#Pedro Pascal

[pedgito]

𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐌𝐀𝐋 | Joel Miller x reader

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summary | Joel's itch to hunt has became a yearly tradition between you and him.

author's note | i had a very vague outline for this weeks ago that didn't feel solid enough but then i saw some gifs and had to collect myself, a huge hug to @gracieheartspedro for beta'ing this!

content warning | 18+ MDNI, jackson!joel, sex pollen (consenting), hunter/prey OR predator/prey (whichever you prefer), knives, joel intentionally hurts reader (consenting), mentions of scars, waterboarding adjacent (again, consenting), brat!reader, gratuitous smut (unprotected piv, oral, ect), creampies <3, cum feeding, some fluff at the end.

word count — 5k

“S’bout that time, baby.”

Joel isn’t even attempting to be subtle about it.

The itch came around the time the flowers were beginning to bloom and the overgrown foliage continued to make a home on earth, woven and wrapping around the cracks that have settled. It was always calmer too, oddly. Tommy had suggested Joel could take a few shifts hunting in the nearby woods for food—you know, scratch it. But, he didn’t understand the deeper implications and desires that Joel kept hidden away. Though, not from you.

He always had a habit of sneaking up on you in your home, quiet as a mouse you were, but even the slightest creak would give you away and Joel would come swooping in, stealing your heart right out of your chest as it stilled, relaxing as his warm, sweet musk consumed your entire being. 

He always sought you out, treated you like prey.

Joel was a natural born hunter, a defender—of his territory, his things.

When you switched jobs halfway through your first year in Jackson, botany to patrol, the idea arises. And that was all it was, at first. Presenting Joel with a set of options as your connection with him grew, seeing the ease of conversation behind his hardened exterior. 

He liked that you care, that you listened to him talking about his oddball interest without the return of a retching disgust, tongue peeking out of your mouth as your face scrunches up in aversion. Ellie had done it plenty of times, so instead, you ask questions.

Jackson had domesticated Joel back to his previous state, before the outbreak, with what little he’s told you about, he sounds like he wants to leave that man in the past. You understood him, born within a world of pure rage and hostility, fighting tooth and nail from the day you were born.

You were only a small child when the world fell and you barely remember anything from before outside of what you’ve learned from the elders around Jackson and Joel, who wasn’t nearly as old, but had still managed to live a full life and then some, his time split between both versions of this lifetime.

You had patrol together tomorrow, a full undisturbed weekend away.

He clinks your beer mischievously as his eyes glint with intrigue and a small smile tugs at his lips as he hides it behind the rim of his drink—it wasn’t a reminder, rather an auspicious warning.

–

In any other situation, you would hate this patrol spot. 

It was big, too big—why Tommy insisted on keeping it within the route was beyond your understanding, but for Joel, it was perfect.

He’s already digging in your bag for the mauve-hued powder, smelling faintly of berries even with the plastic bag wrapped tightly around it. It was something you had stumbled upon with Ellie during one of your earlier patrols, always following close behind to her wandering, stumbling upon a thick brush outside a forgotten, decaying cabin. 

A small plant, completely undisturbed. 

Ellie almost consumed the plant out of curiosity, eyes growing wide as you slapped her hand away.

“You’re right—yeah, that’s…not a good idea.” She quickly corrected herself, entranced by the intoxicating smell as you carefully unroot the plant and tuck it away in your pack, hopefully that it would stay intact on the ride back or that Shimmer wouldn’t sniff through your bag before you had the chance to make it back.

“Joel would kill me if I let this kill you.”

“Ah, he’s not so bad.” Ellie excused lazily, “Give him a chance.”

That you did.

You snatch the bag from his hand and tuck it away in your pocket.

“Sign us in at least,” You reprimand him, flicking him in the chest before you direct him with a pointed finger over his shoulder. An old, weathered notebook sitting on the counter of the empty clinic, “sweep first—hunt later.”

You both check your respective sides, dead silent throughout, as most of spring usually was around Jackson. Occasionally a straggler would find a way inside, a bloater or clicker that had wandered too far from the herd, but it was completely quiet.

You had traveled all night, the auburn sky fading to blue as the sun rose in the east, the rays projecting through the large window of the second floor of the hospital, an office that was set up with two beds and a pile of supplies for whoever had patrol that month.

Joel’s stripped his jacket off already, yours following suit as you throw it over.

“You know the drill,” Joel announces, his palm curving around the back of your neck as his other hand reaches for the gun tucked into the holster at your thigh, placing it on the counter, “one knife, that’s it.”

“Same rules apply to you, big guy,” You retorted, reaching around his backside for the gun tucked into his waistband, placing it beside your own gun.

He offers over the hunting knife by the handle, his fingers pressing tight against the sharpened blade, eyebrows raised in anticipation as you look at it for a moment, a split-decision before you shake your head, pushing his hand away.

“C’mon baby, now you’re just makin’ it easy.”

You scoff lightly, leaning down to remove your shoes and socks as Joel chuckles lowly, catching onto your antics as you strip yourself down to the bare minimum clothing you needed without being entirely naked—a skin-tight tank that clung to your curves and a pair of shorts that rolled up your thighs, reducing the risk of your clothes snagging in harder to access crevices.

You reach for the treasured bag of special powder that Joel was so eager to consume.

It was an enhancement—a pollen from a special flower that you still hadn’t identified, crushed down into an herb that you traded under the table in Jackson for a high price. The first time you had introduced it to Joel, he was hesitant. But, giving it an hour or so to set in convinced him otherwise.

He could hear better, feel, sense—it was intimidating, the look in his blood-shot eyes every time he found you, teeth bared as they dug into your skin, rutting against you like he was in heat. Sex was the only thing that quelled the ache that it caused as a side effect, and Joel was insatiable.

It started slowly, the slow thump of your heart quickening as the effects settled within you. Then, the paranoia set in, the heightened state of existence, and slowly the urge of desire would settle in, growing and growing until it was nearly unbearable—eventually willing enough to claw off your own skin in an attempt to ease the ache. 

It never got that bad, Joel wouldn’t allow it.

But, something about this batch felt potent.

You felt even more mischievous this time around, your third year of this little tradition and you were determined to make him work for it, drag it out until the final second, as the drug waned as neither of you could take it any longer, wanting to beat him at his own game.

“Like a mouse,” You tease, showcasing the near silent step of your feet against the floor as you lick your pointer and middle finger before dipping them into the bag, the powder sticking to your fingers as you press them to Joel’s tongue, his lips closing around the digits with an intense determination in his eyes, “let’s test out those instincts, old man.”

He mirrors your process, but wraps his free hand around your throat, forcing your chin up and mouth open as his fingers dip into your mouth and press down on your tongue, noticing the way his eyes are already dilated under the effect of the pollen, “I’ll leave a pretty one this time.”

A scar, he means. 

Two already existing jagged lines on each side of your pelvic bone as he pressed the blade to your skin in dignification of his victory, soothing the wound with his tongue and lapping up the blood.

You hum, closing your eyes at the sweet taste as it warms your body.

“If you catch me,” You tease, a slight amusement to your tone as you toss your head back, fingers pressing harshly against the sides of your throat.

“Bold,” He compliments, “s’cute—you can’t hide from me, sweetheart. I’ll find you.”

–

He always gives you a head start, it was only fair.

The only downside to the pollen was the overstimulation of sound, paranoid with every creak of the building as the heat expanded the metal, faint footsteps without any idea where they were.

You weren’t a hunter, by any means. But, you knew how to hide.

For Joel, he enjoys the chase.

However, he likes to seek, too.

And he’s quiet, unsuspecting.

The first four hours are spent working your way through the second floor as you hide away in hidden crevices and evaded his approaching figure as he traverses from room to room, knowing he’s wandering around with only the knife you had denied yourself, twirling it in his grip as you whistled, paused for an eerily long time, then whistled again. He's had surveying from side to side, scanning.

Everything was making you jump, even the low hum of the wind outside.

There’s a brief moment as you escape to the first floor that Joel catches sight of your quickly fleeing figure, calling out your name in a voice that doesn’t sound entirely of his own. It was deep and guttural, like a growl. Animalistic and dark, stripped down to his primal instincts.

“C’mon, little mouse,” You can hear the knife pierce into the weakening drywall as you hide between a crevice underneath the stairs, moving to your stomach to crawl underneath and use the advantage of the shadows casted by the sun as he paces around the hall for a moment, “let’s see if you’ll squeal for me.”

His foot kicks through a closed door, his soft whistling continuing as he searched around and came up empty-handed, biding your time under the stairwell for an extended period of time, skin dampy and clammy as the heat crept in, clothes dirtied with dust and stained with sweat.

By the time you feel safe enough to leave, knowing how easy Joel could wait you out, it was already creeping into the evening and you had cursed yourself for being so stubborn and leaving your pack behind—hungry and thirsty, the throbbing ache at your core growing stronger as you squeezed your thighs together and escaped the hiding spot.

You stop, listening intently, the faint sound of footsteps below in the basement.

You knew better than to trap yourself down there with him, knowing how easy of a win that would be for him, hearing the faint tap of the knife as he calls for you.

“I know you’re here. I can smell ya,” You hear faintly, “Betcha she’s drippin’ wet, huh?”

You can picture the sight of him, hand grazing over the denim of his jeans as he pressed his palm against his growing erection for relief, a similar detriment to your own but with two entirely different tasks.

You’ve never tried leaving the building before, but the peak of the pollen was beginning to take hold, your mouth dry and begging, aware of the creek just a few minutes into the forest down the road—you were desperate.

So, you book it.

And as your feet hit the entrance, you hear him.

But, he’s closer now, ascending the stairs to the first floor as his eyes lock on your shadowed figure before you slam the door closed behind you, his voice booming in the distance as the twigs break underneath your feet, wincing at the sting of pain it brings.

“Bad girl,” He taunts, “Breakin’ our rules, baby!”

