#Frankie Morales

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 5: "The one with the red lights" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Despite your reluctance, you find yourself at Santi’s house for dinner. But Frankie presses too hard, pulling things out of you that you’d rather keep buried—until all that’s left is the worst version of yourself. WC: 10.1k

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The white ceiling stretched above you, blank and unfeeling, while your mind filled in the emptiness with shapes that weren’t really there. Faces, maybe. Or memories, distorted at the edges. You knew you were indulging in unnecessary pessimism, but you let yourself sink into it anyway. Surely you were entitled to a day like this every once in a while—one where grief sat heavy on your chest and refused to move. Unfortunately, your timing couldn’t have been worse. Not that you had chosen it; no one ever does. You don’t get to decide when your heart shatters for the second time, or when the pieces that were already broken fracture further, splintering into something even smaller, even harder to hold.

The day before, Frankie had left without much ceremony, tossing out a casual see you tomorrow as he passed you. You hadn’t answered. You’d been too consumed, too wrapped up in your own head, and he hadn’t pressed you on it. Just walked out the door like it was any other day. After that, the ghost of him lingered in the space he’d occupied, his scent still woven into the fabric of the couch where he’d slept. You hated it. Hated that it made your stomach twist, that it pulled you toward something you didn’t want to name. You forced yourself upright, inhaling sharply as if that could steady you.

Because, really, what was it about him? What had changed? He’d always made you uneasy—before, because you were simply too different, two puzzle pieces that would never click together. And now… now it was something else. Something worse. It had to do with the way he looked at you, the way he seemed to understand exactly what was happening inside your head without you having to say a word. As if he could see right through you, past all the sharp edges you put up to keep people from doing exactly that. And that wasn’t good. That wasn’t good at all. Because the last person you wanted to be understood by was Francisco. The person who irritated you most, who had always known exactly how to push your buttons. And now, somehow, he had figured out where your soft spots were too.

And after he left, you did your best to pull yourself together. You pushed yourself up from the couch, stretching limbs that felt heavier than they should, and searched for something to fill the space. A book, a movie—something to quiet the restless ache in your chest. But nothing worked. The feeling stayed, creeping up the way it always did, slow and insidious, like ink bleeding through paper. A dull, familiar ache, resurfacing in waves, catching you off guard just when you thought you’d distracted yourself enough to forget.  

Eventually, you gave up. Skipped dinner, still drained from friday’s birthday and the weight of everything you were carrying. You crawled into bed early, exhaustion settling into your bones, hoping—without much conviction—that sleep would make things better. That maybe sunday would arrive with something softer, something easier to hold.

And now, it was sunday, and you had promised yourself—firmly, resolutely—that you wouldn’t do this again. That you wouldn’t let yourself spiral down this particular rabbit hole. But somehow, your phone was already in your hand, your thumb moving over the screen with quiet urgency, scanning for details, for scraps of information, anything that might offer some insight into this world that was no longer yours. That had never truly been yours to begin with.

Harry.

Harry looked happy, the kind of happiness that came easily to people who knew exactly where they were going. His profile was filled with snapshots of motion, of departure, of a life that never stayed still—deep blue lakes, endless seas, rivers cutting through valleys, mountains rising against wide open skies. He had always loved to travel. He had asked you to go with him, more than once, throwing out invitations like they were simple, effortless things. But you had always said no. Too much to do. The bookstore, your finances, some minor health concern—a cold, a flu, a vague sense of exhaustion that never seemed to lift.

Now, Harry traveled with Lisa. They stood together in front of massive cliffs, on balconies bathed in golden light. She fit so easily into the spaces you never stepped into, the spaces you had let slip through your fingers. In one photo, a caption read:

"I would recognize you in the dark. Always you. There I belong."

The words blurred almost instantly. Your vision swam, the sting of tears creeping in before you could stop them. You set the phone down beside you, face down on the mattress, as if that could somehow soften the blow. Then you pulled the covers over your head, curling into yourself, as if hiding could protect you from any of this. As if it could make any of it hurt less.

Then your phone vibrated, the screen lighting up with a new notification.

Santi: Be here at seven. I got that cake you’re obsessed with, so don’t even think about bailing.

A grimace—something between a smirk and a scowl—tugged at the corner of your mouth as your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then you typed:

You: Eat it yourself.

Silence. Then the three little dots appeared, pulsing like a tiny, judgmental heartbeat.

You let out a sharp exhale, tilting your head back against the pillow.

Santi: No

Santi: Don’t make me come drag you here

Santi: Consider yourself warned

His reply came almost instantly. He’d been expecting this.

You: I look terrible dude I’ll see you another day

You: Tell Yov I’m sorry

Santi: Too late, she’s already setting everything up 

You shut your eyes and pressed the phone against your chest, as if that might somehow shield you from the conversation happening in real time.

You: I’m serious

You locked your phone and let it drop onto the bed beside you, exhaling sharply as you rolled onto your side. Your hands tucked under your cheek, your eyes shut, as if squeezing them closed hard enough might make everything disappear.    

Santi: And so am I

Santi: Get. Out. Of. Bed.

Now what? Were you really supposed to drag yourself to Santi’s house and pretend everything was fine? Sit there, smiling, making small talk, acting like you weren’t unraveling from the inside out? And worse—look Frankie in the eye, knowing that just yesterday he had been prying into the most private corners of your mind?  

And how much had he read, exactly?  

Not that it mattered. Not in the sense that would be humiliating. Because Frankie wasn’t someone you were interested in impressing. If anything, he was the last person whose opinion you gave a damn about. You had spent years not caring what he thought of you, what he assumed about you, what conclusions he might have drawn from the glimpses he caught of your life.  

But then again.  

You weren’t stupid. You knew exactly what kind of man he was—sharp, perceptive, the kind who could take something small, something insignificant, and wield it like a weapon if he wanted to. He had the power to tear you apart if he ever felt like it.    

And the truth was, you’d already embarrassed yourself enough.

The cab rolled away behind you, tires humming against the pavement, as you climbed the steps to Santi’s porch. You had wanted to look decent—you had tried. A long, scalding shower, ages spent drying and combing your hair, a careful hand smoothing makeup over tired skin. Just enough to bring some life back into your face, to soften the edges of the bruises that still clung stubbornly to your lips. The swelling had gone down, but the mark was still there, a smear of purple at the curve of your mouth. A fresh bruise was blooming just above your upper lip, darker now, more noticeable.

The summer dress you’d chosen hit just above your knees. Light, effortless. You hoped it would be enough to make you look put-together. Unbothered. As if there was nothing clawing at your insides, nothing unsettled under your skin.

Behind you, the sound of a car door shutting made your breath hitch. You knew before you turned. Of course you did.

You pressed the doorbell, inhaling through your nose, exhaling slow. Behind you, footsteps. Measured. Unhurried. Then, close—too close—you felt him at your back.

“You gave me a black eye,” Frankie said, his voice easy, almost conversational. He stepped up beside you, watching you the way someone watches an oncoming storm—half amused, half waiting to see how bad it’ll get.

From inside, Santi’s voice called, distant over the low thrum of music. “Coming!”

You gave in, looking at Frankie. Couldn’t help yourself. And yes, there it was—proof of your handiwork. The deep violet shadow blooming under his eye, the cut along the bridge of his nose, healing but still raw. No more swelling, but unmistakable evidence that, at some point, your phone had connected with his face.

You smiled, slow and sharp.

“Hi, Francisco,” you said, saccharine-sweet. “Nice to see you. How are you? Do people not greet each other anymore?”

He huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“You and I are way past formalities, don’t you think?”

Before you could fire back, the door swung open.

Santi’s eyes flicked between the two of you, amusement quickly giving way to confusion.

“What the—” His brows drew together. “What the fuck happened to you two? Are you okay?”

You stepped inside, the familiar warmth of the house wrapping around you as you leaned in to press a kiss to Santi’s cheek, neatly sidestepping his question. The air smelled incredible and that, more than whatever interrogation he was preparing, held your attention.

Behind you, Frankie pulled Santi into a brief hug, murmuring something low enough that you couldn’t quite catch it. Not that you cared. Whatever was said between them didn’t concern you.

“Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?” Santi asked again, falling into step beside you as you made your way toward the kitchen.

Before you could answer, Yovanna appeared at the end of the hallway, her bright, welcoming smile instantly faltering when she caught sight of you. Her gaze flicked from your face to Frankie’s, concern replacing confusion.

“What the hell happened?”

You wrapped her in a hug, squeezing tight. Behind you, Frankie greeted her too, though his hug was more polite, restrained, as if wary of how much space he was allowed to take up here. Yovanna pulled back just enough to get another look at him, her expression shifting toward something almost amused.

“Damn,” she said, tilting her head. “You got the worst of it, huh?”

“Yeah, we got into a fight,” you lied breezily, propping yourself against the wall.

Santi shot you a look, eyebrows knitting together.

“With some drunks,” you elaborated. “Not that it means much, considering we were drunk too. Weren’t we, Francisco?”

Frankie turned his head toward you, one eyebrow raised, his hands settling on his hips like he was about to demand an explanation for whatever this was. His face was all curiosity and mild disbelief.

“I—”

“It was after the wedding,” you steamrolled on. “At a gas station. God, you should’ve seen us, it was ridiculous—”

“Oh, shut up,” Santi cut in, waving a dismissive hand.

Frankie bit back a laugh, tipping his head back slightly.

“Actually,” he said, as if suddenly feeling generous with the truth, “she hit me.”

Santi and Yovanna blinked at him.

“Right here,” he added, gesturing in a small circle beneath his bruised eye.

You let out an incredulous scoff, crossing your arms.

“I was naked,” you announced, tone scandalized, “and this pervert was just standing in my living room when he’d told me the night before that he was leaving.”

Santi looked between the two of you, his exasperation deepening.

“Stop it,” Frankie muttered, shaking his head.

“No, Santi should know,” you pressed on. “And while we’re at it, what’s with the whole going through my stuff thing? I swear to God, I’m sure—”

“Okay, enough,” Santi interrupted, slashing his hand through the air like a referee calling time-out. Yovanna, beside him, was practically vibrating with amusement.

“I’m hungry,” Santi continued, voice firm. “And you’re already late. Save the drama for later.”

An hour later, your plate sat in front of you, half-eaten, your fingers curled around the stem of a wine glass. The conversation had drifted, as it inevitably would, to your brother’s wedding. Across the table, Yovanna was talking animatedly about the preparations, her hands moving as she spoke, while Santi just stared at her like she’d personally hung the moon. He had that ridiculous, soft expression—the one that made you roll your eyes but also kind of want to cry because, well, love like that wasn’t exactly common.

Beside you, Frankie was quiet, his own glass in his hand, his plate already cleared. He wasn’t looking at you, but you could feel him there, as much a presence as the wine in your bloodstream.

“We were lucky we didn’t completely lose our minds,” Yovanna was saying, shooting a knowing glance at Santi, who nodded in agreement. “You know what they say—wedding planning is a trial for a couple. If you can’t survive that…” She shook her head, lips pressing together in mock seriousness.

“That’s true,” Santi agreed, his gaze lingering on her in a way that made you want to gag.

“Uh-huh,” Yovanna hummed, her eyes flicking from her fiancé to you and Frankie. Her expression shifted, just slightly, her amusement sharpening. “But, I mean, parties in general can be… intense. And I think you two might know something about that by now, don’t you?”

A laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “I was wondering how long it would take for someone to bring it up.”

Yovanna just lifted a shoulder, clearly entertained. “Can you blame us?”

“No, she can't,” Santi chimed in. “And trust me, I have so many questions. Number one—what the fuck happened to your faces?”

“She hit me,” Frankie said immediately, lifting a shoulder like it was no big deal.

Santi rolled his eyes. “Come on, I’m serious.”

“So am I.” Frankie’s grin widened. “She thought I was an intruder or something and threw her phone at my face.”

Santi turned to you, eyebrows raised in pure curiosity. Yovanna, beside him, stayed quiet, her gaze bouncing between the three of you like she was watching an increasingly ridiculous play unfold.

You exhaled, shifting in your seat, throwing Frankie a glare. “Okay, let me explain this properly.”

Frankie made a gesture like please, go ahead.

“So, after the wedding, we went to my place, and we were… kind of drunk—”

Santi raised a hand, cutting you off. “You both went to your place?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes, and then I fell out of the car, which is why my mouth is messed up. Frankie helped me inside, and then I went to sleep—”

“You fell?”

You huffed. “Yeah. He gave me slippers that were way too big, and when I stepped out of the Uber, I tripped.”

Santi looked between you and Frankie, biting back a smile. “Well, you were also drunk, right? That might’ve been a factor.”

You rolled your eyes, and beside you, Frankie let out a small, knowing huff.

“She doesn’t look where she’s walking,” he said, like he had just uncovered some deep truth about you. “She just moves and expects the world to accommodate her, her eyes always on the clouds. I noticed that last night. That’s why she fell, not the slippers.”

You turned your head slowly, squinting at him. “Francisco. If I hadn’t been wearing those slippers, I wouldn’t have tripped.”

Frankie exhaled dramatically. “Oh, I’m sorry for trying to help with the fact that your feet were literally almost bleeding from your shoes. Would you have preferred that? Just say ‘thank you’ and move on.”

“No.”

“Jesus Christ,” Yovanna muttered under her breath, shooting a glance at Santi, who just shook his head, trying—and failing—not to laugh.

You sighed and turned back to them. “Anyway. I fell, got hurt, my dress was ruined, so we went upstairs, Frankie helped me clean up, and then he said he was going to leave—”

“I was going to leave,” Frankie interjected. “But I fell asleep on the couch before I could even order an Uber.”

“Right. Anyway, the next morning, I woke up, went to shower, and when I got out, I couldn’t find my phone. So I went to the living room, and there it was. And I was naked—”

“She had a towel on,” Frankie groaned, rubbing his temple.

“Naked,” you repeated stubbornly, “and suddenly someone speaks behind me, and obviously I panicked! What was I supposed to do? I didn’t think, I just reacted, and my phone happened to be in my hand, so I threw it.”

Silence.

And then: “Well, I get it,” Yovanna said, tilting her head like she was weighing the situation. “You freaked out.”

“Of course I freaked out! But he doesn’t get it.”

“No, no, no, no,” Frankie cut in, shaking his head, holding up a hand like he could physically block the accusation. “I never said I didn’t get it. Obviously, I do. But the way you’re telling it makes it sound like I did it on purpose, like I was out to terrify you.”

“And how do I know you weren’t?” you asked, narrowing your eyes.

Santiago snorted. “Okay, this is getting weird,” he said, rubbing his temple, amusement flickering in his expression. “Can we move on? I just want to hear about the party. Helena called me yesterday.”

Frankie straightened. “What? What did she say?”

You glanced at him, but he was already looking at your brother, his posture suddenly tense, like he was bracing for impact. His eyes were curious but edged with something else too. Concern.

“She sounded... happy. Surprised, mostly,” Santi said, dragging out the words for effect. “Asked a bunch of questions—what I thought, how I found out, if I saw it coming. A lot of questions, actually. Oh, and she also said she’s thrilled for me. That I have a beautiful, lovely sister.” He shot you a look, grinning. “And, well, I can’t lie. I may have gotten a little carried away. Told her I was also delighted about this whole ‘union made in heaven’ situation. And Frankie, man, you were already my brother before, but now… now it’s official. We are so much more.”

“Oh my God, Santi,” you groaned, throwing your head back. “You’re messing with us, aren’t you?”

Yovanna burst out laughing, lightly smacking your brother’s arm as he gave her a knowing smile.

Beside you, Frankie flushed. A deep, irritated pink creeping up his neck as he ran a hand over it—a nervous habit you’d noticed, one he did when he was overwhelmed.

“Of course not,” Santi said, his grin widening. “If you two get to have fun, why can’t I?”

“Fun?” Frankie scoffed, straightening up. “You think this is fun? We’ve been seeing each other for two days, and we’ve already collected enough bruises and near-death experiences to last a lifetime. That’s plenty.” So exaggerated.

Santiago just shrugged, barely suppressing a laugh at the absolute fury on his best friend’s face.

“Yeah. You’re matching.”

“Oh, cut it out, let them be,” Yovanna said, rolling her eyes.

“Well, anyway,” Santi said, his voice easy, casual, like he wasn’t dropping the weight of someone else’s curiosity into the conversation. “Helena asked about you guys. Wanted my opinion. I told her you were fine, that you—” he glanced at Frankie, leveling him with a look—“were doing well. That she didn’t need to worry, and that I’d come visit her soon.”

Frankie exhaled, sharp and short. “Good. Thank you.” He cleared his throat. “I mean it. Even if you’re enjoying this way too much.”

Santi scoffed. “No worries. You know I wouldn’t screw with you about this.” He leaned back, tilting his glass slightly in his hand. “Now, are you gonna tell me how the party went?”

Yovanna’s lips curled at the edges, her eyes gleaming with something decidedly un-serious. “Did you guys kiss?”

The question landed between you and Frankie like a slow-falling coin. You turned your head toward him, almost on instinct, and he was already looking at you, his expression caught somewhere between apprehension and amusement. His face was still faintly flushed, like the conversation had warmed the room a degree too much.

Santi’s gaze flickered between the two of you, and his expression sharpened. “You better not be method acting with my sister.”

Frankie’s mouth twitched into something resembling a smile. “Never. It’s platonic between us, isn’t it?”

“Of course,” you said smoothly, returning the smile. “I’d call it the opposite of method acting, really. This is professionalism at its peak.”

Santi raised his eyebrows, his signature I’m-about-to-ruin-your-day expression settling in. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t call a situation involving towels and black eyes professional, but hey, who am I to judge?”

You groaned, rolling your eyes as Santi took a slow sip of his wine, barely suppressing a grin.

Yovanna, undeterred, steered the conversation back. “So? The party?”

This time, you forced yourself to give a proper answer. Frankie took the lead, his voice steady as he laid out the sequence of events with his usual matter-of-fact efficiency. You filled in the gaps, adding details here and there, but skirting around certain parts—the encounter with Frankie’s cousin, the kisses that followed. Frankie didn’t mention them either. You weren’t sure if that was a conscious decision or if he simply preferred to pretend they hadn’t happened. Either way, it felt like an unspoken agreement, and you weren’t going to be the one to break it.

From an outside perspective, everything had gone well. No disasters, no humiliating slip-ups. Just two people executing a plan. Yovanna seemed delighted by the entire ordeal, laughing at all the right moments, nudging you when Frankie said something particularly dry or sarcastic. Even your brother, despite his usual talent for being infuriating, had to admit you’d done a good job. In fact, too good.

“Helena was a little too excited when I talked to her,” Santi admitted eventually, his brow furrowing like the realization had only just settled in. He leaned back in his chair, swirling the last bit of wine in his glass. Then, after a pause, he added, “How exactly are you two planning to break up?”

There was a beat of silence. You glanced at Frankie, and he exhaled through his nose, shifting in his seat.

“We could say it just… didn’t work out,” he offered, his voice slow, careful. “Or that the feeling just faded.”

It was an answer, technically. But not the right one. Because the issue wasn’t how to break up—it was what was going to happen after that.

What was going to happen when Helena found out about the breakup, when the excitement wore off and disappointment took its place? Had either of you even considered that?

The questions started to wear on you, pressing down like a weight you hadn’t noticed until now.

You needed air. You stood up, murmuring something about stretching your legs, and Yovanna followed you outside.

The backyard was dimly lit, the air thick with the scent of warm grass and something faintly floral. Yovanna lit a cigarette, exhaling slowly as she leaned against the railing. You stood beside her, arms crossed, letting the quiet settle between you.

For a while, the conversation stayed light—frivolous even. You talked about inconsequential things, things that had nothing to do with your fake relationship or her wedding or anything remotely demanding. It was a relief, an escape, and you let yourself sink into it.

But just as you were about to suggest going back inside, she stopped you with a gentle nudge of her shoulder.

“Hey,” she said, turning to face you more fully. “You okay tonight? You seem a little off.”

You sighed, tilting your head back to look at the sky. The stars were faint, barely visible against the city glow. “Yeah, yeah. I’m fine. Just tired. This whole thing is fun, I guess, but exhausting.”

She nodded like she understood, like she’d already known that was what you’d say.

“Are you guys going to Harry’s wedding?”

“I don’t think so,” you admitted, shifting your weight against the wall by the back door. “To be honest, things get kind of chaotic when I’m around Francisco, and I don’t know if I want to put myself through that again.”

Yovanna exhaled another slow drag of smoke. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” You hesitated, searching for the right words. “It’s just... we shouldn’t be around each other. It’s not good for either of us.”

