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iloveenya · 3 days ago

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epiphany

pairing: Frankie Morales x f!reader

word count: ~2.8k

tags/warnings: angst, descriptions of injuries, fluff, able-bodied reader, no use of y/n

summary: after a helicopter crash, frankie wakes up in a strange place.

a/n: once again i apologize for the pain i'm about to inflict on you. this was written for @almostfoxglove's angst challenge which i'm so so soooo late for (i'm sorry freya!) and this was originally @sizzlingcloudmentality's prompt/moodboard, but we were both going through the worst writer's block of our lives and thought switching might help (it did not), so the first thousand beautiful words are hers! <3 also thank you for beta reading and for all the yap sessions about this one in particular my love!

for an extra sad experience, listen to epiphany by taylor swift while reading :)

dividers by @saradika-graphics <3

notifications blog -> @guiltyasdavenotifs & full masterlist -> here

It is all noise, deafening noise, roaring rotors, beeping instruments, flickering lights, blinking warnings, screaming metal, screaming people, his own voice, so loud it made his ears ring. Then he saw it. Again. His mom, cradling him, his dad, telling him he was a good boy, Juan, his first cat, curled up in his lap. Friends, his brothers, most of them dead now, rotting in graves, the women he loved. His baby momma. His child, smiling up at him, tiny, fat hands grabbing into the air. Fuck, his life was flashing before his eyes. Again. How often would he have to see this, all his good moments and why were there bad moments, too?

A massive jolt goes through the helicopter as he hits the ground and now the smell of copper, fuel and earth fills his nostrils. Wet, dark, quiet earth. The smell of a grave. The beeping and whimpering blurs into one soundscape, a wave of sounds on which Frankie slips away as his eyes close shut. Dark, quiet earth. Like a grave.

A sheep. Or more than one? They bleat. They coax him out of his unconsciousness, every sound a beacon for his mind to find his way back into consciousness. Out of the dark peacefulness, back into the light. Frankie groans, everything hurts, not only his body, his whole existence hurts, feels broken and ripped. The sunlight cuts through between his eyelids, blinding him, but that is what he wants, the light. He needs the light.

He shields his eyes and finds himself in a meadow. Poppies, cornflowers, grass. Wet, rich earth under his palm as he tries to push himself up. The buzzing of insects. And the bleating sheep. He finds himself in a dream of cottage life. Then he turns his head and sees the helicopter, the carcass of the metal beast he tried to fly too close to the sun. Like Icarus he came crashing down.

He doesn’t have to check, he knows “a fatal crash with zero survivors” when he sees one. Frankie got lucky, again. Somehow death spared him, he always does. Maybe the old fella took a liking in watching Frankie fuck up his life over and over again.

Military training kicks in, he checks himself for injuries and finds no major ones. Maybe a broken rib or two, a concussion for sure. He grunts and pushes himself onto his knees, crying out in pain that he doesn’t even know where it’s coming from.

A furry head appears out of the tall grass, white curls, pink nose, floppy ears, black and vigilant eyes. The snout opens and a bleat comes out. Like a complaint for this human being. To better not disturb the peace in this meadow any further with his mediocrity of surviving yet another accident that should have killed him.

“Sorry,” Frankie mutters and finds the energy to rise to his feet. Shaky, wobbly, the scent of earth and grass clinging to his damp clothes and skin. “You know somewhere for me to find help?”

Another bleat, then the sheep turns and starts wading through the tall grass with all the time in the world. Frankie watches the little bum disappear between green blades dotted with red poppies. He might as well follow the animal. Perhaps he will find a shepherd this way. Or a good shepherd may find him. God knows Frankie is in desperate need of some guidance. Or at least medical attention.

So he starts walking, more limping than anything else, his boots cutting a swath through the grass and flowers, every step causing mayhem for bees and bugs. The sheep, a few steps ahead of Frankie, sways through the meadow like a ship through green waves. It doesn’t turn around once, doesn’t turn towards its herd, the animal simply follows an invisible path that Frankie can’t see. Maybe he is losing it now, following an animal after having a fatal crash like it was his guide. But he had done weirder things in his life. Maybe he had hit his head really hard on the ground when he got thrown out of the helicopter.

His head hurts, his legs hurt, breathing hurts as well, but the scent of summer and peace fills his hurting lungs and every breath soothes the stinging and rippling in his chest.

It takes some time, but finally, after hobbling behind the sheep, the meadow opens into a clearing, a gravel pathway starting to show and leading to a cottage. A small house with walls made out of stones, big and small, various shades and colors, a crooked roof, ducking under some trees as if it was hiding from the eyes of anyone who was not welcome. The birdsong sounds different now, too.

Another bleat and the sheep starts trotting towards the house, the front door open wide. Silence. There is no sound to be heard, no voices, no music playing, no banging of pots and pans. Just birds, humming insects, the sheep drinking water from a bowl. Peace, comes to Frankie’s mind as if someone had seeded the word into his brain.

He doesn’t know how long he sat there, on a creaky bench in front of the house, basking in the last warm rays of the sun before it hides behind the trees. Ten minutes maybe, or an hour. His thoughts were flowing molasse thick behind his forehead. Thoughts about the crash, thoughts about the lives he has on his list, thoughts about who might miss him if he disappeared for good this time.

His eyes flutter shut. The sunlight is warm on his skin, painting the darkness behind his eyelids orange. It’s like he’s floating away, on his way to the sun once more.

“Francisco?”

Your voice is soft, almost as if the wind had whispered his name. He opens his eyes, turns his back on the painless bliss of unconsciousness once more.

Rays of the setting sun frame you where you’re standing in front of him, giving you a warm glow, illuminating the flowing fabric of the dress that you’re wearing. He doesn’t question how you know his name, how you feel familiar even though he’s certain that he’s never seen you before. He must have hit his head really hard.

“I— I crashed,” he croaks, his voice hoarse and the words scraping his throat on their way out.

His hand vaguely gestures in the direction he came from, but he can’t see the helicopter anymore, no sign of the crash either, only seemingly endless fields of grass and wildflowers, with trees in the distance. How far did he walk?

You nod, seemingly unsurprised. The sheep that led him there nudges your hand with its snout and you scratch through the wool around its ears, muttering what sounds like thank you. It bleats at him once more, before finally trotting back to its herd, blending into the white dots among the green.

You pick up the wooden basket you had been carrying and tip your head towards the open door. Your eyes had been trained on his face, but when he stands up on unsteady legs, they trail down his frame, lingering on his side where blood has been seeping through his shirt and the stained fabric is clinging to his skin uncomfortably. He barely registered the pain while he was sitting there, but now, it grows to full intensity. Maybe it’s more than a concussion and a cracked rib after all.