Outside of the strict use of one weapon, mutually agreed upon, you both promised to never leave the premises, both for safety, and fairness. But, Joel was good—too good. If anything, it would give him a challenge.

You knew there would be consequences, but you couldn’t be bothered to care.

–

You had spent twelve hours evading him, bones and muscles aching with discomfort as you tripped, falling to the bed of rocks covered in slimy moss as you stumbled on your knees toward the running stream, cupping your hands to guide the water into your mouth, instantly quenching the thirst that had festered, patting your wet hands against your clammy skin, knees bloodied and dripping against the surface of the rock as you rested for a moment, catching your breath.

You welcomed the silence, wondering if Joel had stuck on the path of the road, unsuspecting that you would veer off barefoot into the forest on your own, constantly sticking by his side, vigilant of the threats that lingered there.

You whine as your cunt throbs with need, hastily shoving your hand under the fabric of your shorts to slide your fingers against the sticky, wet fabric of your underwear, the gentle press against your clit like a shock to the system, your free hand clutching onto nothing but air as you gasped, subconsciously rocking your hips against your hand.

Your eyes had fallen shut, lost in your own pleasure that you forget how vulnerable you are, nearly naked in an open forest where anyone could sneak up on you—though, no one traveled out this far and it had been several minutes since Joel had caught sight of you, the lack of defined tracks to follow proving difficult for him, but then you hear a sigh, a tsk.

He’s on you before you have a chance to react, knife at your throat as his teeth graze against the shell of your ear and he’s wrenching your hands away from your shorts, “Found you,” He hisses through clenched teeth, feeling his cock pressed against your thigh through the denim.

He was hot, burning up—both with a want for you, but physically, like a fever had taken over.

You hadn’t realized how much time had passed until you’re forcing your eyes open, staring up at the opaline moonlight, making Joel all the more threatening as you couldn’t see him, but you could feel him, rendered immobile as he worked himself over your hips, the weight of him keeping you still. 

“S’right little mouse, ain’t got nowhere to go, do ya?” He taunts, fingers curling around your head as they dig into the root of your hair and tug, the blunt side of the knife running along your throat.

“How’d—how did—find me?” You choke out through broken, garbled gasps as the drool accumulated in your mouth at his scent, the freshness of soap from a shower the night before but a mix of his own arousal collecting in his jeans, “What gave it ‘way?”

“Can hear those perfect little whimpers from a mile away, baby,” He softens slightly, panting heavily against your skin as he belt jingles with subtle movement, slipping through the loops before he’s disposing of it to the side, “S’that why you ran? Scared I was gonna catch you playin’ with yourself in there—well, look at ya,” He taunts, “Got a special place for this one,” 

You feel the cool edge of the knife drag along the side of your neck and down your spine, ripping through the fabric like butter, aided by the gentle tug of his hands as he ripped your top into pieces, repeating the process with your shorts, his fingers curling around the lacy edge of your underwear as he tugged up, dragging the tip of the blade along your cheek.

“Considering markin’ this pretty little ass up, that what you want?”

“S’that what you want?” You retort playfully.

There’s a small prick, another, pulling your underwear between your ass until he can get the blade underneath the fabric and with a quick flick of his wrist, it was nothing but trash, stuffed between his teeth as he inhaled your intoxicating scent, forcing your thighs apart as he cut lightly into your skin at first, an initial to mark his territory.

The letter J forever engraved at the inside of your thigh, the thumb of his unoccupied hand splitting through your folds and pressing against your swollen clit, distracting you from the sharp pain with his movements.

“S’beautiful,” He tells you, admiring the mark but also the way your cunt greedily sucks his thumb inside of you, “fuckin’ beautiful.”

Your hands balled into tight fists above your head as you writhe beneath him, “M’close, Joel—s’right there,” You moan, feeling his hand squeeze at your wounded thigh, his fingers stained with blood as he moves off of you, easily manhandling you onto your back as he stares down with dark, brooding eyes, disposed panties still stuffed in his mouth.

You rise onto your elbows as his hand molds over the back of your skull, nodding toward his buttoned jeans, his opposite hand reaching for your wrist as he guides it to the button before casually yanking the cloth from his mouth and stuffing it into the pocket of his jeans.

His unoccupied hand explores the peaks of your chest, soft and supple and begging to be squeezed, bitten, pert nipple the perfect size to fit between his lips and against the flat of his tongue, finding himself drifting at the thought before your roving touch brings him back.

“You feelin’ gracious?” He asks, “Gonna suck my cock?”

You nod obediently, his hand gripping tighter in your dirtied, damp hair.

He’s waiting, quietly, ominously, only barely satisfied as you begin to pry the button apart and pull at his zipper, the heat of his cock pressing against the fabric as you rub your palm over it teasingly, earning a sharp tug in return.

“You wanna keep up the game?” Joel asks like a warning, “I’ll hunt you through these damn woods, girl. And I won’t play nice.”

There’s a rawness to his voice during times like this, during the hunt. It’s similar to how he sounds as he rouses from bed, groggy with sleep—relaxed, but resting at a deep, booming register.

You pout slightly, squeezing your hand over the damp fabric of his underwear, precum seeping through the front as you lean forward, running your tongue along the cotton before pulling with your teeth at the waistband, tucking his underwear beneath his balls as you like from base to tip in one fluid movement, intoxicated by his scent.

It was mostly clean, but earthy—a day worth of exhilarating hunt and the heat of both the day and the pollen seeping from his pores, he’s salty and sweet, your tongue sliding slowly over the slit before he’s pushing his cock beyond your lips with a solid pump of his hips, moaning at the intrusion.

He favors the soft whimpers as your eyes flutter with the press of his cock against the back of your throat, fucking himself into your mouth with a tight hand in your hair, eyes welling with tears as you gasp after a particularly deep thrust, eyes blown wide as he pulled you off of his cock suddenly, moving to match his stance as you rise unsteadily to your knees.

“Nuh uh,” He admonished, “down, turn around.”

You open your mouth to speak and Joel slaps your face once, sharp, not entirely unsuspected as there was a clear definite line of who was in charge, always testing your limits when he asserted his dominance—you knew it was coming, you wanted it.

“S’your one and only warning,” He tells you sternly, “now turn.”

In times of desperate need and insatiable desire, it was easier to be a vessel to him. Fulfilling his release of pent up aggression and carefully tucked away primal nature, he shifts quietly behind you to stand and strip himself naked, fisting his cock into his hand as he rubs it through your slick folds, puffy and swollen from how badly you needed to be filled by him, consumed.

“So fragile, little mouse,” He takes glance of the weeping wound between your thighs and the flutter of your hole as he fits the head of his cock inside of you, only an inch of his thick and swollen cock, a collective sigh of relief from you both at the connection, “Need to remind you what it means to be mine, don’t I?”

“Joel fucking get on with it alread—”

Joel quickly twists his hand into your hair and pulls your head up, gasping as the hands under your chest curls into fists, pulling you flush with his pelvis as he slips inside of you in one quick motion, feeling the sting as his fingers dig into your skin.

“Smart mouth,” He comments, “so fuckin’ dumb for this cock your forget how to behave yourself, ain’t that right?”

You groan pathetically as he yanks at your hair, “You need me to do it for you, old man?”

You wiggle your ass slightly back against his cock, a harsh huff of breath through his nose before he’s dipping your head under the water as you both teeter near the edge of the rock, with the current you could feel the faint splashes against your skin, but he takes advantage of the gap and dunks your head in the chilled water for a moment, pulling you back up as you gasp.

“You done?” He asks, earning a pitched giggle in return, airy and light as you find the effort amusing, leading him closer toward the edge of the cliff, guiding him into a space that would help him use, without guilt or remorse for his actions.

“Depends,” You challenge, your cunt clenching around his cock as he shifts his hips, one movement from exploding as your clit throbbed intensely.

As a result, he dunks your head once more, this time for a moment longer than last and you find yourself coughing, sputtering air as your wet hair drips over your face, blinking the bleariness from your eyes.

"Always forget how much you like it when I hurt you,” Joel notes with a tone of admiration.

You hum in approval, wretched back by his unyielding hand as he pulls you flush with his chest, your hand flying into his hair as the other drifts over your clit, his hips pummeling into you at furious pace, teeth digging deep into your shoulder.

“C’mon, baby,” He coos, cradling your head in his hand as it lulls back, fingers curling your clit in desperation as his groans melt into your skin, “fuck—she’s squeezin’ me tight, you feelin’ that?”

His hips slow for a moment, deep thrusts as the head of his cock rubs against that nauseatingly sweet spot inside of you, eyes rolling back at the sensation as your orgasm takes hold, pulling Joel over the edge unexpectedly with your whimpering breaths of relief, held up entirely by his own brute strength as he fucks into you lazily, pumping you full of his cum with every thrust.

There’s an immediate exhaustion as instant satisfaction fills your body and his own.

Though, you know it won’t last.

It was temporary, an ease to the ache that had a mind of its own on when it would weaken.

Joel’s fingers drifting between your legs playfully as he scoops up his own cum as it spilled out of you, dripping down the inside of your thighs before he feeds it into your mouth, resting lazily against his frame as he rest on one arm and hip, smearing the slick against your tongue before he brings your mouth to his, a greedy exchange as he licks into your mouth, chuckling as you eagerly leaned in for more, moving forward as he pulled away.

“Easy, baby,” He chastises, “I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’m right here.”

–

You can’t avoid how vulnerable it feels to trek back naked, hair mussed and your steps mimicking a drunken state as you stumble, guided upstairs and into the shower attached to the office, small and compact but at least there was running water and amenities packed away in Joel’s pack for you to use, every inch of your skin overly sensitive as you wash away the grime, feeling Joel approach from behind, careful removing the soap from your hand.

