#gray skies

Anxiety has a very unique taste. It's unpleasant by nature. A combination of copper, salt, and fear layered in a gritty jumble over your tongue. Potent enough to ruin the strongest appetite.

You'd become well-acquainted with this sort of discomfort in your life. The cortisol and adrenaline that accompanied family dinners, making you tense up as you begged for it to be over, for them to let you retreat to your room and cry. It was as though your family had unanimously decided to make you their personal circus act. All of them gathering around, poking and prodding and tossing you back-handed compliments while you juggled precariously on a tightrope.

It didn't matter what you wore, or the mood you were in, or what you'd accomplished in your time apart. They'd never be proud or even remotely pleased.

Which is why you dreaded these fucking things.

Most of the time, you had to travel to them for these delightful reunions.

Your mother and older brothers still lived on the street you were raised on. Two quaint little houses in a picture perfect suburb in upstate New York. Following closely in your mother's footsteps, your older siblings had settled into domestic family life soon after college. Tiffany, your sister in law and the family's matriarch-in-training, had thrown a fit at the idea of your mother living in her house alone after your younger sister graduated highschool. Not even a week after Courtney started college, Tiffany, your brother Kyle, and their adorable twin boys were fully moved in—your mother stuffed in the guest room to act as a live-in babysitter.

Tiffany was your mom's pride and joy, despite having married into the family. She was the daughter your mom had always wanted. Skinny, poised, drop dead gorgeous, and a more than welcoming hostess for any family gathering.

It had been a mere 7 months since the extravagant Christmas party she'd thrown—not nearly enough time for you to recover from the experience. But here you were throwing yourself to the wolves once again. Your poor sensitive heart was so desperate to connect with your mother, you'd even opened the door for the rabid beasts.

It was a confusing thing, family. Every word out of your mother's mouth undid months of personal growth, but you still talked to her. You needed to. She was the only parent you had left.

Which is why it was so damn hard to ignore her guilt trips. To decline her request to have dinner at your place. Every optimistic cell in your body was certain that this would be different.

And yet, as you glanced wearily at your front door, dreading the knock that would eventually sound throughout your polished apartment, you felt trapped in a hell of your own making.

Scraping the whisk against the sides and bottom of the mixing bowl furiously, you dipped a finger into the glaze, popping it into your mouth. Normally, your palate was brutally discerning, but today everything just felt off. The glaze wasn’t perfect, but you had no idea how to fix it because the taste of your damn anxiety was overpowering all the spices you’d thrown in. With a heavy sigh, your eyes flickered to the door again before focusing on the mixture in the bowl. It would have to do if you wanted to have food to plate once your guests arrived.

Moving on to the pan of toasted pistachios cooling over the unlit burners of your stove, you gently picked up the edges of the parchment paper lining the pan, using it to slide the nuts into a bowl. Only a few steps left. You reminded yourself. Glaze and roast the salmon, finish the squash, mix the salad, bake the cobbler. You can do this.

Despite the raging hangover and possible mild concussion you'd been dealing with yesterday, you'd managed to tidy up your apartment in record time. Every surface had been dusted or vacuumed, and disinfected. There were new hand towels by every sink, a fresh bouquet acting as the centerpiece of your buffed dining table, and a brand new scented candle slowly burning away on your mantle. The lack of mess would've filled you with a sense of pride if anyone else was coming over. Between Tiffany and your mother, the place would no doubt be too sloppy for someone.

Nothing like setting yourself up for failure.

Jumping in shock as your phone alarm rung, you smacked the button to quiet the damn thing before opening the oven, feeling a small crackle of relief when you glimpsed the golden-brown squash had in fact NOT spontaneously burst into flames. Inevitable disaster delayed for another moment, you tossed the squash into the salad bowl—each chunk of the starchy vegetable plunking heavily onto the newly washed lettuce within the wooden dish.

Peeking at your phone's display, your pulse bounced uncomfortably when you noticed the time. T-minus fifteen minutes until catastrophe. Closing your eyes, you blew out a lengthy breath. This is only an evening. Whatever torture you were about to experience would be temporary. You would make it through this alive. Scarred and sobbing, maybe—but alive.

Each remaining minute before your company's arrival slipped away like sand through spread fingers. The salmon was basted with a tediously crafted lemon glaze, the pilaf was cooling on the stove, every component of the salad was ready to be added—but timing was everything when toasted pistachios, pomegranate seeds, and goat cheese all needed to be thrown in. Mixing them in too early would melt the cheese or wilt the lettuce, and god forbid this meal be less than perfect.