She hummed, unconvinced. “I don’t think that’s true. I think you two are fun. And I think you should admit that you like the chaos a little. You like the fighting. The drama. The making scenes.” She glanced at you knowingly. “I have eyes. I can tell.”

You snorted. “Yeah, maybe. Sometimes. The rest of the time? He just makes me feel bad. Really bad. It’s fun until he says something horrible or pushes the wrong button, and then I want to kill him.”

Yovanna gave you a long, thoughtful look. “What happened between you two? I’ve asked Santi, but he never has a real answer.”

“Nothing,” you said automatically, the lie slipping out before you had time to reconsider it. You thought about the first thing Frankie ever said about you, the way it had stung in a place you hadn’t known was raw. “We’re just not compatible. That’s all.”

Yovanna raised an eyebrow, waiting for more.

“You and Santi, for example,” you continued, “you just work. It’s easy, it’s natural. You get along.” You paused. “Frankie and I are the same, but the opposite. We repel each other. It’s like we were designed to be at odds.”

Yovanna tilted her head, eyes sparking with something suspiciously amused. “That’s kind of romantic.”

You groaned. “Oh, shut up.”

Time started moving faster once you were back inside. Conversations drifted toward things you didn’t care about, but you let them happen around you, nodding occasionally, offering a well-timed laugh when necessary. Santi was in a good mood—you could tell by the way he gestured when he spoke, the relaxed slouch of his shoulders, the way his voice lifted at the end of sentences like everything was lighter than usual. He was happy. And that pleased you.

Because he deserved it.

The girl, the house, the family, the quiet sense of certainty about his life. He deserved all of it.

But inevitably, like clockwork, the moment you found yourself comfortable on the couch, your thoughts took a familiar turn. The same restless tide pulling you under. You thought about earlier in the night, lying in bed, scrolling mindlessly until you landed on pictures you hadn’t meant to see—your ex, his fiancée. Smiling, glowing, happy. Their future stretched out in front of them like a neatly paved road, no cracks in sight.

And then—

“So how are you getting home?” Frankie’s voice broke through your thoughts, low and secretive, like a question meant just for you. You blinked, turning slightly to find him beside you, arms folded, his body angled toward yours. His face was close—too close.

You glanced around. Santi and Yovanna were nowhere to be seen.

“They’re in the kitchen,” Frankie said, reading your mind. “What are you thinking about now?”

You hesitated. Held his gaze for a second too long before looking away.

“I’m thinking,” you started, pausing as you searched for an easy answer. “I’m thinking I want to go to sleep.”

Frankie made a quiet sound in his throat, unconvinced. “I don’t believe you.”

“You don’t believe that I’m sleepy?” You lifted an eyebrow, trying for something light. “I drank three glasses of wine.”

“No,” he said, watching you too closely. “I don’t believe that’s what you’re really thinking.”

You exhaled, tilting your head. “And what do you think I’m thinking, then?”

He smirked slightly. “Something self-destructive, probably. I can see it in your crazy eyes.”

You huffed out a laugh, nudging his shoulder. “I don’t have crazy eyes.”

Frankie just smiled, slow and knowing.

“But you are thinking self-destructive things,” he pressed. “Right?”

“Why?” You leaned in slightly, matching his tone. “Are you enjoying it?”

His smirk faltered just a little, barely enough to notice. His brows pulled together, the amusement in his face dimming.

“Not at all,” he murmured. “What kind of fake boyfriend would I be?”

You let out a short laugh, crossing your arms. “I can’t wait to break up with you.”

He arched an eyebrow, interest flickering behind his eyes. “Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” you nodded, your voice taking on an exaggerated lilt. “I’m going to prance around like Nicole Kidman in that photo.” You threw your arms in the air in a triumphant gesture.

Frankie huffed out a laugh. “So what are we doing about custody?” he asked, shifting to face you more fully. “I want Santi during the week.”

You scoffed. “No chance. I get the weeks. You can have him on weekends.”

“That’s not going to work for me.”

“I’ll have my lawyer contact you, Francisco.” You turned your face away, lifting your chin dramatically. “This is not the place or the time.”

Frankie leaned in again, his voice conspiratorial. “You always say that,” he whispered. “You’re always so busy when I want to talk about the important things.”

You bit your lip, suppressing a laugh.

“First you take my dignity,” he continued, “and now Santiago. What’s next, Darcy?”

You turned to him, eyes wide. “Excuse me? That’s my son. Don’t confuse things.”

Frankie gasped, clutching his chest theatrically. “But he loves me.”

“He’s just a kid, he doesn’t know what he wants.” You waved a dismissive hand. “You bribed him, that’s all. He’s not yours.”

Frankie straightened, looking properly wounded. “I don’t care that I’m not his biological father,” he declared. “I love him—”

“What the hell are you guys talking about now?”

Santi’s voice cut through the air like a dull blade, rough with exhaustion but tinged with something closer to amusement than actual curiosity. He stood at the end of the hall, watching you and Frankie from beneath slightly furrowed brows. In his hands, he held two Tupperware containers, their lids sealed shut like he was offering contraband instead of home-cooked leftovers.

You straightened your posture, turning to face him with complete and utter seriousness.

“I’m sorry but this is private.” You shook your head solemnly.

Beside you, Frankie stifled a laugh, turning his face slightly like that might somehow disguise it.

Santi rolled his eyes, moving toward you with a slow, unimpressed gait.

“Sure. Well,” he said, setting the Tupperware down on the coffee table with an air of finality. “We made these for you.”

You reached for one immediately, lifting it to your nose and inhaling dramatically.

“I love you,” you murmured, then added, with more fervor, “I love you.”

Santi smirked, shaking his head. Before he could respond, Yovanna appeared at the end of the hall, her presence as effortless as ever. She moved toward the couch and perched herself on the armrest beside you, tucking her legs beneath her.

“Are you taking an Uber, honey?” she asked, her voice soft and unbothered.

“Yeah, I was just about to—”

“I’ll drive you,” Frankie interrupted, already getting to his feet. He grabbed his own Tupperware with the same efficiency as someone collecting evidence. 

You narrowed your eyes.

“What macabre plan do you have, Francisco?” You stood, crossing your arms. “Get rid of me so you can have Mr. Darcy all to yourself? It’s not going to work.”

Frankie ignored you, patting his pockets, searching for his car keys with the quiet urgency of someone trying to make a smooth exit. He found them and then—casually, effortlessly—reached out to clap Santi on the shoulder as he passed him in the doorway, like they were in some kind of silent agreement.

You watched them step outside, Frankie’s posture relaxed, Santi following with the sluggish reluctance of someone who had just endured an entire evening of unnecessary theatrics.

You turned to Yovanna, hoping for an ally. Instead, she just lifted her shoulders, gave you a half-hearted grimace that barely lasted a second before shifting into a knowing smile.

“I think your car is waiting for you,” she said after a beat, nodding toward the door where Santi and Frankie had already disappeared outside.

With no real choice in the matter, you stepped outside too, the night air cool against your skin. Your brother and Frankie were by the car, standing close, heads tilted toward each other in conversation. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but whatever it was, they were both engaged—gesturing, murmuring, nodding. The way Frankie’s brow furrowed and Santi rubbed at his jaw made it look like something actually interesting. Your curiosity sparked, but before you could linger too long, Yovanna’s voice cut in beside you.

“Okay,” she said, nudging you lightly with her elbow. “Don’t take too long to visit again, alright?”

You turned to her, nodding. “Of course not. Are you free this coming week?”

“For you? Always.”

You smiled, warmth bubbling in your chest. “Good, let’s get coffee.”

“Or a drink,” she amended, sighing dramatically. “I need it.”

You laughed, shifting your bag in your shoulder and the Tupperware in your arms to hug her, the container pressing awkwardly between your bodies. She smelled like perfume and warmth and something familiar.

When you pulled away, you started toward the car with her, trying—subtly—to catch fragments of whatever Santi and Frankie were talking about. It was something about Will and a car he’d just bought. Frankie was in the middle of saying something about the clutch, his voice low and even, when he abruptly stopped mid-sentence and turned to you.

“Ready?”

The word felt heavier than it should have, settling between your ribs. You glanced at your brother, mouth parting slightly, not sure what answer you were searching for. Yes?

Santi didn’t wait for you to say anything. He stepped forward, wrapped his arms around you, kissed your cheek. His warmth was familiar, grounding, the kind of comfort you’d had your entire life.

“Take care of yourself,” he murmured near your temple. “I’ll come see you in the week.”

You nodded against his shoulder. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

When you pulled away, Frankie was already holding the passenger door open for you. That threw you off for a second. He wasn’t usually this polite. You hesitated, glancing at him, but he just raised an eyebrow like, What? Get in.

So you did.

You waved to Yovanna as you settled into the seat, and she smiled, giving you a little salute in return before stepping back toward the house.

Then, with a quiet thunk, Frankie shut the door.

For a couple of strange, suspended seconds, you were alone in the silence of the car, the interior dimly lit by the soft glow of the dashboard. You bit the inside of your cheek and carefully dropped your Tupperware in the backseat, watching as Frankie rounded the hood, slipping into the driver’s seat with an ease that made your stomach feel unsteady.

He turned the key. The engine hummed to life, the speakers crackling softly before Red light by The Strokes filtered through the space.

You rolled down the window slightly, letting the night air in, watching the house disappear as he pulled onto the road.

“So, how’s that list of yours coming along?” Frankie asked abruptly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You turned your head slightly, eyeing him.

“Are you asking if I’ve made any progress? I doubt it. In the last twenty-four hours, I haven’t gone clubbing, I haven’t camped in the woods, and I definitely haven’t gone skinny dipping. If that’s what you were hoping for.”

He hummed, hands steady on the wheel. “Well, you could cross off ‘kicking someone’s ass,’ if you count giving me a black eye.”

You exhaled sharply, unimpressed. “That was an accident. Get over it.”

“But are you actually planning on kicking someone’s ass?” He glanced at you, curious now. “How exactly are you planning to do that?”

“I didn’t say ‘kicking.’ I wrote ‘learn to.’ As in, learn to defend myself.” You folded your arms across your chest. “Were you even paying attention when you were spying on my diary?”

Frankie snorted. “Spying?”

“You barely even listen to me anymore,” you said, feigning exasperation. “We should break up.”

His laugh caught in his throat, rough and amused. “Nice try. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.”

“I could set you up with someone else. A real girlfriend.” You straightened, only half-joking. “I actually know a couple of women you might like.”

“I told you—I’m not dating anyone,” he said, glancing at you like he was waiting for you to drop it. “Who are you now, my mother? I’m not going on one more date. With anyone.”

You smirked. “I could make you a Tinder profile. Craft it to perfection. I bet I could make you a success story.”

He shook his head, lips twitching toward a smile. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not? It’d be fun,” you insisted, already forming a mental plan. Good photos. A witty but slightly mysterious bio. He was a pilot, for God’s sake—women ate that up, didn’t they?

“I tried it once,” he admitted, like he regretted saying it the second the words left his mouth.

You gasped, delighted. “No way. You were one of those guys, weren’t you? The ones who post a group photo, making women guess which one they’re supposed to be interested in.”

He shot you a look. “Sounds like you have some experience with that.”

“I bet you had a picture holding a giant fish,” you said, grinning wider as he made a face that all but confirmed it. “Jesus, Frankie. That’s typical.”

He exhaled, shaking his head. “You know, if you have so many opinions on dating apps, why don’t you make yourself a profile? I really think you could use the 'going out' thing.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the window, arms crossed. “What makes you think I need it?”

Frankie hesitated. You could see it in the way his fingers flexed against the steering wheel, like he was trying to decide if this was an argument worth having.

“Well,” he said carefully. “If I’m being honest—”

“Don’t say it,” you cut in, raising a hand between you. “I have a faint idea of what you’re about to tell me, and trust me, I already know. So spare me the speech. I’m not in the mood to fight with you tonight.”

“Why? What's wrong?”

Frankie eased the car to a stop at the red light, using the pause as an opportunity to look at you—really look at you. His brows pulled together, the sharpness of his gaze pressing against your skin. “And you don’t actually know what I was going to say.”

You let out a breath, short and sharp.

“Nothing. Nothing's wrong.” You could hear the irritation threading through your own voice, but you didn’t bother softening it. “And yes, Francisco, I do know what you were going to say.”

“Is this about Harry?”

You let out a dry, humorless laugh, your hands slapping down against your thighs. Of course. Of course, he had to ask. He couldn’t just drive like before, couldn’t just let the silence stretch between you like a neutral space. When he’d come to pick you up in Dallas, the air had been thick with unsaid things, but at least he’d let you sit with them. Now, though—now he was prodding, poking, pressing in on a bruise that hadn’t even begun to heal.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t care,” he said, too quickly. “I’m just asking why—”

“What do you want me to say?” you cut in, turning toward him, exasperation spilling out of you. “Apparently, you already know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” His tone was sharp now, defensive. “What are you talking about?”

You exhaled heavily, shaking your head.

“I hate it when you do that.” You turned your face toward the window, resting your chin in your palm, elbow wedged against the car door.

Frankie didn’t ask again. He just sat there, hands flexing against the wheel, his knee bouncing the slightest bit. But you could feel it, the weight of his attention, the questions hanging in the air between you. He was waiting for you to give in. To spill something you didn’t want to. And it bothered him—you could tell. The uncertainty, the not-knowing.

But in the end, he didn’t need to say anything. Because the way he looked at you, the way his eyes kept flicking toward your face, said enough. You knew exactly what he was thinking.

And when you turned back to him, catching the way his jaw tensed, something in your chest tightened.

Because he wasn’t going to let it go.

He wasn’t just going to drive you home, drop you off, and pretend none of this had happened. No, he was going to sit with it, turn it over, keep pulling at the thread until it unraveled completely. He was going to ask and ask and ask until he got the version of the truth he wanted. And the worst part was, he’d disguise it as concern—like this was about you, when really, it was about something else. Something that would probably hurt.

“I hate it when you act like this,” you said finally, voice quieter now, but no less pointed. Your eyes glowed in the reflection of the windshield, catching the red of the traffic light. “Like you’re above it all. Like you don’t already know I feel like shit about Harry. But you ask anyway, just to make me say it out loud.”

“That wasn’t my intention,” he said, softer now, shifting slightly in his seat. His right hand twitched off the steering wheel, hovering like he wanted to reach for you. But then, at the last second, he pulled back, curling his fingers into a fist before dropping his hand to his thigh. Like he’d thought better of it.

“You don’t act like it,” you said, your voice unsteady, throat tight. “You act like someone who enjoys figuring out my weak spots just so you can shove them in my face at the worst possible moment.” You swallowed hard, staring ahead. “Can you just take me home?”

Frankie’s jaw tensed, his hands gripping the wheel. The green light flickered on, casting a dull glow over the inside of the car. He didn’t hit the gas right away, just exhaled through his nose, long and frustrated.

“I was supposed to call a car,” you continued, your voice quieter now. “Is that why you insisted on driving me home yourself? So you could dig around in my life a little more?”

“No, I—” He cut himself off, shaking his head, eyes locked on the road as he finally pressed the gas.

Silence stretched between you.

A few blocks passed before he spoke again, voice tight.

“I know you’re upset about the wedding.” His fingers flexed over the wheel, his knuckles pale. “But I’m not going to assume things unless you actually tell me.”

You scoffed under your breath, gaze fixed on the window, on the streetlights smearing past. “Yeah. Sure.”

Home wasn’t far now.

“I don’t like this,” you said after a moment.

Frankie glanced at you. “What?”

“This.” You gestured between you, your expression hardening. “Everything was better when we didn’t talk. When we just ignored each other and kept our distance.”

“I think the same thing,” he said immediately, no hesitation. He turned his head just slightly, just enough to look at you before shifting his eyes back to the road. “Because talking to you is so hard all the fucking time. You know that?”

You blinked, taken aback. It was such a strange thing to hear, like he’d just told you the sky had turned green.

“When in your life have you ever tried to talk to me, Francisco?”

“Yesterday. Now. Probably sometime friday,” he muttered, clicking his tongue in irritation, shaking his head like he hated that he was even engaging in this conversation.

Another red light.

The street was empty, quiet. The glow of the signal reflected off the pavement, casting red against the buildings you knew so well—the café on the corner, the park where you went on morning walks. Your house was just a few blocks away.

You turned in your seat, facing him directly. The car’s dim interior light barely caught the sheen in your eyes, the warmth in your flushed cheeks.

“That’s not how this works,” you said, your voice quieter now, but no less sharp. “You can’t treat me like shit for years and then expect me to just—what? Open up to you? Tell you about the worst parts of my life? We’re not friends, Frankie.”

“Of course not,” he shot back. “But I’ve seen you get small today. Yesterday too.” His voice wavered slightly, but not enough to make him sound soft. He wasn’t soft. He was pressing in, hard and insistent, like he was trying to carve something out of you. “You pretend really well in front of other people, and they buy it. But I don’t. And it fucking bothers me.”

Your fingers curled into fists in your lap. “Oh, it bothers you?”

“Yeah,” he said, exasperated now. “It bothers me because you don’t do anything about it. You just let it all pile on, and I—I get it, okay? I get it. The guy broke your fucking heart, but you let him keep doing it. Over and over again.”

His voice rose, his hands waving slightly as he spoke, his frustration sharp and cutting. His eyes burned into you, filled with something you didn’t want to name.

“And no,” he went on, “maybe he’s not the villain in this. Maybe he couldn’t help falling in love with someone else. But I don’t buy for a second that he didn’t know exactly how you felt. And that makes him a fucking asshole.”

Your breath hitched.

Frankie leaned in slightly, voice lower now, but no less intense. “And you’re so mean to me, aren’t you? Doesn’t take you a second to snap back, to bite my head off. So why don’t you use some of that energy and tell Harry to fuck off already?”

Your eyes stung. You blinked, and the first tear slipped down your cheek, warm against your skin.

The weight in your chest was unbearable, like something pushing down from the inside out, something clawing its way up your throat. You felt transparent, like every single bone and muscle in your body was on display, like he could see straight through you.

“I never told him I loved him,” you whispered.

Frankie stared at you for several seconds, his gaze unwavering, scanning your face like he was searching for the lie, like he couldn’t believe you’d actually said it.

Then, quietly but firmly, he said, “He knows.”

You shook your head. Your eyes dropped to your hands, resting limp in your lap, one over the other like you were trying to steady yourself.

“He knows,” Frankie repeated, shifting slightly toward you. “Because it’s obvious. Because you wear every single thought on your face, whether you want to or not. Because it’s all right there in your eyes. If he doesn’t know, then he’s either blind or an even bigger idiot than I thought.”

A frustrated breath left your lips. You lifted your hands, exasperated, only to let them fall back onto your thighs with a muted slap. Your eyes, glossy and burning, locked onto his, frustration rippling beneath the surface.

“So then what?” you said, voice tight. “He knew I loved him, and he still left me overnight to commit to someone else? Is that what you’re telling me?”

“I’m telling you it’s fucking cruel to break someone’s heart and then send them a wedding invitation like nothing happened.” His voice was sharp, laced with something close to anger. “And that day, the way he acted so happy to see you, like you were just two old friends running into each other—does his fiancée even know what happened between you?”

You didn’t answer, but something must have flickered across your face because Frankie exhaled sharply, shaking his head.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“We didn’t have anything serious, Francisco,” you said, your voice quiet, trembling but stubborn. “We were friends and—”

The traffic light turned green, but Frankie didn’t move.

You swallowed, waiting for him to break eye contact, to turn his attention back to the road. But he didn’t.

“Don’t give me that excuse,” he said finally, his voice quieter but no less forceful. “Even you don’t believe it.”

A fresh wave of exhaustion rolled through you, but it came tangled with something else—something hotter, heavier. You straightened up, shifting toward him, closing the space between you, and you felt more than saw the moment he registered the tears slipping down your face.

“Why do you care about it?” Your voice cracked, the words tumbling out in uneven breaths. “What do you want me to say, huh? That even if Harry knew I loved him, he still didn’t choose me?”

“Yes!” Frankie snapped. “That’s life! He didn’t choose you, he broke your heart. Well, fuck him! Get over it!” His hands lifted in frustration, his voice pitched higher, sharper. “The sooner you do, the better.”

The words hit you like a physical thing, like a slap to the chest, like something clawing its way up from the inside.

A sound broke from your throat—something half a sob, half a breathless, wounded laugh—and before you even knew what you were doing, your fingers curled around the handle, and you shoved the door open.

The night air hit your skin, cool against the heat burning in your face, and you were out of the car in seconds, walking fast, heart pounding against your ribs.

You heard Frankie behind you, his voice calling your name, followed by the thud of the car door slamming shut. But you didn’t look back.

It didn’t take him long to catch up, his footsteps heavy against the pavement.