“We’re all locked up,” He informs you, doing another quick sweep as you stepped inside of the shower—he’s increasingly more relaxed now, but the heightened senses linger, his gentle touch igniting the fire in your gut as you turn on him, watching as he lathered his chest in the soap before asking, “still botherin’ ya, huh?”

You reach for him silently, pressing your lips to his tentatively, his gentleness returning with the hand that rests against your hip, slowly extending to your back as he pulls you in.

You loved him like this even more—the soft hums he released as you tilted your head to kiss him, his lips parting as you snuck your tongue into his mouth, filtering your finger through his hair and meeting him with a similar, relaxed passion.

Silently, he guides your hand to the small shelf embedded into the corner of the shower and crowds you against the tile, descending on old, aching knees despite himself. He’d pay for it later, he knows he will, but the way your leg instinctively lifts and rests over his shoulder is enough to soothe the pain for a brief time, the intensity of desire coming in waves.

He licks a long strip up the center of your folds, sucking on your clit as he eventually turns the water off entirely, your moans reverberating off the ceramic, practiced flicks of his tongue bringing you near your end quickly, sneaking two of his fingers inside of you as you come, always amazed at how greedy you pussy was to consume whatever it was he gave you.

Fingers, tongue, cock—it didn’t matter.

He peers up at you through a half-lidded gaze, your fingers running through damp hair as he slowly rises to his feet, peppering kissing up and along your body as he stands again.

“Let’s get dried off,” He tells you, “I know you’re starvin’—worked up a big appetite after today.”

Joel carefully wraps the towel around your body as he does the same, tying it around his waist as he chuckles at your smile, “Guess you could say that.”

And just as you think the pollen has finally worn off, it comes like a fever in the night.

At first, you insist it must be a dream, the way Joel is so helplessly rutting against your backside, tucked tight against his chest as you shared the singular blanket and pillow despite the other bed. He wanted you closer, he wanted you near. 

You smell like honey and home—home like Jackson, that faint hint of charred wood from the fireplace that was constantly running in your home.

He’s willing and malleable to your movements as you guide him to his back, carefully slipping your underwear to the side as you guide him inside of you, a lazy pace as your chests meet, breathing into each other’s mouths as squeezes at any available skin he can access.

“So goddamn lucky,” He murmurs, “always takin’ care of me.”

His pointed thrust drove his words home, his nails digging into your hip as he came for the second time that night, nothing in his voice left to give as his throat felt raw, grunting pathetically as his seed spilled inside of you, a warmth radiating throughout and a sudden feeling of complete relief.

“I think we’re in the clear now,” You admit tiredly, rubbing your hands gently over his flushed chest as you glance up at him, both of you sighing at the loss as you move off of him and return to your previous position, barely registering the swipe of fabric between your legs as Joel cleaned you up without acknowledgment before he’s pulling you tight into his chest.

“Need to convince Tommy into letting me take up this patrol in the winter.”

You snicker quietly at his mischievous nature.

“Is that all I’m good for?” You tease playfully, “Scratchin’ that itch?”

“A couple of ‘em,” He admits honestly, pressing a soft kiss against the spot behind your ear, “s’good idea—as long as you don’t go breakin’ the rules and runnin’ off into the forest again—”

“Alright, alright, big guy,” You admonish, patting his head blindly over your shoulder as he shakes your hand away, “it’s not like you were really complaining about it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause I knew just where to look.”

Of course he did.

You scoff lightly, “Oh, I’m sure—you got me down pat, like a damn book, don’t you?”

“Correct, baby,” He answers, “Ain’t no hiding from me.”

It’s a comfort, knowing he was always near.

Joel would always find you, no matter the situation.

[a7estrellas]

PEDRO PASCAL spotted with the Fantastic Four cast | via Deuxmoi

[dandeliont3aandsageleaves]

Well gotta put this bad boy somewhere now that the library has been burned

[ericamarie093]

Pena, be careful!

PEDRO PASCAL as JAVIER PEÑA Narcos | 3.08: Convivir

[nicolethered]

Pedro on The Late Late Show with James Corden (April 19, 2022)

[jellyjoell]

"being a fangirl makes me so happy!! i love being a fangirl it's so fulfilling!!!"

the literal state of my mind and emotions when i consume and engage with said content:

[heartlessvirgo]

Pins and Needles

Summary:

You work at the bar in Jackson, and Joel is a frequent visitor.

Paring: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Warnings: 18+MDNI, Swearing, Kissing, heavy petting, unprotected sex, yearning, uhh I think that's it keepin it simple tonight

Word Count: 6.1K

A/N: hi there, I wrote this one today, so enjoy. Also idk what else to write about so please someone for the love of God send me a prompt. I am just a woman, who needs help and who has also never had an original thought in her life! -mel

The bar, The Tipsy Bison, loomed ahead, its sign barely visible through the swirling snow. You curse under your breath, pulling your coat tighter around you, but it does little to ward off the biting cold of the morning. December had arrived with a vengeance, and the snow storm showed no signs of letting up. But people still drank, even in weather like this. In fact, you found the bar was busier on days like this. 

Your fingers fumble with the key as you reach the double doors, the cold seeping through your skin to your bones. The sensation creeps through your hands, pins and needles prickling as numbness begins to set in. You rub your hands together, hoping to summon some warmth, but the unforgiving wind steals what little comfort you can muster.

With a final twist, the frozen lock gives, and you push open the doors to bar, the familiar scent of wood and stale beer greeting you like an old friend. Inside, it’s quiet, the soft hum of the heater the only sound as the door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the storm.

Your boots trail in some snow, leaving a damp path across the worn wooden floor. If you could feel your toes, you'd manage to stomp off some of it, but the numbness has already claimed them. Flicking on the lights, a groan escapes your throat as one of the overhead bulbs flickers, sputtering briefly before giving out entirely, casting a shadow over the far end of the bar.

"Great," you mutter, shrugging off your coat and tossing it onto a nearby stool. The dim corner adds another task to your growing list for the day. You make your way behind the counter, fingers still tingling from the cold as you rub them together again, hoping the warmth will return soon.

As the heater hums to life, a soft warmth begins to creep into the space, thawing the icy pins and needles that had gripped you outside. But the flickering bulb lingers in the back of your mind, a small reminder that nothing ever stays entirely comfortable for long.

The list is long before opening today, and you realize it’s just you and the cook all day. Mornings at The Tipsy Bison were never particularly busy—just a slow trickle of night shift workers, looking to unwind at the end of their day. The nights were hecti, and despite the cold outside, you often found yourself sweating by the time you got through the rush. You move around the bar, checking off tasks one by one. Stock the shelves. Fill the ice bin. The steady rhythm of your routine is oddly comforting, like a quiet meditation. It’s midafternoon, and you’re just finishing up a rush of orders—mostly bar food, meant to fill the empty spaces in their stomachs before they start drinking their rations away.

As you wipe down the bar, the sound of the door creaking open catches your attention. The heavy thud of boots stomping snow off their soles echoes through the space, a quiet gesture of courtesy against the cold. You glance over your shoulder, offering a small, automatic smile as you continue drying a few cups.

It’s Joel Miller that steps in, his presence immediately filling the room in that quiet, commanding way he always had. One of the few night workers you recognized, that usually came in at the tail end of his shifts on watch. His face, as always, was a mix of exhaustion and something that looked too much like annoyance. Or maybe that was just how he looked at you now—ever since that night.

You knew him well. He was curt, sometimes even polite, but always quick with the transaction, his focus more on the drink than anything else. So, you let him have his whiskey, and leave him to drown whatever sorrow clung to him after the long nights on watch.

He was tall when he wanted to be, but the years of bad posture and sleeping on hard ground had left him with shoulders that sagged just slightly. Even so, you could always tell how strong he was—how well he carried it without needing to show it off. You knew. 

You knew all too well.

Joel wasn’t the kind of man who hooked up anymore. Not the type to lose control or give in to temptation. But one night, it happened. Maybe it was the way you poured his drinks heavy that night. And the shots you shared with a few regulars, the way the whiskey loosened your limbs and warmed your skin. By the time your shift ended, you could no longer feel the cold in your bones, your thoughts hazy and distant as the night stretched long and dark between you.

He’d been waiting, just outside the bar, as you took the trash out while locking up. You hummed a mindless tune, one your coworker would probably replay on the jukebox for hours if you let him. 

After the amount of alcohol you’d consumed, it didn’t surprise you to see him standing there. What you couldn’t quite recall was the reason—whether it was the free drink you’d slipped him earlier or the way you’d found yourself watching him from across the room, tracing his features with your eyes, practically undressing him with every glance.

Without a word, he walked you home, a perfect gentleman, like he wasn’t expecting anything in return. And yet, somehow, you’d found yourself dragging him inside, consensually of course, your hands on him before the door even had a chance to shut behind you. It was messy and reckless, but it felt too good to stop.

The heat of his body against yours, the hard muscle that never seemed to fade despite the years and long hours he worked—it was all there, strong and solid. But there was softness, too, and it was so syrupy sweet. His stomach, warm and firm, the delicate skin of his neck, where your fingers lingered, feeling the pulse of his heartbeat beneath the surface.

Joel had you fucked into the mattress, your ass up, face buried against the sheets to stifle the sounds that slipped out despite you. It was quick—too quick—but the intensity left a mark, something you couldn’t shake, no matter how much time passed. The heat of him lingered on your skin, his release on your lower back. It was, without question, the most unforgettable moment of your life. But it was also the last. He didn’t return.

Joel never really understood why he had let it happen, why he gave in to the pull between you. Maybe it was the need to feel alive again, the kind of vitality the world had taken from him long ago. Or maybe it was because you were so impossibly sweet, and he knew exactly how easy it would be to ruin that innocence, to watch the halo above your head fall apart.

That’s why he switched to overnight shifts—so when he came into the bar, you’d be deep in your sleep, tucked away in the comfort of your bed. The same bed he’d been in, your thighs pressed against his face as he’d lost himself in the taste of you.

