying unsuccessfully to reach toward you through locked glass.

And maybe that was the cruelest possibility of all. To still exist somewhere inside another person without them being able to find you.

...

You took another bite of the burger because your body needed something, even if your mind rejected the idea of eating entirely. The meat tasted too salty now. Or maybe that was just the tears reaching the corners of your mouth. You wiped your face with the heel of your hand and stared through the windshield at nothing in particular.

It’s strange, you thought. How quickly a person can become lonely inside their own life.

Not even this morning, Joel had still known your name. Maybe not speaking it, because he was unconscious and machines had been breathing for him and the doctors kept using words like pressure and swelling and wait. But somewhere underneath all that, he had still belonged to you in the ordinary way husbands belong to their wives. His toothbrush still sat beside yours at home. His coffee mug still waited in the sink. The flannel he wore most often was still hanging over the chair in your bedroom because you hadn’t washed it yet. It smelled too much like him.

And now suddenly you were somebody standing at the edge of his bed introducing yourself like a stranger.

The thought made your stomach turn violently. You laughed a little under your breath then, though there was nothing funny in it. What are you supposed to do with a relationship after only one person remembers it?

You kept thinking maybe there was a correct way to behave. Some proper version of yourself that would make this easier for him. Less frightening. Maybe if you had not cried. Maybe if you had touched him less. Maybe if you had not looked so devastated every time he stared at you blankly.

But then another thought came immediately after. No, because even if you had done everything perfectly, he still would not remember you.

That was the unbearable thing. You rested your forehead briefly against the steering wheel. You still had to pick up the girls.

Your eyes burned from crying.

You took another bite of the burger and forced yourself to eat half because otherwise Tommy would notice later. Tommy noticed things. Not in the way Joel did, quietly and immediately, but eventually. Like a storm warning arriving a little after the rain had already started.

The burger had gone lukewarm.

You chewed anyway.

People always say grief steals your appetite. This had never been true for you. Grief did not make you less hungry. It simply made eating feel absurd. The body continuing with its ordinary needs while the heart behaved like something mortally wounded.

You chewed slowly.

A girl crossed the parking lot holding hands with her father. She was laughing at something he said, head tilted back completely without caution, the way children laugh when they trust somebody absolutely.

You had loved Joel for years before you realized the frightening part of it wasn’t losing him.

It was building an entire life around somebody until your memories no longer made sense without them inside it.

You thought about the hospital room again. Joel looking at you with suspicion first. Then anger. Then something worse afterward. Guilt.

That part stayed with you.

Because underneath all his fear, he had looked ashamed after making you cry. As though some instinct inside him still recoiled from hurting you even when his mind no longer understood why.

The thought settled into your chest strangely warm and painful at once. Maybe memory lived somewhere deeper than the brain. Somewhere inside the body itself. Or maybe you were becoming pathetic now. The kind of woman who searched for signs of love in tiny meaningless gestures because the larger thing had already disappeared.

You swallowed hard.

You rested your forehead briefly against the steering wheel. Your chest tightened until breathing hurt.

if you hold back on the emotions, if you don't allow yourself to go all the way through them, you can never get to being detached. You stay afraid of them.

You wondered if that was true.

Because lately you felt like all you had done was feel.

Fear.

Hope.

Relief.

Then grief.

Then hope again.

Then grief again.

An endless cycle.

The doctor had told you memory loss was complicated. That emotional pathways could survive even when memories disappeared. That Joel might still feel connected to you in ways he couldn't explain.

Might. Such a terrible word and hope lives inside words like might. So does suffering, You took another bite, chewed slowly.

The truth was, you had spent two months preparing yourself for almost every outcome imaginable.

For a second you honestly considered driving somewhere else entirely. Just continuing down the highway without stopping. Leaving the city. Leaving the hospital. Leaving the terrible ache of being looked at by your husband like you were some woman who wandered accidentally into his room.

But the thought vanished almost immediately because there was nowhere you could go where your life would not follow you.

You closed your eyes briefly. For one absurd moment, you think it might be easier to choke on the burger and die right here in the school parking lot. Not because you want to die—you don't. That's the strange thing. You want tomorrow. You want coffee in the morning. You want Sarah yelling from upstairs that she can't find her shoes even though they're exactly where she left them. You want Ellie stealing fries and denying it with complete sincerity. You want Joel. More specifically, you want the version of Joel who knows you. But grief has a way of making death seem less frightening than absence. Because death, at least, is honest. Death closes the door and leaves you outside it. This is different. This is being invited inside and discovering nobody recognizes your face.

You imagine the burger catching in your throat, imagine the panic of it, the desperate search for air, and think how ridiculous it would be for your life to end over fast food and heartbreak. Then again, heartbreak itself feels ridiculous. You spend years building a life with someone. You memorize the way they take their coffee, the shape of their silences, the exact look they get when they're trying not to laugh. They become woven into your days so completely that you stop noticing where they end and you begin. And then one morning they wake up and look at you like a stranger.

You swallow hard and feel the food move painfully down your throat. No, you don't want to die. What you want is far more impossible than that. You want to walk back into that hospital room and have Joel look at you the way he did yesterday. You want him to remember why he loved you. You want, just for five minutes, to stop feeling like you're mourning someone who is still alive.

Then you heard knock on the car window and Ellie’s voice outside the car.

“Willy?”

You looked up too fast, wiping your face immediately with both hands, still chewing the last bite of burger like an idiot. Ellie stood a few feet away outside the passenger window, backpack hanging off one shoulder, staring at you with that sharp, observant expression that always made you feel transparently human.

For one horrible second neither of you said anything. Then Ellie frowned slightly.

“…you okay?”

am i okay?

Frankie’s at the corner of the bar, his back to the wall, as she walks in. The boys, Pope, Ben and Will, are arguing about some finer point of something or other, he’s not really paying attention anymore, so he’s the only one who notices her. A bachelorette party tumbles through the door first, the bride to be wearing a tall plastic tiara on her head, and her friends trailing behind, all wearing Friends themed t-shirts that say “The one where Lizzy marries Steve”, cackling loudly and making “wooohoooo” noises. The boys immediately turn and check out the girls but one look at how far gone they all are, this is probably the only bar in town that will still serve them at this level of intoxication, they turn back to their conversation. 

She’s trailing behind her friends, coming in after the others and just about hiding the t-shirt under her jean jacket, looking a lot more sober than the rest of the hen party.

Frankie can’t help but stare, the way the black jeans are hugging her curves makes his heart rate pick up, but when she pushes her hand through her hair and smiles at her friends it feels like it stops in his chest, pausing a second before racing again. He swallows, tugging at his cap, pulling it down deeper over his eyes as he tries to look without staring. She glances around the room as her friends occupy one of the large booths next to the jukebox and start a giggling argument about what songs to play first. Somehow her eyes catch his and he feels heat creeping up his throat as he quickly looks away, down at his drink, over at Pope, anywhere but at her.

…

Against your will you’ve been talked into ending your friend’s bachelorette party at a local dive bar in a part of town you and your friends usually don’t hang out in. Your usual hang out had refused to serve your friends, seeing as they certainly were about four tequila shots too far gone, and you’d been ready to call it a night then. Bachelorette parties weren’t even really your thing but as Lizzy was the last of your friends to marry, apart from yourself, you couldn’t really back out when she begged you to come. So after failing to get into three clubs, Lizzy had bribed the bouncer to tell her of a bar that would let them in and he’d told them to try The Outback Bar across town. 

So here you are, pushing open the door to a place that was decorated to look like something out of a Crocodile Dundee set while your friends squealed over the stuffed plush kangaroo by the jukebox. The bar is half empty, mainly regulars scattered around the place, some playing pool at the back. This neighborhood isn’t exactly the best so you scan the place for any potential troublemakers but one of the booths is filled with three middle aged ladies sipping on some sort of cocktails and it makes you feel a bit more calm. How bad could a place be if a group looking like local high school librarians were drinking at it? 

At the bar you spot four guys involved in an animated conversation. Well, three of them are, the fourth one is looking at your but ducks his head the second you catch his eye, his hand shooting up to rub his neck under a mop of dark curls that stick out under his cap. His eyes are shaded but you can make out his curved nose and nervous smile as he glances over at his friends, still rubbing his neck before his hand slides down and rubs his patchy beard instead. He quickly shoots a glance your way and you feel like you’ve been burnt when your eyes meet just for a second, his face softens into a quick smile before he drops his gaze again. Before you can help yourself you smile back and you hope he saw it before he looked away. Smiling at random men in bars was dangerous business but this man had such a sweet, soft smile that he’d pulled a smile in return from you before you’d even realised what was happening. 

Your friends call you over to the booth and then order you to the bar for a pitcher of beer and tequila shots, deciding you’re the only one sober enough to order for the table. You shake your head and laugh at their loud demands for more liquor but you decide a pitcher of beer won’t do much damage this late in the game anyway. 

The bartender is busy serving another patron so you lean on the counter and try to sneak looks at the man at the other end. The bar is a big rectangular shape, wrapping around the open shelving system in the middle and it lets you peek through the opening towards the four friends at the opposite corner. Two of them are blonde and blue eyed, similar enough looking to be brothers, and both conventionally handsome, you know your friends would be all over them. The third man has shorter dark hair and even at this distance you can see the grey around his temples. He’s handsome and something about him tells you he’s probably very aware of how good he looks. He’s waving his hands around, trying to make some animated point to the blonde guys, as they both laugh and shake their heads. 

The fourth man, the one with the cap, seems to be listening with only half an ear as he tilts the liquid in his glass around the rim. Out of the corner of your eye you try to get a closer look at him. His hair is curling around his ears as well as around his neck, and as he smiles at something his friend says you see a dimple in his cheek, his eyes crinkling at the corners as the smile all but transforms his face into something warm and soft. He’s got a scruffy looking beard over his jaw and chin but a thicker moustache that seems to be trimmed just above his top lip. The cap that’s pulled down securely on his head is well worn and beaten and it seems to be a permanent fixture on his head the way he tugs on it every now and then. You can’t help but wonder if he’s hiding a bald patch under there but his dark curls are thick even when he swipes the cap off his head, smooths them down and pulls it on again. 

As Frankie tugs again on his cap he looks over the bar towards the booth the bachelorette party has occupied but he can’t see her. Quickly he scans the bar and feels heat shoot through him as he meets her eyes through the bottles and shelves. This time he doesn’t duck his head straight away, her eyes hold on to him as she gives him a smile before dropping her own gaze to the drinks menu in her hand, still smiling. He keeps watching her, unable to pull his eyes away, and when she lifts her eyes towards him again he feels his lips pull up in a smile that he can’t even seem to control. This woman is gorgeous and she’s looking at him with a smile so sweet he’s losing his breath. Before he knows what he’s doing he lifts his hand from his glass and gives her a quick wave. 

The movement draws Pope’s attention and he’s immediately looking over Frankie’s shoulder, trying to see who his friend is waving at. Catching sight of her Pope exclaims; 

“Damn, Frankie, she’s cute, go talk to her, man!” 

“Shut the fuck up, Pope, dammit.” Frankie sighs as he sees her look away. The bartender has come to take her order and she starts talking to him. 

