#capuccinodoll

He was still wearing what he’d had on at the station: black work pants, belt digging uncomfortably into his hips, a navy cotton T-shirt and boots that tracked half the parking lot’s mud into the bar. He hadn’t even stopped at home. Knew if he did, he’d lie down, blink, and it’d be morning.

He needed a drink, a break. Stress was eating him alive.

Joel coped with his daily life as best he could. Like the kid who set his bathroom on fire. A twenty-year-old with a tragic case of romantic impulse. Joel and the guys found him curled on the kitchen floor with a burnt towel, melted candles, and a charred tray of pizza slices. The guy wanted ambiance. Candlelight and bathtub acoustics. Maybe a little poetry. He got third-degree burns instead.

Also, Joel was sure he saw a burnt book in the hallway. That was poetic.

Curtains had gone up next. Then came the wine glass, shattered. The kid lived on the third floor. Nearly took out the neighbors. Almost. Well, Joel was probably dramatizing. He did that when he was irritated.

So yeah. Tonight, he ordered a whiskey and lit up, fully aware that the smoke would cling to his fingers for the rest of the night. And he didn't care.

The bar was crowded. Not packed, but full enough to feel like enough. It smelled like beer and cig smoke and wet dirt, thanks to all the muddy boots dragging rain in from the street. His included. The music was too loud to hear the storm tapping on the roof, but he could feel it anyway.

He scanned the room. Nothing caught. Then again, he wasn’t exactly a flame to be drawn to these days.

A blonde in a low-cut top leaned over the bar. A brunette at the pool table bent just the right way in tight jeans. He took a sip of his drink. Watched. Let his eyes rest on her for a couple of seconds.

He was worn the fuck out. And he knew it.

Twenty years ago, this same night would’ve started differently. He’d already be in someone’s backseat, or someone else’s bed, or maybe the goddamn bathroom stall if it came to that. He used to have a good mouth on him. A silver tongue. Knew how to talk, how to touch. And he’d been a lucky bastard once, golden even, for longer than he probably deserved.

Now? Forty-five. Body stiff in some places. Still carrying around a full tank of sex and no place to unload it.

He could’ve stayed home. Could’ve jerked off, taken a hot shower, gone to bed. But the tension in his back said no thanks to that routine. He needed something else. Something more.

He wasn’t even sure he remembered how to flirt anymore. The last time he’d fucked a stranger was years ago, after a night out with the guys from the station — tall redhead, forties, dirty mouth, smelled like vanilla. Her scent had stayed on his shirt, and for a full day after, he kept catching it on his own damn arms.

The last time he’d slept with anyone was eight months ago. Nothing dramatic. Two nights, zero chemistry, and then radio silence.

Now he had nothing. Not even decent porn. He’d spent the past week jerking off in half-hearted silence, scrolling through a sea of videos that didn’t make him feel a goddamn thing.

No. He didn’t want a screen, bad acting and cringey dialogue.

He needed skin. Sweat. Something to sink his teeth into.

So he didn’t overthink it. He got in the truck straight after his long shift and drove to the bar with a plan so simple it felt almost clinical: show up, drink, find someone, fuck, go home.

His eyes drifted back to the blonde. She was watching him now, of course she was. He recognized that look from miles away. She was already imagining how he’d taste. 

Joel stubbed out his cigarette and shifted to stand. And that’s when the bell above the door rang.

You walked in.

Looking slightly lost, you looked like you hadn’t meant to end up here. Hair a little damp from the rain, short black dress clinging to your thighs. You didn’t belong in this place, and that made it worse somehow. Or better.

Joel’s gaze moved down, then back up. He exhaled. Sat back down.

Lifted his whiskey and drank.

“Um, whiskey, please. On the rocks.”

Your voice surprised him. Softer than expected. Especially for someone like you. And by that, he meant you looked like you’d rip a man open.

You sat down on the stool to his left. He turned slightly, watching you.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and sighed as you checked your phone, and Joel noticed your eye makeup was just a little smudged.

You bit your lower lip, distracted.

You looked young. Early thirties, maybe.

Joel wondered —for half a second— if it would be too much, too pathetic, to try anything. But the thought lasted barely a second before he shifted and felt the thick fabric of his pants pressing right in his crotch.

Fuck it.

So, yeah, he was about to say something. Nothing clever, really, just something, when you turned your head and looked straight at him.

“What?”

Joel’s fingers tightened around his glass.

So that’s the tone. That’s who you were. You looked at him with big eyes, long eyelashes. What the hell do you want?

“Tough day?” he asked, smirking before he could stop himself. He lifted his chin toward the drink the bartender had just slid in front of you.

You looked down at it, then back up at him.

“What makes you think that?”

“Intuition,” he said.

You faced forward again, hands wrapped around the glass. Your nails were painted crimson red. He liked that.

You took a slow sip. Nodded.

“Tough week.”

He nodded too. Fair enough.

“Did you walk here?”

You turned to him again. “Let me guess; intuition?”

He tried not to smile but failed halfway. Nodded.

“Your hair’s damp.”

You stared at him then, properly, eyes holding on his face before trailing down, and suddenly he didn’t need any other confirmation. He already knew how the night was going to end.

Not to brag or anything, you know?

You looked away. Sipped again. Looked back.

“Yeah, I walked. Just a few blocks.” A pause. “There was no way I was going back home like this.”

He tilted his head. “Wet?”

You almost laughed, not quite. It was just one of those soft, breathy sounds that didn’t make it out of your mouth, and Joel wanted to catch it with his.

He hadn’t meant for it to sound like that. But his horny brain was already too hot to care.

You crossed your legs, he didn’t look.

“And what’s a firefighter doing just sitting here drinking?” you asked, eyes flicking to the ashtray. “Smoking, too. Doesn’t that mess with your ability to climb stairs or something?”

He raised his glass. “Hell of a week, I’ll tell you that much.” He took a sip. Set it down again with a thunk. “And I ain’t the kinda man who unwinds with bubble baths and scented candles.”

“Oh, no?” You turned a little toward him, smile all gloss, shiny teeth and mischief. “Scented candles not strong enough for you?”

Joel slid one boot onto the footrest of your stool, settling it between your heels. Your eyes dropped, tracking the motion, but snapped back up to his way too fast.

“I got other preferences,” he said.

“Cigs and whiskey,” you teased, chin tilted up.

“Among other things.”

He sank deep into your eyes, feeling yours pull him under just as hard. A tight, invisible thread. That tickle-in-your-gut kind of feeling. And if he didn’t leave this bar with you tonight, he already knew he’d be thinking about it for a long fucking time.

“Well, that’s a shame,” you said, tracing the rim of his glass with one fingertip. “Something tells me you’ve never actually tried a proper candlelit bath. But cigs and whiskey get the job done, I guess.”

“I’d like to say they do,” he said, voice a little rough now. “But lately they ain’t workin’ much either.”

“No?”

“Not like I want ’em to,” he said, picking up the glass, fingers brushing yours on the way. “And anyway, you’re sittin’ here too, drink in hand. Candles let you down tonight?”

You laughed, soft cheeks rising, eyes going warm.

“And dressed like that, too,” he added, his fingertip grazing yours again, slower.

You tilted your head and bit your lip.

Could’ve looked intentional. Maybe to anyone else it could be, but he knew better. Something about it felt too natural. Like a habit you didn’t notice.

“Got stood up,” you said.

Joel grimaced. “Get the fuck outta here.”

“And you know what’s funny?”

He smiled, already knowing it probably wasn’t going to be funny at all.

“It was our third date,” you said, rolling your eyes.

“That’s the big one,” Joel said, nodding. “You reach number three, there’s expectations. You call him?”

You nodded, eyes dropping to the drink in your hand.

“You wanna know what he said?”

You looked up again, and Joel gave you a look that said hit me.

“‘Something came up,’” you said. Then, deadpan: “Which really sucks, ‘cause I was kinda hoping to get laid tonight.”

A surprised, breathy laugh caught in Joel’s chest. The luckiest son of a bitch on the planet.

He didn’t usually buy into fate —sounded too cheesy —but right then, with his brain running hot and you in that dress, it felt like the universe had sent you just for him.

“Well,” he said, dipping his voice, “if it makes you feel any better, I’d bet money he’s an idiot.”

His hand shifted a little closer, finger brushing against yours.

“No man with half a brain stands you up,” he said. “I sure as hell wouldn’t. Not even if the whole damn city was on fire.”

You laughed, and it lit you up.

You closed your ankles gently around his boot.

“Such a flirt,” you said. “That line usually work for you?”

“Ain’t heard any complaints.”

You hummed.

“And tell me,” you said, stretching out your other hand, letting your fingers rest on his chest, right over the red and yellow badge stitched into his shirt. “Is the uniform part of the appeal?”

Joel felt it hit him like a goddamn freight train, his eyes locking onto yours like magnets.

Yeah, it had been a long time. No doubt about it.

Because just the light touch of your fingers on his chest had his heart thudding harder, blood pumping faster through his veins, brain getting fuzzier by the second—

and it was only a matter of time before he was half-hard beneath his pants.

And his belt, suddenly, felt like the only thing holding him together.

His fingers gently tightened around your wrist, your hand still resting on his chest, and your breath hitched.

There it was. The sign he’d been waiting for.

Your eyes went brighter, pupils blown wide like deep, dark pools he wanted to drown in.

All. Fucking. Night.

He slipped his thumb under your palm, pressing gently, tracing slow circles against your skin, and your mouth parted, just slightly.

Joel wondered what it’d feel like to slide his fingers between your lips, feel your tongue on his fingertips. And if he let himself drift further, let the thought get a little dirty, a little vulgar, he wondered how it’d feel to have your mouth wrapped tight around his cock, eyes still locked on his like this, all glossy and wide.

Too many thoughts.

But a quick glance around told him no one was watching. Obviously.

The blonde he’d been eyeing earlier was long gone from the bar, and the brunette was still at the pool table, glued to someone else. Everyone else looked too drunk or too damn tired to notice anything at all. And when he looked back at you, your hand—still tangled with his—had drifted down his chest, settling on his thigh.

Joel tightened his grip around yours, thumb still stroking lazy circles on your skin.

He licked his lips. “Tell me, why this bar outta all the others?”

You exhaled through your nose. “I don’t know. It was close.”

“Must be my lucky night, then.”

You smiled, and your hand squeezed his thigh, thumb pressing into the inside, right where it made his brain short-circuit.

Too close.

Too fucking close.

You leaned back just slightly, dragging your hand down the length of his thigh, slow as sin, until you reached his knee.

You squeezed again.

“I’m pretty sure I could use a little of that luck too,” you said.

“Well, I’m sure of that, sweetheart. Lucky for you, I like to share.”

“You like to share?”

“You know what they say about good manners.”

“I know what they say about firefighters,” you murmured, leaning in just a bit, your ankles brushing his foot softly. “But I ain’t never seen it up close.”

Joel smiled sideways, feeling a little dizzy.

“Guess that makes it your lucky night too, then.”

A sweet smile spread across your lips.

“Restrooms?”

For a moment, he said nothing.

But then he caught himself.

Come on, dumbass, get your shit together.

Joel didn’t speak. Just nodded once and jerked his chin over his shoulder.

You let go of his glass to grab your own. Knocked the rest of your whiskey back like a shot, no hesitation, and set the empty glass down.

Joel didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just watched you as you turned. Eyes locked, blood hot.

You saw him the second you walked in. A surprise, considering your sour mood.

Didn’t mean to. Weren’t even looking, really. But there he was; tall, broad shoulders, whiskey in hand, salt just starting to thread through his pepper hair.

And just like that, your shitty night cracked open.

Two fucking hours. You’d waited for Ashton at that overpriced restaurant bar, drinking water like a loser, checking your phone every ten minutes only to get stood up, and then a reply only after you texted him first.

Which, in hindsight, made sense. It was the final nail in the coffin of a situation you’d already outgrown.

You’d prepared for tonight. You’d been looking forward to it.

Months had passed since you’d been with anyone, and Ashton boasted he was gentleman enough to wait for the “right moment.”

Fuck the right moment. You just wanted to fuck. And he was a goddamn liar.

Full of shit. “Something came up,” he’d said. And then, on your way out, there he was; smiling like a jackass in someone’s Instagram story. At a party. Holding a beer. Definitely not waiting for anything.

You’d been ready. Perfumed, waxed, exfoliated, moisturized within an inch of your life.

And all for nothing.

All of it, apparently, for yourself.

Until you saw the man at the bar.

And ordered the same drink he was having.

Now, standing beside him, your hand still resting on his knee, you looked at him one last time and let go. Slipped off your stool and walked toward the restrooms. You didn’t look back right away.

You waited until you were almost there. Then, you turned. And he was watching you. Of course he was. Head tilted, eyes tracking you. And just before you pushed the door open, you saw him move, slow, rising from his seat.

Your heart pounded once, then again, faster.

You’d never done this before. You saved your courage for more reasonable things, like doctor’s appointments, awkward phone calls, breaking up with somebody or declining invitations.

The restroom had two stalls. One sink. A worn mirror. A half-full soap dispenser that looked like it’d seen things.

You didn’t care.

You wanted this.

Right now.

You closed the door and caught your reflection: you looked good, really good, actually, considering you’d walked a couple of blocks in the rain. Your hair still a little damp, eye makeup just barely smudged. Your lips still glossy. It was sexy, to be honest.

Three knocks on the door.

Your heart stopped. 

You fixed your hair in the mirror, and then walked to the door, cracked it open, just enough to see him standing there. He looked taller standing up.

He stepped inside in a second, closing the door behind him. You heard the lock click, but all you could see were his eyes fixed on yours.

“Tell me your name,” he said, moving forward until your thighs pressed against the cold sink. He rested his palms on either side, not touching you.

From this new angle he was even closer, and you felt wrapped up in him, in his scent: deep, sexy cologne, whiskey with a hint of smoke. Something you’d never noticed before, or particularly liked, but now couldn’t get enough of.

You said your name with a smile. “And yours?” you asked a second after, sliding your hands up his chest until your fingertips brushed the hot skin at his neck beneath his shirt.

“Joel.”

“Joel,” you repeated, your lips barely brushing his.

You smiled, or tried to, but didn’t get far—his mouth crashed onto yours, stealing your breath and pulling you tight against him.

Joel’s hands squeezed your hips, fingers digging into your ass as he hauled you closer, his belt biting into your stomach. He made low, guttural sounds in his throat as your hands slid down his chest, one pressing against his stomach, the other slipping even lower, past his belt.

You adjusted your palm and gave the bulge in his pants a gentle squeeze. Just to see. Just out of curiosity.

Joel broke the kiss with a moan, breath hot and shaky against your wet lips.

“Jesus, sweetheart, gettin’ luckier by the second.”

“You’re desperate for this, aren’t you?” you whispered against his mouth, squeezing a little harder. “Knew it the second I saw you, undressing me with your eyes. I could feel your heart pounding under my hand.”

Joel smiled, then leaned in to steal a kiss. Quick, soft, gone too fast.

“And now?” he murmured, thrusting his hips forward, deepening the pressure of your hand against his crotch. “You feel it beatin' now, too?”

You squeezed again, a moan rumbling in your chest as you leaned in and dragged your tongue across his lips.

Softer than you expected.

Joel let one hand slip from your hip and cupped your jaw, pulling you in, kissing you just as you were about to taste him again.

His tongue met yours, and his mouth claimed yours in a deep, hungry kiss, full of controlled desperation.

Because yes, he was desperate. So were you. But he kissed you like he didn’t want to devour you too fast.

God knew Joel Miller appreciated a proper meal, and he took his damn time savoring it.

You slid both hands up to his neck and pulled him closer, closer, until his whole body was pressed up against yours. Your legs parted around him, and he lifted you onto the sink with both hands, setting you right at the edge.

Your body was melted into his, so close you could feel the rise and fall of his breath against your stomach. Legs wrapped around his hips, hands tangled in the back of his neck and his hair, mouth full of him; you were coming apart right on top of him.

Your dress had ridden up past your hips, and the porcelain beneath you was cold against your ass. But Joel’s hands were warm, dragging heat over every inch of skin they touched. Gripping, kneading, getting you warm as they went.

You pulled away from his lips, leaning back, your head tipping until your neck was fully exposed to him. And Joel wasted no time; his mouth found your skin, teeth and tongue at your throat like some goddamn vampire, biting gently at your pulse point. And then—

A sudden chill kissed your chest, your nipples tightening instantly.

You looked down.

He’d tugged down the top of your dress, one strap slipping off your arm without grace.

One breast bare, the other still half-covered.

Joel cupped it with his hand, fingers rolling your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, both of you watching it happen, breath catching, uneven.

“You’re so fuckin’ hot,” he murmured against your jaw, rough, a little shaky as he kept touching you. “Soft… beautiful… almost feels like a shame to eat you up.”

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head back, your hand stroking the warm skin at the back of his neck.

“You’re not gonna back out, are you?”

Joel lifted his gaze, locking eyes with you. A crooked smile pulled at his lips.

“Baby,” he said, smug, “I never leave a plate unfinished.”

Saying that, he slid his hand down your stomach and rested it on your thigh, easing your legs open just a little more.