So, you can imagine his surprise when you greet him this morning. Your eyes wide, your smile sugary sweet, a flicker of something else—something almost familiar—lingering as you watch him settle into his usual spot.

“Morning,” you greet, your voice warm despite the chill still clinging to your skin from the blizzard outside. Every time the doors open, a freezing breeze floats through the drafty building, but Joel’s gaze stays steady on you, stony, calculating, but also… a little guarded, like he knows better than to linger on you for too long. 

He gives a curt nod, his usual, as he settles into his spot at the bar. You pour his whiskey, straight, and slide it over to him. His fingers wrap around the glass, but he doesn’t drink right away. His gaze flicks to you as you move back to your tasks, a habit you’ve noticed but never addressed. Much like the way you’ve both avoided addressing that one time when the line between familiarity and something more blurred.

After a moment, he breaks the silence. “Everything holdin’ up alright in here?”

“Mostly,” you reply casually, glancing toward the flickering light. “Haven’t had the chance to fix that yet.”

Joel follows your gaze, then looks back at you. “Need a hand?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t need the help, but because it’s Joel offering. He’s not exactly known for small talk, let alone unsolicited offers of assistance. And especially not with you, not after you both silently agreed to act like that night never happened. 

“‘M good, thanks,” you reply, already on the task of grabbing the ladder from the backroom. 

The task is simple, but of course, it’s right in front of Joel. Your heart races as you set up the ladder beneath the overhead light, the realization of how close you are to him making everything feel suddenly too intimate.

Climbing the ladder, you reach for the bulb, your arms stretching high. The fabric of your crop top shifts upward, exposing a sliver of your skin. It’s only a brief moment, but it’s enough. You don’t need to look down to know that Joel is watching you, his gaze heavy and fixed. The air in the bar thickens, charged with something electric and raw.

You try to focus on the task—unscrewing the old bulb—but his eyes are like a magnet, pulling your attention, dragging your mind away from the simple fix. You glance down, just for a split second, and you catch his gaze. There’s no mistaking it: he nurses his whiskey as he drags his eyes up from your exposed skin and to your face. His eyes are locked on you, intense and unreadable. It feels like too much, like where you stand becomes unbalanced. 

 A sudden noise breaks the tension, and just as the door to the bar swings open with the sound of the wind, you release a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Your fingers shake, and before you can regain control, the bulb slips from your hand and falls—clink—shattering on the floor below.

“Shit,” you mutter under your breath, stepping down from the ladder. You can feel the heat still lingering in the air where his gaze had been, but it’s gone now, replaced by an uncomfortable emptiness. With a sigh, you add sweeping up the shattered bulb to your growing list of tasks.

By the time you return with the broom, though, Joel’s already gone, and with him, the tension that had hung between you like a thick fog. The silence left in his wake feels different—quieter, colder somehow. You remind yourself to shake it off. You don’t have the luxury of getting lost in thoughts about him—not when you’ve still got hours to go before you can close this place down and collapse into bed.

By the time the end of your double rolls around, your body aches, longing for a seat, or hell, even just a place to lie down. The weight of the day has settled into your muscles, a dull throb that makes every movement feel like an effort. The bar has emptied out, the late-night crowd now a memory, and you’re left to lock up, your feet dragging as you complete the last few tasks.

You double-check everything—lights off, doors locked—and step out into the cold night. The gusts of wind hit you with a sharp sting, but it’s a welcome jolt, the sudden rush of cold almost comforting after hours spent in the warmth of the bar. You tug your coat tighter, but the chill creeps in anyway, the familiar pins and needles sensation creeping up your fingers again, your skin still feeling like it’s buzzing from the long shift.

Rubbing your hands together, you start shuffling down the path to your home, your thoughts half on the walk home, half still up in the clouds. Your breath puffs out in little clouds, and as you turn the corner to your front porch, you stop short.

There, standing in the dark, is Joel. His figure looms against the porch light you forgot to turn on, barely visible except for the faint outline of his broad shoulders and the glint of his eyes in the moonlight.

The sight of him makes your heart skip—unexpected, unnerving.

“Joel?” Your voice comes out a little softer than you intend, as if the cold air has stolen the strength from your words.

He doesn’t say anything right away, just stands there, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his worn jacket. A moment stretches between you, the cold air settling in the silence, the weight of the unspoken history between you hanging thick in the air. Then, with a slight tilt of his head, he steps forward.

“Wanted to make sure ya got home okay,” he mutters, his voice rough, like it hasn’t been used much today. For a moment, you're speechless, caught off guard by his presence on your porch. The unexpectedness of it twists something inside you, leaving you momentarily breathless.

But it’s the way his eyes flicker over you—soft, dark, searching—that sends a shiver through you. You swallow hard, your pulse quickening again.

He looks... lost. Like a stray dog on your doorstep, seeking refuge from the cold. How could you possibly turn him away? Not with those eyes, the ones that speak of something unspoken, and not after he’s waited out in the freezing cold just to make sure you were safe.

A tightness grips your chest, the question lingering in the air between you. Is that really why he’s here? To check on you, or is there something more—something fleeting, like the brief comfort of your touch, your body? You can’t blame him for it, not when you ache for him just as badly as he seems to ache for you.

You step onto the porch, fumbling for your key. After a moment of searching, you unlock the door and push it open, the soft creak of the hinges breaking the silence. Shifting your weight, you glance over at him, tilting your head. “Do you want to come inside?” The question feels tentative, lingering between you.

Joel pulls his hands from his pockets, his gaze flickering to yours as if he’s weighing your words. His mouth parts slightly, a quiet surprise crossing his face—like he hadn’t expected you to ask, or perhaps hadn’t expected it to be this simple. He nods, the wood creaking beneath his boots as he follows you inside. 

You hear the door close softly behind him as you hang your coat over the back of the couch. Your hands move almost automatically, searching through the small kitchen for two glasses. You pour a generous two fingers of whiskey into each, the amber liquid catching the dim light. 

Joel's footsteps approach the kitchen, the sound of his boots soft against the floor. Without looking up, you cork the bottle and extend one of the glasses toward him, the subtle tension in the air thickening with every movement.

“Thanks.” He takes the glass from you, and you bring yours to your lips. You’re not in the mood for savoring the fine whiskey tonight. Without hesitation, you tip the glass back, letting the burn of the liquid scorch its way down your throat in a few quick gulps.

The wind howls outside, rattling the windows as the blizzard continues its assault on Jackson. You pour another glass of whiskey, the burn lingering, comforting in its simplicity. 

Joel shifts where he stands in the middle of your kitchen, his gaze flicking to the window, then back to you. “Cold out there,” he mutters, his voice low, rough, like gravel.

You nod, half-smiling as the whiskey takes its effects. “Yeah, that storm came out of nowhere.” You don’t look at him directly, but you feel his eyes on you. You wish it didn’t feel so damn heavy.

“Always damn cold this time a year,” Joel murmurs.

Joel couldn’t stand being in the same room as you—not now, not when you were so close, just a few feet between you. But at the same time, being near you felt like a breath of fresh air, like a cure he hadn’t known he needed. No amount of whiskey could drown out the chaos in his mind, but somehow, when you were around, you quieted it. Just your presence, like a calm that washed over everything else. 

And that’s how he found himself here tonight, standing on your porch, waiting for you to open the door. Waiting for you to let him in—waiting for something to hold on to that might feel real. He didn’t care if it was a lie, didn’t care about the tangled mess of it all. All he knew was that you felt real. The warmth of your body, the scent of your skin, the way you had felt under him, the vague memory of you clenching around him so tight he could barely fuck into you.

He just didn’t expect you to actually invite him in. Hadn’t planned this far ahead.

You watch the flicker of inner turmoil that crosses Joel’s face, the subtle tension in the way his eyes drift, lost in thought. His hand moves absently, scrubbing through the salt-and-pepper stubble on his chin. He finishes his whiskey in one slow, deliberate motion, the glass emptying with a quiet finality.

"Answer me this one thing," Joel says, his voice heavy with confusion.

"Shoot," you reply, not hesitating for a second.

His eyes lock with yours, a flicker of vulnerability passing through them. “Why? I don’t get it.” His voice is low, heavy with self-doubt. “Why would you want anything to do with someone like me? I’m too damn old, barely able to keep up most of the time. Hell, I couldn’t even keep up with you. Couldn’t even last long—” He falters, the words choking him for a moment. His gaze drops, embarrassed. “And I lie awake at night, wondering why you'd ever even think about being with someone like me.”

Joel sets his glass down on the kitchen table with a soft thud, his lips pressed into a thin line. The question lingers in the air, but the way he does it—like he’s already decided—tells you he’s done with it.

“Why not?” you shrug, the burn of the alcohol settling in your stomach, a sharp reminder that you’ve had nothing to eat.

His eyes narrow, and for a moment, the silence deepens. “Why not?” he repeats, his voice low, almost like he’s challenging you to give a real answer.

“Joel,” you start, swallowing the words that have been sitting on your tongue for what feels like forever. “I’m old enough to know that I wanted you to fuck me. I enjoyed it.” 

His gaze hardens, a flicker of something in his eyes that you can’t quite place. It’s not surprise. Maybe it’s something darker.

“There are men, more age-appropriate,” he says, his voice edged with something almost bitter, “haven’t you seen the way they gawk at you?” His jaw tightens, and for a split second, you wonder if he’s been holding this back.

“If you mean the guys at the bar,” you cut in, meeting his gaze head-on, “they can gawk all they want. Doesn’t mean I care about any of them. What do you think this is, Joel?”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, a woman like you could do better,” he mutters, his voice gravelly. “You don’t owe me anythin’, but... why me?”

You swallow, a mix of frustration and understanding swirling in your chest. It’s not insecurity you see in him, but utter confusion. The question hangs between you, and there’s no easy answer, only the weight of everything unsaid.