“I’m serious, Fish, she’s into you, go talk to her, get her number. If you don’t I wi..ll.” Pope makes a show of standing up from the stool and Frankie grabs his shoulder and pulls him down again while Pope laughs at his friend’s awkward glance back at the woman. Ben and Will have also turned, craning their necks to see what the fuss is about and Ben gives a low whistle as he sees her leaning on the bar. 

“Pope’s right, Fish, go talk to her, she’s hot!” 

“Na, na, I changed my mind,” Pope laughs, slapping Frankie’s shoulder. “Frankie here will run headlong into enemy territory with his balls out, but what he doesn’t have the guts for, is to talk to someone like her.” 

“Just shut up, Pope, seriously,” Frankie grumbles as he downs the last of his drink and pushes it across the counter. 

“I’ll bet anything you don’t have the cojones to go over there and get her number, buddy.” Pope grins, enjoying riling his friend up as a red flush creeps up over his throat. 

Frankie glances over at her again, she’s waiting on her order at the bar. As he looks her eyes flick to him again and when she meets his gaze she stays locked on him for a second before she looks down at the counter, a shy smile creeping across her face. No doubt she noticed how all of them now seem to be focused on her. 

“Ok, Pope, what’ll it be, what do I get if I get her number?” 

“A hundred bucks, I’ll give you a hundred bucks because that’s how certain I am that you don’t have the balls to ask for her number.”

“You’re on.” Frankie says as he slides off the stool, “You’re gonna pay for my first date with her.” 

...

You can tell you’re suddenly the topic of conversation among the friends on the corner and heat is creeping up your cheeks as you feel four pairs of eyes on you. You glance over again, looking for the man with the cap and when your eyes meet him you can’t help but smile again. 

The bartender brings you the pitcher of beer you ordered, no tequila shots, and two baskets of fries. You pay and start grabbing the order and throw a quick glance over at the corner again but this time the man with the cap isn’t there. 

“Hi, sorry, do you maybe wanna hand with that?” 

You suddenly hear a low voice behind you and you turn to see the man with the cap standing in front of you, a shy smile on his face, his hands stuck deep in his jeans pockets. 

“Yeah, sure, that would be great, thanks,” you return his shy smile as he grabs the pitcher and the tower of glasses from you. You take the fries and lead the two of you over to your friends’ booth. They all cheer as you arrive, immediately grabbing the food and drinks. You turn back to the bar, two large jugs of water are waiting for you on the counter and the man follows you back. 

“Thanks for that” you smile at him and he gives you another shy one back. 

“I’m Frankie, Francisco Morales,” he says, his hand seemingly by its own accord shooting up to rub the back of his neck while you give him your name. His smile widens as you lean on the bar counter, not grabbing the water straight away and he mirrors your action, putting his arm on the counter and standing close enough for you to smell his body wash and the warm cotton of his t-shirt that’s stretched tight across his broad shoulders. The dimple is back and you notice how he’s got small bald patches in his scruffy beard that’s dappled with grey in places. 

“So, bachelorette party, huh?” he asks and nods his head towards your friends who are now toasting in beer and howling along to “I want it that way” by The Backstreet Boys on the jukebox.  

“Yeah, I’m the designated “get them all home in one piece” person tonight,” you sigh with a crooked smile at them. “They are a bit too wasted to still be drinking but you know…” you shrug your shoulders and give Frankie a grin, “been there, done that too.” 

“Got the t-shirt,” he smirks, lifting the edge of your jean jacket with his finger tips to show off the “The one where Lizzy marries Steve” t-shirt you’re sporting under it. 

“To add to my collection,” you reply, laughing as you look down at the print. “I think this is the 8th one. Lizzy is the last one to be married. The couple from the first one has already gotten divorced and remarried so we’re getting through them.” 

“Any of them yours?” Frankie asks and you notice how he’s frowning his forehead, his brow knotting as he looks at you as if he’s nervous for the answer. 

“No, none of them mine,” you can’t help but smile, his face is adorable as his expression drops into a shy smile. His dark brown eyes are very expressive, crinkling again at the corners as he steps a little bit closer to you, giving the busboy room to collect the glasses from the bar behind him. The music from the jukebox suddenly turns off as the softer lights of the bar are replaced by harsher bright lights. 

“Closing time!” the bartender calls from behind the bar as your friends boo and jeer, sinking the last of their beers. “I’m taking these fries to go!” you hear Lizzy slur and you cringe inwardly as Frankie glances over at them. 

“So, seeing as I’m running out of time,” Frankie begins, still standing close enough for you to feel the heat coming off of him, “I wanna ask for your number, maybe?”

“You’ve got to earn that privilege, Frankie,” you look up at him. “I don’t usually give my number out to guys I’ve just met at random bars on Saturday nights.” 

“Yeah, no, I get that, probably a smart strategy too,” he falters. “I would’ve bought you a drink first and maybe we could’ve talked a bit more but you know, I didn’t want to not ask anyway.” He scratches at his beard absentmindedly and shoots a quick glance over his shoulder at his friends who are all eagerly still watching the conversation. “Maybe we can catch up here sometime, do you ever come by this place?” he asks. 

“This is my first time here, it’s really on the wrong side of town for me,” you admit, starting to regret not giving him your number but old habits are hard to shake, not giving out your number to random guys being one of them. 

“Oh, ok, I get it.” Frankie looks down and scuffs the toe of his boot on the bar’s skirting board before looking over at his friends again. “I should just go then, get them home too.” 

He starts to move away as you see his dark haired friend make a gesture as if he’s rubbing imaginary money between his thumb and fingers while smiling at the two blonde guys. 

“Did your friend make a bet with you about getting my number?” you ask him, suddenly putting two and two together. 

“Yeah, kinda, it wasn’t serious or anything, he was just, just, kinda pushing me to work up the nerve to come over and talk to you.” Frankie stutters slightly and your heart contracts as his hand shoots up to rub the back of his neck again, his dark curls becoming ever more unruly with each pass of his hand across them. 

You suddenly feel arms wrap around you from behind and a wave of perfume and tequila washes over you. Lizzy is giggling in your ear, tugging you away from Frankie. “Sorry, lover boy,” she squeals, “She’s mine tonight!” 

You shoot Frankie an apologetic look as Lizzy pulls you over to the booth where the exasperated bartender is trying to convince your friends that it’s time to leave. Frankie gives you a small wave before stuffing his hands in his pockets and turning back to his friends. You turn to the tasks of gathering your friends together and calling for an Uber to get you all home safe.  

...

As you leave the bar with the bachelorette party, getting them out the door is like herding cats, you spot Frankie and his friends making their way across the parking lot. Frankie’s got his back to you but you can still make him out, his unruly curls sticking out from under his cap, backlit by the flood lights in the lot. A smile suddenly creeps across your face and you call out to him. 

“Frankie, wait up!” 

He turns as you make your way towards him, and his friends all turn too, immediately breaking out in wide grins. The dark haired one gives Frankie a quick shove as to motion him towards you and Frankie picks up his feet. You meet him halfway across the lot. 

“Give me your phone,” you say and hold out your hand towards him. 

“Why?” he says with a confused look, but he still fumbles in his back pocket to pull out an old iPhone with a cracked screen. 

“Let me win that bet for you,” you grin as he taps in the pass code and hands you the phone. 

Frankie’s confused look changes into a wide grin as you add yourself as a new contact in his phone and hit “save” before handing it back to him. 

“Make sure your friend pays up what he owes you now,” you smile before turning back to your friends who are yelling at you to hurry the fuck up as the Uber you ordered pulls up to the curb.

As you walk back across the lot you suddenly hear Frankie’s fast footsteps approaching from behind. Turning back towards him you stop as he puts his hand on your arm, his calloused fingers are dry and warm against your bare skin, his grip gentle, just resting against you. 

“Does that mean I can call you too?” he asks, his dark eyes barely visible under his cap, but you can see the shyness from before returning. 

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” you smile before reaching up and pressing your lips to the bare patch in his beard, giving him a quick kiss. Behind him you can hear his friends whoop loudly and cheer, someone yells, “Go, Fish!” and when you pull back from Frankie a blush is creeping up his throat, awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck as he grins. You smile again and pull away from him, letting his hand slip down along your arm before his hand gives your fingers a small squeeze and lets you go. Turning back to your friends, who are still yelling at you to get a move on, you hide an even bigger smile. As you quickly make your way over to the waiting Uber you feel butterflies flutter in the pit of your stomach. The light scratch of Frankie’s beard still on your lips and his warm hand imprinted on your arm. 

…

Later that night, or early morning more like, your phone pings as you're brushing your teeth, getting ready for bed. It’s a number that’s not saved in your phone but as you pick it up you have a good feeling about who it might be from. 

“hope i didnt wake you. just wanted to give you my number too so you didnt think i wasnt serious and only did it for the bet. sleep well.”

As you read the message your phone pings again and you tap to the new message.

“sorry, it’s frankie, i forgot to say”

You can practically hear his voice through the message, see his frown as he curses himself for forgetting to sign off with his name in the first message and it makes you smile, thinking of how his brow had knitted together as he first talked to you in the bar, that soft, shy look under the peak of his cap.  

Quickly you save his number as a new contact in your phone and reply to him. 

“Hi Frankie, you didn’t wake me, I’m still up :) Thanks for your number. Did your friend pay up?”

You finish brushing your teeth as you watch the three dots move, indicating that Frankie is typing a reply.

“ye he did, although he’s not convinced you didn’t give me a fake number so i guess i have to show him this to prove it.” 

You smile to yourself as you type, moving towards your bed. 

“I guess I have to keep it clean then.”

Frankie’s reply comes quickly this time. 

“that line alone is going to get me into trouble…” 

You giggle to yourself as you tuck yourself in, holding your phone up as Frankie keeps typing. 

“so i have all my winnings to spend and its only fair that I share them with you. can I maybe take you out someday?” 

“I’d like that, call me tomorrow and we can maybe work something out?”

Frankie’s reply is almost instant. 

“i will, sleep well, hermosa”

“Hermosa?”

“beautiful“

“You’re making me blush… Sleep well, Frankie”

You feel yourself grinning like a fool as you put your phone on your bedside table and close your eyes. Trying to not let your mind run away with you, you squash down an excited little squeal as you burrow yourself into the pillow.

THEN

The party is so loud Frankie can barely hear himself think. Bodies bump into his shoulder, alcohol-soaked breath wafting over him. 

And he can't stop smiling. 

Frankie is twenty one, he's in the air force and he shouldn't be this giddy at the thought of being someone's boyfriend. But with Pip, he's nearly beside himself with joy. 

He sneaks a look at you across the party, watching with fondness as she talks to her girlfriends. He's in love with you, he acknowledges. But he's too scared to admit that part out loud to anyone. It's too soon to tell you that. Liking you feels safer. 

Even though it's not just liking that has him fantasizing about them living in his house when they're both done with school and training. Of shared dinners after work, long nights of lovemaking and laughter. He thinks of the marriage his parents had and how he will do everything different.

He's always been quiet, prone to deep reflection and slower to anger than most of his peers. The air force has taken a bit of that from him. It can feel dehumanizing at times, exhausting and frustrating. But when he's behind the stick of his favorite chopper, everything else fades.

He just wishes Texas wasn't so fucking far away. 

He thinks about asking Pip for a photo he can bring back to his barracks. Something to look at that reminds him he has a future waiting for him back here. Would it scare you to know how much he's imagined a future with you? That this summer hasn't just been amazing because of the sex, but for the quiet moments in between?