Unfortunately, in your rush to prepare both your home and the food, you'd neglected to adjust your timeline to account for your family's chronic earliness. Seven minutes before the agreed upon time, a delicate knock echoed down the hallway—freezing you in place.

Fuck. It was showtime.

Heart palpitating in your esophagus, you ambled towards the door like a victim in a horror movie. You could almost imagine the lights flickering and the walls closing in as you approached it. With a shaky breath, you undid the bolt and turned the knob.

Standing just beyond the threshold of your apartment, your mother and sister-in-law were whispering to each other—apparently unaware of the new addition to their clique. You gave them a moment to notice you before clearing your throat with a pained smile.

Their faces snapped towards you. In tandem, Tiffany and your mom greeted you with a squeaky falsetto. “Hi!” “Hello, darling!”

Without context, a stranger would’ve assumed they were sisters. Tiffany was wearing a white blouse with simple black stripes, the hem tucked into her size 0 dark wash jeans. Her hair was flawless, falling in shining, soft curls down her back. She’d clearly had a hand in your mother’s outfit, given that their color palette was exactly the same, however your mother was wearing a black and white plaid shawl as well. They looked like a style guide come to life.

Shoving past you into the apartment, Tiffany cooed with pity as she looked around. “I didn’t know your place was so…modest! Though it does fit right in with the rest of the neighborhood…” She scowled, looking out the window with a shudder.

“Tiffany’s right, sweetheart. This isn’t the best area. I thought you said it was nicer here!” Your mom sent you a disdainful smile as she strode in, leaving you alone in the doorway. “There were two panhandlers on the corner, you know.”

Pretending not to hear the classist comments, you closed the door behind them, blinking as your mom caught you off guard with a tight embrace. “I’m sorry you didn’t feel safe, mom. But this is a fine neighborhood, I promise.”

“Whatever you say, sweetie. I brought you something!” Concern for you no longer pressing, she handed you a crisp piece of paper, smiling expectantly.

Scrutinizing the sheet she'd handed you, your mouth parted in shock—unsure of how to respond to the belittling gift. “Oh, that’s—”

“It's a full cleaning kit! Tiffany helped me purchase it for you, bless her heart.” She squeezed your bicep. “You're welcome!”

Tiffany chuckled loftily, appearing beside you with a glass of wine—did she really open that bottle already? “I'm glad we decided on that, Lillian. It'll clearly be put to good use.”

Your mother and sister-in-law chuckled as they shared a look, as if this was a common topic of discussion between them.

Smiling as best you could, you folded the paper and tossed it on your coffee table. “Well, that was awfully nice of the two of you, thank you.”

As they took seats around your table, you bustled back towards your kitchen–quickly dumping the remaining ingredients into the salad bowl and holding it up in an offering. “I hope you’re hungry!”

Your mother smiled politely, but her eyes were downcast as Tiffany opened her mouth. “Oh, I wasn't aware we were eating here.”

Raising an eyebrow at her with a tiny scoff, you stacked a set of plates on your arm, hurrying over to the pair of harpies before you broke something. “Where else would we eat?”

“Considering the time we took to come visit, I was hoping Icca, or even The Odeon,” Tiffany shrugged, clearly miffed as you dished out the salad. If she wanted you to reward her for the wonderful favor she was doing by coming here, she was going to be sorely disappointed.

“I don’t think that would’ve been possible. Michelin Star restaurants take months, sometimes years to get into.” You explained simply, spinning on your heel to finish up the rest of the meal and pop the cobbler in the oven.

“Hmm, I figured you must know someone. When Kyle and I traveled to Paris, a friend of mine was able to get us a table at Sola with only 48 hours notice.” Came the snarky response.

Gritting your teeth, you forced a cheerful tone. “Well, I didn't realize that was something you wanted, Tiffany. I guess you'll have to settle for my cooking this time. The first course is a butternut squash salad with some fresh goat cheese, and for dinner I made Salmon Meuniere and rice pilaf.”

“Oh dear,” Your mom piped up, frowning around a forkful of salad. A sigh was building in your chest before she explained what you’d done wrong now. “I thought I told you to avoid any starches. Tiffany and I are trying out this new diet—what's it called, sweetheart?”