“I don’t really give a fuck about what’s ‘appropriate’,” your tone is sharper than you mean it to be, the edges of your words fraying. “So, why not you?” The question lingers, heavy in the air, as a knot forms in your stomach—hot and molten, a slow burn that spreads lower, igniting something between your legs.

“I—” Joel starts, but you cut him off, your words sharp and unwavering.

“No more questions,” you say, your voice low, steady, leaving no room for doubt. “I know what I want. And right now, I want you to fuck me again.”

You close the space between you, the soft thud of him bumping into the table echoing in the stillness as you press flush against him. Your gaze locks onto his, daring, almost pleading, though your tone leaves little room for negotiation.

“Don’t make me beg,” you murmur, the heat between you palpable, every word laced with intention.

“Fuck, you’re desperate for it, aren’t ya?” Joel’s voice is rough, strained. You let out a needy whine in response, feeling his strong hands grip your hips, gently guiding you back until your back hits the counter. With ease, Joel lifts you and places you on the counter. His gaze locks onto yours, intense and unwavering, as you grind against the rough denim of his jeans. Your palms slide up the solid plane of his chest, fingertips gripping the fabric before reaching the sides of his neck, pulling him closer. Needing him closer.

"Please," you whisper, your voice trembling as you tighten your legs around his waist, offering yourself completely. His breath comes out in slow, heavy bursts, like he's stalling—grasping for any reason not to give in.

“Don’t know how long I’ll last,” he mumbles, his breath hitching, the subtle tremor in his voice betraying the tension building between you.

“Don’t care.” Your fingers slip beneath the hem of his shirt, your touch deliberate as your skin meets the heat of his stomach, the warmth searing straight through you. It feels like fire, like the space between you is alive with every brush of your hands.

“You’re the first person I’ve been with in a while,” he adds, his voice rough, as if the admission is supposed to change the moment. As if it might make you hesitate.

“Good.” The word leaves your mouth low and thick, the weight of it heavier than expected. The possessiveness that rises within you is sharp, stirring something deep inside that only makes you want him more. Every inch of him feels like something you’re not sure you’re willing to share, and the feeling claws at your chest.

His breath hitches again, louder this time, as you slide your hand further up his torso, feeling the firm muscles beneath his shirt. The steady beat of his heart thrums through the contact, syncing with your own pulse.

“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, but there’s no mistaking the raw edge to it. His fingers curl into your wrist, not to stop you, but as if he’s waiting for your permission, your assurance.

“Never been more sure.” The words come out like a challenge, something to push him further, a quiet claim you didn’t even realize you wanted to make.

“Okay, well, I-” 

“Please, just fuck me,” you plead, the desperation in your voice raw and unfamiliar. You’ve never wanted someone this badly before—you’d drop to your knees and beg if it would make him touch you.

Joel’s thumb brushes over your bottom lip, and you can’t help but lean into his touch, craving more. The world around you fades away, leaving only the two of you suspended in this moment. He inches closer, and you feel the warmth of his breath against your cheek, stirring up the anticipation coiling in your stomach.

"Tell me you want this," he murmurs, his voice dropping to a husky whisper that sends another shiver down your spine. You swallow hard, torn between desire and making sure he had his questions answered. But the way he’s looking at you, the way his body presses against yours—it’s all too much.

"I want this, want you." You finally breathe out, each word a confession.

Before you can even think, his hand rises to the back of your neck, his grip firm but not painful, and a rush of heat floods through you. Without warning, his lips crash against yours—there’s nothing soft or calculated about it. It’s raw, urgent, and makes your breath catch in your throat. The kiss is a little too fast, too overwhelming, and you fumble. Your teeth bump together, and you let out a breathless gasp, desperate to find some rhythm.

You’re flustered, completely out of control, but your hands find their way to his chest, your fingers curling into his shirt, clinging to him like a lifeline. The world around you blurs, every nerve in your body igniting from the warm cavern of his mouth. It’s messy, hungry, like you both can’t get enough. 

You want more.

His mouth moves against yours, slow at first. You try to keep up, but your head spins, your body already begging for more. Just when you think you can’t handle it, that the intensity might break you, he deepens the kiss. His lips press into yours with a slow, deliberate pressure that sends a wave of heat crashing through you, pooling low in your stomach.

You melt into him, your chest tight, heart pounding, every inch of you craving more, wanting to feel everything—feel him, feel this—without holding back. It’s not enough. You need more, but you’re not sure if you can even breathe, let alone stop yourself from pulling him closer.

The kiss deepens, hungry and desperate, as his hands slide down to your hips, gripping you like he can’t let go. Before you can fully process it, he’s lifting you effortlessly from the counter, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he holds you against him. Your heart hammers in your chest, your body igniting from the sudden proximity. The sensation of him between your thighs, the heat of his body pressed so close, makes everything feel electric.

He moves with purpose, never breaking the kiss as he navigates toward the bedroom in the dark. The sound of his boots scuffing against the floor is steady, like a heartbeat, like a countdown. Your mind races, trying to catch up with what’s happening, but all you can focus on is the way his mouth tastes, the roughness of his hands on your skin, the feel of your pulse under his touch.

He pushes the bedroom door open with his foot, barely slowing as he crosses the threshold. The next thing you know, he’s gently laying you back on the bed, his hands smoothing over your body, the heat of his touch leaving a trail of fire everywhere he goes. Your legs stay draped around his waist, your breath shallow, every part of you desperate for him to close the distance again.

Without stopping, Joel slots himself between your legs, his hips pressing against yours with a satisfying pressure. The warmth of his body sinks into you as if you’re both melting into the same rhythm. Each movement, each breath, feels heavier, like you’re chasing something you’ve both wanted but didn’t know how to ask for.

Your palms cup Joel’s scratchy jaw, pulling him up to meet your rushed, top-lip kiss. His breath is warm, his lips so soft against yours, and the taste of him—so familiar now. You’ve wanted this for so long that your chest aches from the weight of it.

“Can’t believe I never tasted ya like this,” Joel pulls away to say thickly, his voice low and rasping, like he’s just come up for air after drowning in the moment. “Gonna be the death of me,” with a soft shake of his head, he nudges his nose against yours, kissing your lips again slowly.

Joel pulls away one last time, his breath warm against your skin as he rises to kneel on the bed. He smirks as he pulls his shirt over his head, and the sight of him—bare, broad, and breathless—makes something inside you tighten. He looks like he’s only thinking of you, like he’s burning with the need to claim you.

You’re captivated, watching intently as he moves to unfasten his jeans, revealing a trail of dark hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his underwear. With a grunt, Joel pushes his jeans down to his thighs, his cock springing free. 

“So hard for me,” you say, amazed. Your pulse quickens, and you shift beneath his gaze, your fingers trembling as they slip beneath the fabric of your jeans and panties. The rough material clings to your hips for a fleeting moment before you tug them down, the cool air teasing your bare skin. You move with urgency as you pull your shirt over your head, driven by an insatiable need to connect, to lose yourself in the heat of the moment. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you glance up at him. 

You look flushed against your sheets, and he hasn’t even touched you fully. 

“Tell me what ya want, I’ll give ya anything,” Joel finishes removing his jeans and crawls over you on the bed. He trails open mouthed kisses up your sensitive stomach, capturing the peak of your breast into his mouth. 

For a second, you want him to flip you over, to take you like he did before—rough, demanding, with your knees digging into the mattress. But this time, you want to stay on your back, to catch his soft yet heated gaze. 

“Make me feel good again,” you whisper, voice trembling. The cool air makes you aware of the slick heat dripping down your pussy and pooling against the sheets. One of his hands settles on your naked hip, the other fisting himself before rubbing the head against your lips. Your hands find themselves on the soft flesh of his chest and stomach, feeling his muscles tremble over you. 

"This all it takes? A lil kissin’, and you're this soaked?" His voice drops, rough with desire, as he watches, mesmerized, the way you suck him in, the words rough with desire.

“Such a pretty girl, with such a pretty pussy—never seen one so pretty,” he adds, and you can’t help but blush all over under his compliment. 

His forearm rests against the pillow beside your head, the other hand slipping between you as his cock teases your entrance. Just before he pushes in, he pauses, brushing your hair out of your eyes with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. His eyes meet yours for a beat longer than they should before he thrusts his hips, and his mouth parts like he can’t help it.

You’re soaked, but he still stretches you, inch by inch, filling you completely. Every movement is deliberate, the pull of him tight inside you, and you can’t help but cling to the feeling of him—of all of him.

A whimper escapes your lips, the sound making Joel shudder above you.

“Ya feel so good,” he whispers, pulling out and slowly pushing back in. It’s like torture, like he’s trying to kill you. His hand comes up and grabs the back of your neck. “So hot, so wet.” he adds in your ear. 

“Please, Joel. Faster,” you whisper, the words trembling with need. He doesn’t hesitate—immediately, he gives it to you like you asked, filling you completely. Every inch of him stretches you, makes it hard to breathe, your body aching as it fits to his. You can’t look away from him—the way his brows furrow, his jaw tight, and that frown of his fading as his eyes close, a quiet desperation painting his face. He looks undone, and it only drives you deeper.

The fullness of him fills the hollow inside you, the ache fading like it never existed, as if he’s the missing part you never knew you were craving—slipping into every space you didn’t even know was empty.

“You’re takin’ me so damn good,” Joel murmurs, his hand moving from your neck, his thumb tracing your cheek with surprising tenderness.

His silence envelops you both, thick and suffocating, as you give in to the raw, primal sounds that fill the air—the slick rhythm of your bodies moving together, the broken whimpers and low grunts that echo between you. Nothing else matters, nothing else exists—just the heat, the movement, the noise. The obscene sound of skin against skin is almost unbearable, drowning out everything but the need.

“Joel, fuck,” Your legs shake, thighs quivering as he strikes a spot deep inside, making your vision blur and your breath falter. Your head tilts back, eyes rolling as waves of pleasure crash over you, each one stronger than the last, a force you can barely keep up with.