He follows you over the threshold, taking in his surroundings. The stony walls, littered with mismatched wooden shelves, filled with books and flowerpots. Small windows through which the evening light is filtering in. Worn down furniture, cushions that he would love to sink his tired body into right now. An earthy, heavy scent, cleansing his mind and his lungs.

For the first time in years, there’s no underlying need for the artificial high that has kept his head over water and simultaneously pulled him under.

“We need to clean you up,” you say, eyeing his bloody shirt again.

You lead him up a wooden staircase, creaks accompanying his every step, and into a small bathroom. The light from a round window reflects off forest green tiles, mesmerizing him. You fill up a bathtub, adding oils from little glass bottles, until a herbal scent is wafting around him.

Carefully, you help him strip off his clothes down to his underwear. Lifting his arms hurts like hell and he sucks in a harsh breath when his shirt unsticks from the open wound on his left. Some of the pain eases as soon as he sinks down into the warm water, a grateful sigh falling from his lips. You smile at that, a small, timid thing, and he wants to keep looking at you, wants to make you smile again, but you settle on the stone floor at his back, pushing down on his shoulders until most of his body is submerged.

With a cloth, you start on his face, cleaning off mud and dried blood, so gently that it barely stings when you touch scratches on his skin. You move on to his hair, letting him lean back, your fingers massaging over his scalp, easing the tension, the worry that he’s carrying around with him. Finally, you probe at his rips under the water’s surface, fingertips dancing over the open wound there. The pain doesn’t disappear, but it feels less heavy, less biting somehow.

Your hands trace over the scars littering his torso in gentle touches, soothing phantom pains that have long passed. “I’m sorry about these,” he thinks he hears you say, so quietly that he’s not sure if the words were meant for him to understand.

“‘s not your fault,” he murmurs, his eyelids drooping shut once more as he sinks deeper into the warm water.

He awakens surrounded by soft white bedding, a wooden ceiling with exposed beams over his head and the light of early sunrise falling into the room, painting it golden. He stretches without thinking, only a sting at his ribcage reminding him of the day before.

It all feels like he’s walking through a dream, one too beautiful to disturb. So, he doesn’t wonder how he came here, who you are, why you seem to know him, how you seemingly healed most of his injuries simply by giving him a bath. If this is what an actual dream feels like, not the nightmares he usually has, he doesn’t want to wake up.

Everything feels easy, here, with you. There don’t seem to be any clocks in the cottage, so he has no idea what time it is, but it must be early morning. Still, he finds you in a small garden behind the house, tending to vegetables that you’re growing there.

He feels your gaze flying over him, like you’re checking what state he’s in. Then, with a smile, you start explaining what you’re doing. Which plants to water, which vegetables are ready to be harvested. He works alongside you, naturally, like he’s always done this. It feels good, using his hands and body like this. Growing something, helping someone, doing good.

He follows you to the small kitchen, watches you prepare things, storing them in a pantry. You explain which herbs you are growing in small pots on a windowsill, handing them to him one by one to let him smell them.

The sun is rising higher, warming the air floating in through the open backdoor. You take his hand and pull him outside again, walking down an invisible path through the green fields surrounding the cottage. Bees are buzzing in the wildflowers around you and the sheep are bleating occasionally, watching the two of you with curious eyes, but not coming closer to investigate.

You’re wearing a dress again, the skirt flowing around your ankles in the light breeze and the sunlight illuminating your figure as you skip a few steps ahead of him. Frankie can’t help himself, picking a few of the flowers and handing them to you. His heart almost cracks at your wide smile when he gives them to you, your fingertips grazing his.

Back at the cottage, you put them into a vase on the kitchen counter, the flowery scent mixing with the house’s earthy notes in no time. It’s a small thing, but in a way, it's a trace of his presence here. It’s almost scary how much Frankie likes that thought.

It becomes a routine, as easy as breathing. The two of you taking care of the garden first thing in the morning, then a walk through the fields. The sheep start coming closer, even though they don’t let him pet them the way they do with you. He barely hurts anymore, the wound at his side almost completely healed.

In the evenings, you make tea from the herbs that you’re growing. Frankie has never liked tea, always proud to be a black coffee guy, but this one is different. It calms him, slows his thoughts down and fills him with a peace he didn’t know life had to offer. And it’s something that you made. For him, to care for him.

One night, you’re both sitting in front of the fireplace, watching the flames and listening to them crackling. He starts telling you about his past, about all the regrets that haunt him. About the men that he’s killed, about all the pain and sadness that he’s responsible for. About the woman and child that he abandoned, all to chase a high that he knew was unreachable.

He feels lighter, afterwards, like a shadow has lifted from his heart. You take his hand and rest it on your thigh. Your fingertip dances over his open palm, drawing delicate shapes over the calloused lines of his skin.

“All the violence it took you to become this gentle,” you sigh.

Your smile is sad, and he wants to kiss it off your lips. He’s never felt gentle one day in his life, has always been made of brute force and rough edges, but here, with you, he thinks you might be right.

With every passing day, the peace seeps deeper into his bones. Maybe it’s not a dream. Maybe everything that happened before was the dream, a nightmare, and he finally woke up.

That evening, you’re singing while preparing dinner. He puts down his knife and the potatoes he’s been chopping and takes your hand instead. You grin at him, still singing as he sways the both of you around to the melody. His heart aches at the sound of your laugh.

He pulls you closer, leaning in, eyes darting to your lips. For a second, he could swear that you’re moving towards him too. Then you sigh, one hand coming up to rest on his chest, stopping him. He freezes.

“Frankie, you— We can’t. You can’t stay here”

Suddenly, his whole body feels cold.

“Why not? I want to be here. With you.”

Under other circumstances, he’d be ashamed of the whine in his voice.

“Your time hasn’t come yet.”

“What do you mean, my time hasn’t—”

Tears well up in your eyes. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip.

“I’ve already kept you longer than I should have. I’m sorry, Frankie. You have more life to live. I’ll protect you, just like I have before.”

Before he can say another word, before he can even attempt to understand, your arms wrap around him. Your lips sink down onto his, just as soft as he imagined, just as sweet.

Then, everything dissolves. The stone walls around him, the setting sun through the window, the scent of herbs and fresh flowers. It leaves only the feel of your warm body, your lips on his. Until that disappears, too.

His eyes fly open, seeing nothing at first. Sound erupts around him like an explosion. Blurry shapes move in his periphery. The air is thick with smoke, his ears are ringing. His mouth tastes of blood. Hands are frantically pulling at him, moving him, shouting at him, around him, in words that he can’t make out.

It’s like he’s watching, barely present in his body as someone feels his wrist for a pulse, shines a light into his eyes, checks his body for injuries. He doesn’t understand. He was good, he was healing. He was at peace.