“Get back in the car,” he said, breathless but firm.

“My house is three blocks away.”

“I don’t care.” His hand brushed against yours, an attempt to stop you, but you jerked away from his touch like it burned. “I’m not letting you walk home alone.”

“Oh no,” you said, your voice wobbling with emotion, “why? Because Santi’s going to be mad?”

Frankie didn’t answer. He just reached for you again, this time more deliberately. His fingers curled around your arm, not rough, but firm enough that you felt the weight of his concern.

“Please—”

“God, just leave me alone!” You wrenched your arm away, shoving both hands against his chest, pushing him back a few inches. Your breath came fast, shaky, fury and heartbreak tangled together in your throat. “Fuck you, Francisco! Get the fuck out of here! Why are you still here? Why the fuck are you still here? Why won’t you just leave me alone? I’m so tired of you, just go away!”

You stepped forward again, your hands pushing against his chest, but this time, Frankie didn’t budge. He just lifted his hands, fingers brushing against your wrists, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch you. The contact sent a shiver up your arms, and you recoiled, jerking your hands away as if you’d been burned.

“I’ll leave you alone,” he said quickly. “Just let me take you home.” His voice was tight, strained with something he wasn’t willing to name. He was trying to sound firm, but the way his eyes moved over your face—restless, searching—gave him away. “It’s late, and it’s dark.”

You shook your head, blinking against the tears threatening to spill over again. Your face felt hot, your throat raw.

“Stop pretending you care,” you said. “About me, about what happens to me. I don’t need this. I don’t need you talking to me like you’re some kind of—some kind of fucking therapist.”

Frankie exhaled hard. “I’m sorry, okay? I won’t say anything else about Harry after this—”

You spun on your heel, turning your back to him, walking away.

A noise of frustration caught in his throat, something between a sigh and a groan, and before you could get any further, he was in front of you again, moving easily, stepping into your path. You stopped short, barely avoiding a collision.

Your breath came fast, uneven. You could feel how blotchy your face must be, your lips swollen, the bruise on your mouth sharper in contrast. Frankie's gaze flicked to it, and you saw the exact second he felt something close to regret—the slight pull of his brows, the way his mouth parted like he was about to say something and then thought better of it.

“You have to accept what happened,” he said finally, voice steady, though his jaw twitched. “For what it was. Don’t turn Harry into some tragic hero who hurt you by accident. That’s not what this is. It just—” he exhaled, shaking his head. “It didn’t mean anything. He didn’t choose you. So what?”

Your stomach twisted.

“You have no idea how I feel,” you snapped, your voice trembling, sharp with the effort of keeping it together. You dragged a hand down your face. “And why do you even care? It doesn’t matter. None of this fucking matters.”

Frankie shook his head. “I know how you feel. That’s why I’m trying—”

“Trying what?” You stepped closer, looking at him fully now. “To fix it? You can’t. I don’t need anything from you. I don’t need your pity, your useless advice. I know how this works. I know how people work. I’m good enough until the real thing comes along. That’s all I’ve ever been.”

His expression changed then—his eyes darkening, his mouth pressing into a line.

“That’s not true,” he said.

“Yes, it is, Francisco.” You said his name like it hurt. Like it was something you needed to spit out. “Because I’m always missing something. Because there’s always something I don’t have. And I know, I know that’s just life, that’s how it is, someone always gets left behind, someone always gets hurt. But why does it always have to be me?” Your throat ached from the force of your words, and when you spoke again, your voice sounded wrecked, on the verge of giving out. “Why do I always have to be the one to accept things as they are? Why am I the one who has to be mature, move on, be fine?”

Frankie exhaled, slow, measured. “You’re letting this define you.”

You let out a sharp breath, almost a laugh. “I’m letting this define me?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he insisted. “He wasn’t for you—”

“It does mean something.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does! And you have no idea what you’re talking about. You don’t know me, you don’t know anything about me or what I feel or what—” Your voice broke, and you swallowed it down. “You don’t know anything.”

Frankie’s gaze stayed steady. “You’re just—numb. You think no one’s ever going to choose you because you’re in a bad place right now—”

“Shut up.” Your hands pressed against his chest again, lighter this time.

“I understand,” he said. “I do—”

“Shut up.”

But he didn’t.

“Somebody’s going to!”

"Or maybe not!"

Frankie let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. He glanced to the side, then back at you, his jaw tight, frustration bleeding into every line of his face. His eyes were dark with something unreadable, something that made your stomach twist.

"Okay," he said. "So what, then? You gonna spend the rest of your life wallowing? Feeling sorry for yourself forever?"

Your fingers curled into fists at your sides.

"You must have a lot of experience with that sort of thing, don't you?" The words sliced out of you, unfiltered, sharp enough to wound. Something ugly stirred in your chest, something raw and aching. The pain wasn’t his fault, not really, but he had pulled it to the surface, made it unbearable. And for some reason, you wanted him to feel it too. Even just a fraction of it.

"Feeling bad about yourself," you continued, your voice quiet but cutting. "Drowning in your own misery. Being a complete fucking loser."

Frankie didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as blink.

"Yeah," he said simply, his voice flat, like he was stating an obvious fact. He was looking at you as if he was waiting for more, like he could take whatever else you threw at him. Like he wanted you to.

"Then why should I listen to you?" You took a step forward, closing the space between you. "Why should I care about anything you have to say?" Your head tilted up, and from this close, you caught every micro-expression—his eyes widening, his brow tensing, his mouth parting just slightly, like he was about to speak but couldn’t find the words fast enough.

"I take things as they come from people who matter," you said, voice low but unwavering. "And you? You’re nothing to me, Francisco. Just an inconvenience I can't seem to shake, no matter how hard I try."

His throat bobbed, but he stayed silent.

"This whole thing," you went on, gesturing between the two of you, "this back and forth, this—whatever the fuck it is—it’s pointless. Because no matter how hard we pretend to be something we’re not, it doesn’t change reality."

You exhaled, your pulse hammering.

"And the reality is," you said, looking him dead in the eye, "you're nothing but a failure."

Frankie exhaled, but he didn’t move at first. He just stood there, staring at you, unmoving, like he was bracing for something. His expression didn’t shift, but there was the faintest sheen in his eyes, catching the dim light. He blinked once, hard, and when he opened them again, the gloss was gone.

Then, suddenly, as if some invisible thread had snapped, he took a step back. It was abrupt, almost involuntary, like his body needed distance from you before his mind could catch up. But he didn’t say anything. His mouth pressed downward for a second, his gaze dropping to the ground.

When he looked at you again, his eyes met yours—just for a moment, like he was memorizing something. Or maybe letting something go.

And then he turned.

No hesitation, no last words, just the quiet sound of his shoes on pavement as he walked back to his car. His shoulders tense, his head slightly bowed. You watched him go, your arms folding tightly across your chest, trying to hold everything in. The rising ache, the anger that curled at the edges of your grief, the way your throat burned with unshed tears.

He didn’t look back.

You waited until he was nearly at the car before you forced yourself to turn away. Your legs felt heavy as you walked, like you were dragging some unseen weight behind you. Your breath came too fast, your ribs constricting painfully. All you wanted was to disappear inside your bed, to sleep until your body forgot how it felt to be this exhausted.

When you reached home, Mr. Darcy was there, waiting. He brushed against your legs, his tail sweeping across your calf, his little face tilting up as if he could sense something unsettled in you.

You dropped to the floor.

The second you sat down, your shoulders caved in. Mr. Darcy curled into your lap, his soft purring vibrating against your hands, but it didn’t soothe you the way it usually did. You pressed your face into his fur, and the sobs that had been threatening to spill over finally broke free, shaking your whole frame.

Your words echoed in your head, bitter on your tongue, and you hated the way they tasted. Because you knew you had been cruel.

But it didn’t matter.

He had been cruel too.

And maybe—finally—he would leave you alone.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Taglis: @paleidiot @gothcsz @everyth1ngfan @katw474 @mellymbee @pedritosgirl2000 @tsunamistorm123 @jokesonthem @sunnytuliptime @greenwitchfromthewoods @ashleyfilm @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti @daybleedsintonightfa11 @mys2425 @pigeonmama @speaktothehandpeasants @pez3639 @stylesispunk @imaginecrushes @isla-finke-blog @smiithys @jokesonthem @brittmb115 @sukivenue

[hellishjoel]

titanic

10.6k / pairing: linecook!frankie x waitress f!reader

Series Masterlist l Previous Chapter | Main Masterlist | Notifications Blog

summary: frankie sees his father for the first time in years over a tense birthday dinner. warnings/information: MA 18+ (minors DNI), marijuana, smoking, swearing, dual POV, descriptions of food and drink, reader is described to have hair (not descriptive of what color/length/etc.) and wears a swimsuit, explicit smut, pet names (baby, angel, carino, princesa, etc.), angst, allusions to bad parenting/parental abuse, descriptions of a parent abusing drugs and alcohol, and an additional warning that I'm considering a spoiler (please heed these warnings and do not read if you are concerned these may be triggers - if you're a fan of the series but fear the unspoiled trigger may affect you, pleaes message me and we'll talk!) A/N: *spongebob voice* four months later... special thank you to @devineconjuring for being my beta for this chapter. annie is more than a masterbeta, she's also my cheerleader and co-conspirator. thank you lover <3

Irina’s European Bakery has the best bread and pastries in town, if not the world. 

Irina is an older Russian woman whose gray hair is always tied back in a braided bun. Her face shows her age, but she wears her smile lines with pride, as she should. Her parents immigrated to America with nothing but $500 in their pocket. After finding work, they saved up as much money as possible and opened a small bakery named after their daughter. 

An old Russian proverb says that girls should be able to sift flour before they can walk and knead bread before they can talk. Irina’s mother took that pretty seriously, considering Irina was in the kitchen beside her mother, learning all her delicious family recipes by the time she was a toddler. She was too short for the table, so she’d stack up old baking cookbooks to learn. 

Now, all these years later, Irina runs the bakery with her three daughters, who yell at each other in Russian. Let’s just say that, with all the time you’ve spent with Irina smoking out back in plastic lawn chairs, you’ve picked up a couple of phrases. 

After a loud metal bowl clangs on the floor and shouts echo from inside, you turn your head over your shoulder with narrowed eyes before returning your attention to Irina. 

“Did Vera just say she would stab Nadia with a steel dough cutter?”

“Your Russian is improving,” Irina let out a stale laugh and a tired grin. “You want something. Spit it’tout.”

You roll your eyes at her crassness and offer her the rest of your cigarette. “It’s my boyfriend’s birthday tomorrow. I’ll give you free breakfast for a week if you make him your Vatrushka. With the strawberry jam on top?”

“Boyfriend? You get boyfriend and don’t tell your Russian mother? Since when d’you have boyfriend, eh?” She shifts her jaw around before lifting the lit cigarette to her mouth between two stiff fingers, taking a long drag with narrowed eyes. All of a sudden, she begins to grin obnoxiously. “Must be that pretty boy you complain about all the time. What was his name? Francisco?”

With wide eyes, your jaw drops at her words. “He’s still just as insufferable and annoying. But now he wears a different title.”

Irina says something cocky in Russian along the lines of I told you so, but you convince her to make the Vatrushka–sweet dough buns filled with cheese. Frankie likes the ones with a fruity jam on top; strawberry or raspberry are his preferences. 

When you first started waitressing at Tommy’s, you’d bring different pastries from Irina’s to schmooze the line cooks. Usually, in case you rang in an incorrect order, which, at the time, was every day. 

Frankie would always eat the ones with the strawberry topping and moan after taking each bite. Then he’d say some half-ass thank you with his mouth full and lips cast in a sparkly sugar coating. 

Irina snuffs out the last of the cigarette and smiles, lines forming by the outer corners of her eyes and under her thick cheekbones. “We have a deal. You come back tomorrow morning for it, yeah?” 

“Thank you,” you eagerly coo, biting into the soft, chewy cookie she gave you for visiting. 

The drive back to Frankie’s apartment is set against a yellow and orange sunset. It’s nice to reflect as the radio crackles out a Fleetwood Mac song, the wind whistling through the window that’s rolled down a crack. Things are so different from a year ago. 

Work used to be work–rolling silverware, counting change, and praying for decent tips. Just trying to get through the day scrubbing tabletops and making pots of coffee. 

There was a tall goofball in the back kitchen who was a little older, always flirting with you whenever he got the chance. He wore a red bandana that you’re not sure he ever washed. He donned a crooked smirk and mischievous eyes that never failed to rake slowly up and over your body whenever given the chance. 

He used to call you Princess and still does sometimes, but now he calls you by your name more often than not.

You once despised him for his sleazy comments about how short your skirt was or how he could smell your pretty perfume. Now, he puts butterflies in your stomach and talks a little sweeter to you. He puts whatever wants and needs you have above his own–eats where you want to eat for dinner dates, lets you pick the movie, cooks dinner at your request, and drives you places when your busted beater car goes down. 

And you realize he’s loved you for a really, really long time. 

You’re only just starting to get it, to pay it back. But Frankie doesn’t see it that way. There is no sort of give and take. He’s never asked you to pay him back or said you owed him when he needed a favor. 

Frankie just might be the most devoted, loyal, kind, loving, imperfect human you’ve ever come across. And he’s your fucking boyfriend. 

You once thought you were unloveable because it was so easy for people to leave and extra easy to push them away when they got too close. But not Frankie. Frankie was patient. He waited for you, never gave you an ultimatum, and always validated that you were allowed to take your time.  

You’re getting it now. You’re really getting it. Francisco Morales is your person. 

This is a love story. 

“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Frankie, happy birthday to you,” your voice singsongs in the late morning hours. You hold a mini strawberry and cream cheese vatrushka with a single lit candle shoved into it in one hand and a lit blunt in the other.

“God, you’re perfect.” Frankie lays slumped against his headboard, his orange tabby Leo curled in his lap as you shuffle up the bed on your knees before displaying his sweet before him. A sleepy smile eventually breaks across his face, and he shakes his head as he glances between you and the flame. 

“Isn’t this a fire hazard?” 

Frankie pulls you closer by the arm, causing you to fall softly into his front. Leo doesn’t seem to mind as he stretches his legs out and wanders to the edge of the bed. You glance down at the vatrushka as your fingertips make imprints in the sweet and soft dough. Frankie’s head tilts as he considers his birthday wish. It’s curious, the look behind his eyes. He waits a moment before taking in a large inhale and blowing out the flame in one go.

He chuckles at your sleepy cheer, shaking his head as he plucks the blunt out of your hand, takes a hit, then bites into the flaky birthday treat. 

“You’re my favorite person,” he speaks through muffled bites, holding up the vatrushka for you to bite into, to which you easily comply. 

“And you’re mine. Happy birthday, Frankie.” 

He smiles against your kiss, and you think this is what lips are made for: gentle morning kisses where you can feel the other person grinning into your mouth. 

In honor of Frankie’s birthday, on top of it being a Saturday, you insist that he spend it however he wants. Fishing, hiking, visiting the zoo, going to the movie theater, whatever he wants. 

“I wanna see you in something hot,” he remarks with an all too obvious smirk. 

An hour later, you’re out and away from your small town and at the beach under the hot Texas sun, wearing your favorite swimsuit. You always feel gorgeous in it, and Frankie’s adoration of your body only adds to it. 

Trudging through the sand, you manage to find an empty spot that is a little more private, farther from the parking lot and all the other beachgoers. Frankie pulls the cooler stocked full of beer and food behind him, his eyes focused on your backside. 

You can’t help but taunt him as you glance over your shoulder. He’s watching your ass move with each step you take in the grainy sand. “My eyes are up here.”

“Mine ain’t,” Frankie mutters, shifting his jaw from side to side as his exposed upper half basks in the sun’s heat. It makes your own focus shift. You should be throwing down the beach blankets, and Frankie should be setting up the large umbrella with a red-and-white striped pattern around the outer canopy. Instead, you’re both a little lost in the sight of one another. 

Frankie’s dark chest hair swirls along his pecks, and you can’t help but observe the line of hair that goes down the midline of his abdomen before growing thicker again at the very top of his cherry-red swim trunks. 

Your lashes flutter, and something deep inside your stomach tugs with yearning. At this moment, with a shirtless Frankie galavanting across the sandy beach and other eyes lingering on his tanned and toned body, you’re reminded that outside of Tommy’s Diner, Frankie’s hot. 

It was hard to see before, behind the guise of his sloppy work clothes and sweaty bandana. But free of it all, half naked on the beach with thick chest hair splotched along his torso, he was turning heads. And by no means were you jealous; you were staring along with them. 

“Hey,” he playfully barks, your head snapping up as he smirks goadingly down at you, closing the distance between your bodies as his lips linger next to your ear. “My eyes… are up here, Princess.” 

Fuck. You are so caught. 

That nagging feeling burning in your core would have to wait. 

Frankie, ever the chef, prepared a gorgeous picnic basket with munchies to hold you both over in the sun. There’s fresh fruit and sandwiches, his favorite salty chips, and you stuffed two ice cream sandwiches in the drinks cooler so they would stay as frozen as possible. 

You enjoyed the distance away from the eager families with screaming children and frat boys throwing footballs and frisbees. This is your perfect slice of heaven. You always liked each other’s company more than anyone else’s. 

Frankie makes a point to thoroughly spread the cold sunscreen across your body, not afraid to cop a ‘birthday feel.’  Lounging under the umbrella on a beach towel, you lay between Frankie’s legs and continue where you left off in a book you had read on and off throughout the year. The smooth pages feel warm from the sunlight, and a soft breeze makes the heat comfortable, like you could fall asleep under the sun. Your face lies against his glistening chest as he rests his chin on the top of your head, reading your book with you. 

Once the sun’s beating rays finally get the best of both of you, Frankie runs with you through the coarse sand until your feet touch cold water. 

“Slow down!” You belt. “It’s cold, you asshole.” 

Frankie’s got his arms snaked around your waist, tightly holding onto you as he only drags you further into the water, the cold blue lake reaching the tops of your legs and rising. A breath catches in your throat as it reaches your stomach, but once you’re in, your body quickly adjusts. 

“Sometimes you gotta dive right in,” Frankie remarks with a smirk, pulling you under before you can protest. You hold your breath, and the sounds of the world turn hollow. 

Your vision is cast in a deep blue, and the resistance of the water slows all of your motions. The sun’s beams glimmer through the surface but fade as they sink deeper. The giggling children and chittering adults you could clearly hear on the surface now sound distant and muffled. 

Turning your head, your hair floats and swishes slowly as Frankie enters your view. He’s such a goofball that he holds his deep breath in his puffed-up cheeks. You bring your hand up to poke his cheek, and air bubbles float out of his mouth to the surface. He doesn’t last more than a few seconds before rushing up and out of the water. 

“What was that?” you ask upon your own break to the surface, the water rippling around both your bodies as you kick to stay afloat. Your panting breaths fill the space between you, Frankie weakly laughing. 

“I was trying to hold my breath!” 

“In your cheeks? You look like a chipmunk with a month’s worth of nuts lodged in there.” You can’t help but tease him–you’d never seen him do that before!

“What? Like it’s so weird to hold your breath like that?”

“I can’t name one person-”

“Not one?!” He exaggerates. 

“-Not one person who holds their breath like you do.”

“So you’re sayin’ I’m pretty special,” Frankie smirks, always finding some way to inflate his ego. “Thank you, princess.”

Cooling down in the lake was both energizing and tiring. Frankie led you back to your towels and umbrella, drying you off before he wiped down his soaked self. It’s impossible to ignore the way water droplets glide down the slopes of his broad shoulders and trickle down the definition of his stomach, running all the way to his swim trunks.  

“Did your parents ever not let you swim after you ate?” Frankie asks with a mouthful of his ham and Colby Jack cheese sandwich on sourdough bread. “Like that saying, you should wait at least thirty minutes after eating before going into the water again?” 

The picnic basket he packed was filled with sandwiches, cut-up fruits, and a store-bought birthday cake–arguably the best kind. 

You hum a response around a piece of fruit before you swallow. “Yeah. I was always terrified that I was gonna die if I did because they never fully explained the reason why. Like my family never said to avoid swimming after eating because…” You fill in the blanks with random hand gestures.

Frankie narrows his eyes. “Why do they say that? Is it just a lie like Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny?”

You match his confused face. “What do you mean, like Santa Claus?”

You both buy into the bit momentarily before laughing and googling the exact reason behind the saying. Turns out it’s most likely just a myth that if you don’t let your body have time to digest your food, it could cause you to have stomach cramps while swimming. But again, myth, so you both moved on. 