“So fuckin’ hot... Fuck, play with your clit.” Joel’s voice drops to a growl, dark and raw, his gaze following the rhythm between you both as he disappears inside you. His chest rises, flushed with heat, and then, with a sharp exhale, he shifts, kissing the side of your mouth—sloppy, desperate, like he can’t get enough of you.

“Want you to come for me... Think ya can do that?” His voice is rough, almost commanding, as he palms at your breast, pinching your nipple hard.

You’re dripping onto him, every inch of him slick as he thrusts into you, his rhythm erratic, relentless. When he accidently slips out, the emptiness is maddening—a sharp ache that leaves you gasping—until he grabs himself and presses back in, a low grunt escaping him, laced with pure hunger. The wet slide of him fills you again, messy and desperate, a connection so raw it makes everything else feel impossibly distant.

“Oh my god,” you moan, already burning with need. Your fingers work frantically over your clit, slick and swollen, desperate for release. A fire builds deep inside, spreading like wildfire, making your legs tremble uncontrollably around his hips. It feels overwhelming, too fast—like you might shatter if you don’t get what you need.

A tingling sensation creeps up the base of your neck, your body instinctively arching toward him. Every muscle tightens, caught between resistance and surrender, as his thursts deepen.

You come—hard—your body seizing, waves of ecstasy crashing over you with such force, you can barely draw in a breath. Your vision blurs, the only sound the frantic pounding of your heart, his name spilling from your lips like a prayer. Your walls tighten around him, pulling him deeper, as the orgasm tears through you, leaving you breathless, broken.

He groans, his grip tightening on your thighs as he fucks you through it, each thrust driving you further into the haze of pleasure, until you’re nothing but the lingering aftershocks of what he’s given you. You can barely hold on, but you don’t want him to stop.

Joel shudders, pushing deeper, the sensation sharp and all-consuming, as a dull ache spreads through you, an ache that feels like everything. 

“Good girl, fuck…” Joel’s voice cracks, strained with urgency as you tighten around him, making it almost impossible for him to move. He pulls out with a sharp breath, stroking himself before spilling hot ropes of release onto your stomach, the frantic spurts reaching your breasts. His orgasm draws out, the harsh sound of his groan echoing in the quiet room, and the sound alone sends you trembling, your body arching against the bed.

“Think you’re tryin’ to kill me,” Joel murmurs, his voice low and rough, the look in his eyes still wild as he shifts to rest beside you.

You meet his gaze, a playful spark in your eyes. “Guess I’ll have to try harder next time,” you tease, your voice light, but the smell of sex still lingers in the air between you.

Joel’s lips twitch, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes stay intense, as if he’s still trying to catch his breath. “Don’t think you need to,” he mutters, but there’s something unreadable in his expression—like he's both caught off guard and addicted to the way you’ve made him feel.

 Good, you think smugly. 

The moment hangs there, suspended between you, before he shakes his head, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. You stay where you are, your pulse still racing, a quiet smile tugging at your lips as you watch his back.

[tateypots]

Javier Peña is so goddamn sexy, will never get bored of these gifs 🥵

its the ✨hands✨for me

[departedarling]

summer in jackson / “he had the awkward tenderness of someone who has never been loved and is forced to improvise”

[stylesispunk]

"The soldier in the armour" | part iii

marcus acacius x f!reader

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Summary: The aftermath of Geta's action took a tool on you and Acacius. Some decisions are made and you are willing to end caracalla's and Geta reign.

w.c: 9k

warnings: angst, mentions of blood, miscarriage, mentions of poisoning, age gap, power imbalance.

a/n: hello, thank you so much for your patience and your feedback on this one. Firstly if you feel this one is rushed is because I lost half of the chapter the other day and I rewrote it. Secondly, this chapter is more acacius x reader centered and PLEASE pay attention to some signals I left for the future chapters since I already planned out the ending 👀 reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

The faint light of dawn filtered into the room as your senses returned back to your now, foggy mind. You blinked, disoriented by the unfamiliar weight on your limbs. The healer was seated at the edge of the bed, with her hands massaging your legs, her touch gentle as always. You shifted slightly, your head pounding, and tried to piece together what had happened. 

"Acacius..." you murmured, your voice hoarse as if speaking hurt.

The healer glanced up at you, she smiled at you with pity dressed as sympathy. "He's been watching over you all these hours, my lady," she said softly. "But he stepped out for a moment to meet someone."

You furrowed your brow, trying to sit up, but the effort was too much. That’s when you noticed the fresh gown you were wearing, the faint scent of lavender and herbs clinging to you. Your mind raced as you realized you’d been cleaned and changed while unconscious.

"What happened to me?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

The healer hesitated, her hands stilling for a moment before she resumed her work. "My lady...you started bleeding heavily in the night. It was..." She trailed off, clearly struggling with the words.

Before you could press further, the door creaked open, and Acacius entered. His face was pale, his eyes shadowed with exhaustion as if hadn't been able to sleep in days. At the sight of you awake, made his eyes shone for a flicker second. Relief crossed his features, but it was short-lived, the sadness shadowed his glance.

"Acacius..." you called weakly.

He walked to your side, sinking to one knee. His hands enveloped yours, warm and firm, protecting you as always, but this time there was a heaviness in his gaze that unsettled you whole.

"You’re awake. " He said softly, his voice rough with fatigue.

"What happened?" you pressed, searching his face for an answer.

"You should rest more," he said eventually, his tone low.

“What happened?” you repeated, your tone sent shiver down Acacius’ spine.

His jaw tightened, and he looked away briefly, as if bracing himself, as if looking for a proper word to speak the truth. "You...lost a child," he said finally, his words cutting you half, "Our child."

The world tilted for a moment, the weight of his words crashing into you. A child? Yours? You hadn’t even known.

"I..” you chuckled, nervously, “I…I don’t understand," you stammered, tears welling in your eyes.

"You didn’t know," he said gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. "Neither did I. But the the healers confirmed it. Whatever Geta gave you..." His voice broke, and he swallowed hard. "It caused this.”

Your breath hitched, and your free hand instinctively moved to your abdomen, grief and confusion swirling within you.

Acacius leaned closer, his forehead pressing against your hand. "I’m sorry," he whispered, his voice raw. "I should have protected you. I should have known-"

"Stop," you interrupted, your own tears falling freely now. "This isn’t your fault, Acacius."

He shook his head, his grip on your hand tightening. "I failed you," he insisted, his guilt palpable.

You reached out, your fingers brushing his cheek. "You didn’t fail me.” You didn’t know how to assure him of it. You didn’t know how to feel, grief for the child you had never known, anger at Emperor Geta or a hollow emptiness creeping it, and threatening to consume you. Your hand rested on your abdomen, an ache settling deep within your chest as you thought about what could have been.

Acacius lifted his head, his expression hardening "I’ll make sure he never touches you again," he vowed, his tone resolute. “This crossed a line with no return.”

You could only nod, unable to find the words to express the storm of emotions crashing down on you.

He gently cupped your face, his eyes locking onto yours. "You’ll get through this," he promised, his voice softer now. "You’re not alone in this, and I’ll stand by you, no matter what."

The tears continued to fall, but you leaned into his touch, drawing strength from his words. For a moment, the world outside the room faded away, leaving only the two of you, bound together by love and shared pain he would carry too.

"I’m here," Acacius murmured, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead. "And I won’t let anything happen to you again."

As the night wore on, Acacius had stayed beside you, his presence brought calm you didn’t know it if was going to able to exist anymore. Eventually, he stood and walked to the small table in the corner of the room, where a tray of herbs and remedies had been left by the healer earlier. He carefully mixed something into a bowl of warm broth.

Returning to you, he knelt down, his expression soft yet firm as he held the bowl out. "You need to eat," he said gently. "This will help with the symptoms. The doctor suggested it would ease the lingering effects of...whatever Geta gave you."

You hesitated, your stomach twisting at the thought of food. "I don’t want to," you murmured, your voice faint.

"Please," he insisted, his hand brushing lightly against yours. "Just a little. For me."

The quiet plea in his voice softened your resistance. Slowly, you nodded, allowing him to scoop a spoonful of the broth and bring it to your lips. The warmth of it was soothing, and though your body resisted at first, you managed to swallow.

"Good," he murmured, his tone encouraging as he prepared another spoonful.

He fed you slowly, his patience unwavering. With each sip, the nausea that had been gnawing at you began to ease, the pounding in your head lessening slightly. Acacius didn’t rush you, his eyes never leaving yours as he made sure you took in enough to strengthen you.

"Better?" he asked softly, setting the bowl aside once you had eaten enough.

You nodded, though your body still felt weak. "A little," you admitted.

His hand brushed against your cheek, his touch tender. "You’ll feel stronger soon," he promised.

"I'll let you rest," Acacius said softly, his thumb gently tracing your cheek one last time.

A pang of loneliness surged within you, and before you could stop yourself, you asked, "Aren't you staying with me?"

His eyes softened, a hint of regret flickering across his face. "I just have to arrange some things," he explained, his voice calm but firm. "But I promise, I’ll come back as soon as I’m ready."

You searched his gaze, finding sincerity there. Though the thought of him leaving, even for a short time, made your heart ache, you knew he wouldn’t go far.

"Promise me," you whispered, your voice trembling.

He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "I promise," he assured you. "I’ll be back before you know it."

With that, he stood, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze before turning to leave. As the door closed behind him, the room felt quieter leaving you alone with the grief of a loss you didn’t know how to navigate.

As soon as Acacius stepped out of your quarter, he faced Lucilla who was there waiting to see you. You could see the worry for you written all over her face, but she wasn’t strong enough to see you broken again. She felt her heart shattered for you, her precious daughter.

She looked up at Acacius, surprised by his sudden appearance outside the room.