“Paleo.” Tiffany smirked, pushing the salad around on her plate, picking the squash from it and stacking it into a little pile. “I've actually been on this diet for over a year, but I finally convinced your mother to join me on my wellness journey.”

Nodding absently, you waited for their restrictive diet chatter to fade before asking your next question. “Ok, so no pilaf. Can you eat the salmon?”

“Maybe a bite or two. I’ve barely had an appetite since my latest cleanse.” Tiffany stated, studying her impeccable manicure with a sigh.

“How unfortunate.” You stifled an eye roll, turning your back on the table and ignoring the growing sense of inadequacy in your chest as the conversation once again devolved into a discussion of calorie deficiencies.

In Frank's defense, he was trying very hard to give you space.

After revealing his fuck up to Curtis, and cowering as his friend rightfully told him off for treating you poorly, he'd been pretty confident that your forgiveness was not on the table. He was still determined to try, of course, but he wasn't quite sure where to start.

In the hope of maybe repairing your relationship—which he was aware he didn't deserve—he had decided not to attend your family dinner, assuming you'd asked someone else to be your back up.

But that wasn't in your nature. You'd never burden someone like that, no matter how close you were to them.

See, the walls between your apartments were agonizingly thin. An inch or two of plaster and drywall wasn't enough to keep voices from gliding through, though the audio quality wasn't great. Because of this, he was painfully aware that you hadn't asked someone to support you during this meal you'd been so nervous about. Just another reason for Frank to feel guilty, as if he wasn't chock full of them.

The voices of your relatives drifted through the vents and into his apartment, shrill and unnerving. He hadn't quite understood your apprehension over seeing them before, given how long it had been since he'd had a family to reunite with, but after ten minutes of listening to your mother and whoever else comment negatively on every little thing you did—Frank was damn near ready to break the door down to save you.

Seated on his sofa, hunched over his latest read, Frank's teeth were clenched painfully tight as he listened to their hostile comments.

These assholes weren't pleased with anything.

Your place was too dirty, they didn't want you to cook for them, you'd made the wrong food—but it didn't stop there.

Skimming the same page of his book, and once again not processing a single word of the text, Frank's knuckles flexed defensively as the women started discussing weight loss with you.

“It's so…old fashioned, don't you think? Cooking with butter. Cutting out fat was the best thing to happen to me!” A voice chittered.

You didn't respond, but a younger woman did. A sister? or maybe an aunt? “It works like a charm. Oh and that monthly juice cleanse did wonders for my waistline. Here feel! You can count my ribs! Of course, it was difficult, but I've never been one to shy away from hard work.”

Frank's nostrils flared. Gripping the book aggressively, he sank further into the couch. You didn't want his help. You wanted to handle your own shit. You did NOT want his help.

The first voice, that Frank assumed belonged to your mother, called your name. “You should try the cleanse! It would be a step in the right direction for you, sweetheart. Maybe you could even fit into that dress I bought you for Christmas!”

Frank felt bile rising in his throat. Suddenly, your aversion to eating made a lot more sense. Book entirely abandoned, he yanked at his hair in frustration, heart breaking when he heard your meek response.

“This is the dress you got me for Christmas.”

For a moment, no one said anything. Frank strained to hear the conversation, but his ears were met with only the sputter of the HVAC unit. Eventually, another snide remark was directed at you. “Oh! Er, good for you, darling. Dropping a whole dress size since we've last seen you. Keep up the good work!”

Springing to his feet, Frank exited his apartment without a second thought. He couldn't let you suffer through this alone. If you didn't want him there, he'd leave, but he couldn’t sit idly by and let you be bullied by your own family. Jogging the ten paces between your apartments, Frank swallowed his pride and knocked on the door.

He could barely make out the jumble of hushed voices as he heard footsteps pacing towards the entryway. Glancing back at his place, he wondered if he should give in to his better judgment—but you'd opened the door before he could.

When you recognized him, your eyes flashed with surprise, your mouth parting in a soft “O” shape. Holding up his hands in what he hoped came off as an apologetic gesture, he felt his cheeks burning with a flush.

To his surprise, you grimaced. “Sorry, were we being too loud?” Your words were barely audible, clearly meant to avoid any possible eavesdropping from inside your apartment.

Shaking his head dumbly he stepped forward. “No, course not, I—uh, I thought…” God, he was bad at this. “I promised to keep ya company tonight. Wasn't sure if that was still somethin' you wanted.”