"Can you believe my parents locked the liquor cabinet? 

Frankie is brought back into the moment, Travis at his side holding a solo cup and whining. 

"They have so much in there and they never started locking it up until now. Fucking idiots. I wish they'd leave and never come b-." He catches himself, eyes going wide as he looks at Frankie. He's said an impossibly stupid thing. "Shit... I'm sorry, Frank."

"No worries," Frankie mumbles with a wince. "You seen Santi?" 

"Nope. But I've seen Christy," Travis replies, briefly flashing a wag of his pink tongue. "Damn, she looks good." 

"Oh yeah?" Frankie replies distractedly, dark eyes scanning the room. Travis watches this, voice turning exasperated. 

"He's here with some hot date apparently," Travis says with an eye roll. "Surprised you don't know about it, being his boyfriend and all." 

Frankie's jaw feathers. He's always had to maintain a civil relationship with Travis, but as they've gotten older he finds the boy more and more annoying.  It's also painfully obvious that he has a thing for you even though she's given no indication that she feels the same. And why would you? You like Frankie. He still can't quite believe it. Seems almost too good to be true. You’re so smart and gorgeous and funny and... He feels his cheeks heat delightedly. 

"I've been sorta busy lately," Frankie finally says distractedly when he sees Pip's head weaving through the crowd. 

You glance Frankie's way and he feels his whole body going warm when their gazes connect. Everything about you is just so fucking perfect. Even the subtle smirk you send his way.

Travis' must notice the gooey look Frankie shoots her. The small smile you share before averting your gazes. 

"You try anything with Pip and Hilary will kill you," Travis murmurs. "If she doesn't, Santi will."

Frankie is quiet, unhappy that he's been so obvious in his desire for you. 

When Travis turns, Frankie can see the young man's attention is fixed on your smiling face. The way you throw your head back when you laugh. His eyes scan down your body in a way Frankie knows he wishes his hands were. 

"Would be worth it though," Travis continues in a low voice. "I've been dying to get a piece of that ass for years." 

Ugly jealousy twists in Frankie's guts. His fingers are curling into a loosened fist at his side. 

"Yeah, well, like you said, Santi and Hilary would kill us." 

Travis laughs in response and Frankie watches as his attention moves over the other girls in your group. They land on Christy and her skimpy outfit. 

"Can you believe Christy's a real beauty queen?" Travis says, clicking his tongue appreciatively. "I mean I always thought she was hot, but that's insane."

"I guess." 

Frankie knows that Christy is attractive. He's not blind. But he also knows she only ever flirts with him to get to Santi. He also knows he doesn't care what she looks like or what she does because the only girl Frankie has ever truly wanted actually wants him back. 

It's hard not to smile when he thinks about that. How the girl he grew up alongside became the woman he can't think of life without.

You're standing there stiffly observing what Christy is saying. You look upset. This look is magnified when he notices Christy approaching from the corner of his eyes. 

"Hi Travis. Hi Francisco," Christy says. He notices her voice is pitched higher, bubblegum sweet. 

"Hey."

"Enjoying the party?"

She steps closer and from this distance he can smell the floral perfume she wears. Can see her nipples jutting through her thin camisole. He forces his eyes to the ground, feeling lecherous. 

"Sure." 

She tilts her face forward, ignoring the way he doesn't look her way. She's so close he feels the heat of her body. 

"You look good tonight, Francisco."  

Knowing that you're watching from across the room this makes Frankie flush with embarrassment. "Thanks," he mutters, voice low. 

Travis excuses himself with a sneer. Clearly Frankie is taking the attention he wants for himself. Once he's out of earshot, Christy leans forward again. 

"I need to tell you something."

"Okay."

"I always liked you, you know, during school," she says, giving a girlish giggle and ducking your head like she's feeling shy. "I can't believe I just told you that. I must be drunk."

Frankie takes a sip of his beer, head rising to look for you. But you've escaped somewhere, lost in the shuffle.

"I hear there are some empty bedrooms upstairs," Christy purrs, her hip bumping into his. "Should we go check one out?"

Frankie cringes, trying to think of a nice way to say no. 

"You said you're drunk," he says flatly. "I don't fuck drunk girls." 

"I'm not that drunk," she insists. 

He feels his jaw tighten. He's not an unkind person at heart, but her closeness is making him uncomfortable. "Not interested, sorry." 

Christy gives an overdramatic pout, jutting her chest his way. When she sees he's not giving in she moves her face in again. "C'mon Francisco," Christy says, lips almost brushing his cheek. "I'll make you s-"

"I'm with someone," Frankie interrupts, no longer interested in being polite. She pulls back in shock, eyelids fluttering dramatically.    

"What? Since when?" 

"For a while," he replies smoothly. "And I'm really into her." 

Saying it out loud makes his insides quiver delightedly. He almost wishes Pip was there to hear it. 

Christy looks like she's just swallowed a stink bug. She's not used to being rejected and that's clear in her expression. But then her face slowly smoothes out. She leans her hip against his again, trying her best to get him to grind against her. 

"I won't tell if you don't," she says, her mouth curling into a mischievous smile as she drops her voice. "Could be our little secret." 

Frankie places his empty beer cup down on the nearby side table. "Maybe Travis wants to hook up," Frankie replies. "He's heading back now." 

Christy briefly lifts her eyes to see Travis returning with two new solo cups before her attention flicks back to Frankie. 

"You're telling me you don't want to fuck a beauty queen?" She asks with a disbelieving scoff. 

Frankie shoots her a piteous look.  "Have a good night Christy." 

He gives her a kind smile, hoping that it will soften the harshness of his departure. She doesn't seem to enjoy it though. She rolls her eyes and goes stalking off in the direction of upstairs. 

Travis smirks, handing Frankie one of the cups. 

"Damn what did you say to Miss Florida? She looks pissed." 

Frankie shrugs. He doesn't care that Christy is offended. He doesn't want her. 

"You seen Pip?" 

He wants you at his side. Or at least he wants an eye line of you. 

"You really like her, huh?" 

Frankie feels his stomach bottom out, turning his attention to Travis. The young man is looking at him in a way he's never seen, or perhaps never noticed, before. A dark kind of look: cold and dangerous. 

"What are you talking about, man?"

"Pip. I see the way you look at her these days," Travis says smoothly, like this is a fact everyone knows. "And we all know she's been in love with you for years." 

The tips of Frankie's ears burned in both embarrassment and delight at the word. "I'm just used to her always being around." 

"Is that why you wear that hat everywhere?" 

Frankie's cheeks burn as he absently taps the rim of his hat. 

"This?" he says forcing a laugh. "I'm just used to it is all."

Travis laughs back but it’s a hollow sound. It doesn't touch his eyes, his mouth barely moves. 

"Right. Sure." His eyes flick to Frankie's head again. "You won't mind if I borrow it then?" 

His arm jerks out, hand swiping Frankie's ball cap right off of his head. Frankie goes to snatch it back, but Travis has already popped it on over his shorn curls. Before Frankie can attempt to take it back again, Travis hears his name being called. 

"You can have it back in a bit," Travis said with a cruel kind of amusement as he walks backwards towards the call. 

Frankie feels his teeth clench. Not just at having his shit taken, but knowing that Travis is probably on his way to tell Santiago about Frankie's obvious affection for his cousin. 

"Hey, man." 

A frustrated Frankie glances over to see several young men on the couch. All are fuzzily bearded and sleepy-looking. The bigger one with a baseball cap extends his arm, a joint held out in his fingers. 

"You want a toke?"

Frankie hesitates briefly before shrugging. "Sure." 

He didn't smoke pot often; his dad always knew when he did. He tried popping gum and spraying cologne but it couldn't compensate for the scent that clung to his clothing. But now his old man is gone. Frankie could do whatever he wanted. He's free in so many ways. 

He takes a deep inhale, letting the sweet smoke fill his lungs before thanking the guy on the couch, handing him back his joint. 

When the pot hits him a few minutes later it feels good. He takes a seat in one of the free chairs, listening to the men talk about government cover ups. But he's not really listening. He's daydreaming about his girlfriend. 

Pip. The most beautiful, smart, funny, sexy woman he's ever known. A woman who never takes bullshit. Who sees him at his worst and still likes him. 

He thinks he sees you stealing through the crowd and his heart leaps. He jumps to his feet, moving clumsily towards you. He calls your name but you don’t hear him over the crowd.  Frustrated, he tries to muscle through the groups when he tumbles into a familiar figure. 

"Frank? What're you doing?" 

It's Santi; one arm around a cute blonde. He looks at his friend with amusement, much to Frankie's relief. Travis must not have said anything. 

"I was looking for.... Well, you actually." Frankie runs his hand through his short hair, frustrated to feel his cap still missing. He feels naked without it. "Can we talk?" 

"Sure." 

"Uh... It's private. Can we talk outside?" 

Santi trails a look over Frankie before glancing back at his date. He mumbles something and she nods, shooting Frankie an annoyed look as she moves to grab another drink. 

Santi nods towards the back door, indicating Frankie should follow. "C'mon. Let's go." 

They make it into the backyard where several groups talk loudly. Some playing chicken on the grass. 

"It's Pip," Frankie says, rubbing his clammy hands on his jeans when they find a quiet spot. 

Santi furrows his thick brows. "What? She okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah, she's fine." Frankie feels his stomach twist, his head spacey. He's trying to say it but he feels like he is outside his body. 

Santiago Garcia is his best friend. The two of them have suffered through childhood, puberty, heartbreaks, abusive fathers, shitty home lives. There's the potential that he'll be giving all of that up. Years of friendship, of brotherhood, taken from him with this confession. 

So he has to ask himself, is Pip worth it? 

The speed of his decision surprises even him. 

"I like Pip," Frankie says, feeling the tips of his ears grow hot. "Like, a lot. And I want to date her."  

He physically flinches, awaiting the discipline for his affection. He waits for Santi to start cussing him out, for hatred and ugly accusations. 

"You ask her out yet?" 

A beat. 

Frankie isn't sure that Santi actually said that or he hallucinated it. He's further confused when Santi laughs, pointing across the room at one of their old friends. 

"Oh shit, did you see Jordan just bail off the table?" 

Frankie doesn't bother looking over in the direction of the laughter and whoops. All he can fixate on is his friend not looking upset at all. 

"... You're cool with it?" He says incredulously. "With me dating Pip?" 

"Does she like you back?"'

Frankie has to bite back a grin. "Uh, yeah. Pretty sure." 

"Then sure, why not? I mean.... She's a grown-up," Santi shrugs, eyes glazed from booze. "She can date whoever she wants." 

"You're not upset?"

"This has been a long time coming as far as I'm concerned. Plus I know I can trust you to treat her well." Santi shrugs, giving Frankie a mischievous look. "Better you than Travis." 

The two men laugh and the tightness in Frankie's chest unravels. He feels like he can breathe again. 

"Speaking of which... I'm pretty sure I saw Travis heading upstairs with Christy a while ago," Santiago says with a bemused look. "I just know that's going to end disastrously." 

"You never know," Frankie shrugs, smiling toothily. "Maybe it's fate." 

He doesn't actually believe that. He's just so relieved at Santi's response. 

"C'mon, lemme kick your ass at beer pong."