His body is limp as he gets strapped onto a stretcher. They may be talking to him, he thinks.

“He must’ve had a guardian angel,” someone next to him says.

Frankie isn’t listening. He’s scanning the treeline, the landscape around him. It was all right here, the sheep, the meadow.

It’s like you’re still right there, the phantom of your presence next to him, but he can’t see you anymore. Just like it was before, he could swear he hears you whisper.

thank you so much for reading <3 as always, comments and reblogs are love, i'm so excited to hear what you think!

and check out this gorgeous art piece by @millersblud 🫶🏻

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iloveenya · 4 months ago

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Adrift With You - A Frankie Morales Series - Chapter 22

Summary: Heading away on a work re-location, Frankie embarks on a flight, but unbeknownst to him, his life is about to change forever. For starters, he will need to fight for it - harder than he's ever fought for anything else before.

Marooned on an isolated island in the middle of the ocean, still recovering from an addiction, his chances of survival are bleak. But he’s not alone on the island, and soon he’s running towards a different kind of life - a life with fellow survivor, Jude, fighting right beside him every step of the way.

And if they can both survive the island together, they can survive anything, right?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x OFC Jude

Chapter Word Count: 7.6k

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | FRANKIE MORALES MASTERLIST

☝🏻See Series Masterlist for full smut warnings & triggers in this story. Chapters that contain smut or triggers will be highlighted in the chapter notes below. 👇🏻

Chapter Notes: Frankie and Jude get swept up in the publication of their story. Brief mentions of miscarriage.

Enjoy! 🖤

She's standing on the shore, the waves gently lapping over her bare toes, cool and soothing against the heat of the pebbly sand beneath her feet.

The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm golden glow that blurs the horizon, making her squint as she stares out at the endless expanse of ocean. It feels familiar - too familiar, like an echo from a life long past.

She’s certain it’s a dream, a memory, something that doesn’t belong to this world. These invasive fragments slip into her mind with increasing regularity, so much so that the line between reality and memory has begun to dissolve. Sometimes, she wonders if there’s any real difference at all.

This memory, this dream, is relentless in its vividness. The sensation is so sharp, so achingly real, it takes her breath away.

But she can always feel it - the weight of his arms wrapping around her from behind, a tether bringing her back to shore. Strong and comforting, the way his embrace tightens just beneath her ribs, as though holding on a little too long, a little too hard. Crushing and binding until her breath struggles to reach her throat.

His lips brush against the back of her neck, where the sun has left her skin tender and scorched. The kiss is featherlight, but it sends a shiver up her spine, a sensation that lingers, blurring the edges of time. It’s as if time itself hesitates, breathing in.

They stand there together, a united front facing the horizon, a perfect line where the deep blue of the ocean meets the azure sky, merging in a quiet romance that feels timeless. It feels like home.

No - it is home. It has to be. She’s convinced of it, and in so many others like it, where the memory grips her so tightly it feels like it’s happening all over again.

There are nightmares that haunt us in our sleep - the kind that creep into the quiet moments between breaths and linger long after we wake, casting shadows over the day. But there are also those that follow us when we’re awake, the ones we can’t shake, the ones that settle into our bones and take root in the spaces between reality and the past.

The island feels like one of those. A memory, a dream - perhaps both. It’s hard to tell a lot of the time. A crack in her mind, widening like a hole in her skull, splitting reality apart with a slow, grinding ache, the way nightmares do when they take on a life of their own.

But this dream, this memory - whatever it is - it doesn’t feel nightmarish anymore. It’s peaceful here, on the island. A strange, heavy calm settles over everything, over her, like the weight of a long-forgotten fuzzy blanket from childhood. It’s as though the edges of the world have softened, blurred, leaving only the stillness, the waves, and the warmth of the sun.

Home.

Jude exhales slowly, leaning into the moment, leaning into him.

Frankie’s chin presses into her shoulder, the point of it nestling into her collarbone, and for a brief second, everything feels right. There’s a familiarity that fills her with something she can’t quite name. His presence anchors her, toes rooting into the minute fossils below, a quiet assurance in the midst of the swirling confusion of dreams and memories.

"Do you think this is really real?" she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper of the tide.

Her hair, damp and oily from the heat and salt of the sea air, sticks to her lip. She drags it away with her finger absentmindedly, noticing how the braid Frankie had carefully tied that morning in the shack is now losing strands, tendrils escaping as the days pass, as though time itself is beginning to unravel around her.

Jude feels his chest rise and fall against her spine, pressing into her with a heavy, slow breath, as if the weight of the question itself has settled into him with its pulverising weight.

"Sometimes," Frankie answers after a long pause, his voice low and thoughtful, vibrating against her. "You know that moment when you first wake up? Right before you open your eyes? That second where everything feels... different, like you're suspended between the dream world and the real one?"

"Yeah," she whispers.

She knows that feeling too well. The in-between place, where reality and dreams blur so seamlessly it's hard to tell which is which. A place where she never got on that plane and a place where she gets on it over and over again, as if stuck in a loop. Sometimes, it feels like a safe escape, and other times, it's disorienting - leaving her untethered.

Lately, she's found herself lingering in that space longer, strewn across the cushion bed fading in and out - afraid of what waits on the other side when her eyes finally open.

Frankie exhales again, his breath warm on the nape of her neck. "That’s what this is," he concludes quietly.

His words settle into her, soft but heavy. He doesn’t need to explain further; she feels it too. This - whatever they’re living through now, this island, this strange limbo - it feels like one long, drawn-out breath between waking and sleeping. A place suspended in time, neither fully real nor fully a dream.

The island may be a fragment of her mind, a place where nightmares and peace coexist, but with Frankie here, it doesn’t matter. It’s home. Even if it’s only for a fleeting moment, even if it slips away the next time she blinks awake - it feels real enough to hold on to. She loops her fingers inside his across her gut and squeezes tightly as he holds on.

And he’s holding onto her now, hands tight inside hers and pulling her back out of that in-between.

Frankie’s heartbeat thuds in his ears, a relentless pulse that only grows louder with the weight of Jude’s words.

I want to go back to the island.

“What do you mean, go back?” His voice is tight, barely concealing the rising tide of anxiety swelling inside him.

Jude gives a small, reassuring smile, her eyes softening as she squeezes his hands in hers, holding on a little tighter until his finger tingle numb. She can feel the tremor running through them, the faint, involuntary quakes that betray the calm front he's trying to maintain.

The trembling is subtle, almost imperceptible to anyone else, but not to her. She's attuned to every nuance of him - the way his jaw tightens and ticks when he’s worried, the way his breath hitches when he's overwhelmed. The way he could slip off of this precarious edge at any moment.