He pressed his palm, fingers angled down, against your underwear, dragging them slowly up and down with the lightest pressure. Just enough to make your whole body tremble.

“Look at this,” he muttered, grinning. “Already soaked.”

You rocked your hips forward, chasing the contact, and he pushed his hand in closer, fingers circling your clit through the damp fabric, drawing moans straight from your chest.

Your head fell back with a gasp.

“Fuck, Joel, yes,” you whispered, eyes shut, fingers stroking the back of his neck. “Right there, right there.”

He kissed your neck, his tongue leaving a wet trail up along your jaw until he reached your ear—then, he softly bit your earlobe.

A gasp slipped from your lips. He let out a breathy laugh.

“You like that?” he whispered, almost surprised, voice barely there—meant only for you.

He bit again. You shivered, your hips grinding harder against his fingers.

“Goddamn, look at you,” he murmured, hot breath spilling over your skin. “So fuckin’ pretty, so desperate, so wet.” His voice dipped lower. “Dragged me into the restroom just to get what you wanted, didn’t you?”

You nodded, eyes shut, breath catching.

“Tell me what you want,” he ordered, his hand moving rougher. “ Tell me. Say it.”

You opened your eyes, lids heavy, and looked at him, hoping the hunger in your stare would swallow him whole.

You exhaled, shaky. “Your—your tongue.”

Joel stilled. His hand stopped.

His mouth found your neck again, and his grip tightened on your hips, pulling you hard against him as your mind spun like a goddamn carousel.

“Your mouth,” you murmured, clutching at him. “Joel—oh my God.”

He laughed against your skin, satisfied, then pulled back. His hands slid down to the inside of your thighs, and without looking away, he started to open you up, inch by inch.

His eyes were shining, dark as midnight, pupils blown wide; lips flushed, cheeks hot and glowing.

Then, the doorknob rattled.

Someone tried to get in.

Three knocks hit the door.

“Occupied,” Joel called, eyes never leaving yours, his hands still gripping your thighs as he dropped to a crouch.

Whoever was outside said something, but you didn’t hear it. Couldn’t. Your focus was locked on the man between your legs.

Joel hooked his fingers into your panties and dragged them to the side.

A breath caught on his lips.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes glued to you. 

And instinctively, you rolled your hips forward, offering more, opening for him.

Joel started kissing the insides of your thighs, inching higher with every breath. But the tension was killing you, you needed him over you, right now. Right this second.

Your hand found his hair, fingers tangling in it just tight enough to make a low laugh rumble from his chest.

And then he moved closer, and closer, and—

“Oh my… God,” you gasped, head thrown back, mouth open.

Joel was gentle, tender. His mouth felt soft against you; tongue licking slow, lips wrapping around your bud, sucking softly, releasing with a wet, needy sound: music to your ears.

He moaned against you, sending vibrations through every nerve ending, and you gripped his hair tighter. That seemed to ignite something, because he plunged deeper, faster, sucking harder, with desperate intensity.

You knew you were soaked, felt it slick between your thighs. And when you glanced down, Joel’s mouth and nose were glistening too.

He pulled back for a moment, fingers spreading you open, tracing circles over your clit.

“Look at you, so goddamn beautiful and sweet,” he murmured, then kissed the inside of your thigh quickly, his stubble tickling you.

Without warning, his mouth closed over you again, hungry and relentless. 

Holy fuck, you could come just from the sight of it.

Joel had your clit wrapped in his lips, sucking hard while his tongue flicked inside his mouth and over your wet heat.

You couldn’t hold back any longer.

Fisting his hair, head thrown back, a breathy sigh tore through you, and a moan escaped—too loud, too raw—from deep in your throat.

Your hips moved on their own, riding the waves as Joel kept the pace, dragging you over the edge nonstop.

You were trembling, jaw clenched, when his mouth finally pulled away with a soft, satisfied plop.

He touched you one last time, just to kiss your clit like he was sealing a job well done.

No, no... Perfectly done. You had just come harder than you ever had in your life.

The man was talented. You almost climbed off the sink to give him a round of applause, but a dozen other ways to thank him were already lining up in your head.

God bless firefighters. Always reliable service.

When he kissed you, you were still half-dizzy, but you wrapped your arms around his neck to steady yourself.

His mouth tasted like you. His tongue was soft in yours, even though now you knew exactly what it was capable of.

You pulled away, trailing your mouth down his jaw with soft kisses until you reached his neck.

“That was fucking incredible,” you murmured, a smile audible in your voice.

He laughed deep and low, vibrating right under your lips.

“My pleasure,” he said, smug as hell.

You leaned back, grinning, eyes locked on his as your hand slid down to his belt. Fingers trembling but quick, undoing the black leather buckle.

Once undone, you pulled down the zipper of his pants and without breaking eye contact, your hand slipped under his boxers. 

Your eyes fluttered as your hand brushed against bare skin, wrapping around his thick, pulsing length.

You swallowed hard.

Your hand stroked him gently, heart pounding at how swollen and hard he was. And when you looked down, just in time to see him slide free from his boxers, a breath caught in your throat.

His dick was big. Long and wide, the soft hair above framing it like a crown. The mushroom-shaped head was round and swollen, pink and leaking. Veins stood out, thick, pulsing, and suddenly, your mouth watered.

Joel seemed composed, at least from a distance. And you say this because up close, you could see how hard he was breathing, his chest rising and falling in ragged bursts.

You didn’t want to make him wait any longer—you didn’t want to wait any longer either— so you pressed your hand gently against him, urging him to step back. And with a quick leap, you slid off the sink and dropped to your knees.

Looking up, you caught how his hand immediately tangled in your hair, fingers gripping your scalp. 

You placed one hand on his thigh, the other at his base, thumb gently pressing and caressing his balls. You knew he liked it, because a soft sigh slipped past his lips the moment you did.

Without a word, you opened your mouth and flicked your tongue over the head, slow, until your lips wrapped around him.

Joel gasped, tightening his grip on your hair. You smiled up at him.

He smirked back, that crooked grin lighting up his face.

“Enjoyin’ yourself, darlin’?”

Suddenly, you decided to wipe that smug smile right off his face.

Your tongue traced the length of him, sliding all the way down to the base, while your hand started pumping him steady and your mouth wrapped around his scrotum, lips sucking and tasting that perfect, salty flavor.

Joel groaned, leaning forward, one hand braced on the sink, eyes squeezed shut and, for once, no damn smile.

You licked back up to the head again, hand sliding down to the base to stroke as your mouth took as much as it could, lips tight and wet, tongue working every inch it could reach.

“Oh, shit, fuck,” Joel gasped, eyes wide as he looked down at you, fingers gently massaging your cheek.

Wet sounds slipped from your mouth and throat as you took him deeper, and deeper, and deeper, until your nose nearly touched his base, completely filled, no room left in your mouth.

Joel moaned, a broken, fragile sound, then tugged your hair softly, pulling you back slowly.

You took a breath as he released you, fingers brushing over your damp chin. You were drooling, thick drops slipping from your lips.

You leaned forward and flicked your tongue out, but before you could take him back into your mouth, Joel grabbed your shoulders, impatience clear in his grip.

“Joel,” you whined, hands resting on his arms, eyes glazed and cock-drunk.

“Sweetheart, don’t get me wrong,” he said, fingers brushing your cheek, needy. “But if you stay on your knees any longer, this’s gonna end way different than how I wanna end it.”

You nodded, understanding. Pff, you were so kind.

You wiped the back of your hand over your mouth, then cupped his face with both hands, pulling him in for a fierce, hungry kiss.

Suddenly, there were knocks on the door.

“Occupied!” Joel shouted again, leaving your mouth.

You chuckled low and clenched his shirt in your fists while his hands slid to your hips, kneading and gripping the skin there.

He bent down and planted a kiss between your neck and shoulder. Then, in one smooth move, he lifted you back onto the sink.

You leaned back, palms pressed against the cold porcelain behind you, while he slipped a black package with tiny white letters from his back pocket.

He popped it open with a quick tear at the corner and popped it in his mouth.

So that’s how it was... this man carried a bareskin raw in his pocket. Look at him. 

You smiled to yourself and brought your hand to your mouth, quickly licking your fingers as you watched him roll on the condom, the thin latex hugging him perfectly.

Your hand slipped down between your legs, fingers teasing impatiently while he positioned himself at your entrance. But you stopped touching yourself the moment you felt him start to slide in, your hand immediately gripping his tanned, strong arm; a vein traced along his bicep, disappearing under his shirt.

You shifted your hips just slightly, and Joel eased himself in, slow and steady.

Inch by inch, his face stayed controlled, but his eyes gave him away. You were completely mesmerized, watching him—watching his reaction as he slid inside you, feeling yourself stretch around him with every second. A slow, delicious burn spreading through your whole body.

With just one hip push, Joel pressed deep, fully inside you.

A gasp escaped your lips, your body overwhelmed by the perfect fullness, the delicious weight of him.

“Fuck,” you threw your head back, breathing calm but heavy.

“Look at it,” Joel managed to say, rough.

You obeyed, eyes dropping right to where your bodies met.

“Look at it; fittin’ like a glove,” he added.

His hands slid up to your waist, gripping tight to keep you steady while you adjusted to him. Joel took the moment to lean forward and bury his mouth in your chest. His tongue flicked lively and wet, and damn, it was almost too much.

Your hand traveled up his arm to his head, fingers tangling in his hair.

“Joel—Joel, move,” you whispered, voice ragged. “Move.”

He let go of your nipple with a wet, filthy sound and tightened his grip on your waist. His eyes locked on yours while he pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in one smooth thrust. Then again. And again. And again.

He started moving against you, his hard, heavy cock sliding between your legs, and the heat inside you flared instantly.

And if before you were melting, now you were straight-up dissolving. Joel was fucking you with that fucked-and-broken look in his eyes, and your heart was pounding like a drum. Your body was burning, nearly feverish, and your hands clung to him however they could; gripping his clothes, his neck, his hair, anything within reach.

And he let you hold on, pressing his body against yours, gasping as he gave it all; his mouth trailing kisses down your neck, your shoulders, biting here and there, leaving wet marks on your hot skin, making your head spin.

His thrusts were rougher now, faster too, and so were the sounds spilling from his chest. You were probably making all sorts of noises yourself, but you couldn’t focus on anything except his, because they were fucking delicious.

Joel pulled out of you slowly, eyes glued to where your bodies parted.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice thick. “Look at the mess you made.” He looked up at you, a drunk smile tugging at his lips. “You always this messy?”

You looked down, your mouth falling open.

A mess. A fucking mess. His length was coated with your slick, completely drenched and shining.

The image was so obscene it dragged a moan straight from your throat, just in time for Joel to slam back into you with one deep, hard thrust.

He picked up the rhythm again, hot skin against yours, his breath coming out in short, frantic bursts.

Then... more knocks.

“Dude, c’mon!” someone shouted from the other side. “Get the fuck out already!”

Joel stilled.

“Fuckin’ perverts,” the guy muttered, still banging on the door.

You both let out soft, breathless laughs, and just as quickly, Joel began pulling out.

“No,” you whispered in protest, hands pressing flat against his chest. “Joel…”

“My truck’s out front,” he said, tucking himself back into his pants, belt clinking as he fastened it. His voice was low and final.

You nodded fast, obeying without question. He helped you down from the sink, and your shaky legs hit the ground.

You adjusted your dress as best you could, tugging it down while checking your reflection. You washed your hands, smoothed down a damp strand of hair, and made sure your gloss was still sort of intact.

Joel did the same — no rush, no panic. He washed his hands, ran a quick hand through his hair, and that was it. His face gave nothing away, except maybe the heat still lingering in his eyes, or the huge hard-on he was carrying but, right... anyway.

He took your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world. Walked toward the door, and right after opening it, he murmured a polite “excuse us” you barely heard, mostly because all your focus was trapped in the sticky, warm feeling between your thighs.

You stepped out of the restroom in silence, passing through a few nosy stares. Joel didn’t flinch. Or maybe he just didn’t care. And your legs were still a little shaky, your thighs damp.

You squeezed his hand tightly.

Joel pushed the door open.

And outside… it was still raining.

In a hurry, he led you by the hand across the lot, and you got a little wet on the way. No pun intended.

His truck was parked near the back; black, relatively new...

Wait, like, seriously? Who gave a shit about the make and model right now? Your legs were shaking, and all you could focus on was the weight of Joel’s hand wrapped around yours.

He clicked the alarm off, opened the door, and helped you up, gripping your thigh as you climbed in.

You watched him walk around the front, rain catching in the shine of his hair, his broad chest rising as he pulled open the driver’s side door and got in.

The second it shut behind him, he looked at you.

Silent.

A smile crept across your lips and his, too. And then you both laughed, because Jesus, it was all so fucking ridiculous.

Joel reached over and squeezed your thigh, right near where you were aching for him. He leaned in, and you cupped his face with both hands, kissing him like two teenagers sneaking around behind someone’s back.

His hand moved higher, then around, grabbing a handful of your ass while yours slid down to palm the bulge in his jeans again.

He groaned, broke the kiss, and leaned back with a breath.

“Not here,” he muttered, eyes flicking forward as he shoved the key in the ignition. “Too many people. And traffic.”

You didn’t complain. Didn’t even say a word. You just watched him start the engine, eyes focused on the road ahead, trying to see past the streaks of rain while the wipers swung wildly back and forth.

“Where are we going?” you asked, already sliding down into his lap.

Joel shifted his hips upward, maybe instinct or need, and you had his belt undone and fly open before he could even answer.

“Someplace quieter,” he said, voice tight, breath catching in his throat.

You freed his cock from his jeans and took him into your mouth without hesitation. Still thick. Still hard. Still yours—if only for tonight.

Your mouth was wet within seconds, and so was he, your lips gliding up and down while soft moans hummed in your chest. You could hear his breathing shift, get heavier, rougher.

You looked up at him, hand stroking him as your mouth worked. He looked laser-focused on the road, the red and white lights of traffic bouncing in his eyes, fractured through the rain on the windshield.

“Keep doin’ that,” he muttered, glancing down at you for just a second like it might fucking kill him to look away for more.

You obeyed without question, hand stroking him before your lips wrapped around the tip again, sucking with just enough pressure to pull a groan out of him; one he clearly tried to bite back, for whatever stubborn reason.

Joel drove a little longer, tension coiled tight in his body, until the truck rolled to a stop. The engine cut out, and he let his head fall back against the seat.

His hands tangled in your hair.

“Fuck, baby, such a good fuckin’ mouth,” he breathed, finally giving into it, hips twitching as he bumped the back of your throat a couple of times. “Keep doin’ that.”

But then he pulled you off him, hand firm under your jaw.

“Backseat,” he said, rough and urgent.

You didn’t hesitate. You slipped between the front seats, catching a quick smack from him on your ass as you did. It made you grin.

Joel followed, slower with the limited space, but the second he was back there with you, he dropped onto the seat and grabbed your hips like it was instinct, pulling you right into his lap.

His hands fisted the hem of your dress and dragged it up your body, stripping it off without ceremony and tossing it carelessly into the front seat.

Suddenly, you were bare; completely exposed, save for your panties, which Joel had no intention of letting stay on. He slipped them down and off you in one swift, practiced motion that probably deserved some kind of medal.

Straddling him, you glanced around the truck. You were parked in an empty lot, and even if someone was out there, it didn’t matter. The rain was coming down hard, drumming over the roof and windows, cloaking you both in sound and shadow.

Nature’s way of saying go ahead.

The cool air inside the truck kissed your skin and raised goosebumps along every inch of you. Your nipples tightened as you settled over Joel, heat clashing deliciously with the chill.

“You’re gorgeous,” he murmured, barely above a breath.

You smiled, cheeks somehow blushing even more than they already were.

“Thanks. You too.”

Joel grinned, his thumb pressing into your hip.

“Thanks, sweetheart. You gettin’ shy on me now?”

You stifled a laugh, shook your head.

His hands gripped your waist while your arms draped over his shoulders. Glancing down, you saw his cock, thick and ready lying hard against his stomach, and you rocked forward, back, again, your slick dragging over him and pulling a sharp gasp from his throat.

Still grinding, your fingers toyed with the hem of his T-shirt. Joel, always sharp, always tuned in, pulled it off in one swift motion and tossed it forward, somewhere near where your dress had landed.

You sighed as you looked at him, your hands roaming his bare chest, caressing and kneading the golden skin while your hips kept moving and his hands squeezed you tighter.

He threw his head back, and wasting no time you kissed the curve of his neck, making him moan while his hands slid up your bare back, squeezing and stroking as he pulled you closer against him.

The feel of his bare chest pressed to yours and his hard length rubbing against you was too much, too fast. Your clit brushed his tip, and a gasp escaped your lips as your hips quickened, the friction intensifying.

Joel’s hands dropped hard and fast onto your ass—two sharp slaps echoing inside the truck. And then, he stopped you immediately, his grip firm, holding you still.

Your mouth left his neck as you pulled back slightly, hands still resting on his shoulders. You looked into his eyes just as he lowered his gaze and his hand to grip his cock, positioning it beneath you.

You held your breath for a moment, feeling him settle at your entrance, and then Joel placed his hands firmly on your hips.

Slowly, you began to lower yourself. Inch by inch, until he was fully inside, and a soft sigh escaped your lips.