“I don’t know how you feel about lying to our kids, but telling them about a fictional fat man that slides down chimneys to deliver presents feels sort of asshole-ey. I mean, ten years, that’s a long time to keep up a ruse.” Frankie says offhandedly, making your eyebrows shoot up for a moment. 

Kids, huh? It was an untalked-about subject.

As soon as he said it, he seemed to have picked up on the weight of his words. 

“Uh,” Frankie faltered and anxiously ran his fingers through his wet curls, which were still dripping dry. “Please don’t think too much about that. Stop. Stop your brain.” He teased as his hands came up to grab the side of your head, jostling it lightly. 

A laugh of relief bubbles past your lips, and you cup his cheeks softly as you bring him in for a soft kiss. “It’s okay. I think it’s sweet you think about our future. And… you saying that didn’t exactly scare me.” 

Shocking, right? Are you getting over some stuff? Is this the growing people have been talking about? You pat yourself on the back after gliding through that conversation with ease. 

Frankie’s face splatters with rosy heat, embarrassed by the words that slipped through the gate of his brain. You reach over and squeeze his knee, offering him a red strawberry that matches the apples of his cheeks. “It does seem sort of asshole-ey to lie to them–and for that long, too. But you might change your mind seeing their faces all excited. Y’know, Christmas magic and all. Besides, somebody’s gotta eat the cookies and drink the milk. That should be us.” 

You both revel in that moment, one where talking about your lives intertwined in the future doesn’t scare you so much anymore. Kids, yeah, that was a big conversation, but you’d let future you and Frankie figure that out. 

Frankie’s eyes soften, and a light and gentle smile appears on his lips. It was a look of pride. One that you didn’t know you craved. 

He kisses you again and again, exchanging giggles and hiccups past your lips as the sun moves closer to the horizon. 

You’re not more than a foot back into Frankie’s apartment when he asks, “You wanna smoke?”

A flicker of surprise crosses your face, but he merely shrugs. Clad in nothing but swim trunks and a short-sleeve button-up left undone, his sun-kissed chest is fully exposed, drawing your gaze. You resist the urge to scold him for smoking right before dinner with his father–it’s a source of stress for him, and you’d promised to support him in any way you could.

Grabbing a pre-rolled cone, you pack it with focus, evident in how your knitted brows almost kiss. Once the ground-up green fills the cone to the brim, you twist the end of the rolling paper, gently bringing the joint to his lips and offering him the lighter. 

He stares down into your eyes, something intimate passing between you. 

“Light it for me,” he mutters around the joint. 

You hold your breath as the flickering orange flame meets the end of the joint, Frankie’s eyes slowly growing hazy as he inhales. 

Frankie’s shoulders draw back to his spine with how much he takes, and you know that he’ll be buzzing after this large of a hit. 

He takes the joint between his index and middle finger, removing it from his pink lips. You expect a large, grey puff of smoke on his exhale, but he surprises you. 

Frankie closes the distance between you, one large palm sinking warmth into your hip, the other gently tilting your chin to brush your lips with his. 

With a tilt of his head, he exhales, and the cloud forms a narrow bridge between you as you inhale his smoke. The warmth of his breath mixes with the bite of weed, and you’re entranced. 

Before the last bits of fog fade, his mouth attaches to yours. It’s not hasty, but deep, like he’s inhaling you. He wants every particle, every taste, and every piece of you in his lungs. He’s intoxicating like the lingering smoke, all heady and bold. 

You part to catch a breath, eyes softening as your lips gently brush against the coarse hair of his stubble. He presses a kiss to your cheek and doesn’t let go of your hip, both of you wrapped in each other. 

Your high is less intense than the one Frankie is surely feeling, but it’s nice, like you’re floating with him. 

A slow smile curls on your lips as you gently pat his chest. “I have to shower.” Your eyes betray you as they linger over his features. 

He sighs defeatedly and moves to the bed, watching you move about the room while he takes another long drag. “Wait,” Frankie directs you with two crooked fingers in your direction, his voice raspy from the smoke. “C’mere.”

You narrow your eyes at the man but ultimately abide by his wishes. Once you’re close enough for him to reach, he drags you into the bed with him, guiding your legs to straddle his lap.

His eyes rake over your body, taking all of you in. His dark lashes flick up, and he licks his cherry lips. “Kiss me first.” His voice, rich and commanding, only heightens the sensation in the pit of your stomach. There’s a raw magnetism to him, an undeniable allure in the way he casually leans against the headboard, jaw twitching with desire. 

His fingers glide dangerously over the strings of your swimsuit, and you know he’s eager to get you bare. He closes the gap, starting slow as your mouths kiss in a dance that has your hips working slow ovals over his lap. 

Your arms snake around the tops of his shoulders, fingers knotting into his dark windswept waves.

He kisses you with lazy movements of his tongue against yours, no urgency in how he removes your swimsuit with care and delicacy. He touches your skin like you’re something sacred, praying to a goddess he doesn’t feel he deserves. 

His kisses are impactful, each one making your heart skip a beat. 

The joint goes out in the ashtray on his bedside table as you get lost in exploring one another’s bodies. 

“Be with me,” he whispers against your lips, a touch of yearning exposed. “With everything going on, just… be here with me, baby.” 

You nod breathlessly, a hand on his jawline guiding his lips back home. 

Frankie’s large hands untie the strings, letting your top fall loose to expose your breasts. A shiver travels up your spine as his fingers dance down your back, all while he places slow kisses along the column of your throat. 

Every touch feels heightened, more intense, like you can feel the energy and space between you as if it’s tangible. It’s the high, you remind yourself.  Frankie’s hot mouth suckles on your nipple, swirling his tongue around the sensitive bud until it grows perky in his mouth. It sends a shockwave down to your core, a loose whimper leaving your throat as you work yourself against Frankie. His swim trunks tighten, his cock hardening with the friction. 

“Fuck, angel,” he whispers breathlessly, moving to your other nipple as your chin tips to the ceiling in pleasure. “You’ve made this the best year of my life, cariño.”

Warmth travels to the back of your neck, that floating feeling coming back tenfold as he pleasures your most sensitive body parts and gifts you compliments. 

Frankie moves you to your back, and he notches his knee at the inside of your thigh, spreading your legs further apart as his body slots perfectly between your soft thighs. 

He presses slow, open-mouthed kisses in the valley between your breasts, all while he curls his greedy fingers around the band of your swimsuit to pull off anything that remains in his way. 

“Take off your clothes,” you accidentally beg, gliding the heels of your hands along Frankie’s hips to nudge down his cherry-red trunks. 

Naked together, you fit like two puzzle pieces. This never used to feel like a possibility, but now, it was your everyday. The very thing you were afraid to be–someone who could be vulnerable and fall deeply in love–was what you had become. 

You know you’re high, and you’re feeling more in touch with your feelings than you normally would, but simply put… you’ve never felt better than this. 

Frankie’s hard against your center, rocking his hips against yours. He fists his shaft and pumps a few times. He plants one palm beside your head, his strong bicep bulging as he runs his tip up and down your dripping center. The muscles in your thighs jump anxiously at his teasing caresses. You hold your breath, biting back a needy whimper when his tip catches at your entrance, and he pushes into you. 

Frankie’s dark eyes find yours, a smirk dancing across his lips as he leans down to the shell of your ear and whispers, “Tell me what turns you on.” 

Your blown-out pupils go wide, your lips parting. “What?” 

Frankie licks a warm stripe along the shell of your ear before nibbling your lobe. “I asked what turns you on. Spit it out, princesa.” The sensation of goosebumps flies across your skin, and you gasp as his cock plunges deeper and deeper. 

Your jaw aches as your mouth falls open wider, but no words come out. 

He’s so fucking arrogant. The man you used to know so fondly in the kitchen of Tommy’s Diner is now between your legs with the same old smirk and a mischievous glint in his eyes. 

It’s hard to think when all of your senses scream Frankie. The heady scent of sweat on his skin after spending a day in the sun. His body crowding yours as his thick body carves a spot made just for him between your legs. Not to mention the stretch of him making you want to scream. 

The answer to his question is there, almost reachable, but every time you get close, your senses become overwhelmed again. 

“Fuck, I like,” your eyes roll into the back of your head as his firm hand comes up and squeezes the plush of your breast, sending a shockwave of arousal down to your core. “I-I like it when I can feel your weight on top of me, feels good to be held down,” you admit. 

Once the first truth is out, Frankie rewards you by bottoming out inside you. 

Your body tenses underneath him, a gasp bouncing off the walls. 

Just as you get used to being full, he reels his hips away, and you’re left missing him. You need more, more, more.

A dark chuckle escapes Frankie as his stubble scratches perfectly along your cheekbone. “What else?” 

It’s a desperate thing to want someone to fill you up so badly, clear your mind, and hold you in this space with them. So you babble. 

“Goddammit,” you whimper, your breath catching as he slowly sinks into your warmth once more. “I like that you take control when you talk to me like I’m-I’m—”

“Like what?” Frankie grunts. 

A string of curse words from both parties mingle between you, his lips and teeth on the curve of your jaw as he fills you up completely, starting a steady rhythm.  

You swallow the lump in your throat, hands searching desperately for something to hold on to, so you settle for one in his windswept waves and the other on his bicep. “Like–fuck–like I’m your sex toy, when you use me. I feel good when you feel good.” 

None of this has ever been said aloud, only in actions. When Frankie fucks you, it’s like you’re the center of his universe. You’re his goddess, and his bed is the temple in which he worships. The thought of this used to scare you, to have someone know and appreciate you so profoundly. Now, it’s like you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

Frankie is the center of your universe. 

Frankie nuzzles his nose against yours, a lopsided smirk on his lips as he stares into your big, blown-out eyes. You’re both so out of it, floating in something deeper than love. 

“You want me to use you?” His husky voice ripples in your ears. 

All you can do is wobble your head up and down as he gives you his first powerful thrust. “Yes,” you squeak. The headboard bangs against the wall, and your body falls deeper into the plush mattress. 

He keeps a pace–one that’s not rushed and eager, but he never lets up fully. Every slow drag of his hips leaves you breathless, and when he plunges back inside, it feels like you’re whole again.  

Frankie rips your claws from his flesh and pins your wrists above your head, using his upper body strength and the hand planted on the bed to keep him hovered. All the muscles in his body are taut and on display, his biceps bulging and the veins in his arms highlighted. 

He looked like a fucking god. 

“I like using you,” he grunts, “Never thought I’d get the chance to use you. Now,” he pants as he locks his fingers with yours. “Now, I use you whenever I damn well please.” His husky voice growls in your ear, causing a shudder to slip up your spine. 

Frankie grinds his hips against yours, the coarse hair that grows along his base stimulating your clit. Your thighs pulse, the nerves thumping excitedly as the crescendo of your orgasm builds. 

One gasp, two, turns to three, and your back arches off the mattress as he forces your legs wider, pushing them toward the direction of your head so you’re splayed open for him at the perfect angle. 

Your hazy brain is in pleasure overdrive, Frankie’s hips slapping menacingly against yours, ignoring the stretch of this position, just drilling himself into your pussy and taking what he needs. 

It’s easy to forget how strong Frankie is. At the diner, he throws fifty-pound bags of flour and sugar over his shoulder and hauls hefty cases of meat to the freezer weekly. He’s built. And watching him fold you in half with only one arm supporting his weight while the other spoils your clit is exactly how you’re reminded of this.

You cry out his name in a wrecked, overstimulated sob. He only smirks. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, “that’s a good girl.” His thumb adds pressure to your pearl as he works tiny ministrations around her. “This pussy is so goddamn perfect. Goddammit, I wanna finish deep inside her.” 

It’s heart hammering, this orgasm more sneaky than all the rest as it twirls recklessly inside of you. Your hips sting and your lungs are pinched of air, but seeing this hot lumberjack of a man on top of you has your orgasm racing to the finish line. And he’s doing exactly as you asked–crushing you with his weight as he sinks lower and lower over your body while he uses you however he likes. 

It’s perfect. 

In a chorus of curses and breathy pants, you finish in unison. You can feel his cock pulsing inside you, a dirty rhythm that works in sync with your pulsing cunt. 

Frankie rests his forehead against your temple, neither of you letting go of one another. You whine as he pulls out, leaving a mess between your centers. You don’t even realize you’re kissing. Everything just feels so natural and calm. 

All of it comes crashing down when you lazily look at the display on his alarm clock. 

“Shit,” you gasp as you push Frankie off, grabbing his hand and yanking him out of bed. “We’re gonna be late!” Frankie groans exhaustedly, tripping over his feet as he follows you from his bedroom to the bathroom, all while watching your ass with each step you take. 

“Fuck! The water is too cold!” His muffled voice echoes after you yank the shower handle, apparently not far enough to warm. 

“It’ll warm up. We’re gonna be so fuckin’ late!”

Dinner with Frankie’s father was quickly off to a bad start. Getting Frankie in the truck was hard enough, but getting him to decide on the right thing to wear had been nearly impossible. Not perfect, but right. It feels important to emphasize that Frankie’s not looking for approval from his shit dad, but there is a certain weight pressing over tonight. It wasn’t exactly one he was looking forward to. 

He’s run his hand through his perfect waves about fifteen times, and it’s made his roots oily and his pretty curls a bit frizzy. He resigns himself to the fact that he’ll have to wear his hat, but he worries the restaurant will be too fancy for a hat with a large bass on the front. 

“We can cancel.”

“No,” he mutters, staring in the mirror as he adds some sink water to his hair. He’s being short with you, but he doesn’t mean it. He’s an anxious ball of energy, and this was your time to step up. His eyes dart to your softer pair in the mirror. His large hands grip the pearly sink’s edge as he releases a sigh that sounds like it holds the weight of his world. 

You slowly wrap your arms around his middle, pressing the side of your face against his oak-brown jacket. Slowly, your hands move up his body, and you feel his heart racing against his ribs. He braces even tighter against the sink, closing his eyes as his body relaxes in your hold. 

“Please, let me help,” you ask as you push up on your tip toes and notch your chin over his shoulder. His panicked face ultimately releases tension and he nods. 

After you sit him on the toilet seat and tie a towel around the tops of his broad shoulders, you spritz him with water from a spray bottle. 

“You know, I used to have bangs-”

“Bangs?” Frankie interjects as his anxious hands settle on the back of your thighs, his own widening to allow you further into his space. 

“Yup, bangs. They were really cute,” you pause to run a thin comb through his hair, “but the thing that sucks about bangs is if your skin gets oily on your forehead, your bangs get oily. But I didn’t always want to jump in the shower or wash my whole head again, so I’d do a sink bath. I would soak just my bangs with water, shampoo them, rinse, and then style.”

“Is that what we’re doing to me?”

You hum something affirmative, giving Frankie a small dollop of shampoo that smells like coconut and turmeric. The best thing you ever did for this man was to get him away from the 3-in-1. Nothing needs to be that ratio. Ever. 

As your fingers gently massage into his scalp, allowing the shampoo to grow white and foamy, he closes his eyes in a moment of peace. Your movements are slower, synchronizing with his tender breaths. 

He breathes your name, a little desperate for your kind heart. 

“I’m sorry I snapped at you.”

Shaking your head, you wipe your sudsy hands on the towel wrapped around him before gently clutching his cheeks. “Stop,” you insist, angling his chin to look up at you. You’d never seen his eyes so round and hurt, like he was preparing for the pain that was about to come. “We don’t have to go. He left his number on the letter. I can call and cancel.” 

The decision weighs heavily on him. His tongue prods against the inside of his cheek before he ultimately shakes his head. “This will be the last time I see him. Even if he comes back with apologies or claims that he’s changed, I know this is where it stops. I refuse to let him hold any power over me—not even in my mind. He took my childhood. I won’t let him take any more of my life.” 

He takes solace in your touch, his arms tightening around your body. He looks up at you like you hold the moon and the stars in the sky. You never knew you could be this important to someone. 

Witnessing Frankie with his father was similar to experiencing the seven stages of grief–one emotion after the next, all barreling toward the inevitable fallout. 

Frankie appeared prepared when he walked into the buzzing restaurant. He carried himself with the quiet tenacity of a soldier stepping onto a battlefield, fully aware of the scars it bore; however, this battlefield consisted of wine glasses clinking and white tablecloths with polished and proper stainless steel cutlery. 

The strained and tumultuous terrain of his relationship with his father was familiar ground. Yet, he moved with a sense of purpose, as if bracing for the inevitable clash while refusing to back down.

The sundress you wore to the classy restaurant hugged your curves–the ones Frankie held onto like a life preserver. A tall waiter with strawberry-blonde hair guided you to a table along the wall of windows. 

You held your breath at the sight of the older man who sat alone at the four-chaired table. His resemblance to Frankie was striking: the same dark brown eyes, sharp jawlines, and aquiline noses. His hair was curlier than Frankie’s, streaked with far more silver. The faint wrinkles at the start of their eyebrows were identical, though deeper with age on his father’s face.

A distinguishable difference was their eyes. People say the eyes are the windows to one's soul. Frankie’s eyes are filled with warmth and kindness, whereas his father’s appears tired and worn after years of hardship. His father’s frame was smaller and thin, his cheekbones slightly hollow–a stark contrast to the tall and broad man at your side. 

The older man stood from his spot at the table as you neared, removing the cloth napkin from his lap. 

“Francisco,” he greeted, his voice jagged and grainy like gravel. “Nice to see ya, son. You look good.” 

Frankie’s tight-lipped grin and firm nod were all he offered before turning to you for a proper introduction. “This is my father, Anthony.” With the silence between them, his father’s gaze awkwardly averted from his distant son to the woman standing protectively by his side. Anthony reached his hand across the table, a lopsided smile on display as you shook his cold hand politely. 

“Nice to meet you, sweetheart. You must be Francisco’s…” His words trailed off on purpose, allowing you to fill in the blank. 

“Girlfriend,” you said definitively, “Nice to meet you too, Mr. Morales.” Knowing their past, you withheld judgment in your face and smiled softly. For the first time tonight, Frankie cracked a small smile.

Was it the first time you announced and accepted the title? 

Everyone held their breath until Anthony ultimately stuttered on his footing and slowly moved to grip his chair. “Please, please, sit down,” he urged, disguising his misstep as honest hospitality. 

Your eyes curiously shifted to Frankie’s, but he simply pulled your chair out for you and sat down stiffly on his own. 

One could slice the tension at the table with a knife. 

Anthony cleared his throat and smiled, sliding what appeared to be a birthday card across the table. It was in an eggshell envelope, but the vibrant color of balloons glared through under the lighting. “Happy birthday, Francisco.” 

Frankie stared at the envelope. In slanted letters, his father’s handwriting was displayed in jagged pen strokes. It wasn’t just a birthday card, not really. Opening that card opened the door to a relationship, and Frankie wasn’t ready for that. But the gesture was kind enough. 

You’ve always been tough—a girl who’s seen her share of heartbreak and disappointments. That’s why you kept your heart so carefully guarded when things first started with Frankie. It felt safer that way. 

In a strange twist of fate, you now find yourself wishing Frankie could learn to do the same, that he could build the kind of walls and boundaries you had mastered to protect himself from his father. It wasn’t something anyone else could do for him; he had to find the strength not to get his hopes up and keep his heart safe.

Taking a deep breath, Frankie tapped the card with the pads of his fingers and nodded gently. “Thanks, pops. Let’s eat.” 

Frankie's POV

The first half of dinner was spent catching up over expensive steaks and creamy garlic mashed potatoes, talking about how the two of you met. The tension knotted in his shoulders begins to unravel, and the headache lurking behind his temples eases its grip. Your thumb traces gentle, unhurried circles on Frankie’s knee, each touch radiating a soothing warmth that melts away the weight of this moment.

Frankie thought he knew what he was going to say to his father. He would be cold and cut him off, tell him this would be the last time he saw his son’s face, and pay for his own birthday meal because he didn’t need his father anymore. Despite the challenges he faced, he had come out the other side. 

Still, he couldn’t deny there was a sad, pathetic piece of him that wanted to hear certain things from his father’s voice. He wanted to hear him say he was sorry and regretful for being a piece of shit. That he felt horrible about missing out on Frankie and his little sisters’ childhood and that they had to grow up without him. And that he hated himself for leaving their family when mom needed the help of a grown-up, not a young boy who didn’t know how the world worked. 

Before it all went sour, there was some good. Frankie, the firstborn, was his father's pride and joy—his miniature reflection with the same sharp eyes and wild dark curls. And if Frankie was to be his father’s son, there was much for him to learn.

His father took him to his first rodeo. Frankie wore his shiny new brown boots and a cowboy hat to match, cheering loudly as he sat on his father’s shoulders to get a good look at the cowboys roping the cattle. 

Frankie wasn’t allowed to touch the barbeque. Still, he remembers being perched on his father’s hip as he prepared traditional asado and empanadas. As the smell of sizzling meat filled the air, his father told him stories of how his father had taught him the art of cooking these quintessential meals.