"Hey, no. Not permanently," she reassures, her thumbs running gentle circles over his knuckles. "Just… the way we left, it was so fast.”

The droning sound of the speedboat reverberates in the back of her skull, a constant hum that rattles her thoughts. The speed still confuses her, disorienting and sudden. One moment, she was there - tethered to the island, rooted in its sand and silence - and then, with just a few giddy steps, that connection was severed. Gone. The boat had pulled her away so fast that it felt unreal, like the ground had been yanked out from beneath her feet.

The island shrank in the distance before she could even draw a proper breath, slipping from view with startling quickness. It became a dot on the horizon, dissolving into the endless stretch of sea, until it was as if it had never existed at all.

“I dunno. It sounds weird, but it’s like there's a part of me that’s still stuck there… And I need to bring her home." Jude’s voice cracks, eyes watery but she blinks them away before they have a chance to fall. Before she can say another word, he's quick - quicker than she expects.

Frankie pulls her into his arms, scooping her up and crushing her to his broad chest in a fierce, protective embrace. She feels his heartbeat, strong and steady, against her cheek, the solid rhythm grounding her in the moment.

He’s felt it too - that same unfinished business lingering, the gnawing sense that something vital has been left behind. A limb left in the bay where he fished. It haunts him, like wispy spectres lingering just out of sight, always tugging at the corners of his mind. It’s been there for so long that he’s almost grown used to it, but hearing her put it into words brings it all rushing back with a new intensity.

"I get it," he nods, his voice a little quieter now. "You should’ve said something sooner."

“I wasn’t sure what it was, you know? Not at first,” Jude admits, her voice taking on a reflective tone. “It’s only by having therapy that I’ve realised. It’s like all the reasons I can’t relax, can’t sleep, can’t seem to adjust... I haven’t been able to pick up my life again, not really - not since we left. And a part of me hasn’t wanted to, you know?"

“Yeah," he murmurs, the words heavy with recognition. "I do know.”

The dreams roll around the back of his head too, refusing to file themselves away. Each one drifts in and out of focus, a persistent echo of the past that he can’t quite shake. They tangle with his thoughts, surfacing unbidden, reminding him of moments that feel both vivid and elusive.

He remembers clutching onto her, the vibrations of the boat bouncing on the waves as it sped towards the naval ship, bruising his spine. The chaos of that moment, the urgent rush, and the shared fear between them remain etched in his memory. He couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t allow himself to fully accept it. It had all been wrenched away so quickly, the suddenness of their escape defying all reason.

They should have died on that sand, the aftermath of the tsunami leaving them with nothing but the slow, inevitable fading into oblivion. He felt cheated somehow, as though fate had snatched away what he’d expected and even welcomed. The randomness of their survival seemed almost cruel in its unpredictability. He'd imagined a different ending, one that was familiar and certain, and the abrupt divergence from that path left him grappling with a sense of loss and injustice.

“I think… maybe there’s a part of me still there, too.” Frankie squeezes her hands gently, grounding himself in the warmth of her touch.

The island wasn’t just a place they’d escaped from; it had become a part of them, woven into the very fabric of who they were now. It lingered in their minds like an imprint, a connection in their circulatory systems, flowing within them. Something they couldn’t shake, no matter how far they had come from it. Every memory of it, every moment spent on its briny shores, had seeped into their bones, shaping them in ways they hadn’t fully understood until now.

It wasn’t just the terror or the struggle of their time there - it was the quiet moments too, the isolation that stripped them down to their rawest selves. Primal, in a way. The island had demanded something from them, something they could never fully leave behind. It had become a ghost of its own, haunting them, not with fear, but with a strange sense of belonging, as if they’d left pieces of themselves scattered along its shores, buried in its sands.

To go back now wasn’t just about returning to a place; it was about confronting everything the island had taken from them - and everything it had given.

Finally, Frankie speaks again, his voice firmer this time. “When?”

Jude shrugs. “I dunno. Let’s get the book out of the way first.”

“And then we’ll go. I promise you.” Frankie concludes. “But we’re doing it right this time. We’ll have the means to leave safely. There’s no fuckin’ way we’re going without a boat on standby. We come back this time.”

Jude sniffs with relief, her shoulders sagging against him. "Thank you," she whispers, planting a kiss on his throat.

Frankie leans in, his forehead resting against hers. “I told you," he says quietly, a deep sincerity in his voice, "I’ll do anything for you, Jude. Anything.”

I suppose here is where I’ll insert a montage, a rapid shift through time that whirls around them both.

It’s not a gentle flow like grains of sand slipping through an hourglass, but rather a forceful, almost violent acceleration. Days and nights blend together, merging into a dizzying blur. The passage of time feels like a speeding train, racing forward with an intensity that leaves them disoriented, suspended in mid-air.

Remember when I mentioned early on when a plane crashes and passengers experience a moment of freefall or weightlessness as the plane slows down before the impact?

This phenomenon occurs due to the abrupt deceleration of the aircraft, causing a temporary state of suspension where the forces acting on the body are not aligned with the usual gravitational pull.

Yeah. That.

The ground beneath their feet seems almost non-existent these days, barely registering as they move through this relentless storm of brutal living. Each moment is a jarring leap from one to the next, a disorienting kaleidoscope where time’s usual rhythms are distorted. It’s as if their entire existence has been compressed into a single, frenetic pulse, where the familiar markers of time - the rising sun, the setting moon - are obscured by a relentless rush.

Frankie’s book, Adrift With You, feels heavy in his hands, its weight a tangible reminder of the past he’s been trying to navigate, both before and after the island. The real printed book, with its glossy cover and the scent of printed ink and recycled paper, is a stark contrast to the ethereal and shifting nature of their current reality.

As he holds it, the book feels like a bridge between their tumultuous present and the time they’ve spent entangled with the island’s secrets.

It’s one copy at first, a single, personal artefact that Frankie holds close - a solitary book representing a chapter of their shared journey in all its harrowingly beautiful detail. But soon, that one copy multiplies, spreading like ripples through water, microscopic cells that start to divide.

What started as a private memento, a way to wade through the salty waters of the unknown, grows into a phenomenon. Warehouses fill up with copies, and bookshop shelves are soon lined with the weight of them, their spines gleaming in the lights of the store windows.

Frankie and Jude wander past these bookshops, hand in hand, their fingers entwined. They see their story displayed prominently, copies of the book flaunting its cover, a testament to their experiences and struggles. The sight is surreal, almost dreamlike. It doesn’t quite feel real - this shift from a personal, intimate project to a widely recognized publication.

They pause to observe the scene with a mixture of awe and disbelief, as if they’re spectators in their own story.

And then the interviews come, as expected and as they were told they would. The media frenzy that follows the book’s release is relentless, a whirlwind of questions and scrutiny. Lila and her team do their best to shield them from the worst of it, providing a seat cushion of support and guidance, trying to manage the onslaught as much as possible.