You pressed your forehead to his while Joel’s hands roamed everywhere; your ass, your thighs, your back, caressing every inch of exposed skin he could.

Your hand gripped his jaw, tilting his face up, and you kissed him as you started to move.

Up, down. Up, down.

You could feel him stretching you just right with every thrust, and soft, broken little sounds slipped from your lips, only to die against his.

Joel was panting, making those low, rough noises like he was trying not to, but couldn’t help it; and God, it drove you wild.

His hands clutched at your ass, guiding you faster, and you leaned back, grabbing onto the frontseat headrest next to you for balance.

“Fuck, baby,” he growled, his voice wrecked, thicker now. One hand slid down to your clit as his hips pushed up into you. “You feel so fuckin' good, I can’t—shit—”

You threw your head back, and Joel lost it.

His movements turned rougher, faster; his cock driving in and out, burying deep with every thrust. Your legs were trembling from the tension coiled tight inside you.

Then his hands clamped down on your waist, and with a sudden, forceful motion, he grabbed you and dropped you flat on the seat, on your back.

He moved fast, adjusting his position, hiking your legs up until your knees were pressed on either side of your head, and then he was inside you again, all at once.

Joel leaned forward, his full weight pressing down on the backs of your thighs, keeping you pinned right there as he fucked into you hard.

Your chest rose and fell in time with each thrust, every breath and sound synced with the rhythm of him. Your hands were reaching for anything; his hair, his face, his neck, desperate to touch whatever you could. So he brought his face down to yours and kissed you, his wet lips trembling, parted and hungry.

Your moans were falling apart now—shattered, messy sounds— as Joel hit every soft angle, brushing every nerve inside you. You were helpless, bent in half beneath him, completely at his mercy.

“Joel,” you whispered, over and over, barely a sound between cries. “Joel…”

And something in him broke. His thrusts turned rougher, deeper. His groans dropped lower, turned primal. The truck rocked beneath you both, creaking wildly with the force, but he didn’t care.

He wasn’t gonna stop—not even if the entire city was burning.

The look on your face was undoing him. You were wrecked; utterly open for him, given over, gone. Eyes glassy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed.

And you felt just like he’d imagined.

No, fuck, better.

Clenching around him, slick and tight and pulling him in like you were made for him. Perfect. Every damn angle.

You were close. And so was he.

He’d spent the last ten minutes trying to think about anything else... the weather, maybe? No, the scented candle kid. No. Fuck, wathever. He was squeezing his eyes shut, desperate to hold on just a little longer—to be good for you.

Then he brought his hand down, fingers trembling as they found your swollen clit.

You stopped breathing. No sound, no breath, just stillness.

He had you right where he wanted you.

Joel kept working his fingers, fucking into you like there was no tomorrow until suddenly, your whole body trembled. Your mouth fell open in a silent scream, your eyes squeezing shut tight as the orgasm hit you hard.

He didn’t stop.

“Oh my—fucking—Joel—Joel—don’t stop—oh my—baby—” The words tumbled out of you in a rush, frantic and breathless, as your climax tore through you.

Joel buried his face beside yours, cheek pressed to your knee, still moving, still inside.

“Oh, shit,” he managed, the words raw, cracking in his throat—

And then it hit him.

The orgasm slammed into him like a wave, dragging him under. He groaned deep, broken, guttural sounds spilling from him as he came, undone and breathless, lost in you completely.

On the way home, your legs were still shaking.

Never in your life—never in all your fucking years alive—had you felt anything like that.

And you didn’t know if it was just Joel, or if it was the rush of fucking a stranger you’d only just met. You had no idea. But your body was still riding the aftershocks, even an hour later, as he drove toward your neighborhood.

An hour later because… well, after it was over, the two of you had just collapsed in the backseat.

You didn’t know how long you laid there, staring at the ceiling, breathing. Not talking. Just existing.

And then Joel turned his head and asked if you were hungry. So he drove to a fast food place, ordered burgers and fries at the drive-thru, and you ate in the parking lot while he told you about the fire he’d worked earlier that day.

Which, now, made his hatred of scented candles make a lot more sense.

To be fair, Joel seemed like a good man. More than good, actually.

And it wasn’t just because of how well he’d fucked you or the way he’d helped you clean up afterward, or how sweetly he’d asked “What d’you want to eat, sweetheart? Burgers? Fries? Tenders? Sprite or Coke?”

No, it was something else. Inherent. Built in.

But it was too late in the night for that kind of analysis. And something inside you twisted at the thought of even trying, anyway.

Food finished and truck parked just outside the park, Joel turned to look at you.

“I can drop you closer, y’know. For real.”

“No need, seriously.” You waved him off, already reaching for the door handle.

“Wait,” he said, his hand landing gently on your thigh. “It’s late. I mean it.”

“I live in that building,” you pointed out through the open window, but there were several behind you, and Joel had no clue which one you meant. “It’s not far. What, you wanna move a couple more feet?” You smiled.

“You sure?”

“Of course.”

“All right,” he said, pulling his hand back and watching as you pushed the door open.

Something in him told him to stop you. To say something else. Ask you a question. Anything.

But he didn’t.

He just watched as you stepped out and shut the door behind you.

You leaned in through the open window.

“Thanks for the ride, stranger,” you said, smiling. “And take that however you want.”

Joel let out a breathy laugh, and you turned away, still smiling.

He watched you walk a few steps, and then—

“Wait,” he called, leaning across to the passenger-side window.

You turned around.

“Give me your number.”

You smiled again, like you were actually thinking about it for a second.

“I already have yours, remember?”

Joel frowned, confused.

“3-1-1. Fire department.” You recited it with a little shrug.

Before he could respond, you turned around again and walked away.

For a few seconds, you were still close enough. He could’ve said something. Anything. Stopped you. Called your name.

But he didn’t.

He just watched as you crossed the street and disappeared between the buildings.

And that night, Joel couldn’t stop thinking about you.

The nights that followed, he didn’t either.

divider by @/enchanthings

Lucky for you, a wedding is exactly the kind of bustling event that can keep your mind occupied with other things.

You can't afford to get distracted by work, or by your latest manuscript, which has been giving you a massive headache these past few days. Nor can you dwell on what will become of you after all this is over. The choice between staying in Austin or moving back to New York has haunted you for the last week, and you were just about to sit down and make a pros and cons list.

But you can’t think about that. You shouldn't, really.

Weddings are fun if you know how to make the most of them. Especially if you aren’t the one getting married. The truth is, after spending weeks tagging along with Yov and Santi here and there, listening to all the wedding prep, you actually considered taking an anxiety pill.

Having a planner helps, it helps a lot. But some things just can't be allowed to slip through your fingers. At the end of the day, the bride and groom have the final say, which means things can get incredibly stressful, incredibly fast. But in the end, it will all be worth it.

Austin, October 8, 2026

I wonder if Mr. Darcy will recognize the smell of home right away. I wonder if I’ll realize just how much I’ve missed it these past few months.

I want to see everyone.

Everyone.

"Oh my gosh, you’re finally here!"

Emma crashed right into you, wrapping her arms around your neck before you could even flash a full smile. Her hair smelled like coconut.

"I'm here," you laughed, hugging her back. "I've missed you so much."

"Me too," she squeezed, tight enough to fuse her ribs with yours. Then, resting her hands on your shoulders, she stepped back just an inch. "You smell amazing!"

"I was literally just thinking the same thing about you!"

Emma laughed.

All around you, people streamed in and out of the airport, hauling heavy suitcases and overstuffed bags. It was a gorgeous day; the sky was clear and bright, the air surprisingly crisp. Nearby, a couple was reuniting with a warm embrace and a few perfectly public appropriate kisses. It was a sweet scene, but not enough to pull your eyes away from your friend's face.

The drive home was quick and fun. Inside Emma’s car, it smelled clean and citrusy, and a Lana Del Rey song was going through the speakers. She had picked up two coffees, one for each of you, and you sipped yours while hearing her repeat you can be the boss, daddy, you can be the boss over and over again, wrinkling her nose every time her sunglasses slid down the bridge.

In the back seat, Mr. Darcy was sitting in his crate, remarkably quiet and relaxed. You could already tell he’d turned into a true New Yorker.

"Darcy is gonna be so happy to be home. Here he can climb up onto the kitchen window sill. I'm sure he misses watching people walk by on the street," you said, and the image of the cat pressed against the glass in the warm sunlight flashed through your mind.

"Mhm, that’s true. In New York people probably looked like tiny little ants, didn't they?"

You smiled. "They did."

Emma’s cheeks bunched up into a soft smile, and she glanced over at you for a second.

"Okay, and what did you miss?"

"Now that I’m actually here? I feel like I missed everything. I didn’t really notice it over there." You looked out the window, the rush of air brushing the strands of your hair against your neck. A deep sigh escaped your chest. "Have you heard anything about Francisco?"

You had managed to keep your simmering curiosity under wraps during your entire stay in New York. You hadn’t asked about him when Emma came to visit a few weeks ago, nor had you brought him up to Santi (or anyone) over the phone.

You mastered that control for months, all through the flight to Austin, and during the first twenty minutes after Emma picked you up. But as the landscape grew closer and more familiar, you simply had to ask.

You turned to look at her almost immediately.

"Frankie?" she asked.

You offered a faint smile. "I doubt I know any other."

"Right, who else?" She rolled her eyes playfully. She paused for a few seconds as the traffic light ahead shifted to red, bringing the car to a smooth stop. "He’s doing good. He's here in Austin, actually."

Your stomach did a complete flip. "Already? When did he get back?"

Emma pursed her lips to the side. "Like, a month ago?"

You raised a single eyebrow. "Really?"

She sighed. "He moved back to Austin last month."

"Emma."

"With Luna and Jamie."

You pressed your back against the seat, watching the scenery flash past the window as a hundred different thoughts raced through your mind. Yet, you didn't let yourself dwell on any of them for too long, only managing to say,

"Well, that makes sense."

"It does," Emma agreed.

"And where are they staying? With Helena?"

"At first, yeah, all three of them. I think Luna and Jamie are still there with her, but Frankie already moved out."

"Oh, he didn't go back to his place?"

She shook her head. "No. He actually put his house on the market and found a spot out in Circle Ranch. The guys helped him move in last week."

Okay. Recalculating.

Recalculating…

"Oh. I… That's… nice. Circle Ranch?"

"Yeah," Emma smiled, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. "I never pinned Frankie as the type to go for the whole white-picket-fence and a dog kind of vibe."

"Does he have a dog now?"

"No," she laughed. "But it’s that kind of neighborhood, you know?"

You smiled and turned your gaze back to the window.

"Maybe he got used to the Boston suburbs and wanted something similar," you suggested.

"Maybe."

Whatever the reason behind Frankie's move, you felt good about it. You knew his old house was a bit crowded with painful heavy memories that he probably didn't care to relive. You knew he was completely sick of his next door neighbor too, Clint, who always parked right in front of his driveway and blasted his music way too loud. Or the dog from across the street that constantly wandered into his front yard to do its business on the freshly cut grass.

You were genuinely happy for him.

"C'mon, baby, c'mon out."

As you unlatched the little door to Darcy’s crate, you watched his curious eyes take in the surroundings. His tiny nose twitched upward, his eyes narrowing as he sniffed, instantly recognizing his home.

A second later, he stepped out with confidence, raising his tail high in a friendly greeting.

If you had a tail, you’d be doing the exact same thing, because oh, how incredibly happy you were to be back.

You hadn’t realized just how much you’d missed this place until you walked through the front door. Your living room was completely bathed in sunlight, the half-drawn orange curtains cast a warm glow into every corner, and there was a wonderful scent in the air that you definitely had Emma to thank for; she had been looking after the place, keeping it perfectly neat and tidy.

You grabbed your suitcase and rolled it into your bedroom, where your bed was neatly made and the floors practically gleamed as the sunlight hit your feet.

Unzipping it, you began to gradually unpack your things. Emma walked in just a moment later, holding a mug of freshly brewed tea for you and one for herself in the other hand. She set yours down on the nightstand.

"So, what do you wanna do today?" she asked.

You looked up at her, gently biting your tongue without realizing it.

"Well, first things first, I need to go get my car."

"Want me to drive you?"

You scoffed playfully. "Obviously. Is Will home?"

"He gets back at one."

"Oh, okay. Wanna eat something?"

"Yeah," she said, plop down on the edge of the bed. "I’ll order something, and we can just crash on the couch and watch some TV like the good ol' days, baby."

You smiled, your eyes crinkling. "Yes, please. I have missed doing that with you so much."

Emma hummed. "My butt has missed sitting next to yours, too."

You laughed. "Friends? How does that sound?"

She pointed a finger at you. "Yes! And since we are officially in wedding mode, we have to watch season seven."

"Yes!" You raised your eyebrows. "We should watch Monica and Chandler’s wedding and then Phoebe and Mike's!"

"Yeah," she grinned, her eyebrows knitting together playfully. "And let's get ice cream too. Will can wait!"

A wide smile spread across your face, and your chest swelled with warmth.

You were finally home.

Sometimes, getting involved with your brother’s best friend can be the best decision you ever make in your life. You might end up living together in a beautiful house with two gorgeous babies, getting married in one of the highest rated television episodes of the era. You could be, as the kids say these days, couple goals. The total package. The sarcastic funny guy and the girl with a few control issues who (for somewhat obvious reasons) manage to blend and complement each other perfectly. It can be beautiful and lasting and solid.

And in other cases, it can be downright complicated. Because sometimes, getting involved with your brother’s best friend can be a beautiful dream, right up until you find yourself sitting in front of the TV, watching Chandler and Monica’s wedding, and all you want to do is cry.

But you swallow it down. You suppress it because next to you, Emma is shooting you subtle suspicious glances; she knows you far too well not to realize this might be stirring up things buried deep inside your chest. But more than that, you fight it back because you simply don’t want to feel it. Not deeply. Because you know that very soon, at any given moment, you are going to see him again. You don’t know when or where, but you know it’s going to happen. And so, inside your mind, there is a tiny stopwatch with blurred numbers rapidly counting down the time until your eyes meet his once more.

Even the best couples have weak moments.

"Honestly, Chandler’s panic kind of ruins the whole thing," Emma said, lounging next to you with her head resting on your shoulder. "I hate that he doubts it. It ruins everything."

On the screen, Chandler is caught completely off guard by a phone call that refers to him and Monica as Mr. and Mrs. Bing. He makes a whole show of panicking, wanting to run away.

"It’s normal to be scared sometimes," you said.

"I wouldn’t want my fiancé doubting things like that at our wedding. I mean, it would make me question absolutely everything. I hate that choice the writers made. I feel like it’s not Chandler at all."

"Really?" You smiled. "Not Chandler at all?"

"No, why? You don't think so? C'mon."

"No, no, it's just, I mean," you sat up a little straighter, "I get it, but throughout the entire show Chandler has always had insecurity and commitment issues—"

"But we watched all his progress, and it was a long clear arc."

"Yeah but it’s completely normal that even though he's progressed and everything, he still has weak moments from time to time. Especially when it comes to something as huge as a wedding," you laughed.

"Mmh. I dunno. I don't like it. Would you want Santi doubting marrying Yov right before they do it? Would you want your future husband doubting marrying you right before you walk down the aisle?"

"But Chandler didn't doubt marrying Monica; he just got scared, that’s all. He didn't want to run away because he wasn't sure about her; he just panicked about taking such a huge step and didn't know what to do. He watched his parents' relationship fall apart, then went through the whole divorce and everything else. He has a history of commitment issues and the underlying fear that marriage might ruin the good thing he already has with Monica."

"But he literally talked to her just days before about how happy he was to spend the rest of his life with her. It makes no sense."

"It does make sense, Em," you said, looking at her. "You can't completely erase decades of trauma overnight. I mean, he thought their relationship was over after their very first argument until she had to assure him that’s not how things work. The man had avoidant attachment!"

Emma sighed. "I'm still not buying it, sorry."

"I'm sorry, you're telling me you're not buying it? You? The exact same woman who panicked because her boyfriend wanted to spend more time with her and almost considered breaking up with him over it?"

"Will wanted us to move in together!"

"So? All you had to do was tell him no!"

"And I did tell him no," she said, looking at you with a grin. "And we talked it through. I didn't dump him! It's not the same thing."

"I know it's not the same thing, but still, commitment issues are commitment issues."

"Alright, sweetheart, alright."

"You were on the verge of buying a ticket to Yemen at any second."

Laughing, you gave her arm a playful nudge and turned your attention back to the TV.

Time ticked away, minute by minute, as the sunlight shifted across the floor and walls, brushing against every corner until, almost without realizing it, you rested your head against Emma's and closed your eyes.

"I always fall asleep when I'm with you," you teased, buckling your seatbelt in Emma’s passenger seat. "I dunno what it is about you."

"But you needed it, didn't you?"

She started the car engine just as you flashed a smile.

"Maybe."

When you had finally woken up earlier, your mouth was wide open, drooling a little, while Emma was right beside you snoring deeply and completely fast asleep. In your lap, Mr. Darcy had been curled up like a little ball.

It was nearly two in the afternoon by the time you both decided it was time to go get your car. According to Emma, Will would be at his place, and when you told her to let him know the two of you were headed over, she simply said,

"No need, I know he'll be there."