They sang his mother’s favorite folk songs to her, played soccer, and went fishing. Frankie began to remember that, for a time, his father had been a pretty good dad.

He doesn’t remember a whole lot after that. It’s like a few years of his childhood were blocked out and repressed, probably for the better. The last strong memory he truly recalled was the physical fight he had with him when he was ten years old. Maybe he was eleven? Twelve? His memory never felt concrete, but the images his mind displayed were vivid and unhappy. 

So why did he find comfort in how they shared the same smile? The way that their cheeks rounded and their eyes glittered when they talked about things they cared about. 

Frankie's resentment toward his father was beginning to crumble—not completely, but the barriers he had constructed were gradually being dismantled by the only person he'd entrusted with the tools to do so. The same hands that had built those walls now seemed to know exactly how to take them apart. A charming smile here, a hearty laugh there, and Frankie found himself yearning for the impossible: to feel like he had his dad back again.

It was stupid. He knew it was. Putting hope out there into the hands of someone who had broken it time and time again. Maybe he was too trusting or sanguine. He couldn’t explain it. He tried to stay neutral and reserved, but the laugh echoing from his throat surprised even him. 

“I didn’t break ma’s lamp. You did.”

His father’s raspy voice wheezed, shaking his head with a wide smile. “Francisco, you threw your football in the living room, and she told you to take it outside so many times—” 

“Noo,” Frankie strung out the syllables, setting his fork down on his plate and jabbing his pointer finger toward his father. “I did take it outside. You broke it when you stumbled in one night and-and I remember I woke up to the glass shattering.” Frankie’s mouth hung open for a few moments, both of them pausing their amused faces as realization set in. 

Anthony’s eyes glanced down to his food he’s barely picked at before ultimately nodding. “No, you’re right, that was… yeah, that was me.” He cleared his throat, and the moment settled, the waiter swinging by to clear our plates and offer dessert and boxes for leftovers. 

“No box,” his dad said, to which Frankie’s eyebrows furrowed. It was an expensive meal, and he had nothing more than a few spoonfuls of mashed potatoes and bits of his steak. “But it’s my son’s birthday. Do you have a slice of cake we can get him?”

Frankie’s eyes slowly softened, squeezing your hand under the table as he looked at you with a boyish look in his eyes. Your expression made him falter, confused for a moment before he felt another reassuring squeeze to his hand. 

He leans over and whispers in your ear, “You okay?”

Were you okay? It felt like you were watching the first hour and thirty-eight minutes of the movie Titanic, right before it hit the iceberg. 

You tried to discount yourself. Maybe you were just being paranoid or protective, but something seemed off with Anthony. This was your first time meeting Frankie’s father, and you knew nothing about him other than Frankie describing him as a piece of shit. Frankie’s guard lowered so quickly, and now he was easily unraveling before his father, who seemed to be drinking it up. 

In no way are you saying that you hoped that Frankie would have punished his father more. You’re just a bystander who responded to a few basic “get to know you better” questions from Anthony, but Frankie pushed all his concerns to the wayside as early as when the appetizers were brought out. 

You take in a shaky breath and smile softly at your birthday boy. 

“Yeah, I’m okay. Are you?” 

He nods and smiles warmly, hoping to ease your concerns. But his ease of doing so only made something sour settle in the base of your stomach. 

After the waiter disappeared for dessert, Frankie turned back to his father. “No box? Dad, you barely ate.” 

Anthony hesitates before quickly rebuffing the offer. “It’s fine, m’not all that hungry. Had a late lunch.” He scratches at the inside of his wrist and then along his neck before sitting back in his chair and crossing his arms. 

But Frankie was insistent. “That’s what the box is for, have it for tomorrow. The steak was really good.” 

“M’fine.” 

“You just ordered an expensive ass meal. Take it home and eat it, dad.”

“I don’t like steak that much.”

“Then why did you order it? Just take it-” 

“Dammit, Francisco,” His father scoffed angrily, slamming his fist down on the table that caused the salt and pepper shakers to jump and your silverware to clatter. “I said no.” 

Something burns in both of their eyes, uneasiness settling over the table as Frankie slowly sits back in his chair and crosses his arms–a mirror of his father–as silence follows. 

Of course, the waiter returns at that moment with a slice of chocolate cake and a candle sticking out the top. He lights the wick as a gaggle of waiters and waitresses join in to sing Frankie happy birthday. By the end, they grow quiet and soft, and all Frankie and his father do is stare at each other. 

“Happy Birthday…” the waiter says with a tight-lipped smile as you slowly nod your head to get him away from the iceberg. 

After a moment of silence, you glance over to Frankie, whose hardened exterior has resurfaced after his father’s outburst. 

Frankie visibly gathers his strength before letting out a half laugh, half scoff. “What d’you got? Or are you in withdrawal again?” 

You look between them, Frankie’s hold on your hand tightening instinctively. Resting your other hand on his forearm, you offer him an out. “Let’s just go.” 

He either doesn’t hear you in his growing rage or chooses to ignore you. Because he’s looking for a fight. You can see it in how his lip snarls, his jaw is wound tight, and his eyes pierce his father's with unwavering hatred. 

Anthony sighs uncomfortably and shakes his head with a frown. “M’sorry I snapped at you.”

“Anything else you’re sorry for? Do you want me to roll out the red carpet for your apologies? It’s a long list, and I don’t have all night. So how about you tell me what the fuck is wrong with you? I’ve never seen you this skinny and there’s no fuckin’ white in your eyes; it’s just yellow. The hell is wrong with you, Anthony?” 

The shift from dad to Anthony visibly makes his father’s eyes grow sorrowful. Frankie’s outburst causes the nearby tables to gawk again. You feel guilty. He brought you here for support and you’re just about as stunned as the rest of the restaurant. 

“Frankie,” you offer warmly, looking between his father’s wary eyes and Frankie’s stern look. “We don’t have to do this. We can go home.”

“No, no. Tell me why you mailed that letter. I haven’t heard from you in ten years, and now you wanna see me on my birthday? You need something. You’d never reach out to me with just the love in your heart. So, spit it out. You’re sick, aren’t you?” Frankie’s words are slick with venom, but all you can see is the little boy whose features are worn with disappointment. 

Anthony noticeably has tears welling in his eyes, his round fingernails as white as the tablecloth in front of you as he wipes them away. For a moment, you all hold your breath before he ultimately nods. 

You watch Anthony’s shaky hands run down his face, seemingly uncomfortable to lay his weaknesses out on the table. “Yeah, son. M’sick.” He takes Frankie’s cold silence as a nudge for him to explain further. “I don’t know, guess it started with liver disease then turned into the cancer. They did lots of tests, and all that turned into a biopsy.” Anthony opens his mouth to speak before taking a moment to find his words. “Docs say I’m not a candidate for a transplant. Kinda disqualified myself after all those years of downing shit I shouldn’t.”

The revelation changes the energy of the table. It’s clear what he’s implying. 

“You were going to ask Frankie if he’d donate part of his liver?” Your voice lacerates the tension between them. Your gaze flicks over to Frankie, whose expression is entirely unreadable. 

Anthony scratches his skin and stares at the flaming candle wax melting downward onto Frankie’s birthday cake. 

“I didn’t want to tell you. Not today. It’s your birthday, and I wanted you to be happy.” Anthony forces up a wavering laugh, but it only makes things worse.

Frankie’s jaw shifts from left to right, and he looks from Anthony down to where you hold his hand for support. 

After a breathy sigh, Frankie expels the truth that’s sat with him for decades. His eyes are solemn and devoid of hope once again. “I’m never happy when you’re around, dad. You’re not here to say you’re sorry. You’re not here to make things right. You’re not here for me. This is about you because you’ve got fucking cancer!” Frankie’s bottom lip quivers. You can’t tell if he’s so angry he could cry or if he’s so sad that he’s angry with himself. “You can tell me you’ve changed, that you’ve gone to substance abuse meetings and got sober, but the cancer came on anyway. I don’t know or care what pulled you out of the gutter. I just know it wasn’t me, wasn’t your family. If you’re just here to apologize and ask for my forgiveness as part of your stupid twelve-step program, just know that they don’t fix the years of absence and abuse. Ma was a good woman, and we were good children. You’re fucking poison, Anthony, and now you’re soaking in your own poison like a sponge. You’re sick. And you’re not getting a thing from me.”

Frankie whips the cloth napkin off his lap and onto Anthony’s plate of cold food. His next words are enough to cause a shiver up your spine. “And if I hear that you ask my sisters for a cut of their livers, I’ll fuckin’ kill you myself.” 

The tables around us start to whisper and gasp at that, turning their curious, eavesdropping ears like owls as they chitter about the drama at table thirty-four. 

Anthony sat across the table with his lips parted, eyes filled with hurt but more so of an understanding that he deserved this. He wiped at his eyes again and slowly nodded, giving you a half-apologetic smile. 

“It was nice to meet you, sweetheart.”

The ride back home in Frankie’s truck is quiet. He couldn’t even stand the radio’s Top 40 as he jabbed his thumb into the volume button and let the truck cab fall mute. 

He was wrestling with what to say. So were you. 

No words felt right or good enough. What could you say to make him feel better? Or were you not supposed to say anything and let him feel this pain? Would he wallow in it, or would it help him resolve his feelings? 

These questions were answered for you as his wavering voice ended the silence. 

“Please,” Frankie’s tired voice whispered, “tell me somethin’ good.”

You look up. You’re parked outside his apartment building, the truck idling in the dead of night as the navy sky watches over you both with twinkling stars. 

At the sight of Frankie’s silent tears gliding down his cheeks, you feel compelled to take the pain away in any capacity possible. 

In one swift movement, you lift the center console that separates you from him and lock it in place, filling the space beside him. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him to you. His arms hesitate but ultimately snake around your lower back, and the hold he has on you only tightens as he realizes this is exactly what he needs. 

Your fingers weave into the mess of curls at the nape of his neck, his hat knocking off his head as he buries his nose into the space between your shoulder and neck. A sob escapes from somewhere deep in his throat, and it thrusts you into tears. 

You've never experienced a love so profound that their pain becomes your own, cutting through you with an intensity that defies all reason. 

Frankie's POV

Frankie’s experienced overwhelming sadness before. When he was a child, it used to be all he knew. All those memories were coming back, not in little flickers of light, but huge waves that made him feel as if he was drowning under the weight of all that he endured. 

The corners of his vision crackled and glitched like an old, broken television. His hearing went fuzzy, and he could only hear the pounding of his heart. 

His father returning only to leave him with more scars and tears was too much to handle. He should have said no to seeing him. He should have left when you offered. But for some reason, he was drawn to his father. 

He wanted his apology and attention. To be the one to let him down this time. To take back his personhood and disown his father for good. 

A part of him hated to hear that Anthony was doing better than he was before, because why couldn’t he have gotten better for him? Was he not good enough? Was he not worth turning his father’s life around? 

These horrific questions ping-ponged inside his brain until he couldn’t breathe. The fear and anxiety surged all the air from his lungs, and what was at first a tearful release of cries turned into strangled breaths. 

He was losing control, suffocating on his thoughts. His pulse throbbed angrily against his throat and his bleary eyes could sparsely make out the shape of your body against his. 

“Fuck I can’t—” Frankie’s eyes clenched closed, talking only making things worse. Heat filled his head, a thin layer of sweat gliding across his skin as he gasped for air. 

The echo of his name breaks the high-frequency buzzing in his ears. He blinks through his tears, feeling your thumbs swiping away at the waterfalls on his cheeks. 

“Frankie,” you whisper, voice steady and strong, like an anchor in a hurricane. “I’m here. Breathe with me.” Your hands take his trembling ones and guide them to the much slower, more relaxed rhythm of your heart. 

“I can’t,” he chokes, his voice raw and jagged. 

“You can,” you said, your thumb making circles over his clammy and cold palm. His fingers twitched against your own, wanting to pull away but unable to garner the strength. 

“Look at me, Frankie.” 

For a moment, his gaze fluttered around the cab of his truck before it finally centered on you. 

Frankie stares into your eyes, and his memories are pulled in a separate direction–one filled with the blinding yellow light that filters through the diner in the early mornings and paints the entire room in sunshine and gold. 

The clock reads fifteen minutes after seven in the morning. 

“You’re late, Francisco,” your teasing voice echoes like he’s in a dream. You’re haphazardly trying to balance a serving tray of pancakes, toast, an egg scramble, and a cute Mickey Mouse waffle you had made yourself. He knows because you put the two sausage links on Mickey’s eyebrows, bright red strawberries on his cheeks, and a whipped cream smile along his signature grin. You walk towards a family of four, but he quickly rushes to your side and takes the teetering tray from your hands. 

“I got it, Princess. Do me a favor and say we came in together, and I’ll make your breakfast special for you. With a coffee.” Frankie entertained you with a wink, knowingly playing into your flirtatious repertoire. 

You scoffed and gave him that wicked smirk, your eyes catching the sunlight and turning into a completely different color that he would love to explore under a microscope for hours if given the chance. 

“Deal,” you smile with ease as you hand him the packed tray. He quickly serves the happy family before following you like a dog into the back kitchen. 

“Ah-ah-ah, Francisco Morales. Do not tell me you were late again, or I’ll have to whoop that cute little butt of yours out onto the street, and you’ll be lookin’ for a new job.” Carla, the manager, held a motherly tone whilst playfully snapping at her favorite line cook as she brewed a fresh pot of coffee. 

Frankie pauses his footsteps halfway through the kitchen like a kid caught stealing a cookie from the cookie jar. Your head whipped to look up at him, both of you sharing a look until you casually shrugged. You point to the tray in his hands and look adorably confused. 

“He was helping me carry some plates out. Oh, Frankie, did you forget to clock in again? We came in together. You can write in his time card the same as mine.” You’ve always been a terrible liar. You gulp after each nervous breath. 

Carla lets out a not-so-convincing mhmm before she walks through the swinging door. 

Frankie smirks down at you with a breath of relief, tying his dirty apron behind his back and hanging his hat on a hook while he replaces it with his red bandana. “I so owe you. Let me take you out for a drink tonight.”

“Only in your wet dreams, Francisco.”

“Good,” your voice whispers to him. He blinks, and he’s back with you in his truck, his vision a lot less foggy and his breathing slower.

“That’s good. Now, follow my breaths.” You draw in a deep puff of air, exaggerating the motion so he can see. “In through your nose and count to four,” you wait, thumb still rubbing soothing circles on his hand, which is the grounding touch he desperately needs. “Now, out through the mouth for six.” You count with him, and he starts to feel his senses return to him unhurriedly. 

With each breath he takes with you, he grows steadier by a fraction. The tension strung tight between his shoulders and neck slowly eases. 

One of your hands leaves his to press against his damp cheek. His skin burns under your palm, but it feels good to sense your gentle touch. 

“You’re not alone,” you murmur. He’s not sure if he started leaning his forehead in or if it was you, but your skin lightly brushes, and he craves the feeling of love you so easily give him. 

“Tonight was… a lot. I’m so sorry, Frankie. But you’re not facing this by yourself. I’m not leaving you. I’m here.” 

You both eventually fall into a hug once more, his head dipping and resting against your shoulder as his breathing mellows. You wrap your arms around him tight, and the compression helps. He can feel his breaths this way. 

“I’m here,” you repeat, your voice a steady promise that he knows to be true. “You’re who I want. I love you.” Your fingers thread through his messy hair, and he lets out a soothing hum of appreciation. 

He pulls together the strength he needs to find his voice. It’s rugged and muffled against your warm skin. “I love you.” 

The next morning, Frankie notices the pale white envelope sticking out of your purse. It was the letter his father slid across the table before shit hit the fan. 

Your eyes catch on to his one-sided staring contest, padding across the carpet with two mugs of coffee in your hand as you’re quick to distract him. “I didn’t want to throw it away without your permission, and last night didn’t seem like the time to ask.” 

He nods understandingly but stands anyway, grabbing the card silently before settling back down beside you on the couch. You pull the thick dark green blanket over both your laps and slowly run your hand up and down his back, working supportive circles over his freckled skin. 

“You don’t have to read it,” you remind him. He wonders what would hurt worse: knowing what’s inside or never knowing. 

“Am I a glutton for punishment?” Frankie asks with his familiar teasing smile, ripping open the envelope by its seam, letting out a long breath before looking down at the card. 

It’s abundantly clear that his father perused the birthday card aisle and followed the signs alphabetically from boss, brother, child, to nephew, sister, son and chose the first one with a funny picture on the front. 

Frankie cocks an eyebrow and shakes his head in annoyance at the sight of a large cartoon grizzly bear who dons a bow tie, glasses, and a party hat and balances the words Happy Birthday, Son! over its head. 

Your hand protectively wraps around his bicep, your temple connecting to his shoulder as you rest your head there. Your beautiful eyes flick up to meet his under dark lashes as you exchange a wary glance. 

Frankie presses a kiss to your lips, one that feels like heaven after a night of hell. 

He’s unsure what to expect when he opens the card. His jaw shifts from left to right at the sizable letter written with a pen on the inside. Maybe he had more to say that he could never properly verbalize. 

“What’s it say?” Your tender voice asks beside him. Frankie takes a deep breath before clearing his throat and reading for himself. 

“Francisco, I don’t know where to begin or if these words will even matter to you now. I made so many mistakes when I was younger, ones I know I can’t take back, no matter how much I wish I could. 

I’m sorry I never came into your room when I heard you crying. I’m sorry that I stopped coming to my arranged visitations with you. I’m sorry that I didn’t attend your high school graduation. I’m sorry I’ve let you become someone I don’t know anymore. You deserved a better dad, someone who didn’t let their own mess spill over into your life. I see that now and see how much I took from you. I wish I could take it all back and change it. I don’t expect forgiveness. I don’t even know if I deserve it. Learn from my mistakes and be a better man than me. Truth be told, I already know you are.

Happy birthday, Francisco. I hope it’s not too late to say these things, even if I should have said them a lifetime ago. 

-Dad”

whatcha think? probably our most dramatic episode thus far. hope you liked the angst xx that's for reading all this, that's crazy! you just read 10k+! can't believe you spent all that time reading my little fic chapter :')) ily

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[amyleepascal]

Submit 😲

[lunnaisjustvibing]

The way I stopped the movie to just admire him clean shaven and in that crane print shirt...

And his hair, looking so soft and fluffy...

PEDRO PASCAL CINEMATIC UNIVERSE’S HOTTEST MOMENTS

40. 77/232 votes → Frankie Morales hugging Santi in Triple Frontier (2019)

[toomanystoriessolittletime]

Begin Again

Summary: You finally make the decision to move on from Frankie. Your best friend growing up turned ex husband, who never loved you like you wished he would.

Pairing: (Ex-)Frankie Morales x fem. reader

Rating: G (I think)

Wordcount: 1.1k

Warnings: angst, alcohol, getting married drunk in vegas, weddings, moving on, Frankie is either a dick or oblivious you decide

A/N: This is one of the fic I wrote for @almostfoxglove's angst challenge. I love writing angst and I don't do it enough. Thank you for putting this challenge together 💜 I should though. I hope you like it! and let me know if I anyone wants to read the second fic I wrote for this moodboard even though I do not like it that much but for you I would post it anyway lol

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Full Masterlist // Frankie Morales Masterlist

You initial reaction when you received the invitation in the mail was to ignore it. 

But it was glaring at you every time you walked past the little table next to your door, demanding its attention from you. Finally it was a phone call that made you pick up the envelope, your name printed in beautiful silver letters on it. 

You had known what it was from the moment you picked up the mail, but opening it and reading the names made it real. 

Frankie was getting married. 

Again. 

And being the person that he was he of course invited you. Because how would he know how much you had been hurting?

Frankie and you grown up together. Living on the same street you became fast friends, but you knew pretty early on, even at the tender age of six, that Frankie was the one boy you wanted to marry. 

And you did.

One drunken night out in Vegas close after you twenty second birthday. He had been home from deployment, all of his army buddies too and he had talked you into coming with them to Vegas, wanting to celebrate your birthday he hadn’t been able to celebrate with you earlier that year. 

It was a typical rom com moment, the morning you woke up, head hurting with a hangover and confused where you were. The first thing you realised was that you were naked, the second was that you were sore. It was then that a groan came from next to you and you screamed bloody murder until you realised it was Frankie who was equally as shocked.

And while the two of you tried to put the last night together you both realised the rings on your fingers. 

His reaction was different from yours. While you were freaking out, he just looked at you for a long time before he reached for your hands and told you that you should just try it. 

You’ve been best friends for so long, maybe there could be more?

And for two years there was. 