But despite their valiant efforts, there comes a time when Frankie and Jude have to face it alone.

It's like ripping off a Band-Aid to reveal the weeping sore beneath - a painful, raw exposure that they can’t avoid. The reality of their situation is laid bare, unfiltered and unprotected. The interviews are invasive, probing into the parts of their lives they had hoped to keep private. They’re forced to confront the emotional wounds they’ve tried to heal, now thrust into the spotlight for all to pick at. But there’s no going back now.

It’s a stark and uncomfortable transition from their controlled, protected environment to the harsh light of public scrutiny, where they must navigate their own truths amidst the relentless attention.

But they face it all with their hands woven together so tightly it feels as though they’re melded together like melted wax, inseparable and unyielding.

“You’ve survived a plane crash, near starvation, a tsunami… You can survive this.” Jude tells herself in the bathroom mirrors when she slips away for a minute before the panic consumes her fully. “You can survive this.”

As they step into the spotlight together, their connection is palpable, a silent vow of solidarity amid the storm of public attention.

Audiences gasp and weep at their story, moved by the raw honesty that spills from their interviews. Cameras capture the quiet moments of vulnerability: Frankie’s furtive eyes peek out from beneath his worn and frayed cap, glancing at Jude for strength, seeking reassurance in the midst of the glare.

The cameras also catch Jude’s steadying breath, the way she holds it as if bracing herself for the emotional excavation, as though her very insides are being scooped out and laid bare for all to see.

Each night, they find themselves in different hotel beds, clinging to each other, seeking solace in the quiet moments before sleep. They question whether they’ve made the right choice, whether the exposure is worth the price. Their lives will never be the same again.

The money pours into their accounts, a flood of digits that seems to stretch on endlessly, more numbers than pi. Yet, despite the financial success, it doesn’t bring them the comfort they’ve hoped for. It’s a stark reminder that no amount of financial gain can replace the intimacy and understanding they share, nor can it ease the discomfort of having their innermost selves laid bare.

David fights tirelessly for them in court against the airline, their decision to sue feeling less like a personal choice and more like a heavy obligation, driven by the weight of public encouragement. It’s as though the choice is made for them, propelled by the pressure and support of those who believe they should seek justice.

The public's backing is a double-edged sword; it gives them strength but also amplifies the choppy, uneasy feeling swirling in Jude’s stomach, a constant reminder of the scrutiny and expectations they face.

Then, as if the legal battles and media frenzy weren’t enough, Sarah delivers news that adds another layer to their already complex situation. Michael has garnered significant interest from several Hollywood directors who want to adapt their book into a film. The idea of their deeply personal story being transformed into an actual, real movie stirs up a fresh wave of anxiety and excitement. It’s a thrilling opportunity, but also one that brings new challenges and invasions of privacy.

“We knew this might happen,” Frankie says, his voice steady but tinged with weariness, as he watches Jude. She stands by the large bay window of yet another hotel room, her gaze lost in the sprawling cityscape or perhaps just the void beyond.

Jude doesn’t turn to look at him; instead, she continues to stare out the window, the dim light from the setting sun casting a gentle glow on her face. “I know,” she whispers, her voice barely carrying over the hum of the city below. “They prepared us…”

Her words trail off, carrying the weight of unspoken exhaustion and the feeling of being perpetually adrift. Despite the preparations and the warnings, the reality of their situation has proven to be overwhelming. Each new hotel room, each new city, feels like another temporary anchor in a sea of relentless change. The promises of normalcy and rest seem distant and elusive, swallowed by the endless cycle of appearances, interviews, and legal battles.

Frankie’s gaze softens as he watches her, understanding the depth of her weariness. He knows that even with all the preparation and support, the reality of living in a constant flux takes its toll. They’d anticipated the challenges, but the weight of living them day after day is a burden neither of them fully expected.

He retreats into the bathroom, seeking to drown himself under a hot jet, his footsteps heavy as he makes his way across the tiles. Once inside, he grips the edges of the sink, his knuckles whitening as he breathes out slowly.

His thoughts buzz in a febrile hum of tension and longing, a chaotic swirl that he struggles to calm. He swallows hard, trying to force down the surge of emotions that threatens to overwhelm him.

With a groan, he cracks his neck from side to side, trying to release some of the built-up stress. It’s a futile effort against the siren call of cloudy inertia that tugs at him, a seduction of stagnation and resignation. The temptation to give in to this numbness feels almost physical; it claws at him, leaving goose pimples across his skin as if the very air is charged with it. His hands tremble, a constant reminder of the weakness that clings on.

His reflection catches in the mirror, and he shakes his head vehemently, trying to clear the fog in his mind. Tossing his cap on the counter he runs the faucet, cool water splashing over his face. Just as the tension seems unbearable, his phone buzzes with a new message.

It’s from Carla, and attached is a video of his son.

Frankie’s eyes water as he watches the clip. His son giggles with unrestrained joy, making a delightful mess with his dinner, spaghetti sauce all over his cheeks and Carla gets him to wave for his daddy. The simple, pure happiness on his child’s face pulls at Frankie's heart, a sharp reminder of what’s truly important, salvation in gurgly pixels.

He smiles, feeling a tug on his weary soul as the longing to be with his son intensifies. Visits have been sparse, lost in the whirlwind of book tours and media chaos. A back and forth of anxious flights, distances bridged and limited time spent with stuffed dinosaurs, messy diapers and strolls to the park to feed ducklings.

Yet, watching his son’s unfiltered joy makes him yearn for an escape - a chance to find peace somewhere with Jude and his son, away from the relentless pressure and constant movement.

The sudden sensation of hands gently massaging his broad shoulders pulls him back to the present. He turns slightly to see Jude's face joining his weary reflection in the glass, her expression warm, yet plainly exhausted.

He holds up his phone to show her the clip of their son, and Jude’s eyes light up, a tender hum escaping her as she watches. The sight of his child’s joy is infectious, and for a moment, the weight of their current situation seems to lift.

“He’s so beautiful,” she reminds him.

"I want you to meet him," Frankie says as he swings the bathroom door shut, sealing them in.

He runs the shower as Jude takes off her clothes and she reaches for his belt.

Jude’s smile widens, her eyes shimmering with sincerity. "I’d really like that," she replies, her voice swallowed by his kiss.

Meeting Carla fills Jude with more anxiety than meeting his son.

She watches the ease between Carla and Frankie, noticing a softness there now that Frankie had once described as tinged with brittleness. It’s a familiarity that makes Jude uneasy, echoing how Frankie must have felt when Nate intruded on their space at the restaurant. She wants to dislike her, as most women do with their partners' exes.