"Did you know?" he demanded, his voice sharp and cutting. "About her carrying a child?"

Lucilla blinked, a slight frown creasing her forehead. "No," she replied steadily. "But I had my suspicions."

Acacius’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides. "And you didn’t think to tell me? To warn me?"

"I wasn’t sure," she said defensively. "And what would I have said, Acacius? I didn’t have any proof."

His frustration boiled over. "You should have told me!" he shouted but slow enough to prevent you from hearing from inside the room. "Ever since she and I got married, Geta’s obsession with her has only grown worse. Every decision I’ve made, every step I’ve taken, has led to nothing but her tears."

Lucilla’s expression hardened. "Don’t you dare put this all on me," she snapped. "I’ve tried to protect her in the only ways I knew how."

Acacius shook his head, his eyes filled with anguish. "I feel like marrying her was a mistake," he said, the words spilling out before he could stop them. "Not because I don’t love her, but because all its brought her is pain."

Lucilla's eyes narrowed; her voice sharp with reproach. "Do you think she would be better without you? Do you truly believe that?"

Acacius's shoulders sagged, the heavy words pressing down on him. "I don’t know," he admitted, his voice breaking. "All I know is that since we’ve been together, she’s suffered more than she ever should have. And I can’t stand it. I can’t stand being the cause of her pain."

Lucilla stepped closer, her gaze softening slightly. "She loves you, Acacius. Can’t you see that? Despite everything, she chose you. She fights for you, just as you fight for her."

He looked away, guilt and self-doubt etched into his features. "I don’t know if I’m strong enough to protect her from all this," he whispered.

"Then you need to be," Lucilla replied firmly. "Because she needs you now more than ever. And walking away would only break her further."

Acacius's jaw clenched; the internal battle evident in his expression. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to steady. “I could send her away-“

“No!” Lucilla immediately refused to whatever his plan was. “I won’t allow you to take my daughter away from me.” She spoke, knowing too well, “You wouldn’t forgive yourself for that. The pain of not knowing where she would be will kill you.”

Acacius stared at Lucilla, her words cutting through his thoughts like a blade. He knew she was right. The idea of sending you away, of putting distance between you to keep you safe, felt like the only solution. Yet, the thought of losing you, even for your protection, was unbearable.

"I just want her to be safe," he murmured, his voice barely audible. "I don’t know how else to ensure that."

Lucilla's gaze softened, and she stepped closer, placing a hand on his shoulder. "We’ll find another way," she assured him. "Together, we can protect her. But she needs you here, by her side, not miles away, torn apart by fear and regret."

Acacius nodded slowly, the weight of his decision settling in. "You’re right," he admitted, his voice steadier now. "I can’t lose her. Not like this."

Lucilla gave a small, encouraging smile. "Then fight for her, Acacius. Stand by her."

With a final glance at Lucilla, Acacius turned back toward the room where you lay, his resolve hardening. He knew the path ahead would be fraught with challenges, but for you he would fight a thousand of battles.

Acacius paused in the doorway, his heart aching at the sight of you standing weakly by the window, silhouetted against the faint light of the stars. Your fragile form looked even more delicate, and he could see the weight of grief and exhaustion pulling you down. His instinct was to urge you back to bed, to ensure you rested, but your voice broke the silence before he could speak.

"Do you think souls know you loved them," you asked softly, your gaze still fixed on the night sky, "even if you didn’t meet them?"

The question hung in the air, fragile and filled with sorrow. Acacius approached you slowly, his footsteps quiet on the floor. He stood beside you, his presence sent warm to the coldness you felt inside you.

"I believe they do," he said gently, his voice filled with conviction. "Love transcends the physical, the seen. It’s a bond that doesn’t need time or proximity to exist.”

Your lips trembled, and you looked down, tears streaming silently down your cheeks. "I didn’t even know..." you whispered, feeling the grief breaking your soul.

Acacius reached out, his fingers brushing against your arm before wrapping around you, pulling you into his embrace. "Your love is real, and it’s known," he whispered, his voice filled with tenderness. "Our child felt it, and they’ll always carry that love with them."

As he held you close, his eyes drifted to your shoulder, where the faint imprint of a bite mark clung to your skin as cruel reminder of Geta’s actions. The wound stirred a deep, simmering anger within him, a fury that had been building with every injustice you had endured. His grip on you tightened slightly, protective, as the hatred he felt for the emperor grew more potent than never.

His patience with Geta and Caracalla had reached his limit, but it was the first of them his main target.

His jaw clenched, and his breathing deepened, struggling to keep his emotions inside. The thought of Geta’s audacity, his relentless obsession and the harm he had caused, ignited a burning need for retribution. Acacius pressed a tender kiss to your temple, a silent vow forming in his mind.

You felt the tension in his embrace, the barely contained rage that coursed through him. Looking up, you saw the storm in his eyes. You lifted yourself just a bit to reached his lips, but he knew what you were doing.  The sadness had clouded your mind completely, and you thought that after losing a child you could have another right away, to feel the hope again.

As your lips moved in syn together with fervor. He allowed himself to be led by you towards the bed, you were on charge but as soon as you sat on his lap, he pulled away from you, placing his hands on your shoulders and all he saw was two crystal eyes shining like the moon, watering.

“No," he whispered, his voice soft but determined by the consciousness of his actions. His gaze held yours, filled with love. "This isn’t what you need right now."

Tears welled in your eyes once more, spilling over as the weight of your grief pressed down on you. "I just... I need to feel something else." you choked out, your voice trembling.

He cupped your face, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streaked your cheeks. "I know," he murmured, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“I was going to be a mother…” your sob wracked through you.

Acacius arms wrapped around you firmly, yet tenderly, holding you as if you might break. His steady heartbeat beneath you was a grounding presence, a reminder that you were not alone in this overwhelming grief.

He held you close, his chin resting atop your head as his arms enveloped you in a cocoon of warmth and safety. "You will be," he whispered softly, his voice trembling with emotion. "Someday, you will be. And I’ll be right here with you, every step of the way."

Your sobs shook your body as the reality of your loss washed over you. "I didn’t even know," you cried, clutching onto him as if letting go would mean losing yourself entirely. Tears spilled down your cheeks, and you couldn’t stop them. "How could I not have known?" you cried, the anguish in your voice cutting through the eerie quiet night. "I lost a child, Acacius... our child. And I didn’t even get the chance to-“

His fingertips stroked your back, his hands traced soothing patterns all along, up and down. "Let it out," he whispered, his voice soft and steady. "You don’t have to hold it all in."

You clung to him, the weight of all your emotions pouring out in waves soaking his tunic.  The loss and the fear met and you were terrified of losing even losing him “Everything feels so broken." You murmured.

He tightened his embrace, his lips pressing gently against your temple. "I’ll piece every single piece of you.”

You took a shuddering breath; the warmth of his words enveloped you. "I don’t know if I’m enough," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper.

"You are. " He said, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze. His eyes were filled with love.

He tilted your chin up slightly, his eyes searching yours with a tenderness that made your heart burst. "I see the light in you, even when you can’t see it yourself," he said softly. "And I’ll be here, always, to remind you of that light."

Tears continued to spill down your cheeks, but your heart felt a little bit lighter. His thumb gently wiped away a tear, his touch tender and full of love.

"You don’t have to carry this alone," he continued, his voice reassuring. "Lean on me, let me be your strength when you need it.”

His forehead rested against yours, the closeness hurt you. "You are everything to me," he whispered, his breath warm against your skin. "And I’ll do whatever it takes to bring you peace."

Acacius’s eyes softened, and a faint smile played on his lips as he cupped your face gently. "You were made for me," he whispered, his voice filled with reverence and love. "In every lifetime, in every universe, I would find you. You are my destiny."

The sincerity in his words sent a warmth through you, easing the ache in your heart. He brushed his thumb along your cheek, his touch light as a petal, as if afraid you might disappear in a second. "No matter what happens, you are my everything."

He leaned in, pressing a tender kiss to both of your wet cheeks. "We were meant to find each other," he continued, his voice a soothing balm. "And nothing, not even the gods themselves, can take that away from us."

His arms wrapped around you tighter, pulling you closer as if to shield you from the world. "I Will love you forever.”

The next day, Acacius stood by your side at the edge of the bed, his gaze softened as he watched you resting. The morning light filtered gently through the window, casting a warm glow over your face.

He had trusted your closest healer to stay and watch you over while he wasn’t here. She gave him a reassuring nod.

“She’s in good hands,” the healer said softly. “I’ll stay with her and ensure she has everything she needs, general.”

Acacius nodded, grateful for her words. Leaning down, he pressed a tender kiss to your forehead. “Rest well, my love. I’ll be back soon.”

With a final glance, he turned and left, joining Lucilla outside who was waiting for him after having checking on you. Together, they made their way to the grand Colosseum, while the distant roar of the crowd growing louder as they arrived. The games brough chaos, the spectacle of gladiators battling for glory captivating the masses as they saw how people fought for their lives.

As they entered the imperial box, both greeted the emperors.

“General Acacius, Lucilla” Caracalla said, followed with a curt nod, his eyes sharp and assessing.

Emperor Geta, however, was quick to notice your absence besides your husband and your mother. His gaze narrowed, a flicker of suspicion crossing his features.

“General Acacius,” Geta called out, his voice carrying over the sound of the crowd. “Where is that beautiful wife of yours?”

Acacius met Geta’s gaze steadily, his expression unreadable trying it hard not to show how much he loathed him. “She’s unwell, Emperor,” he replied evenly. “The healer advised her to rest.”

Geta’s eyes darkened, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Unwell?” he echoed, skepticism lacing his tone. “I hope it’s nothing serious. She should not miss such a spectacle. Not when she knows the privileges she is granted.”

Lucilla interjected smoothly; her tone polite yet firm. “Her health is of major importance. She needs rest to recover.”