Her relationship updates hadn't changed much since the last time you asked about them two weeks ago. They were still getting along well, really well, and now she had finally admitted to herself that she was in love.

That was an incredibly huge step for Emma, so neither of you was making a big deal out of it. You knew she was secretly ecstatic inside, and probably a little terrified, but she was handling it well. And Will, for his part, was a pretty laid back guy who gave her all the time and space she needed to feel completely comfortable about it.

It was funny and kind of unfair that, despite knowing them for so many years, it had never once crossed your mind that they would make a good match.

Granted, Emma used to be married, but what about before that? She wasn't even seeing her ex when Will entered the picture seven years ago. In fact, they had crossed paths a handful of times, but neither of them had ever shown the slightest interest in the other; or at least, you hadn't noticed.

How could you have missed it? They were absolutely perfect for each other. Emma was somewhat restless, impatient, driven, and occasionally loud, while Will was steady, relaxed, incredibly patient, and had no problem getting loud himself if the occasion called for it.

You were rooting for them.

"Does Santi know you already here?" Emma asked now, steering through a turn.

"Texted him as soon as I got home. We're having dinner tonight with Mom."

Emma smiled. "I saw her yesterday. She looks great, doesn't she?"

You let out a soft laugh. "So great. She's thriving."

"I guess that's what happens after having an european summer."

"A mediterranean one, mind you."

"Is she gonna be at Yov’s party?"

You pursed your lips. "I dunno. I don't think so. She says she doesn’t feel right about it. Apparently she thinks she’d be a mood killer. Yov wants her there anyway."

"A mood killer? It's not like there're gonna be strippers or anything like that, right?"

You laughed. "No."

"Then what's the issue?"

"I dunno. I think she still feels a little awkward participating in all of this."

"She has to be there! I need her to give us the full breakdown on everything that happened in Europe. I'm sure there were some interesting adventures," she said, raising her eyebrows. "I always knew Nora was a cool girl."

"I'm sure Yov will press her about it tonight," you said, turning toward the window. "And if not, I can always force her."

Emma laughed and nodded, completely on board with it.

It wasn't going to be a wild over-the-top party; it was going to be a small gathering at a gorgeous restaurant downtown, followed by drinks at a bar where Yov's friends had booked a private table in the VIP section. It was going to be fun and intimate, nothing crazy or chaotic. Yov didn't feel comfortable with shirtless guys giving lap dances, and she had specifically asked to just spend the night having a good time with her friends and close family.

To her, there was no such thing as a "farewell to freedom" anyway. What was she saying goodbye to? Being single? Well, obviously. But she didn't see much point in looking at it that way, since having Santi in her life didn't actually restrict her from anything. And after marrying him, it wouldn't restrict her either.

There was this archaic idea that once a person gets married, they abandon their freedom entirely; the freedom to hang out with friends whenever they want, to have total independence, and to be able to do this, that, or the other. But Santi and Yov were not that kind of couple. Marriage didn't demand limitations for them, and it was entirely obvious to you that their dynamic would keep right on going exactly the same way. Both were free to do their own thing, go out with friends, or dedicate time to personal matters. The party was symbolic, more than anything.

I mean, sure, they were saying goodbye to being single, but was that really significant? You were positive those two had said goodbye to that years ago.

For Yov, it would be a quiet fun evening tomorrow night. And for Santi, it would be a cookout in the backyard with the guys and a few other friends, followed by a trip to the bar to get drunk and play pool. It was a pre-wedding celebration, plain and simple.

Will’s house appeared ahead of you sooner than expected, and you suddenly realized the drive had gone by surprisingly faster than you'd even noticed.

Everything had been moving at hyper speed since you landed in Austin. The drive home from the airport, the morning spent with Emma on the couch, and now, the twenty minutes from your place to Will’s had felt like barely ten.

It was funny how time flew when you were desperately trying to hold it back. Not for any particular reason, either.

Emma flung the car door open before you could even unbuckle, and the second her feet hit the pavement, she said,

"I can hear music coming from the backyard. Go on ahead, I need to grab a few things from the car."

"Need a hand?"

In the background, the faint sound of an Alice in Chains song drifted over.

"Nah, I’m good." She moved toward the trunk, waving you off.

"Alright."

You walked down the driveway toward the side of the house, where a wide pathway led to the big backyard, and spotted your car right away, tucked under its protective cover beneath the patio roof and parked behind two other cars.

On a table under a window, a portable stereo was blasting music. Layne’s raspy broken voice screamed out lyrics you couldn't quite catch; your attention was already drawn to the car right in front of you, where Will was lying on a mechanic's creeper, working underneath it.

He didn't hear you come in over the music, and his upper body was completely hidden under the chassis. His legs were slightly bent, and seizing the moment, you crept up and gave his foot a gentle kick.

Thump!

You grinned as his whole body jumped in a mini scare.

The creeper shifted; he grabbed the tire with one hand to pull himself forward, the tiny wheels spinning on the concrete.

And just like that, nine months and twelve days later, your eyes locked once again with Francisco Morales'.

You physically felt your smile drop, as if your cheeks had suddenly turned too heavy, and you took a step back while trying, and failing, to tear your eyes away from him.

Frankie scrambled to a sit on the creeper like a startled kid, and braced his palms on the ground behind him. A stray lock of hair fell across his forehead, the rest of it a bit messy, and a pair of thick black rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose. They weren't enough to hide the scars on his face.

With a quick push, he stood up.

"I'm sorry," you blurted out, suddenly breathless. "I'm so sorry, I thought you were Will."

He gave a quick nod, wiping his hands on his pants, but didn't say a word.

As your heart threatened to burst right through your ribs and your throat went completely dry, you felt a desperate, intense, aching urge to just... hug him. And at the exact same time, to tell him: you have no idea how much I have to tell you.

Instead, you just stared.

Frankie looked exactly as you remembered, yet at the same time, entirely different. His hair was slightly shorter on the sides, with the top left long and a little unruly. He was wearing a white short-sleeve t-shirt, stained here and there, and black cargo pants.

Looking at him like that, he seemed pretty much the same as the last time you'd seen him. But you could spot the difference in everything else; he seemed taller for some reason, and though his shoulders and arms had always been strong, they looked more toned now. His beard was short, neat and soft, his mustache trimmed. The scars were visible, fully healed now but prominent, leaving a clear trace of his accident, and behind his glasses, his big brown eyes looked tired.

You could have sworn you stared at him for minutes, but it was only a few short seconds.

"I," you crossed your arms, "I just came to pick up my car. If that's okay. Is—is Will around?"

It took Frankie a second to process.

"Uh, Will?"

You offered a faint smile. "Yeah."

"Yeah, right. Yeah," he reached up, rubbing the back of his neck. "I mean, no. He stepped out a moment ago. But he should be right back."

"Oh. Okay."

Behind you, the familiar scuff of Emma's footsteps drew closer until she suddenly froze.

You turned around, trying to pack an entire conversation into a single look, hoping she would decode it.

Just as you expected, your friend was dead in her tracks, holding two boxes in her arms and staring at Frankie like she’d just seen a ghost.

She glanced at you a second later, then right back at him.

"Frankie," she said, flashing a casual but not quite casual smile. "I didn't... I didn't know you were here."

Frankie huffed a soft laugh and gave a half smile. "Will'll be back in a minute."

Emma nodded. "Where'd he go?"

"No idea," he shrugged, turning back toward the car. "But he left a while ago, so he should be back any second."

"Oh, alright."

The second you glanced her way, Emma’s eyebrows shot straight up as she mouthed: I’m so sorry.

You gave a casual shrug that completely masked the panic clawing at your insides, letting out a soft sigh as your eyes drifted across the yard. Toward the back, for instance, where a disassembled bike sat abandoned mid-repair.

"I can move this car out of the way so you can get yours out, if you want?" Frankie asked. He was talking to you; it took you a beat to realize it.

You nodded. "Sure. Thanks."

He gave a quick nod and turned toward the car blocking yours. Will’s car. He reached inside the driver’s side to grab something, then slid into the seat, shut the door, and got the engine running on the second try.

"Here, let me help," you said, turning around and grabbing one of the boxes from Emma, desperate for any kind of distraction.

"Oh my God, I am so sorry," she whispered, pushing open the back door to the house. There was no real need to whisper since the roaring engine drowned out anything you two said, but she kept her voice down anyway until you were both safely inside. "I had no idea he'd be here. I mean, I know he hangs out here a lot, but I didn't know he'd be here today of all days."

"It's fine."

"No, I’m so sorry," she insisted, setting her box down on the kitchen counter. "I should have called first."

"No, Em, really," you said, dropping your box next to her. "It's fine. It's totally fine. You know what?" You turned to look at her. "Maybe it’s better this way, right? Unplanned and unexpected." You made a swift ripping motion with your hand. "Like ripping off a band aid. I’ve seen him, he’s seen me, how awkward can it really get? It wasn't even that bad!"

She smiled. "It wasn't?"

"Nope."

"Okay, that's good." She pursed her lips. "So... how are you feeling?"

"Nope. Nope," you said, shaking your head. "Too soon, honey. Not there yet."

Emma let out a soft laugh and pulled you into a tight hug. You took the moment to close your eyes, letting the tension in your chest unravel just a bit.

And outside, after a brief moment, the rumbling engine cut out as a clear sign that your safe haven inside the four walls of Will’s kitchen was officially up. You had to go back out there.

Emma let go of you, clearing her throat before turning toward the door and taking the lead. You gave it a single second before following her out.

The moment you stepped into the yard, your eyes instantly searched for him. Frankie was carefully peeling the protective cover off your car, and your gaze lingered on the back of his neck; on the soft messy strands of hair there, on the soft skin briefly blushed…

A sudden warmth bloomed in your chest.

"I'll get your keys," he called out, disappearing into the house so fast that this time, he was the one who seemed to be running away.

Letting out a sigh, you crossed your arms and walked over to the car Frankie had been working on when you arrived. It was old, you noticed, but not quite as old as yours. This one looked more like a nineties model; glossy black with a leather interior and smooth sleek lines. On the hood, the Mercedes Benz logo caught the light.

"You got yourself a real gem here."

Frankie’s voice made you snap upright. He was standing right behind you, dangling your keys from his fingers.

Emma was still keeping quiet.

"Thanks," you said, offering a small smile.

Frankie extended his hand toward you. Your keys were looped around his index finger; you slid them off, careful not to brush against him.

"I don't actually know much about cars," you added, mostly because the silence felt a little too heavy. "Will helped me with it."

"Yeah, he told me. He and I bought this one together, from the same seller," he said, gesturing toward the Mercedes.

"It's really nice."

"Yeah, though it still needs a bit of work. We’re fixing it up to... you know, sell it or something."

"I like it," you said, nodding. "My dad used to drive something like this when I was little."

His eyebrows shot up, and he replied almost too fast, "He did?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah—uh. It's a great car."

You nervously fiddled with the keys in your hands, dropping your gaze down to his shoes; a pair of black high top Vans.

Beside you, Emma let out a quiet amused sigh.

"I think I should get going," you blurted out, looking over at her only to catch a strange look on her face.

Oh, she was absolutely loving this.

"Yeah, sure," Frankie nodded, stepping aside as if he felt he was blocking your way.

"Can you tell Will I'll drop by later?" Emma asked him.

"Sure."

"Alright."

"Em, you can stay if you want," you told her.

"No, no. I said I'd help you unpack and set things up at your place, didn't I? Let's go," she said, waving you toward the driveway.

Unpacking at your place was a total lie. You were already fully unpacked and the apartment was spotless; she just wanted to be there for you.

"See ya," Emma added, giving Frankie's shoulder a friendly pat before turning around and heading toward the front of the house.

Once she was out of sight, you turned back to him.

"Tell Will I say hi."

He smiled. "I will."

"Thanks," you said, starting to turn toward your car. But you froze and looked back at him one last time.

He stood completely, utterly still.

You had no idea what to say, or why you’d even turned back around in the first place. But the moment you looked at his face and caught that flicker of nervousness in his eyes, you knew he was feeling it too.

"I like your glasses."

Frankie’s lips parted slightly, and a very soft sweet smile crept onto his face.

"Thank you," he replied.

Smiling back and holding in a sigh, you didn't say another word. You turned around, got into your car, and drove away, feeling his eyes on you the entire time.

You wished it had been different. You wished your inevitable reunion with him had happened in a controlled environment, surrounded by crowds of people; like Friday's rehearsal dinner or some pre-weekend get together. But as life had already proven to you time and again, you rarely get what you want exactly how you want it.

Forget everything we said a moment ago. All that talk about how time had been moving at a frantic pace since you stepped off the plane, remember? The walk from the airport to your house, your nice nap with Em, the drive from your door to Will’s… Forget it all. Because suddenly, the world seems to have ground to a near halt.

It's moving, and It's moving fast.

You’re driving, and the blocks around you pass at a crawl. No, how silly; you’re the one moving, not the blocks. You drift down the street while Emma sits beside you in silence, and you know it’s not an illusion because the cars passing you vanish ahead in seconds. And also because, after a few minutes, Emma rested her hand on your shoulder and asked,

"You okay?"

You nodded without a word. Well, maybe a soft "hmm" echoed somewhere in your chest.

"I'm sorry," she said, sounding far too guilty. "I know I already told you but I had no idea he was gonna be there."

You nodded again. "He looks so different."

"Yeah."

"Francisco," you glanced at her for a second, "he looks different, doesn't he? Or is it just because I haven't seen him in so long?"

Emma nodded. "No, I think he does look a bit different."

"I mean, I'm not saying he looks bad, he looks…" You tightened your grip on the steering wheel a little with your thumbs. "Different, healthier. Which is so freaking ironic because his face is covered in scars."

"Right."

"Oh God…"

"Hey," Emma squeezed your shoulder, "it's okay."

"He looks so good," you groaned.

Emma laughed. "It's okay."

You turned to look at her, frowning. "Does he wear glasses now?"

"He does."

"It's like he's doing it on purpose just to mess with me!"

"Look what Grian got for me." When Will walked into the yard, he was holding a six pack of beer and a large sealed plastic bag. "Original seat covers, baby, pure leather," he said, stepping closer to drop them onto the table next to the player.

Frankie was sitting in a chair with his elbows on his knees, and his eyes were fixed on the grass just past the concrete, contemplating his entire existence.

"Hey," Will called out.

Frankie looked up at him.

"Covers and beer," Will said, holding up the six pack.

"That's great. How much for the covers?"

Will frowned, glancing around the yard. The music was off, the creeper wasn't under the Mercedes, and most importantly, your car was gone.

"What happened?" he asked.

"She came to get her car." Frankie pushed himself up from the chair in one quick motion, rubbing the back of his neck. "Her and Emma, who said she’d be by later, by the way."

Will’s eyebrows shot up. "Oh, shit, man. You alright? How that go?"

"Nothing. She just… she just came and went."

"Y'all talk?"

"A little."

"And? What'd y'all talk about?"

"Nothing, really. Just… just her car, and this and that, and nothing else." He swallowed, looking over at the half-repaired Mercedes. "I'm such a fool. I couldn't even act normal."

Will laughed. "What are you talking about? What do you mean?"

"Oh, man," Frankie groaned as he sat back down again, burying his face in both hands and rubbing his eyes. "She looks so beautiful. I felt like I could barely breath."

"Alright," Will crossed his arms, "let it out."

"I mean, look at me," Frankie suddenly pulled his hands away from his face and gestured to his clothes. "I'm a total mess."

"Well, you know, they say girls like that. All covered in grease from work, that whole hot mechanic thing..."

Frankie frowned. "Oh God."

"And with the glasses on and everything, huh?" Will chuckled. "I bet she dug 'em."

Frankie felt his face burn with embarrassment, wishing the ground would just open up and swallow him whole right then and there. He felt like a self-conscious teenager, or at least, his body was reacting like one.

A long time. He’d spent so much time thinking about the next time he’d see you. Late at night when everything was quiet, in the middle of work, while washing dishes or doing laundry. He used to wonder how dramatic it would be, if it would be incredibly awkward or not at all, or if you’d just avoid him altogether. And none of it had been the way he expected.

He knew you hadn't expected to see him either. He'd caught it on your face the second he saw you—as beautiful and sweet as he remembered, but completely caught off guard all the same.

He’d been dying inside with every passing second. The moment you drove away, he felt this overwhelming urge to run right after you; to hold you tight in his arms and cover your face with kisses, to tell you how terribly he’d missed you and that loving you this much was unbearable.

But how completely out of line would that have been, right? When you looked so good, so refreshed, so perfectly fine. Frankie knew he no longer had a place in your life for that kind of confession.

He’d have to be strong. Stronger than he’d ever thought. Because the wedding was drawing close and these weren't gonna be easy days. Between the final preparations, the bachelor parties, the rehearsal dinner, and the ceremony itself, he’d have to find a way to keep his feelings in check and not let a single bit show, since you’d be seeing each other practically around the clock.

He couldn't even let his eyes betray him, because he knew all it took was having you nearby for him to look at you like a fool. Guess that's just what longing does to you.