You blinked at him, face softening with an emotion akin to relief. “Oh, uh—” Before you could express whether or not he was further aggravating the situation, a face appeared at the end of the hallway.

She was older, but he had no trouble figuring out who she was. You were the spitting image of your mother. He noticed the resemblance immediately. It would've made him smile if you hadn't looked like a frightened animal as you heard her behind you. “Sweetheart, who's this?”

“Name's Pete, ma'am.” Frank nodded politely. “Sorry to intrude—”

“Nonsense!” Your mother wrapped an arm around you as she smiled, the warmth failing to reach her eyes. “Darling, you didn't tell me you were inviting such a handsome man to join us. I would've dressed for the occasion.”

You looked downright nauseous, eyes flitting between Frank and your mother before you stepped aside. “Come in, Pete. I figured you'd forgotten you were invited.”

Wetting his lips, Frank ducked his head sheepishly. “Sorry for my timing, boss has been ridin' us this week.”

“Better late than never.” Your mother quipped, withdrawing her hand from your back to cup it around Frank's arm.

Sneaking glances back at you, Frank let himself be dragged over to the table and hastily shoved into a seat, the women smiling viciously all the while. Timidly shuffling behind, you nodded to the younger crone across from him. “Tiffany, this is my neighbor Pete. Pete, this is my sister in law Tiffany.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” The sharp faced woman nodded once, looking slightly miffed at his arrival.

“It is, isn’t it! My daughter is quite tight-lipped these days, so you’ll have to excuse me for not knowing the details. How did the two of you meet?” Your mom asked, still holding onto his arm. The slight comment on your relationship with her didn’t escape him, but he filed it away for a later time. Of all the nonsense being tossed your way, this barely pinged on his radar.

“He helped me build some furniture when I moved in.” You answered for him, voice clipped as you busied yourself in the kitchen.

“You don’t say! This is the knight in shining armor?” Your mom squeezed his arm, withdrawing her grasp to shove away her full plate of salad. “That was awfully kind of you, Pete. Lord knows what could have happened if she didn’t have help.”

“Dunno, she has a pretty good head on her shoulders,” Frank remarked with a polite smile. “I’m sure she would’ve managed.”

Humming noncommittally, your mother craned her neck to watch your progress. “Do you need any help dear? I’d hate to keep a gentleman like this waiting after a hard day’s work.”

A slimy sensation descended in Frank’s throat, a resounding feeling of disgust as you were treated like a housewife from the 60s. Just a tool to cook and clean for a man who barely gave you the time of day. His mind began flipping through a list of all the food you’d prepared for him in the time you’d known each other. Is this what you thought he was?

“I’m plating it now, mom.” You sounded strained, fatigued. Absolutely done with their bullshit. And all he could do was hope he hadn’t made things worse.

The women at the table chattered amongst themselves, occasionally looking to Frank for a smile or a nod, which he readily gave. Their ability to pretend you weren’t in the room was astounding, especially as you hurried over to the table, arms stacked with plates of food.

In the few weeks since he’d attempted to cut off contact, Frank had seemingly forgotten how talented you were—a crime to be added to his lengthy rap sheet. Though he wasn’t much of a fish guy–outside of a cheap can of tuna–his mouth watered as you carried the lovingly crafted dishes to the table. It was clearly salmon, but there was a blend of spices wafting through the air that made a groan bubble in his throat. Alongside the planks of fish you’d scooped a bit of rice on two of the plates. Only two? Oh right. “Paleo.” Whatever the fuck that was.

Stifling an eye roll, Frank made to stand up, to offer you a hand, but your mother shook her head. “Don’t worry, dear. She can manage.”

A thin smile curved your lips, the feigned happiness not concealing the dispirited look in your eyes. As you bent at the waist to slide a plate in front of him, your mother gasped in horror, shrugging out of her shawl and ramming it against your chest. “Darling, your dress,” She murmured, eyes flicking between you and Frank.

“What?” You asked with shy confusion, still passing out entrees, gaze drifting to the clothing you now had in your fist.

Chuckling bashfully, your mother waved a hand, encouraging you to wrap the thin scrap of fabric around yourself. “It might do you good to cover up darling. You never know what men will do when they see that much skin.” Shooting Frank a wink, your mother raised her fork, ripping off a small bite of fish with the prongs.

Nausea roiled in his gut as he remembered your comment about his coworkers grabbing you. Hurting you. Did you blame yourself? Did your mother?