Frankie follows Santi to the other room, the two of them watching the game currently in progress. Frankie intends to only watch, but eventually it's dragged into the game but a very convincing Santi. 

"You're gonna be family soon enough," Santi jokes over the gathered crowd. "You better stay in my good books." 

Frankie knows he's kidding, but something about the concept of being a family with Santi and Pip and even Hilary makes his eyes water.

They win the next three games, hands sticky with booze, throat raw from cheers. Frankie feels naked without his hat the entire time. He taps out when the suggestion of a fourth round is mentioned. 

"I gotta go find Pip," he says with a light slur. 

Santi only punches him lightly in the shoulder, giving him a knowing look before turning back to start on the next round. 

Frankie manages to walk away from the busy table, his mood serene, and his heart full. He feels happy and warm and he wants his girl with him. He can be public with her now. He can't wait to tell her. 

He notices something dark blue on the coffee table, the familiar logo staring at him. It's half under a pizza box, forgotten, and Frankie grimaces. 

"Fucking Travis," Frankie mutters, grabbing his baseball hat and shaking crumbs from it. He places it on his head, feeling more secure already. 

"Oh my gosh are they making out?" 

Frankie hears the scattered whispers of amused teens nearby. Several of whom are gathered by the large bay window, peering out into the front yard. Normally he wouldn't care about something as banal as a party hookup but he wants to laugh about this with Pip later.

He pictures them back at his place under the covers, laughing about the party, holding each other as they fall asleep. 

He walks to the window, an amused smirk on his face. He joins the search in the darkness, eyes weaving until they land on the couple making out against the tree. Frankie goes to laugh when he sees that the boy is Travis, his movements quick and jerky. 

But the laughter, the smile, all of it dies the second he sees the girl Travis is making out with. The girl who holds onto him and kisses him back ardently. 

No. No she wouldn't. 

But the longer Frankie watches the more the figures become clearer. So clear that Frankie feels like he can hear your whines, the same ones you gave him only hours ago. He feels his heart crack when he observes how you touch Travis in that same soft way you do with Frankie. 

With that he's surging through the crowd, shouldering the front door open with a growl. Like a missile he's guided directly towards the oblivious couple. 

A part of him is so desperate for this to be a nightmare. A bad trip. Anything but Pip willingly making out with Travis after admitting her feelings for Frankie. His mind is completely blank, his feet marching quickly across the grass. His face is on fire, his heart breaking as he sees Pip being pressed into the tree by Travis. 

This turns Frankie's vision red. 

He doesn't remember much of what happens next. The memory is like snapshots of moments. Travis falling to the ground. The anger in a Pips eyes, the casual sneer at the thought of sleeping with Frankie. 

Pulling Travis off of you wasn't an issue. Having everyone circle and whisper didn't affect him. It was the coldness in your voice, the ugly look in your eyes and the disgusted scoff when you said you'd never sleep with him.  

What the fuck had happened?

He's numb by the time he turns away, everything in his body cold. He doesn't notice the laughter or whispers. He couldn't care less about that. All he can think of is your disgust, the chill in your gaze. How could he have ever thought he knew you, his Pip? 

You're a stranger to him. 

He hears his name being called, but its several blocks before a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, spinning him around. 

"Frankie, what the fuck happened?" 

Santi is doubled over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily and looking at Frankie with utter confusion. 

"Forget it," Frankie says his expression dark. "Forget all that dumb shit I said about Pip earlier. I don't know what I was thinking."

"What-"

"Just drop it, okay?" Frankie snaps, eyes black with hatred. "Don't mention it again. I'm serious. Not to her, not to Travis, nobody."  Frankie has to look away from him when he speaks again. "As far as I'm concerned she doesn't exist." 

Santi is quiet, eyes big and sad. 

"Okay, Frank."

Santi is still talking, you know this because you can see his mouth moving across from you. But you're not getting any of what he says. You feel as if you're being held underwater, the world spinning and growing dark at the edges, sound muffled and your body numb before going sluggish. 

"No," you whisper, closing your eyes. "No," You repeat to yourself, but it's coming out in a whisper. The room is spinning and you grip either side of the table to stop your stomach from flipping. 

"You’re lying," you croak, head shaking violently from side to side. "That's not what happened.”

"I don't know what to tell you," Santi shrugs, brows tight. "He was with me the whole time playing beer pong." 

"No, no, that's not ..." Your throat closes up and you're suddenly spluttering for air because you can't formulate a response to what Santi is telling you. 

But your cousin doesn't lie to you, he never has. He's been there for you during the hard times as much as any brother would be. 

Bile rises in the back of your throat, your stomach heaving. You force your lips shut, swallowing aggressively. You will not vomit in a fucking Denny's. 

"Pip." Santi's voice is low and warped. Like he's a tape being rewound. "Breathe slowly. In and out."

You're starting to shake, legs going cold. 

Breathe. Breathe you fucking idiot. 

You take a deep, sputtering lungful of air, eyes blowing wide. Santi looks beside himself, hand holding your wrist. You clutch at his arm with your free hand, nails digging into the warm flesh there. 

"I saw it with my own eyes. I saw them."

"Travis came down and talked about how he fucked the beauty queen," Santi says quietly, as if it pains him to tell you this. 

"That can't be what happened," you say, lips trembling. "That can't be." 

Because that would mean you kissed Travis in front of Frankie for no reason. That this decades-long feud has been going on because of a misunderstanding. 

Years spent without the one man you've ever really loved, for no good fucking reason. 

Santi leans forward, voice light. "Pip, he never would have done that to you. He told me that night that he liked you. He wanted my blessing I think." 

You feel dizzy because things are starting to come together. Travis and Christy's secret relationship. The taking of Frankie's hat. The way the two of them look so similar from behind. It was Travis who fucked Christy in that bedroom, who came down afterwards and tried to do the same to you. Your skin crawls in revulsion at the thought of you letting him kiss you. 

And an even more distressing, you think of the hurt way Frankie looked at you at that party. The layered cruelty of you words and actions. Punishing him for a slight he never committed. 

Because you know deep down in your bones that what Santi has told you is the truth. That there's no planet in which Frankie Morales would willingly break your heart. 

The nosy patrons, the tired looking servers, everyone fades into the background as you stand, looking at your cousin with your lips quaking. 

"I have to go." 

THEN

Frankie lies in bed that night, heart aching, chest tight. It feels like finding out his parents are dead all over again. That same hopeless feeling. But during that you had been there to bring him comfort and affection. To hold him in his sleep. 

Now who does he have? 

He was going to answer your question later this evening. Of when he first realized he liked you as more than just Santi's cousin. 

The truth is he was pitifully unaware of you as a woman for most of your acquaintance. You'd just always been there in the gang, a sexless figure he liked to laugh with, to protect. 

But the summer of his eighteenth year you asked him to hunt lightning bugs while Santi and Travis were off camping. You had a mason jar and lid ready, your denim shorts high on your thighs. 

"Thanks for coming," you said, tapping the rim of his hat playfully. "Hilary says it's lame to still catch them." 

Frankie didn't tell you he felt the same. But he'd been bored and there was nothing else to do. Plus the summer air wasn't too heavy, the night balmy so Frankie led you both behind the old baseball field. 

Fireflies moved lazily in the dark, blinking like tiny dying stars and Frankie, only half heartedly invested, found himself watching you instead. 

Your smile was wide as you darted after a one flickering flash. The same look you wore when you beat the boys in a race, or said something to make everyone laugh. The smile you'd worn since childhood. 

He followed close behind, pretending to help, but getting caught up in watching how you moved, the way your face lit up when you succeeded in capturing your first.

"Got him!" You crowed, holding up your jar in triumph. 

"Not exactly a skill, Pip. Kids do it every summer." 

"Where's yours then?"

"Didn't feel like it."

You nudged your shoulder against his, rolling your eyes as the two of you took a seat on the grass. 

You never asked him about the air force or how he felt about it. You tucked your knees to your chest, eyes stuck on the jar. 

"They're so gorgeous."

You held up the jar to eye level, light flickering against your cheeks. You turned to grin at him, your face beautiful in the warm glow.

Beautiful. 

That wasn't really a word he associated with you before. But he couldn't deny that in this moment you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Like a painting come to life. 

He was curious as to what it would be like to cup your cheek, to feel the plump of your lips beneath his thumb. 

Something warm in his chest caught him strangely off guard, making his head spin.You were almost three years younger than him. Sixteen to his eighteen. He wasn't supposed to think about you like that. 

He felt the need to fill the silence. 

"How come the sudden need for fireflies?"

"Uh, guess I just needed to get out of the house," you said quietly to the jar. "Mom was just ... "

You trailed off, face dropping. Frankie could see it, illuminated by the swarm inside the mason jar. 

Instinctively he shuffled closer, throwing his arm casually around your shoulder like he'd done a hundred times before. Only now you snuggled against him, exhaling lightly. 

"Thanks, Frankie." 

Your head was at his cheek and he inhaled the scent of your hair before he swallowed thickly. You felt good against him, and he longed for you to tip your face up to him so he could capture your mouth in a sweet kiss. 

It wasn't until that warm thread began to weave its way around his lower belly that he realized something had shifted. 

Something he wasn't going to be able to ignore. 

You can't breathe. 

You know you're managing it, gulping deep lungfuls, but it doesn't feel like enough. The air is so hot and humid; it feels like it's coating your insides.

All a misunderstanding. Frankie never cheated. Frankie never cheated. I walked away from the most amazing man because of a misunderstanding.

You stop the truck midway home, your stomach heaving. You manage to stumble out of the cab before you're bent over, vomiting into the grass at the side of the street. Cars whizz by, some calling out to you, telling you to party less hard. You don't even hear them. All you can picture is the hurt in Frankie's eyes. 

You empty your stomach, eyes wet, body trembling. Your throat is scorched when you finally crawl back behind the wheel, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

You finish the drive to your house, truck parked haphazardly. You realize you're crying when your view turns into a watercolor blur. You make it through the door, slumping against the wall just inside with a ragged cough. 

A figure grips your hand, lacing their fingers with yours. You stare at the chipped black nails and many rings and look over at your sister. 

"Hey, are you okay?" 

You tell yourself that you don't want to tell Hilary everything that happened. You need time to process this, but your chin wobbles, eyes filling again. 

"Let's go on the porch," she says gently tugging you. "C'mon."

You allow your sister to guide you out onto the porch, both of you seated on the old creaky chairs before she grabs a smoke from her pocket. 

You watch her light it with an old bic lighter, orange flame springing to life. She looks at you through tired eyes, face drawn as she exhales a ribbon of smoke. 

"What the hell is going on?" 

You grip the sides of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. 

"Hilary I fucked up so bad. I fucked up everything." 

Your fingers rake through your hair again and pull as the devastation floods you. The pain serves to keep you anchored in the moment.

She sucks in a slow breath. "What? When?"

"Frankie," you say through a sudden sob. "I thought... Fuck, Hilary, I hated him for so long..." 

The pain feels so sharp, like needles along your aorta. It propels you out of your chair, legs weak. You fall to your knees on the rotted porch planks holding your head in your hands as sobs ravage you.  

You shake; feeling Hilary kneel beside you, hand on your shoulder, pulling you to face her. 

"Tell me what happened." 