And Santi knew all about that. He and Yov had talked to Frankie a few days back when the three of them stopped to rest during a long Sunday bike ride. They’d asked how he was doing, how he was prepping for the wedding, and if he was truly alright with all of it; all of this out on the trail, while their calves throbbed and their chests heaved. But the way their voices sounded reminded him of those times the guys used to try and casually check up on his health years ago, trying not to sound too nosy or overly worried.

"You don't need to worry, everything's fine," he’d told them, a bit winded. His neck was flushed and he could feel a bead of sweat dripping down his temple. He wiped it away with the back of his hand and let out a chuckle. "What do you think is gonna happen?"

Santi scratched his chin, pulling a face. "I know, I know it'll be fine. It’s just, y'know, it can get awkward and all, and we wouldn't want either of you having a rough time."

"We'll be fine," Frankie nodded. "Don't worry. We spent years getting along terribly and managing to co-exist or something like it, and nothing happened—"

"No, no," Yov interrupted, shaking his head and holding up a finger, "that wasn't co-existing."

Frankie rolled his eyes, hiding a bitter smile. "Everything's fine on my end. I’ll be respectful, polite, and anything that comes up can wait until after the wedding. You can count on that."

He didn't even know what he meant by that. "Anything that comes up" could mean absolutely anything; an argument, a casual conversation, anything requiring an ounce of extra attention that might pull the focus away from what really mattered.

Anyway, he’d promised himself to keep his distance and not let a single thing throw off the balance this week needed to have…

Until he saw you again, and a flood of emotions washed over him, soaking him to the bone. And right then, Frankie realized that for the past few months, he’d only allowed himself to feel about twenty percent of what he truly felt for you.

He’d convinced himself that he was okay with all of this; that his feelings, while still strong and very much there, weren't so intense anymore that they'd steal his breath away.

What a fucking lie. He loved you just as intensely as before, maybe even more; or maybe it was just the effect of seeing you after all this time.

You were surprised to see him; he’d noticed that. You hadn't expected it at all, and it definitely wasn't what you wanted. But as he looked at you, pretending to be completely unfazed, he felt this overwhelming urge to share every single piece of his life with you.

He wanted to tell you about his new house, about the big windows and how beautifully the light flooded the living room. About the shelves he’d filled with his vinyl records, and the space that was still left to fill.

Oh, and Mr. Bingley was absolutely out of his mind, completely in love with the new yard. Frankie would let him out for a bit, keeping a close eye on him so the cat wouldn't wander off anywhere. He’d discovered the little guy was actually a total scaredy-cat, which would make Frankie anxious enough to bring him right back inside. He wasn't quite sure how to handle it yet; the neighborhood was quiet and not dangerous at all, but letting the cat roam free in the yard still made him nervous. Who knew, maybe he’d hop the fence and end up in the street, or some dog might give him a scare. He wasn't about to take that chance.

He’d wanted to tell you about his new job, too. Frankie was back to training pilots, but no longer at his old academy. His former boss had done him a big favor by recommending him to the owner of a different academy (one that trained specialized pilots) and Frankie was finding it a whole lot more engaging and enjoyable.

Now he wasn't training arrogant rich guys who had too much money and free time on their hands, treating flying like some "easy" hobby with zero responsibilities (not that it was always the case, but... most of the time). Instead, he was training people who genuinely saw flying as a calling.

They were all young, eager to learn, and had a real respect for the profession. Frankie truly enjoyed teaching and had a great time with them; plus, the pay was damn good. It was exactly what he needed right now after draining a huge chunk of his savings. His house was about to sell, he’d already sold his car, and you could say he was pretty close to having everything sorted out.

He was doing alright.

He’d wanted to tell you all of that. For a brief minute, every single piece of news in his life flooded his mind and he wanted to share it with you, but a second later he reminded himself that it wasn't his place anymore.

It made no sense how completely his chest melted whenever he thought about you now.

"What are you gonna do now?" Will asked then, leaning his hip against the table and tilting his head.

Frankie sighed, pulling his hands away from his face.

"What else? Nothing. Act normal, I guess. Like an adult."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing," he got up from his chair and walked over to the Mercedes, opening the driver's side door. "I'm not gonna bother her."

"Ah, I see. The old go-crazy-and-suffer-all-by-your-lonesome routine."

Frankie laughed softly, shaking his head. "I deserve it."

Wednesday, October 9th

You really don't care about Francisco. He barely crosses your mind.

He wasn't on your mind when you woke up this morning, nor when you showered and got ready to open the bookstore. You weren't thinking of him when you brushed blush onto your cheeks, or when you coated your lips in raspberry gloss. And you certainly weren't thinking of him every single time the chimes above the door jingled and you glanced up, checking to see who walked in.

No, you aren't thinking about him at all.

Your morning flew by, peaceful and smooth. It had been a while since you’d spent time at the bookstore, and settling back behind the counter felt incredibly good.

You had missed all of this: helping customers find the exact books they were looking for, listening to their vague, quirky descriptions and the titles they always got completely wrong. You missed the scent of old pages, and the aroma of coffee that drifted through the door every time it opened because at this hour, every café on the block was open and the entire sidewalk smelled of espresso.

It was a quiet, nice morning. A few people dropped in; many left with books, others just browsed for stretches of time, and some simply asked a question before heading out.

In the quiet lulls, you read through the notes Donovan had sent this morning. There were far more than you anticipated, all anchored to comments lining the margins of the document.

In one of them, you read:

His age isn’t clear. He could be anywhere between forty and sixty years old. If I didn't know better, I’d assume he is a man nearing sixty. Keep in mind that the reader doesn’t know what you know, and you cannot gloss over that in the main descriptions. You can weave it into the dialogue or the internal monologue. Your choice. But don't make it obvious.

It wouldn't be so jarring if Donovan didn’t highlight the paragraphs in an intense, vibrant red. Sometimes he used yellow, other times a soft, light blue. If there was an actual system to his color-coding, you had no idea what it was.

At ten o'clock sharp, the chimes above the door rang out once more. Instantly, your eyes snapped toward the entrance, your mind flashing for a fraction of a second with the thought that it might be… him.

But it was Bill who stepped through the door.

Tall and handsome as ever, he wore a crisp smile and his bright prominent green eyes were shining as usual.

The moment you saw him, your eyes widened with joy.

You slipped off your stool to greet him as he walked in, carrying two large brown paper bags and a warm grin.

"Coffee and a slice of cake for my favorite writer!"

Bill set the bags down on the counter and welcomed you with open arms; he smelled of fresh brew and cologne. Your cheek pressed against his warm chest as he held you close for a brief moment.

"You haven't even read anything of mine," you laughed.

His hand brushed up your back. "I don't have to to know it'll be incredible."

"You really have faith in me."

Bill pulled back slightly. "We all do. Julie was thrilled when she found out. She says now she’ll have someone interesting to interview for her school project."

You huffed a laugh and walked back around to the other side of the counter. A customer stepped through the door right at that moment. Good morning, he said. Good morning, you replied. He was an elderly man holding a cane, and he headed straight toward the Hispano-American literature section.

"What are your plans for today?" Bill asked, leaning against the counter. "If you're free, Julie and I would love to have you over for dinner."

"I’d love to," you smiled, "but tonight is Yov’s bachelorette party. And Santi’s bachelorette party, too."

He grinned. "Oh yeah? What d'you have planned?"

"We're grabbing drinks at a bar nearby," you tilted your head. "Yov’s girlfriends made a reservation for dinner too, so, we'll see what happens."

"And Santi?"

"Oh, I dunno. I know they're going out for drinks too, but knowing them, they’ll probably do something else too."

A chuckle caught in his chest. "Will they have to go rescue him from a hotel rooftop in the morning like The Hangover?"

"Mmm," you narrowed your eyes playfully, "I think it'll be more like Into the Wild."

"Campfires and all that, huh."

"Exactly," you nodded. "Knowing them, they'll have a few drinks and then go have fun somewhere out there. Nothing too crazy. Plus, the rest of Yov's family arrives tomorrow so he gotta be fresh."

"Got it," Bill nodded. "And how... how has Austin treated you so far?"

"Austin?"

He tilted his head, a smirk forming on his lips that made you suspect his question had several layers.

"Austin is fine," you answered, lifting your chin. "I barely got here yesterday and my eye is already twitching, how about that?"

It was a joke. Your eyes were not twitching at all. Spiritually, maybe.

Bill laughed and reached out with his left hand, grabbing the side of the brown paper bag he had set down moments ago.

"Better not drink this coffee then. It has two shots."

You burst out laughing and snatched the bag from his hands. "Don't you dare!"

You needed that coffee, and you also needed the slice of cake he had so carefully tucked inside the plastic container. But above all, you needed him to stay right there with you and give you his opinion on a few things.

You pulled the coffee cup out and set it on the counter for a moment.

Bill laughed softly, his eyes dropping to your hand, and that’s when you asked:

"You free this Saturday?"

Later

If New York had taught you anything, it was how to dress and do your makeup.

No. Not New York. Alex.

Alex, like so many other wealthy, fashion forward New Yorkers, was a woman who understood style deeply and knew exactly how to tailor it to different people. That was why she had spent a massive chunk of your stay dragging you from one boutique to another, letting you freely indulge in every single one of her perks at beauty salons across the Upper East Side.

She had been incredibly generous. And while you initially thought it was a favor to you, you soon realized it was actually a treat for her. Letting Alex guide and advise your style was exactly what she craved and thoroughly enjoyed, and even Emma had gotten a little taste of her styling expertise when she came to visit a few weeks back.

You weren’t normally one to blow money on clothes and makeup. Truthfully, you liked the things you already owned, they lasted a long time, and you rarely found anything you loved enough to desperately want to buy. But in New York, your credit card began seeing action it had never seen before. And honestly? You liked it.

Now, your closet in Austin was packed with new dresses, skirts, blouses, and a few pairs of boots and shoes. You had flown back with two massive suitcases stuffed to the brim, packed right alongside the heavy uncertainty of whether you were even going to stay here. When in doubt, bring it all.

Right now, Emma stood in front of your bedroom mirror, half dressed. She was in her bra, a dress pulled up only from the waist down, fussing with her underwear beneath the fabric to make sure there were no visible lines.

Even though she was wearing seamless panties, she was convinced that the glare of the light caught the faint outline of the edges.

"I’m telling you, it doesn’t show," you said from the bed.

You had finished getting ready ages ago and were now lounging with Mr. Darcy resting on your stomach. You wore a form-fitting black skirt paired with a black blouse featuring soft, sheer bell sleeves. The neckline was high, grazing your collarbones, and the entire front was dusted with tiny sparkles that subtly caught the light whenever you moved. Your legs were covered in semi-opaque black tights, finished off with boots that hit just three fingers below the knee.

"You sure? What about like this?" Emma turned to the side, arching her back to check her reflection.

"It’s a thong," you said, lifting a hand. "And it’s completely seamless. For heaven's sake, Em, nothing is showing."

"Alright, alright," she dismissed with a wave of her hand. "You better be right. What time is your mom picking us up?"

"Seven o'clock."

"And what time is it now?"

You picked up your phone from where it lay beside you on the bed and glanced at the screen.

"Quarter to seven."

She let out a sigh of relief, then finally pulled the dress up over her waist and shoulders, slipping her arms through the sleeves and tugging the zipper up along her ribs.

She looked at her reflection and pursed her lips. You smiled.

Emma looked radiant. Not just beautiful, not just happy; radiant. Everything about her carried a glow that reminded you of the old Emma, the one from before the divorce, before everything had gone down.

She had always been a strong woman, and she had always faced life's hurdles as one. Even as she went through the divorce, you had never once seen her hang her head or crumble the way so many others would have. But she had suffered through bad days and rough patches, and during those times, a very specific light inside her had gone dark.

Between the two of you, Emma had always been the one who had life figured out, or at least the one who always knew how to stay on track.

Since you were little, she knew exactly what she wanted to do and how to achieve it; she graduated early, started working immediately, and married Luca shortly after meeting him. Everything in her life had always been neat and effortless, unfolding exactly how you’d expect the life of a model adult to go.

After the divorce, she barely faltered. That was the thing about Emma; some things just never seemed to shake her. Good or bad, she didn't let much get under her skin. Her peace was sacred.

Until Will came along.

At first, you couldn't quite put your finger on it, this thing that made her nervous in a way you had never seen before. When you were in New York and she would call to give you updates, the anxious flutter in her voice was entirely new. You were absolutely certain she hadn't been that jittery even during the week leading up to her wedding.

There was something about all of this that, for the first time in her entire life, was throwing her off balance. And it only took you a moment to realize why: she was truly in love.

Not in love the way she had been with Luca, or with any other ex… no. Truly, deeply in love. The kind of love that makes you feel like a teenager all over again, the kind that keeps him in your thoughts day and night, making you ache for him while simultaneously filling you with absolute peace.

You knew the feeling all too well. Looking at her right now, you recognized it instantly, because not too long ago, you had been in the exact same place. Head over heels.

Emma was in love.

"You look beautiful."

Hearing your voice, Emma caught your eye in the mirror and smiled.

"Thank you. You look beautiful too," she replied, turning around to face you directly.

You offered a warm smile in return, spreading your fingers across Mr. Darcy’s back. You gave his fur a gentle squeeze, and he immediately began to purr.

"So…" Emma walked over to the bed and drifted down beside you, propping herself up on her elbow. A wave of her perfume reached you instantly. "How's everything?"

You smiled. "How's everything? Everything's good."

"Ah…" She reached out and stroked Darcy, who promptly closed his eyes.

"What about you? How's everything with you?"

"Good." Emma sighed. "You talked to him?"

Your hand went still on Darcy’s back. "With whom?"

"Y'know. Francisco. Frankie. Have you talked to him?"

Your lips parted for a split second, your brows knitting together.

"No. Why?"

"Just asking," she said, pursing her lips. "After what happened yesterday, I dunno, I just thought maybe you guys had talked."

"Oh, no. No… you know how it is. If we’d talked, I would’ve told you by now, don't you think?"

Emma huffed a laugh. "True. You better."

"And what happened yesterday? Was he there when you went over to Will’s later?"

"Yeah, but only for a little bit," she said, her hand running over Darcy’s fur almost absentmindedly. "And he didn't say much."

"Hmm."

"It doesn't…" Emma locked her eyes onto yours. "It doesn't bother you that I hang out with him, right? Because if it does, I can totally—"

"Em, no," you interrupted, shaking your head.

"No, I’m serious. I know it can be weird for your best friend to spend time with your ex."

"It’s weird if you phrase it like that," you laughed. "But you aren't hanging out with Frankie. It’s just that he happens to be your boyfriend's best friend. It’s not your fault."

"It really doesn't bother you?"

You raised your eyebrows. "No, it really doesn't."

"I swear, the first few weeks I gave him the absolute cold shoulder."

You laughed. "Really?"

"Yes, I swear! And he barely even came near me because he knew what I was gonna say to him."

"What were you gonna say?"

"That he’s a fool and an idiot, what else?" She laughed. "Though I think he already knew it, because he always watched his step around me."

"Mhm. You two seem to get along well enough now, though, right?"

At your question, Emma’s smile faltered.

You knew she spent time around Frankie now. Here and there, they would cross paths at gatherings or over at Will’s place. She didn't tell you much, but it was always implicit. Every time Emma mentioned she was at a certain place, you already knew Frankie would likely be there too.

"Not really," she replied.

You smiled. "Em."

"What? I’m serious."

"You don't have to hide it from me. I know Francisco can be nice. And I wouldn't expect you to treat him badly just for my sake. That would make things uncomfortable for everyone."

"I don't treat him badly," she said, lifting a hand, "but we aren't friends either, okay? We just… we talk like normal people."

"Sure."

"Ugh," she groaned, tossing herself backward and covering her eyes with both hands. "I’m a terrible friend."

"That’s not true!"

"Of course it is! I have fraternized with the enemy!"

"Alright, stop it," you said, propping yourself up on your elbow. "Can we please drop this?"

"No!"

"We’re adults," you laughed, pulling Emma’s hand away from her face. "And Francisco isn't the enemy, he’s just my ex boyfriend. I have to coexist with him tomorrow, Em, please. Can we just act like this is normal?"

Emma sighed, narrowing her eyes. "Fine. But let’s be clear: I am gonna act like this is totally normal, but on the inside, I'm gonna enjoy every single second of watching you with Bill there—"

"Oh no, that’s not—"

"And when Frankie sees you with Bill?"

You threw your head back. "Bill is just my friend!"

"Your 'friend' whom you invited to your brother's wedding, where your ex, who was always a little jealous of him, happens to be the best man!"

A loud laugh burst from your throat as your face flushed bright red. "It’s not like that!"

"Yes it is! You smart bitch!"

Emma’s hands dug playfully into your stomach, and the tickling shocked another loud laugh out of you. Poor Mr. Darcy; the little cat bolted off the bed at the sudden noisy outburst.

On the inside, you swore to yourself: it really wasn't like that.

Fortunately for you, five minutes later, the horn of your mom’s rental car honked outside your apartment, and Emma immediately bounded off the bed to throw on her heels, utterly unable to tease you any longer.

Hours later, at night.

Sitting at the long table surrounded by Yov’s friends, you felt at ease.