You finally had him the way you always dreamed of, as a man, your man, your husband. The switch from friends to newlyweds was fluent, and more than once you asked yourself if you were dreaming. 

And maybe you had been. 

Maybe you would have cherished the time you had with him more, if you knew it wouldn’t be forever. 

You would have cherished every kiss, every touch, every moment he had you beneath him as he made you see stars. 

But one day, after deployment, he came back home and told you that he met someone. And that he felt things for her, that he had never felt for you. 

And how could you argue with that?

Deep down you knew from the beginning that the only reason you were married, the only reason why you were together was too much alcohol. At least for him. 

He made that very clear when he told you that he wanted to be with her instead of you, that he thinks that you were better off as friends like you did before this mistake. 

He called your marriage a mistake. 

And while it started out like that, you never thought of it this way. 

Then again you had been in love with Francisco Morales ever since you could remember, but he obviously hadn’t been in love with you.

And now you could lash out and be angry and tell him what an asshole he was being right now, but then you would probably lose him for good. 

And you weren’t ready for that. 

At least not back then. 

You could still smell the air in the office building where you had gotten divorced not long after, Frankie signing his name without any hesitation, giving you a small smile as he pushed the stack of letters that would separate him from you forever over the table. You gave him a forced smile as you signed your name too, having to concentrate on using your maiden name instead of Morales again.

He went away on deployment soon after, as if nothing had changed. 

As if he hadn’t broken apart the whole future you had imagined for you and him. He even still wrote you letters that you answered less and less until a stack of his letters, unopened and unread, gathered in a cupboard you never opened anymore.

But now you were ready. 

You were ready to say goodbye to him. 

So you watched him as he stood at the altar, wearing a elegant suit, white rose in his breast pocket. 

You watched the way his smile widened as the bride, his new bride, walked up towards him in a beautiful dress, matching white roses in her long hair. 

You watched him say I do, before the whole crowd cheered as he kissed his new bride. 

You watched him dance with his bride, as you sat at the beautiful decked table, wishing so much that it would be you. 

Once the dance floor opened for the whole party you decided that it was enough. That you could now sneak out. 

Out of the wedding and out of his life. 

And you had almost made it when you felt a hand in yours, holding you back

„Where are you going?“ Frankie asked and you took a deep breath as you turned towards him. His cheeks were flushed and he looked so happy. 

It made you want to cry. 

„Home,“ you said, voice quiet and he frowned. 

„But we haven’t danced yet,“ he almost pouted, stepping closer, his hand still in yours. And it was in the moment his familiar scent invaded you, that you felt a tear escape from your eye. 

You took a step back.

His lips parted, saying you name but you shook your head, puling your hand out of his grasp. 

„I needed to see this, see you get married, so I could finally move on and say goodbye,“ you whispered and he gulped. 

„What… What do you mean?“

You just shook your head, smiling sadly as you allowed one last moment to touch him, your hand coming up to rest on his cheek. 

„I have loved your for a very long time, Francisco Morales. And now that I have seen with my own eyes, that you found someone you love as much as I love you I have to learn how to  move on from that. From you,“ you said and you could see him frown. 

„Go back to your bride, Frankie,“ you patted his cheek. 

„But where will you go?“ He asked and you smiled softly at him. 

„To find someone who loves me enough to stay.“

[umadosedepascal]

Pedro pulls you into his arms, his embrace possessive and comforting at the same time. "Good girl," He murmurs against your hair. "You're mine now, completely. I'll take care of you, love you, and cherish you... But you'll also obey me, no matter what."

You just nod.

"Good..." His voice drops to a deep, commanding tone. He rolls you over onto your stomach. "Hands above your head. Now. And spread those thighs for me..."

"Like this," He spreads your legs wider with his knees, then smacks your ass hard, making you jolt. "You like being dominated, baby?" He asks softly, smacking your bottom again, watching it jiggle beautifully. "Answer me."

“So, are you into submission?” You whisper to him.

He lets out a low, dark laugh, his hand trailing possessively over your reddening skin. "With you? Fuck yes. There's something about seeing my queen submit to me that drives me crazy." He runs his thick cock through your folds, but doesn't enter you yet.

"Are you wet for your man?" He leans down to whisper in your ear. "Want me to fuck you hard from behind?" *His hand moves around to smack your ass again this time harder "Every time I smack your ass, I notice how you jump when I do it."

Pedro slowly slides one finger inside you without warning, making you arch your back and moan loud. "Oh you're soaked, shhhh…not my cock yet, you already crying?” He murmurs, adding another finger, pumping them in and out slowly. "Spread your legs wider," He orders softly, his free hand spreading your bottom cheeks apart.

"You like that, don't you?" He curls his fingers inside you, hitting that special spot. "You like when I finger fuck you from behind?" He smacks your ass again, this time using his other hand to spread your cheeks even wider. "Say it,"

“You really into submission, Pedro…” you say in a low and breathless voice…

He pulls his fingers out abruptly, leaving you empty and wanting. "I'm into submission…” He says firmly. He grabs your hips roughly and slams into you from behind without warning, filling you completely. "Fuck..."

Pedro starts pounding into you relentlessly, each powerful thrust accompanied by a sharp smack to your ass. "So fucking tight..." He growls, one hand gripping your hip while the other reaches around to flick your clit.

"You're going to come for me, aren't you?" He snaps, his voice low and commanding. He increases his pace, fucking you harder and deeper, his fingers working your clit in tight circles. "Come on, baby. Give it to me."

Feels your walls tighten around his thickness as you cry out. "That's my girl," He growls possessively, smacking your bottom again, making you jolt and milk his length. "So sensitive..." He realizes as your body convulses. "You like being spanked?"

…

[avastrasposts]

Worked till late, almost forgot it was Frankie Friday!

PEDRO PASCAL APPRECIATION WEEK ↳ DAY TWO: FAVORITE MOVIE/TV SHOW

TRIPLE FRONTIER

[mysterious-moonstruck-musings]

Buried Secrets Chapter 2: The Divine Source

Buried Secrets Masterlist || Main Masterlist

Summary: After the harrowing events in South America, Frankie and the guys have returned home and opened their own private security business. They're eventually approached by an archeologist, named Mya, who is requesting their specialized services for an archeological expedition in the Amazonian jungle of southeastern Peru, hours away from where they stashed Lorea's money just over the border in the mountains of northern Chile.

Frankie is hesitant to accept the job, but with Pope's insistence this could be their cover to go back for the money, he relents. However, Frankie soon learns their new job assignment only further puts them and his new love interest in danger in an unexpected way as they set out to find the lost Incan city of Paititi.

Word Count: 10.6k

👉 Warnings: smut (MDNI), angst, mentions of mental health struggles and past drug use (it's Frankie), there are bad guys with weapons (gun violence, physical violence, death). Frankie Morales comes with his own warnings.

Chapter A/N: The beginning of this chapter was previously released as a longer teaser, but there have been minor changes since then. So, if you feel like you have read the first little bit, that could be why. 😉

Chapter Quote: “You’re already pissing me off and we haven’t even started yet…”

Frankie’s POV                                      I stood leaning against the door frame to my office, arms crossed over my chest as I listened to Benny run through our options for schedule changes. Will stood nearby, listening intently and occasionally offering up his opinion. He was about to speak when his attention was drawn to movement outside the front window, “Hey guys, looks like we got a new client. A fancy blacked-out SUV just pulled up.” 

That automatically had my attention, my mind jumping to thoughts of a similar vehicle passing by my house a couple of weeks prior. 

Benny moved to stand next to his brother to peer out the window, “Oh damn, this chic’s hot.”

That was Pope’s siren call. He immediately stuck his head out of his office after spending the last 30 minutes ignoring our conversation about scheduling issues while he no doubt played games on his phone. 

“Did you say you needed me, Ben?” he asked nonchalantly, just as our topic of conversation walked in. Pope nearly tripped over his own feet when he caught sight of her. Not that I could blame him. She commanded the attention of the room as soon as she stepped over the threshold and took off her expensive looking sunglasses.

For me, it really didn’t have anything to do with her looks. She just had this magnetic aura that drew you in and intimidated the fuck out of you. She was dressed in a black pants suit that hugged her curves in all the right places, yet still leaving everything to the imagination. Her spiked heels added a few inches to her height as she confidently walked across the lobby with her shoulders back and chin up. Her long mahogany hair swung around her shoulders, perfectly straight with no strands out of place. She was sexy as fuck and not our typical clientele. 

We all seemed to be stunned into silence as she came to a stop just in front of where we had congregated near the conference room entrance. Benny was the one to speak up first, standing a little straighter before he opened his mouth. “Hi there ma’am, can we help you with something?” he sputtered out.

“I’d like to speak with Mr. Morales please,” she said without hesitation.

Benny stood there, mouth hanging open as his eyes shifted to me. Will spoke then, “Mr. Morales typically doesn’t meet with new clients. Mr. Miller here and I handle that.” 

She feigned a polite smile, “I realize that, but I would prefer to speak with the owner directly as this is a bit urgent and sensitive. I’m sure you can understand.” 

Her tone made it clear that was her final answer. Pope obviously didn’t read the room as he stepped forward to intervene, turning on his charm and giving his best flirty smile, “If you wanna step into my office, we can have a chat about your situation. I’m sure I can get you taken care of.” 

Her eyes narrowed on him, a playful smirk forming on her lips as she scanned him from head to toe, “I don’t believe you’re Mr. Morales.” 

Pope’s mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. That wasn’t the response he was expecting. The woman’s eyes shifted to me as her smile widened, “But you are. Mind if we have a chat in private?” 

I was momentarily frozen by the intensity of her gaze, then confused about how she knew I was who she was looking for. My brows arched as I pursed my lips. We just sort of stared at each other for a brief moment. It felt like she was analyzing every move I made as her gaze raked over me. I uncrossed my arms and moved aside, motioning for her to step into my office. 

I glanced over at the guys, all three of them watching her retreating form. If I looked hard enough, I could probably see the drool coming out of Pope’s mouth as he salivated over the possibilities. His eyes finally met mine, sparkling with mischief as he smiled and said, “Será mejor que cierres ese trato.” (You better close that deal.)

I rolled my eyes at his insinuation, “Vete a la mierda,” (Fuck off.) 

I could hear Benny and Will snickering as I turned to join the puzzling woman waiting in my office. After closing the door behind me, I was met with her amused expression as she stood with one arm across her chest, the other propped on it so she could rest her chin on her fingers. 

“Do you always let him flirt with clients?” she asked in an amused tone.

I shrugged, “I do enjoy watching him stick his foot in his mouth. I can’t help myself.” 

She chuckled as our gazes met. My heart rate suddenly spiked as I cleared my throat and moved to lean against the desk, “So, you gotta name? Seems like you already know mine.”

She smiled, not moving from where she stood, “Sorry, that was rude of me to not introduce myself. I’m Mya Carnahan.”

I crossed my arms, “Well, Miss Carnahan, what can Delta 5 Security Solutions help you with?”

She dropped her hands to her sides, smiling up at me through her lashes, “Getting right to it then…I like that.” 

I bit the inside of my cheek as I watched her unbutton her blazer. Her hands snaked into the pockets of her pants as she began to pace my office and claim control over our conversation. I could already tell she was going to be a problem. I just wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad one. Maybe both. 

“I’ll be leading an archeological dig in the Southeastern Peruvian jungle. I’m gonna need security for my team while we’re there.”

My brows furrowed, “And why would an archeological dig site need our kind of security?”

She paused her pacing to look at me, “The locals won’t exactly be excited about it. Many believe those sites should remain untouched because of old Incan legends. We also have the narcos to worry about. I’m sure you’re aware drugs are heavily trafficked down there?”

I nodded, obviously very familiar with that fact. I was already feeling reluctant about taking this on. I knew exactly what this would lead to once I told Pope about it. The location was too close to where we stashed Lorea's money. He would want to go back for it. I also had a weird feeling about this situation. I didn’t know if I could trust this woman. 

“The narcos sometimes move product through those remote areas, have stash houses, and even cultivate in the middle of the jungle. If we were to...unknowingly encroach on their territory, they wouldn’t hesitate to put an end to things.” 

I pushed off my desk, moving to stand with my hands on my hips, “Not trying to be rude, but you don’t strike me as an archaeologist. What exactly is it that you do, Miss Carnahan?”

Her eyes were fixed on me as she fought a smile, “When I’m not digging up mummies and old relics, I’m an antiquities dealer. Before you ask…I’m a reputable dealer with ethical sourcing.”

I arched a brow. Somehow, I doubt that. “Who’s your benefactor? I know these digs are expensive. Do I need to be concerned that they’ve pissed anyone off?”

She tucked her plump bottom lip between her teeth, deciding on how to respond. Thoughts of biting that lip myself flashed through my mind. I had to quickly shove them away. 

“That’s confidential information. I’ve been asked to keep it under wraps. Best I can give is that he’s a well-off gentleman that does business on a global scale. So yes, he’s probably pissed a few people off. He doesn’t want his name attached to it. As far as anyone is concerned, the dig is funded by donations, which isn’t completely untrue.” 

I scoffed, “I’m sorry, but if you can’t give me all the information, then I’m not interested in taking this on. I require a certain level of trust with our clients, and I don’t take unnecessary risks.” 

She ignored my response, pacing again and continuing on as if I hadn’t just told her no. 

“I haven’t gotten my team fully assembled yet, but I’m thinking we'll have 30-40 people. We’ll need at least one pilot to fly some of the bigger equipment in. Though, I’d prefer two, just in case we need to make a quick exit. We’re planning to be there for at least three months for the initial expedition. We leave in two weeks.”

I stared at her wide-eyed, “Did you hear what I just said? I’m not interested unless you give me all the information I ask for. And who says we have pilots and enough staff on hand to travel to the Peruvian jungle for three months on short notice?”

She was smiling at me again as she approached, crowding my space as we stood toe to toe. 

“You’re a pilot, right? There’s one…and I know you hire veterans, so I’m betting you have another one. I’d also wager that a lot of your guys would jump at an opportunity to do something like this. I’m sure your three out front would if given the opportunity.”

How the fuck does she know so much? I was beginning to worry this might be some sort of setup to get us back to South America. The thoughts of that blacked out SUV flashed through my mind again. 

“How do you know I’m a pilot?” I asked as I held her gaze.

She turned to look around my office and motioned to the pictures on the wall. I chuckled and nodded. That was a rookie mistake, Fish. 

“I don’t do field work anymore…and like I said…you haven’t told me all the information.”

She leaned in just a little closer, still giving me that sweet smile as the scent of vanilla and jasmine invaded my senses. “I’m fairly confident you’re not gonna turn me down, Mr. Morales. You’re too intrigued.”

I’m not sure intrigued is the correct word at this point.

She pulled a business card from her pocket and held it out in offering. I took it, tracing my fingers over the glossy black material. I briefly examined the shiny gold embossed lettering that spelled out Hathor’s Gallery of Antiquities framed with a gold border. Even her fucking business card seemed expensive. 

“I need to know something by noon tomorrow, or else I’m moving on to another security firm.”

My head snapped up to meet her gaze, “Another firm? There’s no one else locally that can provide what you need.”

She gave me a smug smile, “You sure about that?”

She had to be fucking with me. I couldn’t help puffing out my chest as I replied, “Yeah, I am.”

She moved to open the door, pausing to look back over her shoulder in my direction, “By noon, or else I’m moving on.” 

“We haven’t even discussed payment details,” I added following her to the lobby. 

She halted in the middle of the waiting area to look my way, “You only need to name your price, and I’ll pay it.”  

I could feel the eyes of Benny, Will, and Pope on us as we stared each other down for a beat. I didn’t know how to respond to that as I stood with my jaw clenching. 

“We’ll talk more tomorrow once you’ve officially made your decision," she said as she turned toward the exit. She shifted her attention to the guys still standing outside the conference room entrance, “Mr. Garcia, try to stay outta trouble…Millers, enjoy your afternoon.” 

Without another word, she was gone, climbing into the back of the SUV as the driver held the door open for her. 

“What the hell was that?” Benny asked. 

I sighed and shook my head, “I...don’t fucking know.”

They stood with curious stares, waiting for me to elaborate. Instead, I waved them off and returned to my office. I needed to think through this before I shared anything with them.

After sitting down at my desk, I pulled up the internet browser to do a little research. Hathor’s Gallery of Antiquities had been in business for several years. At least that part of her story added up. It was a legitimate business with a history. As I clicked around on their website, I came across the staff page where I found Mya’s picture next to the title of ‘Owner and Head Curator’. 

I sat staring at the image, realizing there was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t figure out what. Had we met before? That would certainly explain how she knew who I was. No. That’s not it. There was no way I would forget her. There was something sort of exotic about the way she looked, alluring and mysterious. 

My mind drifted back to the blacked-out SUV. Had she been spying on us? She made it obvious that she knew who we all were. How would none of us have noticed that? My gut was telling me something was off about this whole thing. However, she was right. I was intrigued, to put it mildly. 

I continued to click around on the website, eventually coming to a donation page for the Archaeology Preservation Foundation. Listed there were high level details about the proposed expedition. She wasn’t lying about it being funded by donations, but how much could she really get from that? Something like this was going to cost a lot of money, yet she told me to name my price. 

I sank back into the seat and rubbed my hands down my face. This was too good to be true. There had to be a catch. There was a certain level of danger that came along with this, of course, but it did give us a legitimate reason to enter Peru - no fake documents or cover stories needed. We could go down early under the guise of checking out the area for security purposes, fly right over the border, grab the money, then return to the site. 

I had to chastise myself for even going there. I had done nothing but continuously shut Pope down on this, and here I was doing the same damn thing that I had been giving him hell for. There was no way we could accept this job because I knew that it was only going to lead to trouble. 

My thoughts were interrupted by Benny knocking on the door before sticking his head in, “Hey Fish, you ready to head to the gym for training?” 

I glanced at my watch, realizing I had been ruminating on this for an hour and a half. I nodded, “Shit…yeah…sorry, lost track of time. I’ll meet you there.” 

I puffed air out of my cheeks before standing and gathering my things. I made my way to the truck, telling Pope and Will that I would see them at the bar later as I exited. 

When I got to the gym, Benny was already doing leg presses. I quickly changed clothes and joined him but was completely distracted the entire time by my thoughts. Initially I was focused on Lorea’s money, but then my thoughts drifted to Mya Carnahan. I could not wrap my mind around her. She was a puzzle that I couldn’t figure out. Her cool confidence and authoritative attitude baffled me. She was beautiful, no question about it, but she also felt dangerous. There was something enticing about that thought, causing a sudden urge to explore that feeling a little more and get to know her. Though something told me she was going to push every button I had and enjoy the hell out of it. I was now realizing there was a very real possibility that I might enjoy it too. 

Benny pulled me from my thoughts again, “Sooo, you gonna tell us what that meeting was about?”

I shook my head, “I dunno…I haven’t decided yet. I may turn it down. It’s…risky…for several reasons.” 

He chuckled, “Yeah, but if we get to work with someone who looks like that…it might be worth it.” 

I scoffed and shook my head as I met his gaze, “You sound just like Pope.”

He shrugged, “I’m just calling it as I see it. She’s hot. You should ask her out before Pope does…just to piss him off if nothing else.” 

I laughed, “I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t give that asshole the time of day. Her taste seems a little too refined…for either of us.” 

Benny was smirking now, “You sure about that? She definitely seemed interested in you…Mr. Morales.” 

He said my name in a high-pitched suggestive tone before chuckling to himself. My eyes narrowed on him, “Fuck off. She didn’t say it like that.”

His brows arched, “You sure? She definitely had a tone...”

I rolled my eyes as I reached for the handle to release the footplate on the leg press machine to begin a new set of reps. I wasn’t going to bother to entertain that conversation any further, that didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking about it though. 

After finishing with the weights, we moved to one of the sparring rings. It wasn’t my best day, still too distracted to focus on Benny’s movements. He at least got some practice in, even if it wasn’t much of a challenge. After having my ass handed to me for what felt like the hundredth time, I gave up. Waving my white flag and begging him to move on to the punching bag or call it a day. 

Given the time, we decided to head out. I ran home to take a quick shower before throwing on a fresh set of clothes and grabbing my hat. Afterward, I was on my way to meet the guys at our favorite dive bar. I had given up drinking along with the coke, but I didn’t see any reason to impede on their fun. I still joined them, gorging myself on hot wings and soda instead of beer and tequila. 

I was still on the fence about telling the guys what my meeting with Mya was about, they however, were not giving me any choice on the matter. The badgering began as soon as I sat down at the table. Will seemed more concerned than anything when he inquired. Pope jumped in, being pushy and accusing me of keeping it to myself because I was interested in Mya. He wasn’t completely wrong. I was interested, but I wasn’t entirely sure in what capacity. Benny just wanted to know because he’s a nosey bitch, but also curious about the odd interaction he had witnessed between us in the office. 