Yet, unlike the tense encounter with Nate, Jude feels a surprising sense of relief as she observes Carla's genuine warmth and sincerity towards them both.

The kindness in Carla's demeanour eases some of her apprehension, offering a reassuring glimpse into the deeper connections in Frankie’s life. They both share something in common - they’ve both seen Frankie when he’s been weak.

While Frankie gives his son a bath upstairs, Carla hands Jude a mug of coffee. The moment for inevitable small talk seems poised to unfold, but instead, Carla opens up about her past with Frankie. She shares her own experiences, making it clear that her intentions are rooted in wanting what’s best for her son.

Carla takes a deep breath, her eyes reflecting a mixture of sadness and pride. “I thought he was dead. Even before the island,” she begins, her voice trembling slightly. “I watched him spiral so many times, making choices that nearly destroyed him. It was like… standing on the sidelines, helpless, while he unravelled.” Carla explains, her voice heavy with the weight of her memories.

She delves into the countless times she watched as Frankie struggled, his self-destructive tendencies leaving her feeling powerless until she had to walk away.

Jude listens intently, her heart aching at Carla’s words. She sips her coffee, trying to steady her own emotions. “It’s hard to see someone you care about go through that.”

“It really is.” Carla nods, her gaze unwavering. “He’s strong, though. I’m proud of him, despite everything. He’s come so far. But it hasn’t been easy.”

“He’s strong,” Jude agrees, her voice warm with admiration.

Carla’s gaze softens, and she adds, “So are you.”

Jude shrugs as she looks down into her mug. “Maybe,” she murmurs.

“Do you worry about it?” Carla asks.

Jude takes a deep breath, her gaze drifting to the window where the sunlight filters through. “Sometimes,” she admits, her voice tinged with concern. “I wonder if the pressure of being back here will get to him. That he’ll slip, you know?”

Carla nods. “It’ll always be there in the background.”

Jude’s eyes meet Carla’s, finding a sense of shared understanding in her gaze. “It’s not just about the surroundings, though. It’s the emotional weight of everything that’s happened. He carries a lot with him, and I worry that it might be too much sometimes.”

Carla’s gaze softens, and she reaches out to squeeze Jude’s hand reassuringly. “I know it’s a lot to carry. For both of you. There isn’t anybody on this planet that will understand what you both went through except one another. Girl, that’s heavy… but the both of you found each other. That’s gotta mean something.”

“It does.” Jude agrees.

“Frankie’s come so far. He’s not the person I once knew, loved…” Jude watches as her eyes water and she wipes at them, the bracelets on her wrist tinkling. “That person died out there. And I’m glad, because he needed to change. And he’s not alone in this. You’re there for him, and that makes a difference.” Carla reaches out, taking Jude’s hand. “I’m glad he has you,” she says earnestly. “You’ve both been through a lot, but you’re stronger together. He really loves you.”

“I really love him, too.” Jude says, her own eyes glistening with emotion.

“Give it time. You’ll both be alright in the end.”

Jude, moved by Carla’s words, reaches for her, almost spilling her coffee in the process. They embrace, Jude pressing her face into Carla’s hair. “Thank you,” she whispers, her voice choked with emotion.

As Frankie pauses on the stairs, his son perched against his hip, watching the two women in his life come together in mutual respect, he can't help but smile.

The time away together feels like another dream, an ephemeral escape that slips through her fingers no matter how hard Jude tries to hold on.

It’s a fleeting sanctuary, a weekend secluded up the coast, where linen billows gently in the breeze and wildflowers sway. The tranquillity is so far removed from the relentless reality she’s been floundering in for so long that it seems almost too perfect to be real.

The beauty of their surroundings, the simplicity and peace of it all, feels like a distant memory, as if it’s something she might struggle to recall clearly once she’s back in the storm of her usual life.

The idyllic scene, so different from the chaos and tension of their everyday existence, begins to feel like a mirage, a beautiful illusion that she fears she might not be able to fully remember or hold onto.

There’s a moment at a local fair, where Frankie and his son are riding the teacups, their laughter mingling with the cheerful, whimsical music of the local carnival. The teacups spin in a joyous blur of colours, and Frankie’s face lights up with a rare, unguarded happiness as he playfully steers the cup, while his son giggles, clutching the sides with delight.

Unable to resist the charm of the scene, pulls out her phone. She captures the moment with a quick snap, freezing the joy and togetherness of the ride. The photograph, vibrant and full of life, seems to crystallise the fleeting happiness of the day. Yet, as she looks at the image, it evokes a questionable pang of longing.

As the days pass, the contrast between this peaceful interlude and the frenetic pace they’ve been living through starts to drown her in a sense of melancholy. The fear of losing this precious moment, of having it dissolve into just another wistful memory, presses heavily on her to the point that something’s threatening to snap.

It happens when she’s holding Frankie Junior inside of her arms - a name that still makes her chuckle because he’s everything like his father, curious and stoic all at the same time.

She can hear Frankie in the kitchen of their Air Bn'b somewhere, the gentle whir of a microwave and the scents of food making her stomach gurgle. And it’s this picture of domesticity that flatlines her.

The sleeping babe suddenly becomes a heavy weight in her hands she can’t quite manage. Before she fully realises what’s happening, Jude’s legs begin to give way.

Frankie’s voice cuts through the calm, his yelling piercing the air as he rushes to her side, catching her before she and his son hit the ground. The sound of their son’s cries mingles with Frankie’s urgent calls, a jarring contrast to the earlier serenity.

Jude feels herself slipping away, the room spinning as she loses her grip on reality and the ocean takes her into its depths once more.

“What happened?” Frankie’s voice cuts through the fog as Jude starts to regain her senses. It feels both like mere moments and swampy hours later.

His face, etched with concern, comes into focus, but there’s a heavy fuzz behind her eyelids that makes everything feel distant.

Jude’s first thought is of Frankie Junior. “Is he okay?” she asks, panic lacing her voice. In her sudden rush to sit up, she almost headbutts Frankie, her fear that she might have harmed his son in her fall overwhelming her.

Frankie, maintaining a calming presence, gently shushes her and pushes against her shoulders to keep her from moving too quickly. “He’s okay,” he reassures her, nodding towards the little figure across the room.

Frankie Junior is engrossed in building blocks, his tiny hands working diligently. His eyes, wide and innocent, are locked onto Jude, reflecting both his concern and curiosity.

“Shit…” Jude mutters, her breath coming in uneven gasps as she collapses back onto the sofa.

“Jude.” Frankie’s voice is soft but firm as he takes her hands, grounding her in the present. “Talk to me.”

She feels his hands, warm and steady, and it helps to anchor her.