The restaurant was located right in the heart of downtown, and thanks to Cinthia, the maid of honor, they had managed to book a private table out on the terrace.

Beside Yov sat Emma, who had become really close to her over the last few months. The bond between them had blossomed naturally, fueled by all the time they spent together because of the guys. Watching them laugh together, it was hard to believe they hadn't known each other a lifetime.

"And then," one of Yov’s college friends said, gesturing animatedly with her fork, "she completely forgot where she parked the car and we spent two hours walking to our apartment, drunk as hell. And as soon as we got home, guess what? Her car was parked right there!"

The table erupted into laughter, and Yov buried her face in her hands just as her cheeks flushed pink.

Emma leaned in, nudging her playfully.

"To be fair, that happened to us, too," Emma chimed in with a grin, throwing a knowing look your way. "Remember that? My dad was so mad."

"Oh, yeah," you raised your eyebrows, "but we walked all the way home having forgotten your car was parked right outside the club."

Your mom gasped; "What? When was that, and why am I just finding out now?"

You turned to look at her, sitting to your left.

"It was a lifetime ago!" you replied.

She smiled and shook her head. It made you happy to see her here, laughing, enjoying herself, and sharing this moment with all of you, because the truth was, it had been a very long time since that had happened.

Following your father’s death, your mom’s retreat had been almost absolute. She had rarely returned to the city, and she had never stepped foot in the family home again; a house that didn't even belong to you anymore.

Your relationship with her had fractured deeply because of that, leaving Santi as the one who stayed closest to her. It meant years of brief interactions, arguments over the phone, and her constant attempts to reach out to you, which you always pushed away.

Back then, you were younger. You were grieving one of the people you loved most, and you needed her. But she wasn't there, and for the longest time, you resented her for it.

If you were a mother, you would never do that; leaving the city because you were heartbroken over the loss of the love of your life was understandable, but distancing yourself from your two children was not.

And it wasn't that she had completely vanished, either. No, she had always tried to stay in touch with daily calls, constant texts, and video chats every single night. Until you finally said no more, and began to freeze out any kind of contact.

That lasted for two years. Two years where you cut yourself off from her entirely, reducing your only connection to calls once every few weeks and updates passed down through Santi.

It hadn't been easy at first, but she was entirely honest with you. All of this was difficult for her, and it had been incredibly hard years ago as well. But living together in New York after her trip had been surprisingly fun, and something you had missed desperately.

The two of you spent your days walking, exploring, taking in the city, and spending your nights watching movies, shows, and reading together in the living room.

You reconnected, and it felt so good. You had missed your mom so much, and being with her now felt completely right.

Amid the chatter and jokes, two hours flew by as you finished dinner and dessert. Yov was ecstatic; her friends were all gathered in the same room for the first time in years, and on top of that, her mom and yours were having a wonderful time together.

The atmosphere was incredibly warm and the excitement for the wedding grew with every passing minute; you were starting to feel the rush of emotion building up inside you, too.

You couldn't believe it. This was actually happening. Santi was getting married, and not only that, but his future wife was someone you absolutely loved.

Watching her now, as she laughed with your mom and lifted her glass to her lips, you felt a wave of genuine happiness.

What a beautiful family you had. And what a beautiful family they would have in a couple of years. You could picture it perfectly; just like this, but a little different. With a couple of kids, maybe. Santi wanted two; Yov wanted at least two. And you couldn't wait to have nieces and nephews running around everywhere.

She was an incredible woman, and your brother was lucky to have her. And on the flip side, Santi was a wonderful man, too. You were certain he would make an amazing husband and father, and you couldn't wait to see him step into that new chapter of his life.

"What are you thinking about?"

Emma’s soft voice pulled you from your thoughts. Turning toward her, you met her bright eyes framed by long curling lashes. She gently touched your elbow.

"Nothing," you answered, a gentle smile tracing your lips. "I can't believe they're actually getting married. Time moves so fast. Santi is fully a grown man now."

Emma smiled. "He has been for a while, huh."

He had been for a long time. But you had barely noticed the passage of time, preoccupied with growing up right alongside him.

Everything had just moved so quickly. Only a few years ago, the two of you were inseparable, going everywhere together; you glued to his side like velcro, and him completely fine with bringing you along. It had always been you and him, him and you.

Every time he hung out with his friends, he brought you with him. Everywhere you went with Emma, there he was, simply because he was too curious and liked your company.

Spending these past months in New York had been a completely new experience for you, as you had never gone that long without seeing Santi. It had felt strange not having him around or seeing him for such a stretch, and it made you realize just how accustomed you were to his presence.

You didn't know if all siblings were like that. Probably not. But you and Santi definitely were.

"Your mom is having a great time," Emma whispered, leaning close to your ear.

You smiled instantly. "I know. I wish Dad were here to see it."

Emma squeezed your arm with hers. "I'm sure he is."

"You think so?" you asked, looking at her sideways with a small smile.

"Of course I do. I bet he’s even having a glass of wine somewhere right now."

That made you laugh. You could picture it perfectly: your dad tilting his elbow back to finish his glass of wine, just like he always did whenever he was celebrating and happy.

Somewhere out there, he was watching over you all. You liked to believe that.

"Another round, my treat! Our boy's getting hitched!"

A microsecond after Benny finished speaking, the entire bar roared in celebration, raising their glasses and hands.

Fuckin' opportunistic bastards, Santi thought amused. Everyone here wasn’t just happy for him; they were just thrilled to drink on someone else's dime. Julius, CJ, Baz, Carlos, and even Don had already crowded around, slapping him on the back in congratulation.

Santi laughed, ducking his head a bit, suddenly feeling a wave of self-consciousness from all the attention.

"C'mon Fish, live a little," Will said, stretching his arm across the table to thrust a beer bottle toward Frankie, who was sitting at the far corner.

Santi watched him shake his head.

"Ts, I dunno," Fish replied.

"Not even a single drop?" Ben asked, sounding genuinely offended. "C'mon, celebrate with us. The state of Texas allows a zero-point-zero-eight blood alcohol level, which is..." He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, doing the math. "... a drink, a beer!"

Frankie crossed his arms and leaned his head back. "Under what exact circumstances were you researching that?"

Ben scoffed. "You don’t wanna know. But let’s get one thing straight," he added, planting his hand firmly on the table. "I am a responsible driver!"

"Fish," Santi called out, raising his own beer. "We’ll call an Uber. Now celebrate with your friend who's about to tie the knot."

Frankie’s smile turned lopsided, and in that brief moment, Santi noticed how the scar on his cheek stood out just a bit more.

"You guys are a terrible influence. Haven’t you noticed I’m a clean guy now?"

"Oh, c'mon," Will laughed, throwing his head back.

"No, no, it's true," Santi chimed in, nodding. "He really is."

Will raised his eyebrows. "I know he is. What is it, up to one or two cans of beer a day, max?"

"Only if I have to drink. Otherwise, nothin'," Fish said, squaring his shoulders with a hint of pride.

Santi smiled, feeling a pang of pride himself. "I’m proud of you. We all are."

"To Fish!" Benny raised his beer.

Will smiled and imitated his brother. "To Fish."

Frankie scoffed, suddenly shy, and hid his eyes under his glasses.

A second later, Will took a long swig of his beer before slamming the bottle back down on the table.

"Alright, enough with the sappy stuff, you're gonna give me diabetes. If Fish is staying sober, it just means more booze for the rest of us. Call that round already!"

Frankie laughed and looked over at Santi, who held his gaze for a couple of seconds, his eyebrows rising bit by bit.

"Uh?" Santi smirked. "Just one? What do you say?"

A few feet away, Grian was pulling out beer bottles and lining them up on the bar.

Frankie leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table, a wide grin flash of teeth breaking across his face.

"It's my bachelorette night and my best man can't even clink glasses with me!"

"Alright, alright, alright," Frankie raised both hands in surrender. "Just one. But only 'cause it’s your night and a nice cold beer actually sounds real good right now."

Will slapped Fish on the back, giving him a rough but affectionate nudge, a grin splitting his face.

"And just so we're clear, we're still incredibly proud of you."

Santi smiled as he watched them, taking a sip of his beer. As he swallowed, a heavy sensation settled deep in his chest.

He couldn't quite explain this feeling. He was thrilled about his wedding, and even more so about what it meant for his life with Yov. Yet his smiles felt forced, slipping away the moment none of his friends were looking.

Will was ecstatic, Benny was right there with him (and a bit tipsy), and Fish had just tipped a bottle to his lips, taking a long swig as the corners of his mouth turned upward into a grin. And in that exact moment, the only thing Santi could think about was… someone else.

Terrified that someone might notice the sudden glossiness in his eyes, he pressed the beer to his mouth and finished it in one long gulp.

"Alright, where’s that next round, huh?" he said, bringing the empty bottle down hard on the table. "I’m getting thirsty."

Fish smirked slightly, his gaze drifting over Santi’s face. "You alright?"

Santi let out a huff. "As always."

People always say you shouldn't drink on an empty stomach.

Well, you all took that advice to heart.

Following a delicious dinner and a suggestively named dessert specially crafted for the bride and her guests, the group piled out onto the street, where a stretch limousine was already idling by the curb.

Yov burst out laughing. "Fio, what on earth is this?"

Fiona, one of her best friends, gestured grandly toward the massive car before pulling a white sash out of her bag that read Future Mrs. Garcia in bold lettering.

"What does it look like?" she laughed, stepping closer to loop the sash over Yov’s shoulder. "Nothing but the best for our beautiful bride; you only get married once!"

Emma chuckled. "According to whom?"

"I've been married twice," Cinthia chimed in, raising both hands.

"Well, they do say third time’s a charm," Fiona shot back, clapping a hand over her mouth the exact second the words slipped out.

The sound of your mom’s laughter made you snap your head to the right, and you watched her laugh with flushed cheeks as she walked over to Yov and gently took her by the arm; She was already a bit tipsy. She had finished two glasses of wine during dinner and you knew that was always enough to make your mom giggly, and you loved seeing it.

She was having a wonderful time, just like everyone else.

Fortunately, Fiona’s slip of the tongue was swept away by a wave of giggles as the limousine doors swung open, inviting you into leather seats and neon lighting.

One by one, each one of you piled inside, heels clicking against the pavement before sinking into the comfort of the interior. ABBA was already pulsing through the speakers and a chilled bottle of champagne was waiting in the ice bucket.

Your mom took a seat near Yov, still giggly, while Emma slid in right next to you; her eyes were sparkling as she smoothed down her dress and smiled at you. Cinthia, in front of you, immediately took charge of pouring the drinks, handing out flutes of bubbling champagne as the city lights outside melted into streaks against the tinted windows.

It was a short drive, but when the limousine finally pulled up to the curb, the venue took your breath away.

It wasn't a huge chaotic nightclub, but a really nice luxurious place. Nestled behind a discreet entrance, the lounge exuded… quiet. The lighting was low and calm, casting shadows over velvet booths, dark walnut accents, and a big glowing marble bar that stretched across the main room. Your first thought was oh, this is expensive.

But Cinthia took charge of that. Of everything, really. She had a wildly successful career in PR, and before you had even made it to the restaurant, she had casually mentioned how she always managed to get exactly what she wanted. It was a natural born talent. The restaurant, the limo, the lounge, and even the expensive bottles of champagne waiting for them were all the masterwork of her and Fiona.

A hostess in a tailored suit checked the name and guided your group past the main floor toward a raised, private tier.

"Right this way, ladies. Your table is ready in the VIP lounge," she murmured.

The private area overlooked the rest of the venue, enclosed by elegant brass railings and draped in heavy emerald green curtains. It was the perfect vantage point.

"You really outdid yourself," Yov breathed, taking in the crystal glasses and the dedicated server already waiting for them.

Cinthia just offered a knowing smirk, sinking into the velvet cushions. "Only the best for the bride. Now, what are we drinking?"

Emma squeezed your arm. "Oh my God, no! No! I'm gonna pee myself!"

"Oh no!" your mom shrieked.

You wanted to answer (you really, truly did) but the words wouldn't come because you couldn't even breathe. Your stomach ached from laughing so hard, and Emma wasn't helping; she was standing right in front of you with her legs tightly crossed, this ridiculous, hilarious wheeze escaping her chest.

"Emma, no, go, go!" Cinthia ordered, shooing her away with a wave of her hand. Beside her, Kat, another one of Yov's friends, looked intensely focused, squinting into near blindness as she tried to wipe her glasses with a cloth.

"C'mon, I'll take you," you managed to choke out between giggles, pushing yourself up from your seat and nudging Emma toward the hallway.

"You need me to come with you, sweetie?" your mom asked.

You turned back to look at her and your grin widened; she had a straw clamped between her lips, her eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Nah, we're good, we'll be right back."

Oh God, your stomach literally hurt from laughing. You couldn't even remember what the first joke was, or whatever it was that had triggered this chain reaction of non stop laughter, but it had been at least ten minutes of tossing one-liners back and forth.

Surprisingly, your mom wasn't helping the situation at all; she was on a roll tonight, spilling anecdotes about Santi; embarrassing stories that would have absolutely mortified him if he were here to listen.

And like any good younger sister, you found them hilarious and were laughing your head off.

"Ask him about the time he tried to impress a girl in middle school by doing a backflip off the diving board," she said minutes ago. "He ended up doing a full horizontal belly flop. The smack was so loud the lifeguard thought a firecracker went off! He had a bright red stomach for a week, my poor boy!"

Yov buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving as she let out a loud, snorting laugh.

"I am calling off the wedding," she wheezed, shaking her head.

"No!" your mom shot back, entirely unbothered, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I have the photo album to prove it. I'll pass it under the table right before you say 'I do'."

"Oh yeah! I've seen those photos!"

Picture this. A fourteen year old Santi with slightly long curls and naturally flushed cheeks. And underneath his t-shirt, a bright red stomach bruised from a wipeout that made you laugh your head off back then, but also curse on his behalf. It wouldn’t have been so embarrassing if it hadn't been summer, and if he hadn't done it right in front of every single kid at the pool. The poor guy wore a shirt for an entire week after that, even to get into the water.

It was a simple kind of silly anecdote, but the way your mom told it was hilarious, and it was followed by so many more that your brother’s ears would definitely be burning somewhere right now.

Emma let go of your arm the second you entered the restroom and rushed straight into a stall.

"Your mom is so funny," her voice echoed. "I missed her. Poor Yov!"

Looking in the mirror, you ran your index finger under your eyelashes to fix the mascara that had smudged a bit.

"I know, but she’s one of us now. She has been for a while."

"I love her, I love her—ouch!"

"What's wrong?" you tilted your head to the side.

"Nothing, nothing, I just twisted my stu-pid foot!"

Laughing, you furrowed your brow. "What are you even doing in there?"

Emma let out a low chuckle. "Nothing. These toilets are too damn low."

"Alright. Just be careful in there." You looked down at your purse and opened it to grab your lip gloss, but the glowing screen of your phone caught your attention instead.

Ten missed calls and many… many messages. All from Will. And you would have heard them if you hadn't put your phone on vibrate mode just to enjoy the night better.

Plse answt, one of the messages read.

wwe can't fondsanti

Your heart started beating incredibly fast as you unlocked the phone, your hands turning freezing cold.

You heard the sound of Emma’s toilet flushing just as you pressed call on Will.

"Oh God, much better," she said as she stepped out of the stall, but you couldn't do anything except listen in silence. Emma watched you bring the phone to your ear. "What happened?"

"I don't know," you shrugged both shoulders.

The phone rang once, twice, three times—

"Hey."

"Hey, Will, what happened? I just checked my phone—"

"Santi’s gone."

Oh God, he was slurring his words.

"What you mean he's gone? Gone from where? Isn't he with you?"

Emma’s eyes widened. "Is that Will?"

You nodded and put it on speaker.

"—in the restroom, but Ben went to look for him and he wasn't there, and he's nowhere to be found and—"

"Where are you right now?"

"Here."

"Here where?"

"Will, honey, can you hear me? Where are you guys?" Emma asked.

"In the restroom—at the bar, in the bar restroom."

Your heart jumped into your throat. "And where's Santi?"

"I-I I dunno, he left, or I dunno, he's not here—"

You closed your eyes in frustration. "Listen, is there anyone else there I can talk to?"

"Yeah wait."

On the other end, you could hear music, voices, and a thud that sounded like a door slamming shut. Will muttered a shit, and two seconds later:

"Yeah?"

Francisco.

"Hey, what happened?" you asked, rubbing your hand across your forehead. "Where's Santi?"

"Uh… we… we don't know where he is. We were just hanging out here and he said he had to go to the restroom." Okay, he wasn't slurring his words. "And then after a bit, we realized it had been a really long time, and when Ben went to check, he wasn't in the restroom, or in the bar. He's not here, he left."

"But how? How could he have left without you guys noticing?"

Emma watched you in silence, her eyes wide.

"I dunno, I'm sorry. He must've slipped out through the other side of the bar."

"Shit, Frankie, are you being serious?"

"I'm sorry, we're gonna go look for him right now—"

"Will is drunk, and I assume Benny is too, you aren't gonna get very far," you sighed. "How was Santi acting before he disappeared?"

"A bit wasted too. He started talking about trees and houses, and said Yov was gonna be mad at him."

Emma gasped in shock. Your heart completely skipped a beat.