I managed to deflect the conversation to another topic the first time it came up. However, that didn’t stop them from throwing jabs at me about it as the night went on. After kicking all their asses at darts, just like I did every time we were there, we settled into our usual secluded corner booth and ordered some wings and another round of beer for them and soda for me. 

Pope inevitably turned the conversation to the bags of cash we had stashed in the Andes, making me feel more anxious than usual. Having new knowledge and a possible plan brewing in my head made me feel fidgety and keyed up. Pope picked up on it immediately. The fact that I hadn’t told him to drop it yet was probably a red flag too. His whispered words about his latest plan trailed off as he eyed me, “What’s going on, Fish? You good?” 

I shrugged, not bothering to look at him as I spoke. “Yeah, I just wish you would stop bringing this up. You know how I feel about it.” 

He leaned forward to catch my gaze, his eyes focusing intently on mine. “What's going on, hermano? Did you…” 

It took a few seconds to dawn on me that he thought I had slipped and fell back on old habits. I could see why, because my behavior was…off. 

I shook my head, “No. Estoy bien.” (I’m fine.) 

He didn’t look convinced as his brows furrowed in doubt. I sighed, rubbing at the back of my neck as my eyes drifted around the small table. I could now see the worry and concern etched on each of their faces. Fuck. I’m gonna have to tell them. 

“That woman that came in today…she has a job for us…”

They all looked confused by the turn of conversation. I leaned back in my seat, still debating telling them even though I knew I was going to. Deep down, I knew it wasn’t something I could keep from them, no matter how much I wanted to. 

I let out a steady breath before continuing, “It’s…an archaeological dig…in Southeastern Peru.”

I stopped there, allowing them to digest that small bit of information. It was obvious when realization hit, causing their eyes to light up from the possibilities of the assignment. Pope was the first to speak, “Fish, we’ve gotta take that. This is our chance…”

I held up my hand to quiet him, “I know, but I do have some concerns…”

They waited for me to continue, all three leaning closer with wide eyes. Pope looked like he was damn near vibrating out of his seat. 

“There’s something…off about this woman…and it seems too good to be true. What if she’s working for the cartels…luring us down there to get us killed? She’s purposely holding back information, and I don’t like that. I’m not sure if we can trust her. There’s a lot of risks here. And even if the job is legit…there’s a very real possibility of live fire. She claims to need security because of the locals and cartels operating in the area. It could get messy…”

Benny grimaced, “Not to be Captain Obvious here, but we run a personal security business. There’s always gonna be risk and a chance for live fire. We knew that going in. If it’s a legit job, that’s literally what we’re here for…to protect people. Whether it be here or Peru.” 

Damn him and his rational way of thinking. Pope of course was quick to agree. Will, on the other hand, was not. He glanced over at his brother and jerked his chin up toward me as he began to speak, “No, Fish is right. There are additional risks here. What if it’s a trap? Even if it’s not, what if they know it’s us and find out we’re there? We need to consider all that before deciding…”

At least one of them sees it my way. I nodded along with what Will said, jumping in to share more details. “This woman knew things about us. I don’t know how much, but she knows who we are. I think she’s been watching us…I’m almost positive I saw that black SUV pass my house a few weeks back.”

Pope slumped back in his seat, the weight of my words finally sinking in. Benny stared at me in confusion, “Why would she need to spy on us for that though?” 

I shrugged, reaching for my glass of soda and taking a sip to soothe my suddenly dry mouth before responding. “That’s the 250 million-dollar question. Like I said, something is off about the whole thing. And besides that, the expedition lasts three months…in the middle of the Amazon jungle. If it is legit, it won’t be easy.”

I could tell the wheels were turning in all their heads as we sat in silence for several minutes. It was Pope who finally broke it, “What if we check into her, get some more background…see who she’s affiliated with…” 

I chuckled, “That would be ideal, but we don’t have time. I have to let her know something by tomorrow or else she says she’s moving on to another security firm.”

Will’s brows pinched together, “There’s no one else around here that can handle that…”

I nodded along, “I know…that’s what I said, but she insisted she had another firm in mind.” 

All three mumbled out an annoyed, “bullshit” in unison. I shared their sentiment because I knew we were the best. No other firm came close to offering what we could.

Will peered over at me with a pensive look, “What’s your gut telling you?”  

I puffed air out of my cheeks as I leaned forward, placing my elbows on the table. “I honestly don't know. I couldn’t get a read on her.”

I pulled my hat off to push my hair away from my face before plopping it back onto my head. “Maybe…Maybe I go talk with her tomorrow…See what other information I can get and go from there? I need some questions answered before we agree to anything.” 

They all nodded as apprehensive looks passed between them, letting the silence stretch out for a beat. Benny’s lips tugged upward as he met my gaze, “So…if she passes the vibe check, you gonna ask her out? Because if not…” 

The admonishing look I shot Benny’s way caused his words to trail off into a snicker. “If we take this job…she’s off limits.” I cut my eyes toward the one I was most worried about following that rule, “You hear me, Pope? She’s a client. Nothing else.” 

They all exchanged knowing glances before Pope spoke, “I’ll be sure to remind you of that as needed, hermano.” 

I rolled my eyes as I stood from the table, “I don’t have to stick around and listen to this shit.”

Benny laughed before elbowing his brother, leaning over to speak conspiratorially, “He’s gotta go get his beauty sleep…can’t be looking haggard when he meets with the hot archaeologist.” 

They all laughed louder than necessary. I sighed as I pinched the bridge of my nose, “Keep it up Ben, and I’ll dock your pay and leave your ass on desk duty while we’re living out your Indiana Jones fantasies in the middle of the Amazon jungle.” 

He was not amused by that, scoffing before giving me the middle finger. I returned the sentiment with a playful grin. Having gotten the last word, I made my exit. 

Ben wasn’t far off; I did want to get a decent night’s rest before my conversation with Mya. I felt like I needed to be alert and on top of my game. I needed to sort out my thoughts and think through the things I wanted answers to. I wasn’t sure if I would get any of it from her, but I was damn sure going to try. 

I took my time going through my routine the next morning, even having an extra cup of coffee before heading out the door. I was feeling strangely anxious about my impending conversation, and I didn’t really understand why.

When I parked in front of Hathor's Gallery of Antiquities, I felt a tightening in my chest. It was a familiar feeling that I hadn’t had in some time, not since Lorea’s. I felt like I was going into battle. 

I inhaled a few deep breaths, attempting to clear my muddled thoughts as I took in the exterior of the gallery. It had an old-world feel in the design with large columns lining the entryway. There were two identical statues on either side of the doors. They looked to be Egyptian, a woman with horns supporting a red circular disk as a crown. 

Curiosity got the best of me as I pulled out my phone, doing a quick google search for “Hathor Egypt”. I tapped on the first link in the search results. The included images on the page banner looked similar to the statues in front of the establishment. I scrolled down, one passage catching my attention: 

Hathor is known as the Egyptian goddess of love (among other identities). She possessed the ability to manipulate any mortal, God, or beast to do her bidding. She is known to be as wild and menacing as she is warm-hearted and seductive. She did not hesitate to inflict harm on those who stood in her path and would do whatever necessary to reach her goals. 

Hathor was consort to many gods, but most notably acted as the Eye of Ra. She served as Ra’s feminine equal, often called ‘The Golden One’, wielding his powers and becoming vengeful in her pursuit to protect him from his enemies. In these instances, she is sometimes depicted as four striking cobras or a lioness… 

I had to stop reading as goosebumps formed on my flesh. Something about that description had my head spinning. I had a feeling that the goddess Hathor was not chosen at random. If anything, I felt like I was reading a description of Mya, but I wasn’t sure why considering I had hardly spent any time with her. I sighed, slipping my phone back into my pocket as I stepped out of the truck and made my way toward the entrance. 

The inside of the gallery looked about how you would expect, matching the old-world aesthetics of the outside and feeling oddly like a museum. The same large columns from the outer entrance were strategically placed along the inner atrium. I realized now they had intricate carvings that extended to various stone focal points on the walls. My eyes were drawn to a carving of four cobras above a mural depicting an Egyptian deity who had the head of a bird and was standing on a boat. There was something about it that drew me in and held my attention. So much so, that I didn’t hear the petite brunette approach and come to a stop at my side. 

I could hear the smile in her voice when she spoke, “Ra’s journey across the sky…it’s a beautiful representation of the story.” 

I glanced over at her with a small smile of my own, “Oh yeah? What’s it represent?” 

Her eyes sparked and suddenly seemed excited that someone had shown interest. “Do you know much about Egyptian gods?” she asked.

I shook my head, “Very little, but I do find the subject fascinating.” 

Her smile widened, “Ra was a God of Gods and father to the pharaohs…he ruled the sun and heavens….and was known as the giver of life. He was a protector but had the capacity to bring great destruction. He’s often depicted with the head of a falcon wearing the sun disc as a crown to symbolize his power and connection to the sky.”

She paused, raising her hand to the mural, pointing out small details as she continued, “This is one of the most popular reliefs of Ra… it shows him sailing the celestial waters on his solar boat by day. By night, he battles the serpent known as Apophis…it’s meant to show the struggle between light and darkness.”

Oddly enough, I found Ra to be incredibly relatable. Too bad he didn’t have the head of a catfish instead. I turned to the woman beside me with questioning eyes, “I’m assuming this mural was chosen for a reason. How does it relate to the goddess, Hathor?”

She gave me a toothy grin. “You’re very astute. Hathor was the wife of Ra and his defender. She was also known as the divine mother of Pharaohs. She’s often referenced as the Eye of Ra…” she said as her small hand moved to point at another prominent figure in the mural. 

“The sun disc on her crown is often represented as an eye…she joins Ra on the voyage, stealthily surveilling for signs of danger from Apophis.”

I had to laugh to myself given I had just been drawing parallels between Mya and Hathor and myself and Ra. It almost seemed like a cruel joke. I half wondered if Benny had set this up as payback for threatening his Indiana Jones fantasies. 

My attention shifted back to the woman, still giving her a gentle smile, “Well, that was a riveting history lesson. I wasn’t expecting to learn something new when I walked through the door.” 

The woman smiled up at me, flushing slightly as her eyes scanned my face. She held out her hand, “I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself before I started rambling. I’m Emily, head Archivist.” 

I shook her hand, “Frankie Morales…and not a problem. It was interesting, really.”

Her eyes widened slightly, “Oh, Mr. Morales…Miss Carnahan said you might be stopping by.” 

My brows pinched together as she turned and motioned for me to follow her. I never said I would be stopping by…

I followed behind Emily, watching as she pulled out her phone, furiously texting as she shuffled through the building. We eventually came to a long hallway with two very large ornately carved oak doors at the end. She turned toward me with a timid smile, not looking at me directly. 

“Miss Carnahan’s office is just through those doors. She’s expecting you.” 

She gave me a small head nod before disappearing in the direction we had come. I chewed on the inside of my cheek, noting her odd dismissal before making my way to the double doors and feeling my stomach flutter slightly. 

When I entered, the sheer size of the space took me off guard. There were floor to ceiling shelves covered in books on every wall, small tables with scrolls and books stacked haphazardly, and a large wooden desk with two leather wingback chairs in front of it. The same large columns found throughout the building separated the space into smaller sections. My eyes finally drifted to Mya, who was leaning over a large wooden table covered in maps, documents, and more books. Her attention was intently focused on whatever she was looking at. 

I ambled toward her, taking in the curve of her ass in the tight black leather-like pants she was wearing. Her loose and flowy black satin blouse draped over her torso with the front of it tucked in. It had a dangerously low v-neckline that framed a gold medallion necklace hanging between her barely covered breasts. Her hair was twisted up into a messy bun, held in place with what looked like a pencil? She was barefooted, having abandoned the very tall strappy heels that sat nearby. She had dark rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose as she shuffled some pages around. 

She looked like a fucking dream. The words from the passage I had read, manipulative and seductive, passed through my mind again. I needed to watch myself with her. It already felt like she had some sort of power over me, and I was pretty sure my dick was taking the lead on submitting to it. Maybe Pope was right. Maybe I did need to get laid - by someone other than her just so I could get it out of my system. 

She peered up at me over the top of her glasses, still leaning forward and causing her low neckline to hang loosely from her body, which revealed the curve of her breast. She definitely wasn’t wearing a bra. My brain must have short circuited over the sight, because I had apparently stopped several feet in front of her, staring like an idiot. 

Her brows arched as she smirked at me and stood upright, “It’s good to see you Mr. Morales. I wondered if you would be stopping by today.”

I cleared my throat, “How did you know I wouldn’t just call?” 

She reached up and pulled the pencil from her hair, shaking the silky looking strands loose as they fell around her shoulders. She ran her fingers through it as she approached me with a teasing look, “Something told me this was a conversation you would wanna have in person.”

I diverted my eyes, trying my hardest not to look at her chest as she fiddled with her hair. My gaze landed on her bare feet, realizing her toes were painted a deep red color. It felt strangely intimate to see her bare feet. My attention was drawn away from them by her chuckle as she stopped in front of me, “You see something you like Mr. Morales?”

I choked out a laugh, “I just think it’s funny you’re walking around barefooted. You seem a little too…sophisticated…to do something like that.” 

She was still giving me that fucking smirk when my eyes finally met hers. I now realized they were the deepest shade of blue, like sapphires. I could easily get lost in them. 

“I apologize; my feet were killing me. It’s been a long day already…but, you have a lot to learn about me, Mr. Morales. I’m only sophisticated when the occasion calls for it,” she finally said.

She enunciated the word ‘sophisticated’ in a mocking tone, like it was a joke. 

I smirked back at her, “Excuse me. My mistake. I guess I do have a lot to learn…how about we start with how you seem to know so much about me and my team? Have you been spying on us?” 

She was smiling now. Not the least bit embarrassed at having been caught. She took off her glasses, rolling her shoulders back as she tilted her chin upward, almost defiantly, to look me directly in the eye. Her expression shifted to something more serious.

“I needed to be sure I could trust you. Can I trust you…Frankie?” 

The fact that she called me ‘Frankie’ didn’t go unnoticed. She said it with what I could only describe as vulnerability. She was attempting to create familiarity between us. It was a manipulation tactic. I couldn’t help smiling, I was on to her.

“You can if you cut out the manipulation bullshit. I’ll be as straight with you as you are with me. Otherwise, I can play the game just as well as you can.” 

She smiled briefly, before turning serious again. “Touché… Alright, fine. Serious question though, can I trust you? If I can’t…this stops here.” 

My brows furrowed. What did she really expect me to say? No? “Of course. I take my job seriously.” 

She stared at me for a beat, like she was trying to make a decision. Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip as she nodded slightly, “Ok…Does this mean you’re taking the job then?”

I scoffed, “No. It doesn’t. You still haven’t answered all my questions.”  

Her shoulders dropped, “Yes, I was watching you. I have been for weeks. I needed to make sure you could handle this…and that you won’t fuck me over.” 

I snorted out a laugh and tried not to be distracted by her saying the words ‘fuck me’. “So, I guess we passed your assessment then? What the hell is this, Mya? What are you trying to get us mixed up in?” 

She inhaled deeply, “If you accept the job, I’ll answer any questions you have.” 

I rolled my eyes, “Ok, let’s start with…who’s paying for it?” 

Her mouth fell open slowly before she answered, “I told you; it’s funded by donations. That’s all you need to know.”

I shook my head, “How the hell am I supposed to trust you when you can’t answer that basic question?”

She rubbed her hands together as her eyes wandered around the room to avoid mine, “I swear, I’ll answer any question you have aside from that one. I’ve been asked not to share that information…I gave my word, and I plan to stick to it. You can respect that, right?” 

I did have to respect that. I stood there with my hands on my hips, trying to get a read on her. She seemed more sincere at this moment than she had been so far.  

“I swear, if at any point, you need to know who it is…I’ll tell you. Right now, it’s not a need to know,” she added. 

I sighed and nodded as I rubbed at the back of my neck, “Ok…fine. I need you to be honest with me if this is gonna work. No secrets…aside from that one…I guess. I need to know what kind of risks we’re up against. Don’t be jerking me around…this could get dangerous. People could die.” 

She nodded, “I know…and that’s why I want the best looking out for my team. They’re all good people…in it for the right reasons. I need for them to be safe.” 

There was something in her tone. It was almost anxious and weary. Her mask of confidence was slipping. 

“You’re people? And what about you? You need to be safe too,” I said. 

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I can take care of myself. I’m not worried about me. I’m hiring you to protect them.”

I felt my stomach turn sour over her words. Something told me she probably needed the most protection out of all of them, but I knew she would never admit to it if I asked. 

I sighed, “I can get you a team of 15 guys, with three pilots for the full three months. You’re looking at 2 million…and that’s not covering the air assets or supplies.”

Her eyes narrowed on me, “Are you one of the three pilots?” I nodded in affirmation. She seemed almost relieved before continuing.

“If I make it four mil to start and put you in charge of securing the assets and supplies that your team needs, will that work?”

My head was spinning. Is she for real? Against my better judgement, I made my decision. My jaw ticked, “Alright. We’ll do it. Now I need you to tell me what the fuck I’m signing up for.” 

Her lips curled upward into a brilliant smile as some of the tension left her body, her facade dropping some. She motioned toward the table for me to follow her, “What I’m about to tell you…no one else knows the full context of it. I’m trusting that it will stay between you and me. You can’t even tell your team. None of them. You got it?”   

I was a little taken aback by that, but I nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I’ll keep it between us.” 

Her eyes roamed my face, analyzing and calculating, seeming satisfied before continuing. 

“What do you know about the lost Incan city Paititi?”

I shrugged, biting back a laugh, “Is that like…El Dorado?” There’s no way she’s serious. 

She sighed, “Umm, some researchers conflate the two…but to me, no. It’s two different things. El Dorado is more mythical. That name gets slapped on any legend that mentions a city of gold. However, some people refer to Paititi as El Dorado, but the city itself did actually exist from what history tells us. It’s not myth.”

I nodded along, still trying to keep a straight face. She huffed air out of her cheeks, “I can tell you think I’m crazy. Just…let me explain. OK?”

I gave her a polite smile, “OK. Explain. What makes you think you can find Paititi?” 

She hesitated. I arched my eyebrows, waiting for her to continue. She began to shuffle through the mess of documents and books on the table, pausing to grab a worn leather-bound journal. 

“This is the part I need for you to keep to yourself…”

I drew an ‘x’ over my heart, “I promise. Not a word.” 

I could tell whatever she was about to say was a big deal, to her at least. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly before continuing. 

“In 2001, a researcher found a manuscript in the Vatican archives that went into detail about the location of Paititi. It had been dated to around 1600 and was written based on the word of a Jesuit missionary. It described a city filled with gold, silver, and gemstones located in the middle of the Amazon jungle. It was initially dismissed as being unreliable third-hand information, so it didn’t get much attention.”

Ok, this is getting a little more interesting. “Alright, so, why does any of that matter if it was found to be unreliable?”

She hesitated again, then smiled nervously. I couldn’t help thinking how adorable she was like this, in researcher mode. As if to prove my point, she slid her glasses back on, then gathered her hair to one shoulder as she flipped through the journal. My eyes were briefly drawn to the curve of her neck as she searched the pages and began to speak.

“Well, the document was eventually moved to the Vatican’s secret archives… which is the Pope’s private collection. It was no longer accessible to the public. A lot of the information has since been lost or misconstrued over time…until now.”

She slid the journal toward me, taped inside were high quality images of some old documents - pages of them. 

I glanced up at her, “Is this?”

I couldn’t finish my sentence, but she knew what I was asking. Nodding as she continued, “Yes. It is. And the thing is, there were more pages than originally thought…and I have them. All of them. No one knows about the extra pages. You’re the only person I’ve told. As far as anyone else is concerned, I’m going off previously released information.”   

I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, “So, why are you telling me this?” 

She seemed unsure of herself as she met my gaze, “I knew you wouldn’t go into this blindly…that you would need proof. You also have skills that I’ll need to rely on…it helps if you know what you’re looking for. You might see something that I don’t…aerial searches aren’t exactly in my area of expertise.” 

Things were beginning to come together now. While I was still nervous about taking this on, I was confident she wasn’t setting a trap. 

My brows pinched together, “Aerial searches?”

She nodded, “Yes. I have a general idea of the location…but it's still a jungle. It’s gonna be camouflaged by hundreds of years of overgrowth. I need your eyes, Frankie…and your navigation skills. So, I’m trusting you with the Vatican documents.” 