She soothes you by rubbing your arms, almost like one would do if someone was cold. It calms you a fraction, allowing you to catch your breath. 

"It was during Travis' party..."

The story pours out of you, ugly and raw and accompanied by warm tears that slip down your cheeks. You can't make eye contact with her during the story, terrified to see the piteous look she'll shoot you. 

You live through that horrible memory, the sounds of Christie's moans, the sight of the standard oil logo looking back at you. 

She's silent the entire time. As you finish the story and raise your eyes you see that she's just squinting at you, perplexed. 

"You thought Frankie cheated on you?" 

"I did," you tell her, eyes blurry. "I really thought I saw it with my own eyes. But it was fucking Travis wearing his hat. This is all so fucking stupid."  

She's frowning, creases starting between her brows.  

"That's why you were kissing some guy at the party," she whispers as if things are starting to fall into place for her. 

You don't even question how she knows that bit of information. Santi probably told her, which causes your face to heat up and embarrassment. 

"It was Travis," you tell her with deeper shame. "I was kissing Travis."

"That fucking snake." She exhales shakily, furious adrenaline clearly coursing through her body. "Fucks Christy and then tries to get you into bed."  Hilary looks like she wants to punch something. Simultaneously infuriated and disgusted. "Have you and Frankie talked about it?"

"I don't think I can say anything," you insist, heart pounding. "I just found out the truth from Santi. I'm still processing." 

"Go have a shower and clear your head then," Hilary says urging you inside. "And brush your teeth because your breath is fucking disgusting."

THEN

Frankie sees Hilary from time to time in town. She's usually buying cigarettes or heading off with some new guy. Tonight she's at one of the bonfires the locals put on at the start of every summer.

Frankie had nothing better to do and with Santi overseas and Travis moved, he doesn't have much of a connection here. He thinks of going home after this to the house of his childhood. The empty one with no warmth. The one he had Pip in for several weeks. 

Barely any time at all. 

"Hey Catfish," Hilary says, handing him a beer as she approaches. Like you, she'd taken the nickname and run with it when his patchy beard grew back. 

"Hey Hil." 

The two drink quietly next to one another looking at the flames of the bonfire. Frankie tells himself he's not going to ask about you. Not going to torment himself.  But it comes out, a slow murmur. 

"You talked to your sister lately?" 

"Not much," Hilary says. She takes another deep pull of her beer bottle. "She doesn't really love talking on the phone." 

"Mhm. She like school?" 

She gives him a look. "Why don't you just call and catch up with her yourself?"

"Not much to say." 

"I know you like her, Frankie," Hilary says shrewdly. "And I bet she'd love to hear from you." 

Frankie's face goes red, splotchy pink leading up his neck. He tries to shrug it off, but fails. 

Hilary saw him that night with the flowers, with the open look of desire he had for you. There's no point in lying to her. 

"I know she cares about you," Hilary says, eyes scanning his face. "And I know because she's never cared about a guy like that. Ever." 

"You don't know that whole story," Frankie says. 

"So tell me." 

He shakes his head. That's Pip's story to tell.

"Look, it's obvious the two of you like each other. Or liked. So I don't get why you both don't just admit that to each other." 

"We did, right before the party," Frankie snaps, before catching himself. "Hours before I saw her making out with-"

He slams his mouth shut, furious at having lost his temper and given away something so private. 

Hilary looks stunned. She seems to grope for words. 

"Wait, my sister was kissing some guy at a party?"

Frankie thinks about telling her that the guy was Travis, but he doesn't want to think about it too much. Saying the details makes it hurt worse. So he stays silent, eyes on the sand. 

"She must've been drinking," Hilary continues. "There's no way she'd do that sober." 

Frankie is quiet, not having considered this. Hilary blinks at him slowly, like an animal considering something. 

"I just, I know my sister, Frankie. She's not a cruel person. There must have been something deeper going on." 

Frankie is embarrassed to feel tears starting along his lash line. He blinks them back furiously, looking away as he shakes his head. 

“You should call her, Frankie,” Hilary adds before walking away from him. “She’s still at the dorms until tomorrow.”

He watches her move over to the group she arrived with, a cigarette hanging from her lips, a beer in her hand within moments. He watches as she whispers something to the muscular man at her right, laughing gaily when he nods, stripping down to his boxers and running into the surf.

She’s always been able to charm people, to convince them to be brave. And when Frankie strides back to his truck an hour later, he realizes that she convinced him too. However, she was gone with some guy from the bonfire before he could chase her down for your number. 

That’s led him here to the hospital where your mom works.  

Would you really want to hear from him? And mostly, why does he want to talk to you? You broke his fucking heart. You acted like you were into him, agreed to a relationship and that same night you were making out in front of everyone with fucking Travis. 

He's sick when he thinks about it. A memory he's tried time and time again to exorcise through booze and women. Because there have been other women in the four years since all of that happened. At first to prove he was over you and then to help him forget you. 

Neither worked. 

Frankie notices some nurses heading out of the hospital on their break. They talk quietly to one another between puffs of their cigarette. 

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel before removing the baseball cap nestled over his curls. He smooths his dark curls back, long fingers carding through the strands before popping the hat back on.

He raises his eyes to the rear view mirror, grimacing at his reflection, because this grey hat with the fishing logo doesn't sit right because it's not the one you gave him. That one sits at home in his bedroom, a shrine to your betrayal. Standard Heating Oil. 

He should have burned it. Should have given it away. Should've buried it where he didn't have to see it every day. And yet he couldn't bring himself to do it. Couldn't bear to erase that part of his life, of you, for good. 

Even after everything, he can't stop this deep want for you. A burning ache that won't be extinguished. 

He'd forgive you if you'd just explain what happened. How you could go from crying his name between his sheets to letting Travis stick his tongue down your throat. 

He needs answers. 

He needs to hear your voice. 

He pushes himself from the cab of the truck, fingers tapping at his thigh as he moves through to the nurses’ station. The hospital is very quiet at this time of night, voices hushed, wards closed. 

It doesn't take long to locate your mom. She works in the same unit she always has and tonight, despite the quiet atmosphere, looks frazzled. She's writing down something in her charts before she notices Frankie approaching. Her face drops and she comes around the desk, meeting him mid-stride in the hallway. 

"Francisco, what happened?" Her hands grip his elbows. "Is everything okay?"

Her breath seems overly minty when she says his name and he knows that its to cover the vodka she keeps in a nearby water bottle. 

"Everything is fine, ma'am," Frankie says, giving her a polite smile. "I promise."

"Santi? Hilary?"

"As far as I know."

"Thank Christ," she says, a hand at her sternum. 

When she gives a relieved smile it reminds him of yours. He never noticed until now that you both have the same smile. 

"It feels like ages since I saw you," she observes, arms crossing as she looks him over. "You've grown up into such a handsome young man." 

Frankie feels himself grow a bit embarrassed at the attention, looking down at the scuffed floor. "Thank you." 

"And I hear you're still flying helicopters? That's so exciting." 

Frankie can't help but smile shyly, pride suffusing him. 

"Yeah, it's pretty great." 

She nods, starting to walk down the hall to check on the charts. He follows beside her, hands in his pockets. 

She scribbles away, talking to him over her shoulder. 

"So, why are you here, honey? Anything I can help you with?"  

Frankie's neck and the tips of his ears go pink, his face warm. Saying this to your mom suddenly feels daunting. 

"It's, uh, well, I wanted to know if you had Pip's number at school." 

She falters only a moment, scanning him. "You don't have it?"

"No ma'am." 

"Of course I have it. Come back with me to the desk and I'll write it down for you." 

He follows her to the desk, sidestepping a young orderly. Your mom digs in her purse for her address book, a few items shifted. 

He sees a postcard inside as she rummages. It's from Seattle, obviously from Pip. She sends postcards home instead of visiting, he muses. Santi tells him as much.  

She notices him looking, her smile toothy as she produces the postcard. He catches your writing on the back, his heart clenching. 

"Just got this one from her today," she says holding it up. "Strange to imagine my baby all the way across the country, but these help." 

"I bet." 

Your mom digs in the desk for a pen and post it note, grumbling about the other nurses being disorganized. 

"Ah, there's one," she announces, brandishing a pen with the hospital logo on one side. "Why did you need her number? You sure Everything's okay?"

"Yes, ma'am. Just..." Frankie swallows, cheeks flaming as he stands there. "Uh... I wanted to speak to her." 

He meets her eyes and despite the glazed look she wears, he sees something else. A knowing, an understanding. A softness that moves to her mouth, hitching at one side. 

"I see." 

He watches her scribble down the number, tearing the yellow sheet from the others and holding it out to him. 

"Here you are, honey." 

Frankie reaches out to take the paper, eyes already memorizing the digits before he folds the page and stuffs it in his jeans pocket. 

"Thank you very much." 

Your mother nods, looking at him curiously. 

"I bet she'll be really excited to hear from you." 

Not so sure about that, he thinks.

"I hope so." 

A beat. The two of them don't move, neither sure how to end the conversation. 

"Your parents would be so proud of you, Francisco. I just know it." Your mother adjusts her scrub top, looking at Frankie with tenderness. "I mean, hell, I'm not even your mom and I'm so proud of all you've done with your life." 

The words are gentle and said with genuine affection so sweet that it makes Frankie's eyes grow damp. 

He'll never hear those words from his parents. No observance of his hard work. No celebration for his accomplishments. Hearing them from your mom takes his breath away. 

He tries to thank her but the words are getting stuck in his throat. 

As a mother she seems to sense this, walking over to him and wrapping her arms around his middle. He's a head taller than her, but it doesn't stop making him feel like a child again when she squeezes.

"If you ever need anything, you come see me," your mom tells him. "To talk, to eat, to sleep. Anytime. You promise?"

"Yes ma'am," Frankie says, a tear escaping down his cheek. "I promise." 

He moves from her with a small smile, the drive back home quick. But once inside the quiet house his bravado fades and he takes his time puttering around the kitchen.

The Post-It note sits on his kitchen table, but it could be in the trash for all he cares. He had the number memorized before your mom even finished handing it to him. The phone sits in is cradle on the table, intimidating in its stillness.

He can imagine your soft surprised voice. He loves how you say his name. The slope you put to the end of it. He feels his mouth lift at the corners in anticipation. 

"Just do it," he rasps to himself. "Just fucking do it." 

He picks up the phone, fingers trembling. He internally practices how to start the conversation. 

Hi Pip. Congrats on graduating. No, that's fucking stupid. Hey Pip, it's been a while. How've you been? Hey Pip, you broke my heart and I want to know why. Hey Pip-

"Hello?"

A man's voice. 

Frankie frowns at the phone, confused. This is your dorm room. Hilary mentioned that you live with girls a few times over the years. So why is a guy answering your phone at this time of night? 

"Hello? Is anyone there?" 

I dialed the wrong number, Frankie decides. Stupid of me.

But he still grips the receiver tightly, holding his breath. 

"Nothing." 

He goes to hang up when a voice drifts in the background. A voice he knows all too well. 

"Just hang up and let's go to bed." 

You. 

You telling another man it's time to go to bed. A leaden rock drops inside Frankie's stomach, causing an anguished noise to escape him the second the phone receiver is placed back on the cradle. 

He stares at it in numb shock for a few moments, mind going to the worst places possible. Your and some faceless guy in bed together. Him able to draw sounds from you that Frankie was incapable of. 