"Alright, where exactly are you guys right now?" you asked.

"At The Crow. We were planning to head over to Met Park later."

"Okay. Listen to me, stay put, yeah? I'm coming right now. Please don't call anyone else. Have you talked to anyone else?"

You heard Frankie pull the phone away from his ear.

"Did you talk to anyone else? No? You Ben? Alright…" his voice sounded muffled before coming back clear. "No, they haven't talked to anyone else. Neither have I."

"Good. I'm not far, okay?"

"Okay."

Without answering, and before he could say anything else, you cut the call, your hands freezing cold.

"What are we gonna do?" Emma asked. "You don't think he got cold feet about the wedding, right?"

"No, no," you shook your head, though you weren't entirely sure. "No way. Santi would never do that."

Emma rubbed her cheek. "I'm calling an Uber right now. What are you gonna tell the girls?"

"Nothing. They don't need to know. I'll just text mom telling her we're heading home for some silly reason, and that's it."

Your fingers flew across the screen, typing out some absurd excuse. Hey, Em broke her shoe, we're running home real quick to change and we'll be right back, don't worry, we already called the Uber.

You hit send and prayed that your mom's maternal instinct wouldn't kick in tonight of all nights.

You were going to kill Santiago.

If you bit your nails any shorter, you were going to be left with none. And it felt like this damn Uber driver was practically crawling.

"There they are!" Emma said the second you pulled up to the block where the bar was.

Will, Ben, and Frankie were waiting outside on the sidewalk, the three of them looking like scared kids waiting for their moms to pick them up from kindergarten.

You mumbled a quick thank you to the driver and got out as fast as you could, while Emma scrambled out from the other side a bit more clumsily.

Will put both hands on his head as soon as he saw her. "Emmy!"

"Look at you! Grown men!" she snapped, a little tipsy herself. "How could you lose your friend?"

Shaking your head, you looked over at Benny, who was crouching down and looking like he was about to throw up, before shifting your gaze to Frankie; the only sober one, apparently.

He wasn't drunk, but he looked just as panicked. His hair was a bit messy, and he was looking at you with a strange expression.

"What happened?" you asked, crossing your arms as you stepped up to him. "Have you tried calling him?"

Frankie’s eyes flickered across your face. "He left his phone. I have it right here."

"Oh God."

"Don't worry, we're gonna find him," he nodded. "He couldn't have gone very far."

"How? Look at them," you gestured toward Will and Benny. "They're wasted!"

Frankie took another step closer to you. "But I'm not. I've only had a few sips. My car is right across the street."

"Francisco. You're the best man, you were supposed to look out for him," you frowned, a sudden wave of anger hitting you. "How on earth did you let him slip away?"

He frowned back. "How was I supposed to imagine he’d just take off like that? It's Santi we're talking about."

"Yeah, exactly!"

"Alright, alright," Emma stepped in, raising a hand. "Stop wasting time talking and do something, okay? He could be anywhere! Frankie, can you drive?"

He nodded. "Of course."

"Zero point zero eight!" Ben yelled.

"Okay. You go with him and search everywhere," she told you, gesturing with her chin, "and I'll take these two drunks back to Will's place."

No, you thought. And your stomach did such a massive flip you almost gasped. But on the outside, you just nodded.

"Alright," you said, catching sight of Frankie moving beside you out of the corner of your eye. "I'll keep texting you. Tell Grian to keep an eye out in case Santi comes back here, and to hold onto him."

"Will do."

You took a step backward and your back collided with something—No, with him.

As you lost your balance, his hands instantly caught your shoulders. He was right behind you.

"Sorry."

"It's fine," he murmured over your shoulder, his hands releasing you immediately. "Let's go."

He started walking toward the curb, stopping right there to wait for you.

Before moving, you looked at Emma with your eyes wide open, only to catch the mischievous glint in her gaze as she pressed her lips together, trying not to smirk.

Bitch.

Well, this felt familiar.

As you crossed the street, you turned back for a moment and saw your best friend on the other side, while you awkwardly approached your brother’s friend’s car. It was a familiar scene, wasn't it?

Unlike that first time in Dallas, Frankie held the door open for you. A gentlemanly gesture that caught you off guard. First, because you didn't recognize the car. It was a different one. Black or dark blue, you couldn't quite tell the color in the darkness of the night. It wasn't any of the cars you had seen at Will’s house, and this one was newer. And second, because it would have been easier for both of you to have just skipped the gesture entirely.

"Thanks." You settled into the leather seat, and he shut the door softly beside you.

During the brief seconds it took him to walk around to the driver's side and get in, you let out a deep sigh. Your eyes scanned the black dashboard and then moved up to the rearview mirror, where a small silver cat keychain and a green pine tree hung, filling the space with the scent of vanilla.

Frankie stepped inside like a gust of air and slammed the door shut.

Alright. Chill. This doesn't have to be weird.

"Where to?" he asked.

You pressed your knees tightly together. "Let's just drive around the block first."

Without a word, he started the engine and pulled the car out of its parking spot, maneuvering smoothly as he kept a cautious eye on the street, while you locked your eyes on him the exact same way.

"Uh," you cleared your throat and looked straight ahead, "he couldn't have gone very far."

"He must be around here somewhere."

"You think he called a cab or something?"

"I have his phone."

"Right," you pursed your lips. "Of course."

You clasped your hands in your lap and laced your fingers together, feeling your palms grow sweaty as you stared out the window, holding back a sigh.

It smelled way too much like him in here. Like his cologne, the fabric softener on his clothes—like him, because he was sitting right next to you, and that made sense, didn't it?

Your heart was beating so fast.

"He seemed a little down today," he noted.

You turned to look at him. "What do you mean?"

"You know, earlier," he looked back at you, holding your gaze for a couple of seconds before turning his eyes back to the street. "I figured he was just nervous about the wedding, so I didn't want to press him with questions."

"You think that could be it? You think he got scared?"

He shook his head. "No, no way. Santi isn't like that."

"I know he's not. But I dunno, it could be possible."

Through the window, the sidewalks and streets passed by with no sign of him.

"What did he mean when he said Yov was gonna be mad?"

Frankie pursed his lips and turned the corner. "I don't know, he wasn't making much sense. He started talking about trees, about how long they live and how big they can grow, and how it had been a really long time since he last visited the park. I asked him about it, but he said nothing. Then he said Yov was gonna be mad if she found out about the house. When I asked him what he meant, he just said it was stupid."

"I can't think of anything," you sighed, rubbing your hand over your neck in frustration. "It doesn't make any sense. Did something happen with his house? What on earth was he talking about?"

"He's drunk, I don't think much of what he said was supposed to make sense."

"But Santi isn't like that, you know him," you looked at him. "When has he ever said something he didn't mean?"

He sighed. "Never, I guess. Maybe tonight he was just in the mood to talk about live oaks."

You froze, watching Frankie’s profile as he looked straight ahead and scanned the sidewalk on his side while driving at a relaxed pace.

"Live oaks?"

"Yeah," he affirmed, looking over at you. "I didn't know he was that into trees."

Oh.

OH.

Your hand shot out to grab his shoulder. "I think I know where he is."

"What?"

"Turn around right here," you pointed with your hand, "now. I know where he is!"

Frankie accelerated to the corner and made a sharp left. "Where? Tell me."

"I'm not completely certain, but I'm almost positive," you brushed a strand of hair out of your face.

He chuckled. "Are you gonna tell me where or not?"

"Osbourne Park."

"Why?"

"When we were kids, we had this eco-week in school and they sent us to plant trees. Santi and I planted a live oak with Dad. We went there a lot after he passed away, and I am—Jesus, I'm almost positive he has to be there. Did he say anything about my dad tonight?"

"Yeah," he raised his eyebrows, "yeah, he did."

A relieved sigh escaped your throat and instantly, the car surged forward as he pressed on the gas.

"Take the next right. It'll get us to the ramp faster," you said, leaning forward in your seat, your fingers tightly gripping the edge of the dashboard.

Without a word, he shifted gears and veered right. The streetlights flashed across his face, throwing shadows over his jawline and making his messy hair look even wilder.

Not the time to be looking at him like this!

"He's gonna be fine," he said quietly, grounding anchor against the worry rising in your chest. "If he’s at the park, he’s just clearing his head. He wouldn't do anything stupid."

"I know, I just hope he's there. Otherwise, I don't know," you murmured, staring out at the blurred shapes of buildings. "I don't have any other idea."

Frankie glanced at you, his expression softening before he turned his focus back to the road. "Easy. He's gonna be okay. And if he's not there, we can keep looking around."

Your heart did another strange, complicated flutter that had nothing to do with Santi. You swallowed hard and kept your eyes glued to the windshield.

The car flew past the exit signs, Frankie maneuvering through the light night traffic. He kept his foot steady on the accelerator, making the drive feel much shorter than it actually was. And within short minutes, the neon signs of the downtown bars faded away, replaced by the dark, towering silhouettes of the trees surrounding Osbourne Park.

He took the final turn into the park's entrance; the headlights cut through the heavy darkness of the empty parking lot, sweeping over the grass.

You popped the door open and scrambled out of the car as the heavy darkness of the park was broken only by the scattered park lights cutting through the night, and hovered by the car for two seconds, waiting as Frankie got out from his side and shut his door with a thud.

The moment you saw he was ready, you started moving into the park, your eyes darting everywhere, scanning every shadow. Then, you locked your gaze just to the right, past the paved, illuminated path that led toward the thicker wooded area where the tallest trees stood, and among them, the live oak.

Your pace quickened. As you got closer, cutting through the deep shadows, you managed to make out a familiar shape.

"There he is," you said, drown in anger and relief.

You broke into a fast walk, nearly a jog, while your heart hammered against your ribs as you felt Frankie’s footsteps keeping close right behind you.

As you got closer, you could make him out better. Santi wasn't on the grass; he was sitting on a park bench right in front of the little green space where the tree stood tall and still young among others.

Your footsteps naturally lost their urgency, your pace tapering off as you approached him from behind. He was half hunched over, elbows resting on his knees with his head hanging down. His curls caught the bright glare of the overhead LED light, making them glint in the dark.

You stopped. "Santi?"

He jumped a little at the sound of your voice, straightened up at a relaxed pace, and turned his head just enough to look at you, his eyes unfocused.

"Bub? What are you doing here?"

His voice sounded completely congested and undeniably drunk.

"Frank," Santi smiled, "what are you two doing here?"

You let out a tired sigh and stepped closer to him. "I could ask you the same thing, couldn't I? What are you doing here?"

Up close, he looked like a little kid. You could see his glassy, tear filled eyes, the soft curls falling over his forehead, and the utterly defeated look that took over every single feature of his face as he stared at you in pain.

Santi hung his head again.

"I'm sorry. It's just..." He swallowed hard. "I need time."

His voice was so low you had to furrow your brow. "What?"

He shook his head.

Confused, you glanced over at Frankie, who was keeping a short distance back. He was absolutely quiet.

"Our house is for sale," Santi said. "Our house."

You shifted to his side and sat down right next to him. Tilting your head to see him better, your chest tightened.

"Our house?"

"Our house," he looked at you, and right then, it clicked.

Santi wasn't talking about his house. He was talking about your childhood home.

"I drove past it the other day. I always do. It’s on my way to work, or… not really, I'm lying. I just like driving past it, I guess," he continued. "You remember the family that bought it? With those three little kids?"

"Yeah."

"They don't live there anymore. It's empty now, and there's this big sign outside with a realtor's face on it," he let out a humorless laugh.

You forced a smile even though your cheeks felt heavy, and you reached your hand out to his arm.

Instantly, Santi placed his hand over yours.

"I want it back, bub," his voice cracked. "It’s our house. How could we just let it belong to someone else?"

"You know how things were back then. It wasn't easy for mom—"

"Dad lived there. We grew up there. And she… she just got rid of it because it hurt? What about us? What about you, what about me?" he spat out painfully, the words hitting you straight in the chest.

You swallowed hard. "I know."

Santi’s face contorted with agony, and a sob broke through his lips. And as if he were terrified of you seeing him like this, he covered his face, burying his head in his hands, trying to hide in the shadow of his own body.

"Santi," was all you could manage to say as you threw your arm around his back, resting your head against his shoulder while thick tears began to pool in your eyes.

He let out a ragged breath and abruptly straightened up, making you shift away from him.

"I made an offer," he said.

"For the house?"

He nodded, looking at you with pure fear in his eyes. "I did. And Yov doesn't know."

"How… how? With what money—I'm sorry, but—"

"Our savings, and I'm planning to take out a loan—"

"Santi, wait," you shook your head gently, "you have to talk to her before you do anything like this."

"I know."

"Why didn't you tell her?"

"I don't know," he shook his head, in pain. "She loves our current house. If she found out I wanted to sell it—I don't wanna disappoint her." A gasp broke through his words. "I'm gonna be a husband."

You smiled involuntarily at the realization. "Yeah, you will."

Santi sat completely still, barely moving, his eyes bloodshot as he stared down at his own hands, his body swaying in an almost imperceptible rhythm.

"I'm gonna be a husband," he repeated, barely a scared whisper. "And a dad, someday."

"I am absolutely certain you'll be a great husband and dad."

His head snapped toward you, his eyes instantly flooding with glassy tears.

"You will," you reaffirmed, squeezing his hand. "I know you will."

He nodded at a very quiet, subdued pace. "I need him, bub."

A beat.

You nodded. "I know. I need him too."

"How can I ever be like him? How can I ask him what to do or how to do it if he's not here? He should be here," his words took on an angry edge right at the end. "On my wedding day."

"I honestly don't know," you murmured, your voice catching as you squeezed his hand tighter. "I ask myself the exact same thing every single day. But I know I have you, and you have me. And you can always, absolutely always count on me, for whatever, whenever. And I'm sure he's so proud of you."

Santi offered a faint, fleeting smile, his eyes searching yours. "I'm gonna miss you when you leave again. Nothing is the same without you sticking your nose into all of my business."

You let out a soft laugh, blinking back a new wave of tears. "You're gonna be way too busy starting your own family. You'll barely even notice I'm gone."

His smile faltered, a deep, raw sadness washing over his features. "How could you say something like that? You're part of my family too. I've missed you so much these past few months, you know that? First Mom, and then you," he said, his voice cracking slightly as a weak smile returned to his face. "Why is everyone so obsessed with leaving this place, huh?"

He turned his head around, his gaze shifting toward Frankie, who was still standing a short distance behind you both, keeping his respectful space.

Frankie offered a quiet smile, his eyes on Santi. "Hey, I came back, didn't I?"

Santi let out a weak laugh. "Yeah, you did."

Then, he turned back around to face the dark park, letting out a long, exhausted sigh. He hung his head, dragging both of his hands over his face and up through his tangled curls, holding them there for a second.

When he finally lifted his eyes, he locked his gaze onto the live oak tree, staring at it in total silence for a long moment, as if soaking in the memory of your dad one last time tonight.

Finally, he spoke, his voice completely drained. "I wanna go to sleep."

You nodded silently, the lump in your throat making it impossible to speak.

"Alright, let's go," you whispered.

Carefully, you pushed yourself up from the bench and reached out, pulling on his arm to help him stand. His weight shifted unsteadily, but right at that moment, Frankie was there. He stepped in instantly, his strong grip catching Santi by the arm, anchoring him and helping him keep his balance on his shaky, alcohol heavy legs.

In complete silence, the three of you made your way back across the grass toward the car. The only sound was the rustle of the night breeze through the leaves and the quiet scuff of your shoes. And when you reached the vehicle, you quickly pulled the back door open as Frankie guided Santi inside, carefully maneuvering him so he could settle into the backseat.

The second his head hit the leather, it was over. In less than two seconds, Santiago was completely out, his eyes shut tight as his breathing immediately slowed into a deep sleep.

Frankie drove in silence down the side street by the park, careful with every bump and easing through the road so the car’s movement wouldn't wake Santi. In the backseat, he was completely twisted and bent out of shape, yet fast asleep.

Less than a minute passed after you left the park area behind before a sigh finally escaped your throat.

Your phone lay in your lap, its screen dark ever since you read Emma’s last message a few moments ago. She was already at Will’s place with the guys, and apparently, Benny had crashed on the couch the second they walked through the door.

Frankie pulled up to a red light.

"You can take us to my place if you want, I’ll stay with him," you said, not looking at him.

He clicked his tongue. "Nah, it's fine. I’ve got him. Yov’s party is still going, you shouldn't miss it. I’ll take him to Will’s and crash with the guys. You and Emma can head out."

"You sure?"

"Yeah," he turned to look at you, "gotta fulfill my duties as bestman."

A helpless smile slowly formed on your lips as you looked at him, and his own lips mirrored the gesture a second later. His eyes held yours like a magnet, and your stupid heart skipped a beat again.

"So, uh, New York," he tossed out, breaking eye contact as he looked back at the road. "What did you think?"

You lowered your head, fixing your gaze on your hands in your lap.

"It's nice. It's a great city," you looked back at him, but his eyes were still fixed ahead. "And I… I’ve been writing a lot."

Frankie glanced at you again. "Yeah?"

You nodded, unable to stop yourself from smiling like an idiot.

"Yeah. A book, actually."