A thought struck me suddenly, prompting me to ask, “How did you get those documents anyway?” 

She gave me a cocky grin, “I dropped in from the duct work, Mission Impossible style, and took them while the Pope slept.” 

I snorted out a laugh, “And you’re also full of shit.” 

She grimaced, “So, I may have fibbed. That’s another one of those things you don’t need to know…but that should be the last one...I think.” 

I felt my jaw tighten and my nostrils flare in frustration as I gave her an admonishing look. “You’re already pissing me off and we haven’t even started yet…” 

She gave me a nervous smile, “Sorry. I’m just keeping my word.” 

I rolled my eyes, “Yeah, Ok.” I could already tell; she was going to be difficult to deal with. 

I puffed air out of my cheeks, placing my hands on the table and leaning forward to inspect the images. “So what language is this? What does it say?”

Mya moved in closer, the length of her body nearly pressing into me as she leaned down to look at the documents with me. 

“It’s Latin. This one is a papal authorization to evangelize the city…meaning the Pope did in fact send missionaries.”

She paused, leaning in just a little closer to turn the page and allowing her vanilla and jasmine scent to surround me. Her proximity made it hard to focus on the images in front of me as she began to speak again, “This page documents a ten-day trip by foot between Cuzco and Paititi made by the Inca…there’s a note from the Jesuits indicating that detailed clues should be withheld to avoid a gold rush on the city, but somebody messed up. There was a map that made its way into the collection. It was filed separately, so it wasn’t found by the original researcher…but it has been now.”

She pointed to the image she was referencing. It was indeed a map…a very hard to read map. 

“Obviously the landscape has changed since then, but hopefully…between the two of us…we can figure this out.”  

I turned my head to glance over at her, our noses inches apart as we locked eyes. I felt a sudden electricity sparking between us that had my skin buzzing and heart racing. I noticed her eyes briefly dropped to my lips before our attention was drawn to the heavy oak door of her office opening. 

When I shifted to face the door, I was met with a set of dark eyes and furrowed brows staring at us. The man with greasy looking slicked back hair and a scowl didn’t seem too happy to see me. I almost felt like he was sizing me up and ready to attack at any given second. 

Mya’s aura shifted, her jaw clenching as she shot daggers at him with her eyes. I noticed her hand moving to slide some loose papers over top of the journal as she spoke with a forced politeness, “Veracruz, I wasn’t expecting you. What are you doing here?” 

She now seemed uncomfortable. I watched as his scowl shifted to an almost unnerving smile as he replied in a thick Spanish accent, “I just came to check in with you and see how everything is going with the planning.” 

Her nostrils flared as she regarded him, “I see. Well…we’ll catch up just as soon as I’m finished with this meeting. You can wait in the conference room.” 

I stood to my full height and crossed my arms over my chest, feeling the need to take up more space as he glanced my way. He gave me a cocky smirk before giving a small nod and exiting the room. Something told me he was going to be a problem. 

Mya smiled weakly, “Sorry about that. I hate when people interrupt meetings.”

I eyed her, waiting for her to say more on the subject, but she didn’t. Instead, she was back to business, “Well, since you’ve officially agreed…I’ll start gathering all the documents you guys will need and putting plans and contracts into writing. We’ll get back together to go over the finer details once everything is set.” 

I nodded, “Sounds like a plan. Can’t wait.” 

I watched as she picked up the journal and moved toward one of the stone columns that separated the table from the office space. She squatted down, then pushed in on the flat square part of the base, causing a small drawer to pop out. She lifted a lid and slid the journal inside, then pulled her necklace off, manipulating it in some way to turn it into a key. She quickly locked the lid shut before closing the compartment. I never would have guessed that the compartment existed if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. It was completely undetectable.

She eyed me as she stood and returned the chain around her neck, “I’m trusting you. No one else knows about that.” 

I huffed out a small laugh, “Wow…OK. I guess we’re gettin’ into some Indiana Jones type shit.”

She chuckled, “You have no idea…come on. I’ll walk you out.”

As I walked beside her to the main exit of the building, I couldn’t help asking, “Why the goddess Hathor?”

Her eyes cut toward me as she smirked, “I admire her skill set.” 

She didn’t elaborate, but I could take a guess as to what she meant. Once we reached the exit, I turned toward her, reaching out to shake her hand. “I guess we’re doing this. I look forward to working with you, Miss Carnahan.” 

She gave me a polite smile as she took my hand and gave it a firm shake, “I’ll see you soon, Mr. Morales.” 

Her smile shifted to a smirk as she watched me leave. I couldn’t be sure how long her eyes were on me, but I swear I could feel them burning into me until I pulled out of the empty lot. 

My head was reeling as I drove toward the office. I wasn’t sure what I was going to tell the guys. I guess the only thing I had to omit were the documents. I hated keeping something from them, but like Mya, I always kept my word. For some crazy reason, she was trusting me, and I didn’t want to break it. I knew this wasn’t going to be easy though. I could already tell she was going to be a handful. I still needed to be careful with her. It was obvious she had a penchant for deception. I just wasn’t sure in what way. 

I would be lying if I said part of me wasn’t hoping she would open up to me more…become something more. She had this magnetism about her that I couldn’t seem to resist, and I knew it was probably going to get me in trouble. I almost welcomed it, but I was also hoping she didn’t become my new addiction. I had to remind myself to keep this professional - that she was off limits to me too. 

Mya’s POV I stood watching Frankie’s broad frame walking toward his truck through the windows. The more I got to know him, the more intrigued I became. I wasn’t sure what I expected, but it wasn’t this. He was observant and intuitive. There was something about the way he looked at me, like he could see through all my bullshit. He did basically call me out on it right away. I didn’t know how to handle him going forward. All I knew was that I needed him to trust me, realizing that having him on my side could work in my favor if things went south and that he might even be the key to finding Paititi. 

My thoughts were interrupted by approaching footsteps, heavy footfalls encased in rubber soles. They came to a stop just behind me as the familiar sandalwood and musk scent invaded my nostrils. 

“I thought I told you to wait in the conference room?” I asked before turning to face Veracruz’s stupidly handsome and smirking face. 

He shrugged, “I wanted to make sure there were no problems.”

I arched a questioning brow. He was beyond transparent, letting his jealousy show at the mere sight of me talking to another man. I really hoped this wouldn’t become a problem. “We’re all good here.”

His eyes briefly shifted to the window before coming back to me, “Who was that? Anyone we need to be concerned about?” 

I shook my head, “No. He’s actually the owner of the personal security firm I’m hiring for the expedition. So…I’m gonna need you to play nice with him. No arguing or questioning his methods. He’s in charge. Got it?”

He gave me a disgruntled look, “You should just let me handle it…”

I looked around, realizing this was not the place to talk to him. “I need you to go to the conference room, like I told you to do. I’ll be there in a minute.”

He sighed, nodding in agreement as he turned to head that way. I watched him go, making sure he did what he was told. He was such a loose cannon. I never knew what to expect from him. 

Minutes later I found Emily in her office to let her know that I would be unavailable for the rest of the afternoon unless a limited few special people happened to show up. I didn’t want to risk anyone else inadvertently seeing Veracruz. She gave me a thumbs up as she reached to answer the phone. I mouthed a quick ‘thank you’ before walking away.

When I entered the conference room, Veracruz was fiddling with a astrolabe displayed on a nearby table, nearly knocking it over when he heard the door open behind him. I gave him a very unamused glare as he righted it. 

“What the hell are you doing here? We had an agreement…”

He placed his right hand on his chest, “I’m sorry, cariño. Collazo wanted me to check in with you and see where we are with preparations.” 

I was fuming. I could feel the heat rushing to my face as anger continued to build, “I don’t care. Collazo nor any of his men are to step foot in this building. I refuse to be implicated in whatever he’s gotten mixed up with.” 

He approached me, much like one would approach a scared animal, hands up in surrender and talking quietly. “I was careful. I came through the back. Not a soul saw me.” 

I huffed out of frustration, “No one saw you? Frankie saw you. Then you waltzed out into the lobby like you own the place just because you can’t help yourself. Anyone could have walked in...” 

His shoulders dropped, “Please forgive me. You are right. I should not have done that. However, Frankie is going to see me eventually anyway, right? So, that does not count.”

I rubbed the bridge of my nose, now feeling a headache coming on, “You shouldn’t be here at all. We could have set something up.”

He was crowding my space now, placing his hand on my cheek. “I’m sorry. I did not want to wait to see you. I have missed you. Let me make it up to you.” 

I sighed, stepping away from him. Now that Damien was out of the picture, Veracruz wasn’t even trying to hide his feelings for me. I entertained his advances to a point, just so I could maintain my influence over him, but I still didn’t know how far that would get me if his neck was on the line. It was a delicate dance between us that was becoming much more complicated as he was not so subtly begging for more. 

It’s not like it wasn’t tempting. Veracruz looked like sex on two legs and had been very attentive toward me. He went through great lengths to look after me when I was recovering from Collazo’s mini torture session several months ago. I had no question that he would probably be an amazing lover, but I knew he would only suck me further into the life that I was desperately trying to get away from.

“You can’t keep saying things like that to me,” I replied. 

He gave me a soft smile, “Why? Because you like it? I will win you over eventually.” 

I shook my head, “No. I’ve already told you…it’s a bad idea…”

It was his turn to shake his head, “I do not think so. Collazo would welcome it. He would trust you again.” 

I peered up at him with an empathetic gaze, “That may be true, but I’m trying to get away from that lifestyle, Veracruz. I can’t do that if I’m with you.” 

He looked deflated, “I understand, but that does not change how I feel. I cannot help it.” 

I turned away from him, needing to change the subject. “Why does Collazo want you to check in?” 

He began to pace the room, inspecting all the knickknacks on display. “You know how he is…it is more about control. He wants to remind you who is really in charge and make sure you are doing what you need to.”

I nodded, “Of course, I figured. Well…you can report back that we’re on track with the plan. Nothing has changed…and I’ll be ready on the set date.”

He turned toward me, “I had not planned to tell him anything different, no matter your answer. I am trying to keep him off your back as much as possible.” 

I gave him a soft smile, “I do appreciate that. Thank you.” 

An awkward silence stretched between us. I really was beginning to hate being alone with him. Not because I disliked him, but because I felt like I had to manage him and his expectations every second that we were together. It was exhausting. 

I sucked in a sharp breath, “Well, I have things I need to attend to. If that’s all you needed…”

He gave me a tight smile, “Of course. We will be in touch soon.” 

He moved to exit but paused to look back at me when I called his name.

“Please make sure you’re not seen when you leave,” I reminded him. With another curt nod, he was gone. 

I spent the remainder of my afternoon preparing the contract and instructions for Frankie, being careful as to what I put in writing. There were some things that he was just going to have to memorize. It was too risky to have the information floating around. I made a mental checklist of what those things needed to be as I packed up and headed home for the evening. 

As soon as I got home, I changed into my workout clothes, wrapped my knuckles, and made my way to the punching bag in my home gym. I really needed to blow off some steam. The last two days had left me feeling on edge and conflicted about how I was handling everything.

Veracruz randomly showing up at the gallery without warning had taken my anxiety over the top. I didn’t really know how I was going to manage him through this whole thing. I could only assume his advances would continue once we were in the jungle. He was becoming more brazen each time we were together. I needed to keep him close without crossing the line, it had to stay professional. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could walk that line without repercussions. 

Frankie had taken me completely off guard. I had seen pictures of him and watched him from a distance but seeing him up close was an entirely different experience. The second I walked into Delta 5 Security Solutions the previous day; he had my attention. It was almost like I could feel his piercing dark eyes burning into my flesh. I was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. I did well to keep my cool and reel him in, but internally I was a mess as I stood across from him in his office. 

Sure, he was a little disheveled and had the whole tortured soul vibe about him, but there was something sort of beautiful and poetic about him too. He was much bigger than I had realized, his broad shoulders seeming to stretch on forever. The way his arms and chest flexed in the tight grey t-shirt he had been wearing today definitely couldn’t be ignored. Even with his aquiline nose and messy curls, he was handsome in sort of a boyish type of way. That was only emphasized when I drew a laugh from him earlier today, causing his cheek to dimple. And the way he smelled, gods, it was amazing. It was an enticing mixture of leather, summer nights, and man.

He seemed like a decent person with good intentions. If I wasn’t careful, there was a real possibility he could be trouble for me - as in causing me to fuck up and let my guard down. He completely saw through me today. He knew what I was doing before I had even tried it. He was definitely going to be harder to bend to my will. However, some part of my brain was telling me there was a real possibility that he might submit willingly if I did the same for him. I really thought I had met my match in Damien, but Frankie might turn out to be the biggest adventure yet. 

Chapter 3: So it Begins

✨If you would like to be added to the tag list, feel free to shoot me a DM or leave a comment.

A/N: Hello my lovelies! I hope you enjoyed chapter two. We got some fun stuff with the guys this chapter. They are already giving Frankie hell over Mya. We got to see some of their dynamics and how life is post money-gate. They are definitely looking to Frankie more as a leader these days. Pope is still Popeing and the Millers are just along for the ride.

We finally got Frankie and Mya together. How are we feeling about their dynamics so far? They are definitely both feeling each other out. Frankie is already smitten and Mya is getting there. That doesn't mean they are immediately going to jive though. They will be bumping heads, a lot. Then of course, we have added Veracruz to the mix. He and Frankie have already begun their pissing match.

Now for the nerdy stuff...

Vatican Documents: The Vatican document about Paititi is a real thing! It's discovery in 2001 really happened and it was indeed removed from public access. I've obviously taken some liberties with those 'extra pages' but this is where our adventure begins. I'll continue to share some of these little tidbits with you as we go along.

Egyptian References: So, some of you probably know I'm a huge history nerd. At one point I did want to be an archeologist/Egyptologist. With Egypt being my favorite ancient civilization, I couldn't help squeezing some of that stuff in. There is no funny business here. We are not getting into any reincarnation story lines or anything like that. I just thought it would be fun to draw some parallels between the god of the sky and Frankie and the goddess of Love and Mya because they have similar traits. And well, Ra and Hathor were together. Their story may have some foreshadowing elements, just to make things more interesting. 😏

Please feel free to sound off with your thoughts and predictions. You know I love to hear them! Especially as our adventure starts to pick up.

💜Mysty

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[greenwitchfromthewoods]

Hiii, congrats on 800 followers! I think it's soo good of you to write, and study and everything. I was soo overwhelmed by just study and work 🫣

Always love your fics, so thank you so much for everything 🫶🏽🩷

For the drunken challenge, could you maybe write something with number 1 and 17? Maybe with Javi Peña or Frankie? 😁

Drunken Love Confessions prompts l Frankie Morales

1. "I like your stupid face. It’s so stupid. It’s so… I like it. Can I touch it?"

17. "I’m not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?" "You’re not doing anything." "But… I sent you my love. Did you… did you not get it?"

~~~~~~~~

a/n: Sweetie, you've supported me for so long it's been a pleasure to write this. Thank you for being here.

warnings: alcohol, some swearing, mentioned kissing

~~~~~~~~

"I like your stupid face. It's so stupid. It's so… I like it. Can I touch it?"

"Do you think I look stupid?"

"Nooo!" you groaned, grabbing Frankie's arm with a look like you just realized what you said. "I just... I just..."

“I’m kidding you, damn it!” he laughed, and you felt like you hadn’t fucked anything up after all. “But why do you want to touch my face?”

You had no idea. 

You had already drunk so much that there was no efficient connection between your brain and your mouth. This evening had been going on for a long time. Benny's birthday was celebrated by quite a large group, and you and Frankie had already managed to get pretty drunk.

Frankie. Your friend. Someone you could always count on. Someone who knew how to make you laugh and what kind of chocolate you liked when you were having a bad day. Someone you called when your date was hopeless and picked you up from everywhere. Someone you were incredibly close to. And finally someone you kissed on the 4th of July, and a few more times after that, but you both blamed it on the alcohol and the wrong time.

Even though you had a soft spot for him, you felt like you couldn't meet halfway. You had no idea that the boys had started placing bets on when you would finally decide to be together.

And even now, when you were both drunk and you touched each other more often than friends should, you still couldn't talk about your feelings.

Frankie wrapped his arm tightly around you so you didn't fall to the floor when you both decided to go outside for some fresh air. It was only there that you saw his brown eyes sparkling beautifully, and a small smile playing on his lips.

"What are you staring at?" he asked, lighting a cigarette and looking at you suspiciously.

You leaned against the wall. The back parking lot was just the two of you, muffled music coming from behind closed doors. You smiled broadly.

"I like you, Francisco." You said, and maybe this confession would have made a bigger impression on him if you hadn't staggered at the same time.

"Watch out! Jesus Christ!" he laughed, grabbing your arm and straightening you up. "You're drunk as hell."

"I'm not drunk. Can a drunk person do this?" you looked at him in a strange way and for a moment you were both silent.

Finally, it was Frankie who spoke first. "You're not doing anything."

Desperation appeared on your face. "But... I sent you my love. Did you... did you not get it?"

"W-What?" he choked out. "Oh, hermosa! You have no idea how much I would like to hear that when we were both sober, but..."

You suddenly frowned and folded your arms over your chest. "I'm not joking, Francisco." Your voice sounded incredibly sober and determined. "I like you. Even in that cap you wear all the time." He instinctively adjusted the cap on his head. "And I'm worried that you only have feelings for me when we're both drunk."

That melted his heart. You were the sweetest thing he knew. He adored you, your sense of humor, the way you always listened and didn't judge him. He would give anything to have the courage to ask you out, but all he'd done so far was kiss you a few times and then you both pretended that you were just drunk.

Frankie shook his head and sighed. "We should talk again tomorrow when we're sober, hermosa. I'll take you home and..."

“Give it back!” you announced suddenly.

Frankie blinked, surprised and confused. "But what?"

"My love, dumbass!" no you weren't joking "If you don't want it then give it back!"

"What makes you think I don't want it?" he asked but you took a step forward, you were really angry.

"I told you to give it back, Francisco."

He suddenly crossed his arms over his chest and took a few steps back, as if he really wanted to keep something with him. "No." he said "I'm not giving you anything!"

You snorted and rested your hands on your hips. You almost stomped your foot like a little child. The whole situation would probably be funny for you, but the drinks you had had made you really start arguing about something that wasn't physically there.

You snorted and put your hands on your hips. Frankie was sure you were about to stomp your foot like a little kid. The whole situation would probably be funny to you, but the drinks you had had made you really start arguing about something that wasn't physically there.

"Hermosa..." Frankie started slowly "I really appreciate this..." you glared at him "I mean, I don't want you to think I don't feel anything for you. You're amazing and all..."

"That sounds like you're about to say some 'but'." you stated.

"But we're fucking drunk!" he threw his arms out in helplessness "You'll regret it tomorrow."

"You want to know what I regret when I'm sober?" you asked, pointing a finger at him "That we always pretend nothing happened between us. I've never even been drunk enough to not know what I was doing!"

Frankie frowned as if trying to piece it together. “You mean…”

“I mean, every time I kissed you, I wanted to kiss you, dumbass. But then you acted weird so today I decided to give myself some courage and now I’m fucking drunker than I’ve ever been and you’re still ignoring me and…”

Frankie’s large hands closed over yours with a finger extended and for a moment you tried to understand what he had just done. His eyes stared at you in awe.

“Let's make a deal, I won't give you back what you sent me, but tomorrow, if we both still want it, we'll finally do something about it, okay?”

“What do you mean?”

“A date. We’ll go on a real date. If we both still want it. Because I want it, I want it bad. I want it really fucking bad to be honest.”

Your face suddenly brightened. "Are you serious, Francisco?"

"Of course, hermosa."

You sighed quietly and your eyes filled with tears. However, after a moment you nodded. "Take me home then. I want to end this day."

You didn't know what time it was. The sound of your phone woke you up and you rolled out of bed to find your bag somewhere in a pile of your clothes. The phone vibrated in your hand and you noticed a picture of Frankie on the screen.

"Yes?" you yawned as you answered.

"Hi, hermosa." His voice was tired but cheerful. "If what you said yesterday is still relevant, maybe I could pick you up today around 6? What do you think?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

Drunken Love Confessions prompts

you can still send requests

[wordywarriorwrites]

@jolapeno - This is you, isn't it?

[thebookbutterfly]

fanfiction isn’t enough, I need to chew on him

[ihrtglrz]

[amyleepascal]

Pedro at the Peter Berlin Permission to Stare exhibition

From @russelltovey

#pedropascal

[musings-of-a-rose]

The costume designers knew their target audience

FRANCISCO MORALES | TRIPLE FRONTIER

[berryispunk]

I enhanced the pic as good as I can !!! My service for my fellow Frankie fans 🙂‍↕️