“I don’t know, it was just… a moment.” Jude’s voice trembles as she tries to articulate the overwhelming sensation, but the words feel inadequate.

She fights against the pull of her memories, desperately trying not to relive them. It’s like a breath that won’t fully form, hanging heavy and unfulfilled in the back of her throat.

She tries not to go back there, to block it out but it barges its way in nonetheless. The images flood back, sharp and painful, slicing through her composure. She sees the crimson sand clumped at her feet. She remembers Frankie lifting her into the water, her sobs muffled against his shoulder, the anguish of that moment as raw as it was in reality. Her body had waged a painful rebellion, an unbearable force tearing at her insides as it purged the child she wasn’t meant to have.

“Hermosa…” Frankie presses his forehead to hers as she croaks out. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.” He soothes as he crushes her close to him.

“I’m sorry,” she gurgles through tears.

“Ssh, you've nothing to be sorry for. You’re okay.” He clutches the back of her skull as he rocks her gently. “You’re okay.”

“What if I can’t… what if we can never-” She glances at the toddler watching her starkly.

His tiny fingers clutching on a plastic block before he outstretches his hand as though offering it to her. The gesture, so pure and unburdened, stirs something deep within, something that itches and gnarls.

“Hey. Stop it.” Frankie’s gaze is resolute, cutting through her spiralling thoughts. “We’ll figure this out. Together. But right now, you need to rest, you’re fuckin’ exhausted.”

His words are both a command and a comfort, an acknowledgment of her fatigue and the immense weight she’s been carrying for so long that she hasn't noticed it creep up on her. Exhaustion is an understatement.

As he holds her, the tension in her shoulders begins to ease, and the overwhelming weight of her fears starts to lift, if only slightly.

She wonders if she’ll ever be truly free of them.

The break they had hoped would be a reprieve from the relentless pace of their lives doesn’t offer the calming effect Frankie had envisioned.

Instead, as soon as they return after dropping his son back with Carla, they find themselves thrust back into a relentless schedule of calls and meetings, immersed back in a world that seems intent on inserting itself between their very muscle and bones.

Yet, in the midst of this tumultuous whirlwind, there’s an underlying truth they must confront: life doesn’t pause or slow down for them. It has to move forward, with or without their consent.

And so life moves forward. A new chapter begins to unfold as a new home beckons - a modest abode practically sitting on top of the Floridian coastline, chosen with care and intention. The new space represents more than just a change of address; it’s a step towards a more stable and connected life together, one that brings them closer to Frankie’s son and offers a fresh start amidst the ongoing chaos.

The new home, with its expansive layout and additional space, presents an opportunity for a potential studio. Jude’s eyes light up as she imagines converting part of the house into a photography studio, a dream she’s held close but never fully explored. It’s a chance to revisit her passion, to create and capture moments that speak to her soul.

“I think it’s a great idea,” Frankie says, wrapping an arm around her as they walk through the space. “It’s important for you to keep doing what you love if that's what you want.” They stand together, envisioning the studio’s future, and the prospect of Jude’s photography taking shape once again.

Their new home also offers a magnificent view of the ocean, a view that neither of them can seem to relinquish fully now. The rhythmic sound of the waves and the shifting colours of the water provide a comforting, almost meditative quality, something Jude finds herself seeking more and more as she sits, knees drawn up on the sand as Frankie watches from the balcony with a mixture of affection and concern at her daily vigil.

It reminds him of all the times he found her sitting on the rocks back on the island, and her isolation itches at the back of his scalp.

As the waves retreat, his gaze lingers on her figure outlined against the soft, golden light of the setting sun. There’s a quiet intensity to her presence, a sense of introspection that he recognizes but can’t fully grasp. As the waves draw back, there’s a fleeting fear in Frankie’s mind - a concern that she might retreat along with them, withdrawing into a space he can’t reach.

As Frankie’s phone buzzes, he’s initially tempted to ignore it, to remain in the tranquil moment of watching Jude find solace by the ocean.

He swipes his thumb over the screen and the message that appears from Michael is significant: the go-ahead for the feature film adaptation of their book has been given, and production is set to start soon.

Instead of dwelling on the news, Frankie’s gaze follows Jude as she stands up from her spot on the sand, brushing off grains and beginning her walk back to the house. The sight of her, retreating from the calming embrace of the ocean, captures his attention more than the news on his phone.

“Hey,” Jude says softly as she steps up the wooden steps onto the balcony. The sound of the waves and the soft rustling of the ocean breeze accompany her arrival, blending with the warmth of the evening light.

Frankie turns to her, his face lighting up with a genuine smile. He reaches out, pulling her close with a tender embrace.

“Missed you,” he murmurs into her hair, his voice low and filled with affection.

Jude responds by wrapping her arms around him, nestling into the comforting strength of his embrace.

As she settles against him, Frankie can’t help but feel a deep sense of relief and contentment. The world outside seems to fade, leaving just the two of them and the serene backdrop of the ocean. If he closes his eyes and tunes it all out, he can swear they’re home.

“The film’s being made. Michael texted just now.” Frankie says, his voice tinged with a mix of excitement and disbelief as he shares the news with Jude.

“Oh,” Jude responds, her tone distant as she processes the information.

“Apparently they’ve already cast an actor to play me.”

“Who?” Jude looks up at him curiously.

“Dieter Bravo?” He shrugs.

Jude snickers softly. “Never heard of him.”

“Michael says we should go there, meet the director, crew…” Frankie trails off, gauging her reaction.

“Yeah,” Jude says, her voice carrying a note of contemplation.

“Only if you want to?”

“No, we should. I mean… it’s not every day you get a film made about your life, right?”

Frankie smirks. “No, guess not.”

Jude chuckles, shaking her head with a bemused smile. “That sounds so ridiculous.”

He laughs too. “Yeah. Fuckin’ crazy.”

LA is just like New York - loud, clanging.

The city hums with a relentless energy that feels familiar yet distinctly its own. The honking of horns, the chatter of people on the streets, and the constant whir of activity creates a cacophony that fills the air.

As Frankie and Jude navigate the bustling streets, they find that the noise is different, but not necessarily quieter. It’s a new kind of loud, marked by the clamour of Hollywood dreams, the buzz of entertainment, and the vibrant pulse of a city that never truly sleeps.

In this sea of noise and motion, they’re swept along by the current of people and sounds, yet there’s a sense of excitement and possibility among the palms.

When Frankie and Jude meet with the team behind the film, the experience is both surreal and grounding. The people they encounter - directors, producers, writers, and actors - are all driven by a shared vision to bring their story to life on the big screen. Despite the grandeur of the project and the buzz of Hollywood, the team feels surprisingly down-to-earth and relatable.