Watching you shrivel at the accusation, Frank felt a lump form in his throat. He wanted to step in, to come to your defense, but the image of your scowl last night was too fresh in his mind. You could handle it. You’d signal if you needed him…right?

Of course you wouldn’t.

Frank had made no effort to talk to you over the past few weeks, let alone re-confirm his attendance at this dinner. You had no reason to anticipate him showing up. And no plan in place for sounding the alarm if you needed backup.

Instead, for over two hours, Frank watched you catch their back-handed comments while biting his tongue until it bled. The two women hurled slight insults at you like a game of darts.

“If I’d known you were this good of a cook, I’d have visited sooner!” 15 points.

“That dessert is beautiful dear, but one spoonful of that would undo all of my hard work this week.” 45 points.

“Well, we must be going. Some of us have a family to get home to.” A goddamn bullseye punctuated with a hideously shrill laugh.

Frank watched in horror as you took every comment in stride, slowly deflating as the two of them took the piss out of you. Somehow, you managed to hold your head up, changing the subject or pretending not to hear them over and over again until they finally left.

You exchanged polite goodbyes, even agreeing to walk them to the car they’d ordered to “ward off the locals.” Unsure of what you needed or if he could help, Frank remained frozen for a minute before his antsiness became unbearable. With careful hands, he gathered the dishes on your table, scraping the leftover food into the trash and placing each one into the sink.

He heard the gentle click of the door opening over the spray of water in the sink. A beaten, exhausted version of his sunshine had returned. As you closed the door, Frank watched your posture drop. Whatever energy you'd pretended to have throughout that shit show now rigorously depleted. Sagging like a puppet whose strings had been cut, you leaned back against the door with a choked breath.

Frank ached to hold you. To comfort you. But his feet remained firmly planted where he stood, watching you slowly fall apart as your family vacated the area.

“I'm sorry.” He murmured, meeting your eyes as they wandered over to him. “Honey, I'm so sorry.”

“I know Frank.” You whispered back, arms wrapped tightly around yourself as you shuffled into your kitchen, expression dazed. Stretching up onto your tiptoes, you reached into a cabinet and withdrew a bottle of cheap booze.

He watched you open the bottle, wincing in tandem with you after your hearty swig. “Christ, sunshine—”

“Go home, Frank.” Your voice was shattered, the words choked out around the mouth of the bottle. “Thank you, for being here, just…I need you to go home.”

Nodding once, Frank rose slowly, hands hanging limply by his sides. “Holler if you need me.”

Ignoring his raging concern, Frank obeyed your order and left, closing the door to the sound of liquid swishing around a bottle.

A muffled crash hurled him out of an uneasy sleep. Scrubbing at his face, Frank whirled around, looking for the source of the noise.

“FUCK!”

You. Your apartment.

Yanking on a pair of sweats, Frank tore out into the hallway, nearly toppling over when he pushed his weight against your open door. Darting into your place, his adrenaline was surging, his face whipping around until he found you.

Crumpled on the ground in a lopsided crouch, you were frantically scooping up shards of glass with your bare hands. Body shaking as you mumbled to yourself, one poorly angled swipe must have directed the jagged edges into your exposed flesh because you flinched sharply, tumbling backwards until your tailbone collided with the floorboards.

“Ow, fuck,” You cursed, tracing a finger along the cut on the heel of your hand, eyes growing glassier by the second.

“Hey, hey, careful, sunshine.” Pried out of his stupor at the sight of your blood, Frank crept towards you hurriedly.

Jerking your head towards him as he knelt before you, your wounded hand was pinched in a weak grip, your face damp with tears. “F-Frank?” You stammered, breathing heavily.

Stepping carefully around the spray of broken glass, Frank nodded, arms outstretched toward you. “Yah, honey. It's me. C'mon let's get ya away from the mess, ok?”

“How did you get in?” Your brow was furrowed, tears slipping down your cheeks as you stared at him. You didn't protest as he gently pressed a hand against your arm, turning you away from the shattered dish.

“Your door was open, sweetheart. Gotta be more careful.”

A bitter chuckle escaped your lips, the end morphing into a stifled sob. “Of course. Wouldn't want a strange man to walk in uninvited.”

“I heard the crash. What happened?” Undeterred by your pointed jab, Frank gave a satisfied nod once you were sufficiently out of harm's way. With a lengthened step, he snatched a few paper towels, wetting them under your faucet.