What was Frankie thinking? That you'd magically stay single all this time? That you'd be pining away for him like he has for you? 

Humiliation scalds his cheeks, sorrow heavy on his shoulders as he moves to the bedroom. He throws himself onto the bed he once shared with you, holding a pillow to his chest and falling into a dreamless sleep. 

The shower is restorative, the mint toothpaste still clinging to your teeth. You feel better as you enter into the kitchen. 

Hilary is seated there, ashtray half filled. You join her, breathing unevenly. Your body is still vibrating with all of this new information. 

“You need to talk to Frankie about what happened.”

An anxious twist starts low in your belly. "I don't know what to do or what to say. I don't want to bring up all this hurt again. He doesn't deserve it."

"You need to tell him."

“Why?” You keep your voice quiet, not wanting to be overheard by your mother. "It’s been almost twenty years." 

"Because he deserves to know," Hilary defends, brows crossing. "And you know it." 

You think of the lipstick tube you found in his house that one day. The clear sign that Frankie has found someone else; a woman that feels comfortable enough to leave her things behind at his home. 

You push yourself up to your feet, starting to pace around the room.

"Frankie is over all of this, Hil. I'm just the loser that never moved on." 

She gives you a sneer.

"Bullshit. I know he cares about you. He's always cared about you. Even after the party."

"Not true," you scoff. "Until this visit, Frankie has loathed me."

"No," Hilary says shaking her head. "He hasn't." She pauses, grimacing. "I shouldn't be telling you this."

You stop your pacing, eyes over your shoulder. "What?"

"Frankie has been visiting Mom since she got sick." 

You draw back, dropping into the same seat. “What?”

"I was working doubles to pay for stuff for a while and he knew I wasn't at home as much because of it. Santi probably told him. So he started showing up to bring her treats, clean the house, visit over tea. When she could walk he'd take her for walks." 

"No. That's not possible. Mom never..." You pause your sentence. 

Mops. Brooms. Bringing by your mom's favorite brownies. The way she looked at him. The way he knew exactly how to be gentle with her. 

"He only stopped when he heard you were coming back," Hilary says and looks hesitant, like she's betraying his trust by telling you. "He made me promise not to tell you anything." 

"Why would he do all that?”

Hilary sighs, lighting up a new cigarette and giving you a leveling look. 

"Why the fuck do you think?" 

THEN

"A beach birthday is such a fun idea," Inaya says walking alongside Frankie, a cooler full of drinks carried between them. "I'm so bored during the summer." 

Frankie grunts and nods, pulling his baseball cap down a little lower over his eyes. A red one this time. One from the flight school he teaches at.

It's where he met the very beautiful Inaya when she came to take lessons. She works at a daycare during the school year, she's patient and she thinks Frankie is charming.

They both keep it casual. What started as drinks after class has turned into the odd dinner out, sleeping together when they both feel like it. Sometimes it's just nice to go to the movies with someone who isn't Benny or Will. 

Frankie likes Inaya because she fills a lot of the silence between them with chatter about traveling, about her job and her family. 

He's jealous of her stories of close multi-generational family life. That she's excited about visiting her grandparents back in India. It seems surreal that anyone could enjoy being around their family.

She also carries a pain, and it's the only thing she doesn't like to talk about. The death of her fiance, Michael, when they were both still in their twenties. He was in the air force too, shot down over Paraguay. 

He thinks that's why she likes to keep things surface level. It's easier for both of them that way. 

"Do you think Santi will like the gift card?"

"He'll like anything," Frankie assures her.

She laughs, head tilted back. Frankie brought her today because the other guys have been bugging him about bringing her out. They keep telling him that he needs to have a proper adult relationship instead of flings. 

In Frankie's opinion they're the last people he'd turn to for romantic advice. Santi is a serial heart breaker whether he's in Florida or working in Columbia. Will has been seeing the same girl off and on for the last few years and Benny is so focused on his boxing career he might as well be celibate.

"I know you guys served together in Argentina, right?" 

"Yep." 

"Loquacious as always, Morales," she says shouldering him playfully. 

Frankie scans the perimeter, taking in what the BBQ's are, where the bonfire has been started. He takes note of how many umbrellas and towels are lying out, how many bodies rest in various states of repose, sunglasses on, drinks in hand. 

It's a habit that won't leave him, one that he cultivated overseas; making sure no danger lurks anywhere if he can control it. Yet there's only one danger that he can't see. One that terrifies him more than any other. 

You. 

As far as he knows you won't be showing up. You're in Seattle, living a life away from your home life in Florida. Still, his stomach clenches anxiously as his eyes drift over the smiling faces. He searches each one as Inaya makes some crack about millennials and driftwood. 

His shoulders lower when he doesn't see your face, the knot in his stomach loosening. 

He can survive this. 

Inaya is a hit with the guys, not to Frankie's surprise. Will seems particularly enamored with her, hiding it poorly from Janette who hangs off his arm possessively. Frankie cracks a beer, smirking over at Santi who has observed the same. He drifts over to his friend, waving at those who wish him a happy birthday.

"Oye perdejo," Santi greets him, tapping his beer can against Frankie's. "Stop having so much fun." 

Frankie rolls his eyes. If it was just the guys he'd be able to relax. But with this crowd of revelers he just feels awkward. He's never really enjoyed big crowds of drunken people.

"Enjoying your party?"

"Depends, what'd you get me?"

Frankie digs into the back pocket of his shorts holding a small envelope his way. "Gift card." 

"So sentimental," Santi quips, snatching it and shoving it into his pocket as he motions to Inaya laughing with Benny. "So, your girlfriend's pretty great."

"Not my girlfriend," Frankie murmurs huskily against his beer can, eyes hidden behind his aviators. 

"Right." Santi nods, his own eyes fixed so long on Frankie's profile that he feels his cheeks burn.

"What?"

"Nothing." Santi taps his beer can with his pointer finger absently, a small wistful look on his face. "Just wondering when you're gonna be honest with yourself."

"About what?"

"About the reason that you never want commitment with anyone."

Frankie's heart is in his throat. “There’s no reason. Just not the settling down type.”

His friend presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose. "Frank, c'mon-"

"I'm gonna go check on Inaya."

It's clear he wants to say more and Frankie wants nothing less. Santi gives a rueful shake of his head as Frankie crosses the sand, stopping to grab a beer bottle from the cooler before coming to stand next to a bemused Inaya . She's standing politely listening to Benny peacock.

"I'm still new but they're already calling me the 'blue-chip prospect' of the division."

"That's so cool," Inaya says with such sincerity Frankie would think it was real if he didn't know her so well. She glances over at Frankie taking a deep pull of his beer. 

"Forgot mine?"

"You didn't ask for one." 

Inaya gives an exaggerated look of exasperation over at Benny. 

"Since Frank here decided chivalry is dead, I guess I'll have to go get a beer myself," she says, elbowing a smirking Frankie in the ribs. "Be right back." 

"Dig to the bottom," he calls after her. "Stuff on top is still warm."

Benny is smiling broadly when he looks back. Will slowly approaches as well, Janette having just left in a fit. 

"So," the younger Miller says in a teasing drawl. "She's pretty great, Fish."

Before Frankie can explain that he and she are casual, something stops him; something in the air. A strange sense that has gooseflesh starting on his arms and the back of his neck. 

 Santi's voice rings out over the crowd. 

"Hi, Pip! There you are!"

Everything narrows down to a pinprick. The world is muted, save for his shallow breathing. He might as well be back in Argentina with the guys, focus fixed on his surroundings. His heart pumps slowly, body tight all over. His arms have tensed up, knuckles white around his beer bottle. 

It's you. 

He doesn't even need to turn around to know exactly how you'll walk, the way the sun will highlight parts of your hair, the curve of your mouth. 

But he does. 

He moves slowly, sunglasses plucked and moved to hang from the collar of his t-shirt. His pulse plays a cruel staccato in his neck as he finally views you and your sister approaching the group in. 

It's been almost ten years since he last saw you and time has done nothing but add to your beauty. You've developed into your curves; you walk more confidently, your hair loose instead of its customary low ponytail. 

Deep, aching want spreads through his body as he takes in the way your eyes shyly look around, just as they did when you were teens. You may be more at ease in crowds, but you've never really shaken off that initial insecurity. 

"Is that the cousin?" 

"Thought she was in Seattle," Benny murmurs to Will. 

"As far as I know she still is," his brother agrees.

He looks over to Frankie who shrugs even though he knows very well you are. Did you fly out just for this? Why the hell didn't Santi tell him? 

"Here take this first," you say to Santi, your voice makes Frankie's mouth dry. 

He remembers that quiet murmur in his ear wishing him a good morning. He remembers the way you looked when you told him you loved him. He remembers the perfect comfort of being with you whether it was riding bikes through the neighborhood or between sheets. 

You shared more than sex. You shared childhood. A history. Each other's ups and downs. The awkward stages. The milestones no child should have to endure. There is joy at seeing you here and now, pure and honest. 

"She's hot," Benny observes, eyes trailing over you slowly in a way that tells Frankie everything he needs to know about his friend’s intentions. 

"Down boy," Will chuckles. "Pope will kill you if you mess with Pip." 

It all comes rushing back in that moment. And then all of a sudden that same pathetic joy turns to a feeble flame that is easily extinguished. All that's left is ash and ruin at the reminder of your callousness. Your sickening betrayal. 

Fury plumes up Frankie’s throat, a scowl etched across his full mouth when your gaze finally shifts over to him and your eyes connect. He doesn't expect your stare to betray the same simmering agitation, nor an accusation in every blink you don't make. But he long gave up any ability to understand your anger. 

Finally, like a physical severing, the two of you tear your eyes away and turn back to your respective conversations. 

"Lemme get you a burger," Frankie hears Santi offer you. 

Frankie clears his throat, not wanting to hear your reply. He doesn't give a shit about you. He never should have. 

Will's eyes drift over to Frankie who has turned back away from you, fingers tightening around his beer bottle. He feels like he's going to punch something. 

"You okay, Fish?" Will asks, puzzled. He scratches at his eyebrow as he stares at him. 

"M'fine," Frankie mutters. 

He moves from around the BBQ, trying to distance himself. He glances around for Inaya, horrified when he notices her laughter from across the fire. She's standing with you, beer extended as the two of you talk. 

Why the fuck is she talking with you? 

He ducks his head, grabbing some veggies and popping them onto a plate. He sees some blonde guy from one of Santi's poker nights. 

The guy - Barry? Terry? - greets him, starting a lively conversation with him about how they need to have a rematch so he can win back his money. Frankie is only half listening, he keeps sneaking looks out the corner of his eyes at you and Inaya. 

The two of you are still talking, making his stomach a quiver uneasily. 

He distracts himself with conversation, trying to look un-phased that you're here. Before long an hour has passed and Frankie can't stop the itch under his skin. The one that compels him to casually scan the party. 

Inaya is nowhere to be found, but even if she was Frankie wouldn't notice. His dark eyes are dragging over the sand for you and you alone. 

He spots you over by the BBQ, looking tense as you go about fixing a burger. You've got that serious look you wear when you're frustrated. Brows pinched, jaw clenched. 

You could be six, sixteen, and twenty six all at once. You'll always have that same expression and Frankie will always melt at the sight of it. 