"That's amazing," he smiled, "what's it about?"

"Uh, well, it's kind of a love story. It's mostly about Miles, and his relationship with Alya. They meet one night at a restaurant and lose touch for a year until they cross paths again, but Miles is this guy with a huge amount of baggage and things to work through," you waved your hands, showing just how huge Miles's problems really were. "And it's… it's a complicated story."

Frankie gave a half-smile, nodding slowly. "Does it have a happy ending?"

You pursed your lips and tilted your head. "I'm not telling you."

"Why? C'mon."

The traffic light turned yellow, and two seconds later, green.

"It has a happy ending, doesn't it?" he pressed, his eyes drifting back to the road as the car started moving again.

You huffed. "You really want me to spoil it for you?"

"Depends. How long do I have to wait to read it?"

"I haven't even finished writing it yet, so probably a while."

Frankie let out a soft laugh. "Alright. I'll wait."

Or maybe you could show him a few pages, you thought. Just a few, just to get his opinion.

It was just a thought. You didn't even know why you were so desperate to show him all of it.

"Emma told me you moved to a new place?" you said, your fingers fidgeting in your lap.

He nodded. "Yeah. Over at Circle Ranch."

"Yeah? It's a nice area."

"It is, it really is," he glanced at you for a split second. "Bingley likes it."

You smiled. "Really?"

"Yeah. We have a big backyard now, lots of grass and a few trees. He loves it, but it freaks me out a little, y'know," he shook his head with a smile. "The other day he climbed up one of the trees and I spent half an hour trying to get him down."

"He probably would've come down on his own. Cats really like being up in high places."

"I know. But what if a dog gets him or something?"

You tilted your head. "Are there any dogs nearby? I mean, from your neighbors or...?"

He shook his head. "Not really."

"Then?"

Frankie laughed. "I don't know. I guess I just don't want anything happening to him."

"Mhm. Cats are really smart. Bingley is really smart," you assured him. "And if your yard is safe, you shouldn't worry too much as long as he stays inside it. Just make sure he doesn't escape."

"Yeah, I bought him a collar with a tracker."

You laughed softly. "That's cool. I should get Darcy one of those. You really are a protective cat dad, uh."

"Well, obviously," he smiled, keeping his eyes on the road. "He’s my roommate. If he goes missing, I gotta do my own dishes."

"Fair point," you smiled, looking out the window for a moment. "I'm glad Bingley is enjoying his new backyard. Sounds like he has his own little kingdom now."

"He definitely thinks he owns the place," Frankie chuckled, slowing down as you approached a quiet intersection. The playful tone in his voice softened, turning into something softer as he glanced over at you. "What about you? Are you staying at your apartment?"

"Yeah. It feels good to be back home. Even Darcy is enjoying it."

Frankie nodded, keeping his hands steady on the wheel. He went quiet for a moment as the car moved down the dark street.

Then, his voice dropped. "So... Uh, are you, are you going back to New York?"

A sudden hollow feeling carved itself deep into your chest. You bit the inside of your cheek, looking away out the passenger window as the city lights blurred past. In your lap, you tightly laced your fingers together, squeezing your hands to ground yourself.

"I guess. I don't know yet."

You turned your head back to look at him just as the car approached another intersection. The traffic light flicked to a glowing red.

Frankie came to a stop and turned his head.

In the sudden stillness of the car, bathed in the soft crimson glow of the light, his eyes met yours. There was no teasing left in them, no easy deflection; just a brief searching intensity that seemed to pull the air right out of your lungs for a second.

He looked at you as if he were trying to read between the lines of your hesitation, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before locking back onto yours. "You like it there?"

Your heart squeezed.

Yes, you thought, but it doesn't feel like home.

Instead of saying it out loud, you looked away, answering softly, "I guess I do."

You turned your eyes back to him. Frankie was still looking at you, wearing a small encouraging smile. But you couldn't mirror it. There was something heavy sitting deep in your chest that anchored your lips in place.

Frankie noticed. "When Harry met Sally, uh?"

That pulled a small laugh from you. You shook your head.

Seeing your reaction, Frankie shook his head too, a chuckle escaping him as he quickly backpedaled. "No, no. They met in Chicago. Forget I said that."

You leaned your elbow against the car door, resting your face in your hand as you turned to look out the passenger window. The lingering smile stayed on your lips for a few seconds as the car moved forward, but it slowly began to fade, melting away into the quiet streets.

Beside you, Frankie just drove. He didn't push for more conversation or try to fill the space with words. He simply let the silence settle between you, steering through the night as the landscape outside started to blur into something increasingly familiar.

Will’s house wasn't far now. Just a few more blocks, a couple of turns, and this ride would be over.

And right then, a sudden ache hit you: you didn't want it to end.

The realization washed over you quietly, almost catching you off guard, of just how desperately you had missed this. Just being near him, sharing the same space, even wrapped in these sometime-uncomfortable silences.

You watched the streetlights sweep across the dashboard in waves, wishing the car would slow down, wishing the blocks would stretch out, just to keep the outside world away for a little longer.

But no matter how much you wished you could control time, sometimes wanting to speed it up, other times desperate to slow it down, the reality was that it just kept moving.

And while your heart hammered against your ribs like an untamed creature, craving more of him, Will’s house suddenly appeared ahead.

Frankie pulled the car into the driveway, bringing the ride to a final stop.

A beat later, he let out a quiet sigh and unbuckled his seatbelt, the click signaling the end of the line. The headlights caught the front window of Will’s house.

Your eyes drifted to him then. He glanced at Santi, still dead to the world in the back, before turning his face to yours.

"Frankie," you breathed, and the name felt forbidden on your tongue.

He didn't speak, but the slight tension in his brow gave him away. His hands remained clamped at the top of the steering wheel.

"I'm so sorry for everything that happened to you," you said, knowing this probably wasn't the right time or the right place, but utterly unable to hold it in any longer. "About Henry, and... and everything that came after."

The silence stretched.

Frankie swallowed, giving a single nod. "Thank you."

"And it makes me real happy that you're doing better now."

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but his eyes stayed entirely dark. His gaze drifted down, anchoring somewhere between the two of you, as if measuring the distance that had grown since you left.

His hand twitched on the wheel, a microscopic movement toward you that he stopped just in time.

"Thank you."

You nodded.

Frankie seemed to hesitate. "And I... I'm so sorry," he murmured, his brown eyes lifting back to yours. "For hurting you and… and letting you down. You didn't deserve what I did to you."

You didn't offer an easy reassurance. You just let out a slow nod.

"And I'm really happy you're doing what you love," he added, his voice flattening out as he forced a smile. It was a tight, fragile thing. "I have no doubt everyone is gonna love your book."

You swallowed the lump in your throat. "Thank you."

Frankie’s smile faltered, dropping for a fraction of a second before he held it back up.

"And New York..." He trailed off, his gaze slipping from yours to look down at his own lap.

In that brief second of detachment, your eyes scanned his face with a desperate quiet hunger, memorizing him all over again. You traced the familiar slope of his nose, the soft curve of his mouth, the tiny lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there a year ago, the new marks on his face. You searched every single feature, hunting for a crack in his armor, looking for a hidden twitch, a shadow of hesitation, anything that said stay.

But Frankie just gave a soft shake of his head, looking back up. His expression was clear and almost painfully serene.

"I'm sure New York loves you too," he said softly. "It’s a big city, but it fits you. You’re gonna do amazing things there."

A cold ache settled deep into your stomach.

Was this encouragement? Was this a gentle nudge out the door? Was he clearing the path for you, sweeping away the debris?

A sudden winter seemed to settle inside the small cabin of the car. You forced a nod, your eyes drifting back to the dashboard where the green light of the clock kept ticking forward.

"Yeah," you breathed. "Thank you, Frankie."

He unclasped his hands from the steering wheel, the leather letting out a soft stick and release sound that felt incredibly loud. And the space between your seats suddenly felt like an ocean.

You looked straight ahead and unbuckled your seatbelt, the snap breaking the trance. "We should probably get Santi inside."

Without waiting for a response, you pushed the car door open and stepped out, your lungs begging for air.

You took a deep grounding breath of the cool night wind as you walked toward the front porch. Pressing the doorbell, you could hear the heavy thud of Frankie’s door closing behind you.

Emma opened the door almost instantly.

"Hey," she whispered, stepping outside and crossing her arms against the chill. "Will and Benny are already passed out. What happened? How's Santi?"

"Nothing," you said, turning back toward the car where Frankie was gently shaking Santi’s shoulder. "Santi was just at the park. Everything's fine."

Emma nodded, watching as Frankie carefully hauled a groaning Santi out of the backseat. You stepped in, grabbing your brother's other arm to stabilize him.

"Careful," you murmured.

Santi blinked heavily, a goofy smile spreading across his face as he looked at you.

"I'm careful," he slurred.

The three of you shuffled toward the porch in an awkward synchronized stumble, Frankie carrying most of Santi's dead weight while you guided his steps. Emma stepped aside, holding the front door wide open to let the makeshift rescue team pass.

"Will and Ben are in the living room," Emma guided quietly, shutting the door behind you. "You can take him straight to the bedroom."

"Alright, keep your feet steady, man," Frankie muttered to Santi, adjusting his grip around his torso.

Santi let out a low grunt, his sneakers dragging lazily against the hardwood floor.

"Why didn't you tell her?" he mumbled into the space between them.

You frowned, staring at your brother. Just then, Santi rolled his head back to look at you, his eyes unfocused but teasing. "He didn't... he didn't."

Frankie didn't acknowledge it, his face a mask of focus as they reached the open bedroom door. He placed a firm hand on Santi’s back, guiding him over the threshold.

"C'mon. Bedtime."

Santi paused for a second in the middle of the room, clumsily tugging at the zipper of his jacket.

"It's too fucking hot in here," he muttered.

A soft chuckle escaped Frankie’s lips. You watched them from the doorway, leaning against the frame with your arms crossed, forcing a faint hollow smile that didn't reach your eyes.

"Hey."

Turning around, you found Emma standing a few feet away in the dimly lit hallway. You stepped out of the room, giving Frankie and Santi some space.

"What's the plan?" she asked softly.

"We're heading back to Yov's," you replied. "Frankie's staying with the guys."

Emma searched your face, her eyes lingering a bit too long. "You sure?"

"Yeah."

You slipped back into the bedroom. Santi was already sprawled out on the mattress, his jacket and shoes discarded on the floor, while Frankie pulled a thick blanket up to his chest.

"All good?" you asked quietly.

Frankie nodded, looking down at him. "Look at him. Like a baby."

You swallowed the tightness in your throat and walked out toward the living room. Emma was already on one of the armchairs. Across from her, Will and Benny were sound asleep on the couches, buried under a messy pile of blankets and breathing heavily.

"I'll call an Uber," you said, pulling out your phone.

Emma nodded. "Your mom texted me, by the way. Asked how long we were going to be. I told her we got held up because you had a stomach ache."

A small, tired smile tugged at your lips. "Right. Did she buy it?"

"Seems like it," Emma said, shrugging her shoulders.

You nodded, your fingers moving quickly across the screen to confirm the Uber ride, while the soft snores of the Millers drifted from the couches. Emma watched you in silence for a beat.

"I’m completely sober now," Emma noted quietly.

You offered a tight smile. "Me too. The scare Santi gave me cleared the alcohol right outta my system."

On your screen, a driver accepted the ride, the map showing he was only two minutes away.

"I’ll text mom to let her know we’re on our way," you said, just as Frankie walked back into the living room.

"Santi's already snoring," he said, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe. "I don't think he’ll wake up until noon tomorrow."

"Yeah, well, neither will these two," Emma whispered, gesturing with her chin toward Will and Ben. "How much did they even drink? Weren't you supposed to have other plans after the bar?"

Frankie shook his head. "I lost count. Benny got a little too excited ordering rounds."

"You gotta work tomorrow?" Emma asked.

Frankie shook his head slightly. "Yeah, but not until after ten."

In the heavy silence that followed, you listened to their casual back and forth, the ordinary words mapping out a life you were no longer part of. You bit the inside of your cheek, keeping your eyes glued to the glowing screen of your phone.

"Too much work tomorrow?" Emma asked, leaning back against the cushions.

Frankie shook his head, pulling his phone out of his pocket. "Nah, not really."

You let out a quiet sigh. Shifting your weight, you stepped away from the living room without a word, slipping back into the dim hallway toward the room where Santi was sleeping.

As you walked, you caught a movement from the corner of your eye. You glanced back and saw Frankie watching you from the living room, his dark eyes tracking your retreat. You met his gaze for barely a second before turning your head away, focusing entirely on your brother.

It's fine, you thought. What did you really expect?

You had known that coming back to Austin meant facing Frankie, and facing Frankie meant clearing up a few things. But you couldn't pretend that the world had been on pause all this time. You couldn't expect him to show more than he already had. Because no matter how many feelings you still harbored for him, or how many he kept for you, if he even had any left; time had kept moving. And maybe... maybe this was just it. The end of the line.

The phone vibrated in your hand. The Uber was outside: Eric, dark grey Toyota Camry.

Casting one last look at Santi, you stepped closer to the bed and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. He barely stirred, completely and deeply asleep.

By the time you reached the living room, Emma was already standing by the door, her bag slung over her shoulder. "Ready, babe?"

You nodded, tightly crossing your arms against your chest.

You couldn't bring yourself to look directly at Frankie, but you could feel his gaze burning into your profile; he was standing just to your left.

"Okay," Emma murmured, twisting the doorknob and pulling the front door open.

You stepped out first, your feet moving automatically as if you suddenly couldn't bear to be in his vicinity for a single second longer.

The night air hit your face like a splash of cold water, but it wasn't enough to clear the suffocating feeling in your chest.

"Tell Yov I say hi," Frankie’s voice drifted from inside.

Only when Emma stepped out onto the porch beside you did you finally turn your head to look at him. Frankie’s eyes locked onto yours, intense and searching, but you didn't say anything; you just offered a small fleeting smile, turning on your heel before it could fade.

Walking down the driveway toward the car waiting by the curb, you didn't look back. Not before getting into the car, not after the door clicked shut, and definitely not through the window as the engine revved and the house began to recede into the darkness.

The only thing you knew for certain was that you desperately needed a glass or two of that champagne. Or maybe something a lot stronger.

"Hey," Emma’s voice broke through the quiet, her fingers touching your forearm. "What’s wrong? Did something happen?"

You shook your head, trying to swallow the lump in your throat, but your body betrayed you completely. Your eyes burned, blurring with hot tears, and your mouth trembled, puckering into a soft painful grimace.

"Hey," Emma repeated, her fingers tightening just a fraction.

"It's over," you whispered. You didn't sob. You didn't break down. But your mouth trembled as the hot tears finally spilled over, tracks of quiet fire burning down your cheeks.

"What?"

"Frankie. It's over."

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

PART ONE: "The one with the proposal"

PART TWO: "The one with the purring traitor"

PART THREE: "The one with the birthday party"

PART FOUR: "The one with bruises and blue excuses"

PART FIVE: "The one with the Red lights"

PART SIX: "The one with the late night talk"

PART SEVEN: "The one with the unexpected visit"

PART EIGHT: "The one with Dante and Beatrice"

PART NINE I: "The one with the wedding"

PART NINE II: "The one with the wedding"

PART TEN: "The one with the skydiving"

PART ELEVEN: "The one with the things we shouldn’t talk about"

PART TWELVE: "The one when nothing happens"

PART THIRTEEN: "The one with the day after"

PART FOURTEEN: "The one with the nightly calls"

PART FIFTEEN: "The one with the cabin and the river"

PART SIXTEEN: "The one with the unnamed surprise"

PART SEVENTEEN: "The one with the vampire girl"

PART EIGHTEEN: "The one with the Halloween party"

PART NINETEEN: "The one where Frankie Says Relax"

PART TWENTY: "The one where they don't know that we know and bla, bla, bla!"

PART TWENTY ONE: "The one with the guilt"

PART TWENTY TWO: "The one with Benny’s date"

PART TWENTY THREE: "The one when Frankie pays"

PART TWENTY FOUR: "The one with the Boston trip, part one"

PART TWENTY FIVE: "The one with the Boston trip, part two"

PART TWENTY SIX: "The one with the New Year's kiss"

PART TWENTY SEVEN: "The one with the Talk"

PART TWENTY EIGHT: "The one when the World Keeps Moving"

PART TWENTY EIGHT II: "The one when the World Keeps Moving, part two"

PART TWENTY NINE: "The one with the Movie Nights"

PART THIRTY I: "The one in Blue Waters, part one"

PART THIRTY II: "The one in Blue Waters, part two"

PART THIRTY ONE: "The one where everyone is in love"

PART THIRTY TWO I: "The one where time passes, part one"

More parts soon soon soon!

EXTRAS:

The Boyfriend Act timeline

The Boyfriend Act moodboards

Frankie's playlist

TBA playlist by Lev! @dontlookatme121

"A Divine Comedy", a TBA playlist by Saige! @dreamsunwind ‐> Apple Music - Spotify

Frankie life in Boston moodboard - snippet

Dieter's art studio; The Boyfriend Act: art by @pedges-world <3 and this too!

Dieter's art studio; The Boyfriend Act: art and blurb by @pedges-world