“Nothing.” You muttered, body turning in on itself as you began to put your walls back up, blocking him out.

“Nothin’, huh?” He handed you the clump of damp napkins which you snatched from his grasp with an aggravated swipe, like a cat trying to ward off a threat.

“Just go home, Frank.” You sighed, stepping back into the kitchen around him.

“No.” He crossed his arms, leaning against your counter as you whipped your head towards him furiously.

“No?” Your incredulous question was positively seething.

“I can't leave you alone like this, honey. I just, I can't.” He answered honestly, meeting your narrowed eyes with the most earnest gaze he could muster.

“Of fucking course you can. You've done it before, you can do it again.” You huffed, scrubbing at the cut in your hand vigorously. Frank chewed the inside of his cheek as he resisted the urge to grab your hands in his, to stop whatever damage you were unintentionally inflicting on your soft skin.

“No.” His resolve remained strong despite your indignant scoff. “Not until you talk to me.”

“Talk to you about what, Frank?“ Face twisted with a vicious glare, you threw your hands up in defeat, fresh tears welling in your eyes as you began to pace towards him. ”About how I became a cook to keep people in my life because they only care about me when I’m in the kitchen? About how I’ve been objectified my entire life by men and yet my mother will never think I’m beautiful? About how I can’t even do the goddamn dishes without fucking it up and needing a man to save me?”

Your voice splintered on the last sentence, your hands flying up to cup over your mouth as you sobbed forcefully. Frank's willpower was no match for the anguish radiating from you. In one fluid movement, he'd wrapped himself around you, shielding you with a sturdy embrace as you bawled. Splaying one hand over your back, he rubbed gentle circles into it as you trembled against him. “I'm not here because you need savin’, sweetheart. I came because you don’t need to handle everythin’ alone. You deserve better than that.”

The dam holding back the years of pain you'd bottled up was withering away—the emotional toll of tonight and suddenly regaining Frank's affection drilling holes into the foundation. As Frank explained his reasoning, the structure burst. All your frustration and resentment momentarily forgotten in your search for an ounce of comfort.

Winding your arms around him, you stopped resisting. Your posture melted, your knees buckling and your weight falling solidly against him. Predictably, he held you up—murmuring soft reassurances as you grabbed fistfuls of his shirt in an effort to ground yourself.

“I'm sorry, sunshine.” He whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “I'm so sorry.”

“I wanna be good enough, Frank.” You choked out, heaving in a stuttering breath. “I just want to be good enough for someone.”

“Hey, look at me.” Cupping your face as if it was made of the most delicate ceramic, he tilted your chin up so you could see him as he promised. “I know I fucked up, sunshine, I ain't forgettin' that–but you have always always been good enough for me.”

Expression crumpling, you fully collapsed against him, panting as you struggled to breathe around sobs. Guiding your head until it was buried in his neck, Frank used his free hand to scoop your legs up until he had you in a bridal carry. “I got ya, sunshine. I got ya.”

With a few carefully placed steps, he was able to round the edge of your sofa, squatting down until his ass was on the cushions with you draped precariously over his lap.

Using two fingers to grab the fleece throw from the back of your couch, he tucked the blanket around you tenderly in the hope that it might help calm you. Your body was trembling against him, but your cries eventually began to grow farther apart, punctuated by gulping breaths. His hands were still stroking over your arms and back, your skin now covered by the fuzzy fabric of the blanket.

As your sobs tapered off, your exhaustion was palpable. Every small puff of an exhale against his neck becoming shallower, as if you were drifting off.

“You tired?” Frank asked, already knowing the answer.

You gave a timid nod, still coming down from the adrenaline that had spiked after you'd dropped the wine glass and Frank had shown up. Your brain felt foggy, words forming halfway and then dissolving before you could voice them.

“You should get some sleep.” Frank said quietly, beginning to adjust beneath you. Your pulse surged, your body wriggling in the swaddle your neighbor had accidentally bound you in. Looking at him frantically, you shook your head.

“What's wrong, sweet girl?” Frank asked, concern ramping up again as your eyes glazed over.

“Don't leave.” Your plea was eerily quiet, your hoarse voice straining to beg for his company. “Please don't leave.”

Shushing you gently, Frank untangled you from the blanket so you had the freedom to position yourself against him securely. “Hey, never said I was leavin', sunshine. I ain't riskin' that. If I did, don't think you'd ever let me in again.” He joked, dragging a knuckle under your chin.