He misses you. Misses the way you could comfort him like no one else. Misses the way you said his name. Misses the scent of your skin. He misses lightning bugs and ghost stories around campfires. 

And he knows in that horrible moment, that he's still so in love with you. Despite the party. Despite the man in your dorm room. Despite Seattle. Despite the silence. He misses you so much it feels like a physical pull of his sternum. One that forces his feet over the cooling sand, just to be near you. 

He halts a few steps away, watching the way your body tightens at his nearness. Can you hear his shallow breathing? Can you just sense him? He holds his breath and comes to stand next to you, reaching for a plate that he doesn't even need. He can't eat right now, his stomach is in knots. 

He tilts, eyes finally catching yours and he thinks he might faint or throw up. He's not sure which. You're not glaring at him anymore; instead it seems you're cataloging his features, taking in what a decade has done to him. 

What do you see? The lines between his brows? The patchy quality to his beard that he never grew out of? The length of his messy hair? Or are you looking at the hat he wears today? The old green one from his closet? 

Say something, Frankie tells himself when he realizes he's just been staring at you. Say something. Anything.

"Didn't know you'd be here. Didn't think you'd fly back for it," he adds before clearing his throat, hating how stilted he sounds.  

Your focus moves back to your plate. He watches you work, ears growing warm. 

"Sure." 

Silence extends as you both busy yourself with condiments and sides to your burgers. He keeps sneaking looks at your profile, questions running through his mind. Why did you never call him to explain? Don't you understand he would have forgiven you? Who was that guy in your dorm? Do you miss Frankie? 

"Your girlfriend seems nice," you say. 

Fuck. Inaya. 

He could tell you she's just a friend from work. Could tell you that he just met her recently. But he's never lied to you before, so why start now? 

"She's not really my girlfriend. We just... Hang out together sometimes." 

He doesn't want to talk about Inaya. He wants to talk about that night. He wants to know what happened. He wants to know if you still care about him. 

"Guess some things never change,” you say with a curl to your upper lip. Gone is the sweet voice he remembers, now replaced with something cold and flinty. 

"Huh?"  

“You’ve just always been good at making girls think they mean more to you than they actually do," you clarify.  

Old hurt comes rolling back, like a furious locomotive up his spine. "What's that supposed to mean?"  

Your name is called by Santi and the other guys. Tom has arrived and is clearly eager to meet you. You give a false smile and wave their way before looking back up at Frankie. 

"It means whatever you want it to, Frankie," you say with a disgusted scoff. "Just keep me out of it."  

He watches you leave, hips swaying as you move over the sand to greet the guys. They'll love you, he's sure. 

"That's her, huh?'

Frankie nearly jumps when he hears Inaya's soft voice at his elbow. "Huh? Who?"

"Morales," she sighs in mock exasperation. "C'mon."

Her eyes move from Pip back to Frankie and his nostrils flare slightly, eyes squinting. 

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, In." 

She steps closer, voice quiet, only for him. 

"I think I just met the reason you don't want to commit to a relationship."

Frankie's eyes narrow on her, anger clear in his expression. "Since when do you want commitment?"

"Not now," she says with a roll of her eyes. "But someday with someone." 

"Not everyone has your penchant for romance, I guess," Frankie hisses, cheeks splotchy

She looks at him with a worried expression. His jaw tightens, long fingers twitching at his sides as he shuffles in the sand. Inaya knows him well enough to recognize the signs. 

"You wanna leave?"

Frankie glances over her shoulder to see you at the rest of the guys laughing loudly. Just like he suspected, they love you already. 

"Yeah." 

She nods, taking his hand in hers and heading back to the truck. He doesn't bother saying goodbye to anyone. He just wants to slink off into the encroaching dusk and forget this ever happened. 

“That Benny is like an oversized puppy who doesn't know whether to bite or chase its tail,” Inaya laughs, her feet propped up on the dashboard as he drives.

Frankie can smirk at that, nodding. "Spot on." 

"You know, today I think I saw how you would have been as a boy," Inaya says affectionately, "All nervous and serious, hiding under that hat.”

She reaches over and tugs at the stray curl under Frankie's ear. He flinches away from her, scowling. 

"Quit it, I'm driving." 

She giggles, hair dancing in the air from the open window. She glances at the passing houses when she speaks next. 

"Pip seemed cool." 

Frankie is silent. He goes to turn on the radio but Inaya stills his fingers. She pulls herself into a properly seated position, braid falling over one shoulder. 

"Frank, c'mon. I know something happened there. You were avoiding her like the plague for most of the party. And the second you saw her you were, like, in a trance." 

Frankie swallows thickly, trying not to look unsettled. He had no idea he appeared that way to others. Is that what inspired Santi's stupid comments earlier? He's quiet, knowing that his silence is its own damning admission.

Inaya reaches across the cab of the truck, fingers light on his forearm. 

"I just wanna know what happened. I'm your friend, let me help you." 

Friends. He and Pip were friends. Inaya is nothing like you. The comparison makes him furious. 

"We're not friends, Inaya," Frankie snaps, teeth clenched as he jerks to a stop at a red light. 

Inaya takes a slow breath in, fingers lacing in her lap. "We're not?"

"No," Frankie says with a brutal curl of his lip. "We watch movies and eat food and sometimes we fuck. That's it." 

For a moment he thinks she might slap him, but she remains self possessed, voice controlled. 

"I see." 

The light turns green and the truck jostles to life as he aggressively pushes down the accelerator. The rest of the ride is incredibly tense. Inaya flicks the radio on this time and Frankie is thankful for the normally annoying sound of Barry Manilow. 

He eventually drops her off in front of her apartment building, turning the engine off with a slow twist of his keys. Frankie feels dead, his body heavy and useless. 

The two sit in a heavy silence, the day and the harsh words from earlier still echoing around the cab of the truck. Both seem to know this is the last time they'll see each other. 

Inaya unbuckles her seatbelt, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth before she looks his way. 

"We get one shot at life, Frankie," she says as she opens her door and climbs out. "Don't waste yours." 

Frankie doesn't say anything. He just watches her move to the building as he settles himself behind his steering wheel. He waits until she's safely inside before he pulls away, eyes wet and heart aching. 

“I need to see him.”

You move on shaky legs, eyes wild and shaky hands gripping the strap of your purse. Everything you’ve learned in the last hour has shifted your universe in a monumental way. There’s no way you can just sit here any longer

Hilary stands, trying to grab at your wrist at you attempt to leave. “Hey, slow down.”

“I need to see Frankie,” you say sharply. “Right now.”

“You can always call him up and ask him to come over." 

“Face to face.”

"You shouldn't be driving," Hilary tells you, face soft with concern. "Take a minute to breathe.”

"I'll be fine," you insist, shaking off her hand. "I promise." 

Your hurried feet almost catch on the carpet as you rush for the door. Hilary is calling after you, but you don't hear her. All that pounds in your ears is the thrum of your heartbeat. 

Frankie. Frankie. Frankie. 

Images of your time together are assaulting you, the kite, the pool, your first kiss, the funeral and his arms around you. His eyes, those beautiful fucking eyes. 

Your vision is blurry, but you blink the building tears back as you practically tear the door of your truck open. 

You need to see Frankie right this second. You need to clear this up. No more misunderstandings. 

You peel out of the driveway, small little hiccupping sobs escaping you as your foot slams against the accelerator.

You think of the lost years. Of the twenties you two could have shared, could have spent building a life together. Instead you diverged like branches away from one another. Lives led with carried animosity. All because of a fucking misunderstanding. 

I fucked up.

All this time we could have been together.

I didn't trust him.

We could have had so much time. 

These thoughts make your breath catch in your chest, distracting you the vehicle that slams into the side of you truck. For a moment everything seems to go in slow motion. You take in the squeal and scent of burnt tires, the crunch of metal.

And then darkness.

DON'T HATE ME.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

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@vickie5446

It had been a couple days since your confrontation with Harry. The entire moment stuck in your head. You couldn’t get of out of your mind. Especially your slightly stupid comment ‘you’re just sad’ you remember saying. You immediately left out of embarrassment you didn’t even want to acknowledge what his expression. Probably that same irritated look he gave his assistant. Like you’d personally offended him. Luckily you weren’t his direct employee so he couldn’t fire you. You tried to get your headspace back to normal. But you couldn’t even making a cup of coffee seemed like it was a task. Your mind drifting to him making the coffee the way he burnt his finger and brushed it off. The slight warmth of his fingers contrasting his cold ring with that green stone inside of it.

At the office. You tried your best to work, fixing up a report before it was sent into the archives. Typing felt somewhat odd too. You felt so trapped of how such stupid mundane things reminded you of Harry. You couldn’t focus. Whether it was feeling flustered by his somewhat gently gestures or the embarrassment of calling him depressed. It was consuming you. “There’s my work husband. So I was thinking you, me lunch break for some sushi. New place opened up around the corner.” Edward walking a big smile on his face. Normally you’d be happy and excited to go out for a lunch break. Especially with Edward. He was quite the goofball when needed to be. Talking about whatever random scenario entered his mind. “I’m busy today, Ed. Maybe another time?” The words came out of your mouth and you felt guilt immediately. But you just couldn’t go. At the pace you were working you weren’t even sure if you’d be able to finish this report by the end of your shift. “You need a break you’ve been working for hours.

Come on a little walk might do you some good.” Edward walks to over the desk pouring a glass of water for himself. “I can’t. Jack needs this done by end of day.” You reply back trying to keep a level of calm. Somehow you felt yourself getting a little heated for what? You couldn’t say.

“Come on, Nick, fresh air, sushi, stupid banter. What’s better than that?” Edward says with a laugh. “Working Ed, working, which I will continue to do as soon you as you leave me be.” You snap slightly the words came harsher than you wanted to you saw your fists clenched which you immediately unclench. Edward looks a little surprised at your response setting the glass down he takes a step back. “Alright, man, just take it easy.” And without another word Edward leaves. Immediately you leaned back in your chair hands over your face in shock and embarrassment of what you’d said. What was wrong with you? Why did you even say that? You didn’t know why you were so on edge. Why the only thing you could think about this entire day was Harry. Why you wanted him to say ‘Nick’ again. You tap your head slightly “get it together Nick. Get yourself the fuck together.” You mutter to yourself. Taking a sip of your water you begin to type away pausing every once in a while. Wondering what Harry would be doing right now.

———————————————————————

Harry, in his office was sitting on his chair tapping on his desk slowly swaying side to side before moving his chair forward opening a drawer and taking a packet out filled with a whit powder he opens it and adds a little onto the desk using a business card to shape it into a line and then sniffs it. Giving his nose a quick rub. He waits a moment letting the high of the drug kick in. “Jessie!” He says loudly another pause “Jessie!” A man quickly enters “yes sir is everything okay?” His voice was slightly nervous almost fearful. “Where’s Jessie? Who are you?” Eyeing up the guy like he’s some nuisance. “You fired Jessie, sir at the meeting.” The man replies his hands behind his back. “Fuck…” Harry mutters under his breath. He forgot he fired his own assistant. Realising he didn’t have anyone to keep his affairs in order he thinks for a moment comping to a quick epiphany. “Get me a line up for new assistants.” Harry barks out almost amusingly like seeing this poor man tremble was a source of slight entertainment. The man quickly nods. “Oh and get Nick. Tell him I want to go over some logistics over the merger.” Harry nods “very good sir.” The man replies leaving quickly.