Except for Dieter Bravo. His air of nonchalance seems to elevate stoicism to a new level. When Frankie and Jude meet him, his demeanour is cool and detached, a stark contrast to the enthusiastic and approachable nature of the rest of the team. Dieter carries himself with an almost effortless composure, his relaxed posture and casual demeanour giving off an impression of disinterest, or perhaps an arrogance that’s hard to read.

He nods politely, engages in conversation with a clipped efficiency, and maintains a certain distance behind large sunglasses that makes it difficult for Frankie and Jude to gauge his true feelings about the project.

“Are you sure you don’t have a twin brother you haven’t told me about?” Jude quips to Frankie, her tone light but bemused. “He’s your exact double.”

“I know, it’s fuckin’ weird.” Frankie mutters just as bemused.

The resemblance between Frankie and Dieter Bravo is striking. Jude watches with fascination, noting how Dieter’s movements mirror Frankie’s almost too perfectly. It’s as if he’s a doppelgänger come to life, embodying Frankie’s physical quirks with eerie precision.

It’s uncanny to see them both in the same room - Dieter even shares some of Frankie’s mannerisms: the absent-minded scratching of his chin, the way he rubs his face when he’s deep in thought, and the restless darting of his eyes.

Jude takes the opportunity to Google Dieter Bravo, her curiosity piqued by the uncanny resemblance between him and Frankie. As she scrolls through the search results on her phone, she discovers more about Dieter’s background and rocky career. To her surprise, she learns that Dieter has struggled with his own battles, including a past with a narcotics addiction. Glancing up at the actor, his tired eyes finally revealed from behind his dramatic shades, she finds this connection both intriguing and unsettling. It adds a layer of depth to the casting choice, making her wonder how much of Dieter’s own experiences will influence his portrayal of Frankie.

The actress cast to play Jude is Natalie Skelton, a slip of a woman whose delicate frame and expressive features make a staggering impression. Despite her slender appearance, there's a compelling strength in the way she carries herself, a quality that hints at the depth and resilience of Jude’s own character.

She listens intently during the conversations with Frankie and Jude offering corrections or insight to the plot of the script, absorbing every detail to ensure she portrays Jude with authenticity and makes so many notes. Her demeanour is warm and earnest, contrasting with Dieter Bravo’s more frigid presence, and she quickly connects with both Frankie and Jude on a personal level, leaving them both a little relaxed about the casting choices.

“I really like her,” Jude says.

“Yeah, she’s kinda feisty, like you.” Frankie remarks.

Jude shares her findings with Frankie later over dinner, the casual setting of their meal providing a comfortable backdrop for the conversation. The air is filled with the scent of grease and the clinking of cutlery as they sit with their burgers.

She recounts what she discovered about Dieter Bravo’s struggles with addiction, noting the eerie parallels between his experiences and Frankie’s.

Frankie nods thoughtfully, chewing on a mouthful of greasy burger meat. “I mean, he seems like he would get it though,” he muses, shrugging as he swallows. His expression reflects a blend of curiosity and scepticism.

Jude looks at him with a concerned expression. “How are you doing? Really?”

Frankie meets her gaze with a warm smile. “I’m tired, but I’m good,” he replies. His tone is reassuring, but there’s a subtle vulnerability in his eyes that betrays the weight of the recent changes and challenges. “Just taking it one step at a time through this fuckin’ circus.”

Jude nods, her own smile softening as she reaches across the table to squeeze his hand. “We’re in this together,” she reminds him quietly, offering a moment of shared understanding.

Frankie’s smile widens, a genuine sense of comfort and gratitude shining through. “Yeah. We are. How are you doing, you good?”

“Yeah.” She smiles, picking up her burger and sighing in relief as she takes a huge bite. “Oh my God…” She moans.

Frankie chuckles, watching her with a mix of amusement and affection. “I take it you’re enjoying that?”

Jude nods vigorously, still savouring the taste. “It’s incredible. Tastes just like that first burger we had in South Africa.”

She holds it out to him and he takes an enthusiastic bite, ketchup dripping down his fuzzy chin.

Frankie grins around his mouthful, wiping his face with a napkin. “That’s a high compliment. That burger was fuckin' legendary.”

Jude laughs, her eyes sparkling with amusement. “I was craving something that felt a bit like home, you know?” She muses taking another big bite.

He looks at her, dark eyes softening at the edges. “Home?”

She nods as she swallows. “Yeah. Home.”

Home is the taste of the sea spray at the back of her throat. It’s the roar of the engines from the plane, the darkness of the cave they explored, and the crackle of the fire they shared. Home is the terrifying height of the waves hurtling towards them, the sight of dry land after a long journey. It’s the grip of his fingers around hers, the feel of him inside her, and the grease in the burger meat they’re savouring right now.

Home is in the smile blanching across Frankie’s features - a quiet, reassuring sign that despite everything, they’ve found something profoundly grounding and real. In each of these moments, home isn’t defined by a single place or experience but by the sensations, memories, and connections that stitch together their shared life, despite its cragged exterior.

He nods too, smiling.

“How do you say home in Spanish?” Jude asks as she picks up her drink and licks her lips.

“Hogar.” Frankie smiles at her. “Mi hogar está contigo.”

“My home is with you?” Jude asks, translating the words she’s picked up from countless times listening to his native tongue on the island.

He nods, smiling. “Yeah. My home is with you.”

To be continued...

SERIES MASTERLIST | CHAPTER 23

Thank you for taking the time to read my story; it really means so much to me. I'd love to know your thoughts, and I'd really appreciate a re-blog so others can enjoy this story too. Thank you so much 🖤

SERIES MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST | FRANKIE MORALES MASTERLIST

Tagging those that were tagged previously on this story, I may have missed some of you due to my old comments with tags in being removed when I deactivated, so apologies if I've missed you off. If you want to be removed that's cool too.

@suzdin @missladym1981 @millennial-teenybopper @msjarvis

@burntheedges @inept-the-magnificent @casa-boiardi @sin-djarin @jessthebaker

@rhoorl @disassociation-daydreams @quinnnfabrgay @chronically-ghosted @fuckyeahdindjarin

@chiriwritesstuff @copperhalfcent @bluestar22x @5oh5 @gobaaby-blog-blog

@myloveistoolittle @pastawench @maggiemayhemnj @secretelephanttattoo @yesjazzywazzylove-blog

@thethirstwivesclub @seratuyo @mysterious-moonstruck-musings @toomanytookas @survivingandenduring

@lizzie-cakes @sawymredfox @iloveenya @elegantduckturtle @covetyou

@jolapeno @connectioneverywhere @trulybetty @nerdieforpedro @thisneozonerecs

@sir-thisisadndserver @anavatazes @doughmonkey @lilmizmoz @sukitruqui

@76bookworm76 @weho2kcmo @tanzthompson

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