Your lips twitched with the barest hint of a smile. It was faint, but it was there–washing Frank's entire being with a sense of relief. He missed that beautiful smile.

“We gotta clean up your hand before you pass out. I wanna make sure there's no glass embedded in it. And I shouldn't leave Max on his own–”

“It's ok, Frank, I shouldn't have said anything.” You whispered, squirming off his lap, your eyes trained on the floor blankly. “You can go home, I can handle it.”

Calling your name in a low rasp, Frank moved from the sofa to crouch in front of you, blocking your line of sight. “I ain't goin' anywhere unless that's what ya really want. So tell me, sunshine, what do you want?”

Biting your lip to keep from crying again, you shrugged lamely. “Dunno.”

“Don't shut me out, honey. Please. You can yell at me, hit me–whatever you want, but don't get quiet on me. Not again.” Frank begged, hands settling over your knees.

“I don't wanna fight, Frank.” You sighed wearily. “I just…I don’t want to be alone right now.”

“Then you won't be.” Frank promised, stretching up to kiss your forehead. “Let's get ya cleaned up so you can sleep, sound good?”

You nodded sleepily, allowing Frank to usher you into the bathroom. Once your adrenaline officially wore off, the pace of your exhaustion shifted from a trudging crawl to a sprint, overtaking you swiftly. You followed the instructions Frank called to you as best you could, listlessly perching on the closed lid of the toilet as he rummaged around for tweezers, antiseptic, and bandages.

It took all of your focus to not slump to the tile floor and give in to sleep. You blearily watched as Frank cleaned the injuries on your hand, his touch intentionally feather-light as he tended to them. His callouses swept over your clammy skin, pressing gently to expose and remove the tiniest bits of glass that remained in your flesh. It could have been minutes, but it felt like hours until your hand was bandaged.

“Almost done, sunshine.” Frank drifted over your cheek, your eyes fluttering shut with the soothing touch. Dampening a washcloth with warm water, Frank wrung the towel out before gently patting down your cheeks, washing away the stale tear tracks and leftover makeup caked over them. “You ok? Am I hurtin' ya?”

With a listless shake of your head, you tilted into the touch, savoring the warmth of the cloth and the affection laced through Frank's movements. He chuckled softly, sliding the fabric under the trickle of steaming water. “That's good. We'll sleep soon, honey. Real soon. Jus' hold on for me.”

Once your face was free of grime, Frank washed his hands, drying them before holding one out to help you up. “All done. Let's get you to bed.”

Shuffling beside Frank, you yawned groggily. The heat of his palm spread over your lower back as he ushered you to the edge of the mattress.

“I'm gonna take Max out and I'll come right back. You ok to change into different clothes?” He nodded at the dress you were still wearing before looking back to you for a response.

“Think so.” You confirmed, digging the knuckles of your bandaged hand into your eye to ease the irritation your exhaustion was causing.

“A'right. I'll be back soon, sunshine. Take it easy for me.” He leaned over you, pressing a kiss to your hair before retreating.

It took an immense amount of effort to stand, even more to make it to your dresser without falling over. Pulling out the first clothes you saw, you managed to wrestle the tank top and sweats on without incident. Your feet dragged languidly as you slogged back over to the bed, tumbling onto it with a relieved groan.

Curling up into fetal position, your vision went shadowy as exhaustion nudged you towards unconsciousness. You'd probably drifted off when Frank returned because you were jolted awake as a paw stepped indelicately on your stomach.

Grunting in pain, your eyes fluttered open, crinkling with a smile when you saw the pitbull standing over you happily.

“Shit, Max!” Frank scolded as the dog snuffled at your face, kissing your cheeks. “Careful, bud. Don't step on her.”

“Too late.” You snickered under your breath, wrapping your arms around the dog and stroking him lazily. “Missed you too, Maxie. So much.”

Frank made a garbled sound, clearing his throat before sitting on the other side of the bed. “You want him to stay in here with ya?”

Nodding into the dog's fur as he curled up against your side, you sighed contentedly. “Both of you.”

“You sure, sweetheart? I can crash on the couch.” Frank muttered, a bit nervously. Your brows furrowed slightly, your sluggish brain unable to place why he was giving you an out.

“M sure, I think.” You murmured, already falling back asleep.

"A'right jus' holler at me if you change your mind." The nerves in your cheek prickled as a stubbled kiss was planted on your skin. “G'night sunshine. Sleep tight.”