Harry feeling a little more confident with the drugs kicking in walks over to the coffee stand his hand moves to grab a cup before he pauses and then grabs a glass and pours whiskey instead of coffee taking a sip and having a small sigh. Delightfully Harry was able to see you again. At least making an excuse to. He wanted to know what you meant by those words before you left ‘sad’ like he’d known you for so long and somehow knew he’d collapsed. Fallen into a deep void that couldn’t be fixed unless Harry was drunk or high. Just for a few hours to not be the great Harry Castillo that everyone thinks is perfect and upstanding and reputable. Just for a few hours to be normal. The drugs and alcohol did that. But somehow with you it felt almost better than the highs. He felt grounded. Harry gazes at his phone opening his contacts Whether it was the drugs or simple recklessness, Harry found himself hovering over your contact. perhaps he’d give you a piece of his mind. Perhaps indulge to see if you were doing okay. But he hesitated. At that moment a notification pops up ‘call Lucy?’ a tremble in his hand and suddenly the spike of confidence was gone. A rush of a distant memory he thought he’d tried pushed back came into his head. Not one he wanted to to relive he immediately shuts the phone tossing it aside. He checks the phone again and sees the notification was gone. Checking his calendar and appointments there was no such notice with Lucy. Like the notification didn’t exist at all.

———————————————————————

Just as you were ready to leave for the day hoping to catch Edward to apologise for your harshness. You hear your name from Jack. “Come into my office for a moment.” Jack says as you follow behind into the office. You walk in. “Harry called. Or rather his assistant I guess.” Jack says sitting down his hand steeping together. You’re a little confusedz. Did he replace his assistant that fast in 24 hours? You push that aside for a moment what did Harry calling have to do with you anyways? “Yes and?” You ask an eyebrow raised. “You’re going to be transferred over to Harry’s department to sort out the merger. Finalise all the documentation that needs to be sent from his side to our side and from our side to his side.” A slight shock goes through you “and you want me to do this?” You voice trembles the idea of working in Harry’s building being hands on with Harry. Seeing him everyday as if thinking about him wasn’t enough. “Yes of course what better person to send than the one who knows most of the company files and also works in the archives. I think you’re perfect for this. Harry seems to think so as well. Says he wanted to ask before but couldn’t due to my permission. But you have my permission now.” Jack says with a smile. That sly calculating prick you immediately think. Of course he’d somehow got permission for Jack to send you to give him files. “Well I’ll try my best to not disappoint you.” You fluster out your hands already turning red and sweaty your fingers clenching into your palm nails digging in which leave marks. You turn around walking out. To the elevator. You look in the mirror. To see Harry everyday. To see him in the elevator when you enter. To see him in the office when you work. To hear him speak in the office. All of it every day your mind began to unravel not knowing how to process how you could think to face him. Was this spite for what you said? Was this some plot to show he’d had power over you? Was this genuinely business related? You gasped at straws hoping to find an answer knowing you wouldn’t. Not when you can barely face the truth. You stared at yourself in the elevator mirror, trying to ignore the truth settling heavily in your chest.

“You must be Nicholas. The merger guy.” A man walks over his hands clasped together “merger guy?” You ask with a slight confusion was this really a nickname you’d been given? “Yes everyone talks about how you stood up to Harry in that meeting. Very brave.” The man says at first you felt a little pride in yourself. Then a slight feeling of nerves. You’d already set up an expectation that you’d stood up to Harry would they expect it more? Think you’re fearless to face him? Like you aren’t petrified how your heart beats faster around him. You muster up a smile and nod “I did get a little passionate about the merger.” The smile fades at the unamused look on the man’s face “follow me.” Turning on his heel he begins walking you quickly follow behind stopping at a desk. “Nicholas Von Ronsenberg.” A receptionist says typing not looking up before she skids her chair over to a massive machine in the back pulling out a card “this is your ID card. Bring it in every single day to register your attendance. Tap in tap out. Don’t lose it. You’ll be responsible for any charges.” Putting it on the desk turning back to her screen and typing.

You grab the card and mutter a “thanks” walking inside the building. “Where is Harry?” You ask curious. “He’s not here yet. He comes a little late, but believe me once he arrives you’ll know.” The man leads you into an office. Almost double the size of your previous office. A large oak desk in the centre with a computer a desk lamp. Glass doors; and shelves placed around with a giant glass window with a view that felt almost too familiar. You look to the side. And saw the next door’s name plate ‘Harry Castillo chief executive officer.’ Your office. Right not to Harry’s office. How incredibly lucky you are. “Since you’re here part of the merger Harry wanted to keep you updated and expect updates during the finalising process. He thought it might help that you work together and closely.” The man says opening the doors. Stepping in you look around. “Thank you….” You say turning back. “Don’t mention it. If you need anything then just let me know. I’m Alan by the way.” A smile spreads on his face as he leaves. You turn back to the desk setting your briefcase on the table you turn your head to the small minibar you didn’t drink. But your body almost craved some solace of how close you were to the man. You find yourself pouring a glass taking a swig and head a sudden commotion outside.

You walk to the door looking around people running around. Sitting at desks, ear pieces on “Harry Castillo enterprises how may I help?” “Harry Castillo enterprises how may I help?” “Harry Castillo enterprises how may I help?” A phrase repeated so many times it felt deafening. You only come to some sort of other conscious when you hear beep on the elevator the door opens. Quick steps clicking on the marble floor slugged but quick. Everyone had their backs straight. A worker quickly coming up behind holding a cup of coffee. Those large hands wrapping around the handle silver ring gleaming in the light. He had sunglasses on oddly enough despite being indoors. You’d think it would come off in the elevator. As he walks past his head turns to you tilting his head down to look at you briefly without the lenses. Before entering his office. The second he’s in. A couple sighs are left from people. Backs are slightly slouched again. And all you can think is ‘damn’ all that intense energy filling the room for just a couple seconds when he entered. You’d never seen so many people rush into work mode. You turn back to your desk.

As you begin a transfer of files on your computer. Your door knocks and opens. Harry at your door. “You came.” He says a little smile in his lips but his voice sounding sharp like he wasn’t aware he was smiling. “I had to…..Jack thought I’d be the best advisor since I keep track of the documents.” You say sipping your drink. Harry’s gaze follows your hand to your drink his smile slightly intensifies. “Documents you said I couldn’t review because Jack didn’t give you permission to. But now…..” his voice trailing off with amusement. “Now you need to wait. Until the file transfer is complete and I’ll send you over the files that are required to send for the merger.” Harry walks closer “day drinking is quite odd for you. Celebratory?” Harry observes. You look at your glass a couple sips left. “Sure let’s call it that.” You nod. Harry takes another step standing directly opposite you across the desk. His hand reaches out grabbing the glass finishing the last sips in a gulp “I look forward to working with you, mr von Ronsenberg.” Setting the drink down he walks out.

You let out a sigh. You almost feel tense feeling the other works felt leave your body. Your eyes on the cup which he just drank from. the computer beeps the file transfers were done. Then a ding in the corner of the screen an email notification. You click on it. ‘Mr Nicholas. Call me old fashioned if you must but I’d like the files to be physical instead of digitally sent to me. Harry.’ Surely he was kidding right? That was almost thousands of documents to print out and bind together. And then another ding like he’d read your mind ‘by the end of the day I hope.’ This man was mental you think. You Stand up suddenly making your way to the door about to turn to give him a piece of your mind but something stops you. You didn’t know what. You couldn’t understand why but you knew you couldn’t. You turn back inside looking at your giant industrial printer. You turn it on and began the gruelling process of printing. The hum immediately fills the room.

Barely halfway done and already late afternoon the door knocks as Alan walks in. “We got a staff meeting.” Alan says “for what?” You look from the printer “it’s like a daily check in meeting Harry does making sure everyone is doing their jobs.” Alan explains “in meeting room two.” Alan adds. You look at the printer barely halfway you follow him out to the meeting room. It was much bigger than where the merger meeting was held. A grander rectangle table instead of circular. A couple chairs already filled you walk pulling a chair next to Alan. “Nicholas. Next to me.” You hear a firm voice enter you look and see Harry walking to the front of the table taking a seat you look at Alan who gestures his head to Harry. You walk over and take seat next adjacent to Harry. “Run me through the process of everything done today.” Harry says his hands clasped together on a desk. The far end speaks up slowly and gradually getting closer and closer to you. Each report was highly detailed and well spoken. You try to frame your own points but you didn’t even what to say. Your documents were barely printed out. You’re quiet not knowing what to say. When suddenly “Nicholas? Care to contribute to our meeting?” Harry’s eyes staring directly into your soul “or perhaps your celebratory day drinking went a bit too far?” He adds. That struck a little nerve inside you. Why would he even mention that? You speak with what little courage you felt you had “it wasn’t celebratory. And I did actually contribute. Ready to send the files over. But I figured that since you are in fact old fashioned I’d print out the files and bind them to give you.” You clear your throat quickly making your stance clear as a smile crosses Harry’s lips “intriguing. Like someone told you I was old fashioned.” Harry amused turns back. “Overall I’d say today has been a decent day. We’ve had a newer addition. So it’ll take some time getting used to. But I expect a much more productive day tomorrow and expect full reports to be completed.” immediately finishing his speech Harry gets up to walk out and you quickly follow behind him.

“Why did you do that?” You ask trying to keep with his pace “why did I do what?” His blunt voice. “Put me on the spot like that. Call me out for drinking.” You enter his office behind him the door closing behind with a soft thud as Harry turns to you from his desk. “Are you telling me you can’t work under pressure?” Harry says eyebrow raised. “No I’m saying I don’t like to be ridiculed for an obnoxiously long task you asked me to do. And expect it to be done by an afternoon meeting.” You snap slightly you felt an announce inside of you. “I didn’t expect anything. I expected the files to be done by end of day. It’s not end of day.” Harry folds his arms. “Coffee?” He asks gesturing to the table of refreshments “or perhaps your new favourite, whiskey?” That damned smug smile falling over his face. “Stop it.” You mutter “stop what teasing you?” Harry chuckles “while your files are printing help me with a quick task.” Harry adds. You let out nod expecting his next order Harry opens a file cabinet taking some files out. “Help me sort these out chronologically.” Setting the files on the desk “help me with this, and I’ll stop my jabs and maybe I’ll go easy on you in meetings.” You take a step forward looking the files.

Your hand reaches out examining dates you begin to work on the files placing them in order Harry sits on his chair observing a hand under his chin his chair swaying side to side his other hand rubbing his knee. You try to focus but you can’t help but notice the gesture of his hand on his knee it went for a little too long. Not like rubbing sweating off your hands. More like easing pain. You were sat back on your heels on the floor in front of the coffee table. “Is your knee okay? You’ve been rubbing it non stop for 5 minutes.” You confront Harry’s hand immediately stops looking at his knee then back at you a slight thoughtful look on his face like he was considering to tell you something “I’m fine. Just an old surgery that tingles every now and then.” You nod “serious?” You ask “no. Just a couple stitches is all. Car accident.” A part of you found it hard to believe a car accident led to a knee injury. But you also knew he drinks so it wasn’t too hard to believe he’d drink and drive. You turn back to the files.