Geta’s gaze lingered on Lucilla, then with a sinister edge creeping into his smile he looked at Acacius. “I see. Still, it’s a pity she isn’t here. Perhaps her healing the wounds of that gladiator the other day…” he paused, looking how the general’s eyes widened at the information, “Oh you didn’t know.” He chuckled, “Your wife sneaked away the other day, healing the wounds of that new gladiator, you’ll see him again now.”

Acacius’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides as he fought to maintain his composure. The revelation hit him like a blow, his mind racing with questions and fury. His eyes flickered briefly toward Lucilla, who maintained her calm demeanor, though he could sense her own tension beneath the surface.

Geta’s smirk widened, reveling in the unease he had stirred. “Ah, here he comes now,” he said, gesturing toward the arena as Hanno, well Lucius stepped into the ring. “Quite the fighter, isn’t he? Your wife seemed particularly taken by him.”

Acacius’s gaze snapped to the arena, his heart pounding as he watched the gladiator enter. His mind swirled with conflicting emotions. The was anger, confusion, and a protective instinct that burned brighter than ever.

Lucilla placed a gentle hand on Acacius’s arm, her grip firm yet reassuring. “Remember where we are,” she murmured softly, her eyes meeting his with a silent warning. “We’ll deal with this later.”

Acacius swallowed hard, forcing himself to take a steadying breath. He nodded slightly, acknowledging her words, though his fury simmered just beneath the surface. His focus returned to Geta, who was still watching him with a smug expression.

“I trust my wife’s intentions were noble,” Acacius said evenly, his voice betraying none of the storm raging within him. “She has a compassionate heart.”

Geta chuckled darkly. “Indeed, a heart too soft for a soldier’s wife, perhaps. But no matter. Let us enjoy the games. After all, they are in your honor.”

Acacius said nothing, his eyes narrowing as he returned his gaze to the arena. The gladiator’s movements remined him of Maximus and those brought taunted memories and traits that only added fuel to the fire of Acacius’s anger. As the crowd roared, Acacius’s thoughts remained fixed on one thing: you and the truth behind Geta’s words.

By the time Acacius and Lucilla arrived back at the village, a storm was raging inside Acacius. Geta’s words had found a way to go inside his head, taking root, growing into something that gnawed at him. He couldn’t shake the image of you, his wife, tending to that gladiator and the thought of your actions, no matter how noble, twisted his heart. The confusion and pain felt unbearable. He tried to suppress it, but anger surged through him.

When they finally reached your quarters, Lucilla moved swiftly, almost running to check on you. She could feel the weight of her concern lifting when she saw you sitting in your bed, smiling and laughing at something the healer had just told you. For a moment, she stood at the door, watching you with quiet relief, grateful to see you looking so much better than the last time she had seen you.

But Acacius couldn’t escape the thoughts that plagued him. He had to know. He needed answers, and he needed them now. The guilt over his emotions and the anger toward Geta swirled together, making him question everything about you and his relationship with you.

Lucilla noticed the change in Acacius immediately. Though he had managed to hold his composure earlier, now his expression darkened, the storm inside him clearly visible. She had seen him angry before, but this felt different fueled by personal matters. She approached you cautiously, giving Acacius a moment to process what he was feeling.

You looked up, noticing at your mother’s concerned expression. "What happened?" you asked, sensing the shift in the air. "Is everything alright?"

“Nothing to worry about, my darling” she made her best effort to smile sincerely at you, “How are you feeling?” she asked as he comb your hair just in the same way she did as when you were a child.

“A bit better, mother” you replied smiling at her. You lifted your eyes, looking briefly at her, then moving you glance to Acacius.  “Acacius,” you called softly, but his attention was fixed elsewhere.

Lucilla glanced at you and then at him, her gaze sharp with understanding. “Perhaps, my dear, it would be better if you let him have some time to himself.”

“No,” you replied firmly, your voice stronger than you felt. "I know something happened."

“Emperor Geta spoke to me,” he began, “He told me about the gladiator. The one you were seen tending to.”

Your heart sank, and you struggled to find your voice. “Acacius, I—”

He cut you off, his jaw tightening. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?” Acacius turned toward you, his expression unreadable, but his eyes held a storm of conflicting emotions. "You were healing him," he said, his voice quiet but laden with the weight of unspoken accusations. "Why?”

“It wasn’t like that,” you pleaded, sitting up. “I had to help him.”

“Why?” Acacius demanded, stepping closer. “Why risk everything for a gladiator?”

You opened your mouth to explain, but the words caught in your throat. How could you tell him the truth without revealing everything? The weight of your secret threatened to crush you. Your bother’s life was on edge.

“Answer me!” His voice rose, his frustration boiling over. “Why would you do something so reckless?”

“He was in pain. I couldn’t let him suffer,” you whispered, tears welling in your eyes.

Acacius’s eyes narrowed, his anger giving way to a deeper hurt. “You trust him more than me? You trust a stranger over your own husband?”

“It’s not about that.” you said desperately.

Acacius’s fists clenched at his sides; his knuckles white. “You’ve been hiding things from me, lying to me. How can I protect you when you won’t even be honest with me?”

“That’s enough,” Lucilla stood out firmly, placing herself between the two of you. “This isn’t helping anyone.”

“Stay out of this, Lucilla,” Acacius snapped, but she didn’t back down.

“No, I won’t,” she said, her voice unwavering. Lucilla placed a gentle hand on your shoulder, her voice firm yet comforting. "My daughter needs rest, Acacius. This isn't the time for this."

Acacius stood at the foot of the bed, his eyes still burning with anger. He hesitated, his jaw clenching as he seemed to wrestle with his emotions. Then, he spoke, his voice cold and cutting.

"Rest?" he said, his gaze locking onto yours. "How can she rest when she seems to have enough energy to heal every stray gladiator in Rome?"

The words hit you like a slap; it seems like there was cruelty in his tone slicing through you. You flinched, the sting of his accusation sharper than any physical pain you were inflicting. Your eyes filled with tears, but you refused to let them fall.

Lucilla's eyes flashed with anger. "Acacius, that's enough," she said sharply, standing to face him. “Leave.”

Acacius held her gaze for a moment, then exhaled sharply, turning away. "Fine. Your problem is that you're too naive". he muttered, his voice softer but no less bitter and with that, he strode out of the room, leaving a heavy silence in his wake. Lucilla turned back to you, her expression softening as she took your hand in hers.

"I'm so sorry," she whispered, her eyes full of sympathy. "He didn't mean it. He's just hurt and confused."

You nodded faintly, the weight of his words pressing down on you. "I know," you whispered back, though the pain in your chest didn’t lessen.

"Mother I swear is not what it seems like." you cried out as she held your hands trying to ground you.

She knew you were saying the truth, beyond your words; she knew you and she was aware of the pain you had endured during the last few hours. She had carried you inside her womb, she knew better.

"I know…I know,dear...but Acacius allowed those words to his head, he-“

"Didn't you recognize your own son?" You asked, looking directly at her. Those eyes that seemed to hold so much mercy, now seemed hurt and shocked.

"What?" She asked almost fearing the answer.

"Lucius?" You said his name, sounding almost foreign in your lips "I know he reminded you of someone, I knew you tried to piece that together the other day."

"I knew it." She gasped, standing up. She lifted her hand to her face as she paced around the quarters. "He looks exactly like..." but he paused, and you were met with silence.

"Looks like what?" you asked.

"Your father." She replied, without looking at you.

The words hung heavy in the air, like a suffocating weight pressing down on your chest. Your mind whirled, trying to process the shock of what Lucilla had just revealed. "My father?" you repeated, confused.

Lucilla stopped pacing, her back turned to you as she continued to stand with her hand against her forehead, her breath shallow. "Maximus.” She gasped, as she freed her truth, “Maximus was your father.”

The shock of Lucilla’s words crashed over you like a wave, pulling you under with its sheer force. Maximus. Your father. The name that had always been wrapped in mystery, the name that had haunted your thoughts for years, now had a new meaning. The weight of it settled in your chest, leaving you breathless.

"My father?" you repeated, your voice barely a whisper, as if saying the words out loud might shatter the fragile reality you had built for yourself. "Maximus was my father?"

Lucilla turned slowly to face you, her expression torn between regret and sorrow. "Yes," she said softly, her voice thick with emotion. "Maximus was your father.”

You stared at her, struggling to reconcile this new truth with everything you had known. Maximus, the legendary general, the man whose name had been spoken in reverence and fear. The same man who had fallen in the arena, and he had killed your uncle, leaving behind a legacy of honor and bloodshed. The man you had always wondered about, but never truly known. And now, you were learning that he was more than just a figure in your past, he was the father you never had.

"Why didn’t you tell me?" you asked, the question escaping before you could stop it. "Why keep this from me, mother?

Lucilla’s eyes filled with tears; her face contorted with guilt. "I didn’t know how to tell you, “She admitted, her voice breaking. "When Maximus died, so much was left unsaid. So much pain was buried.       You and Lucius...you were the result of a love that had to be hidden, kept in the shadows-Oh my god, my boy is alive” she cried, coming close to you “How-What did you say to him?”

“We spoke, mother I-I’m finding a way to free him” you assure her, “But please don’t say this to Acacius, I will.”

She nodded, not entirely sure but she still did it.

The villa was cloaked in silence as the night deepened, shadows stretching long and dark across the marble floors. You moved carefully, each step deliberate, your breath shallow as you avoided the guards and servants who patrolled the halls.

The words Acacius had told earlier were still ringing in your mind and making a way to shatter the pieces of your already broken heart that you feel the urging need to escape and see Lucius.

 Your heart pounded in your chest; fear creeped upon you. You couldn’t shake the need to see Lucius, to ensure he was safe, to discuss a plan to free him. The loss you had just endured weighed heavily on you, but it also fueled your resolve. You couldn’t bear to lose another person you cared about.

The cool night air greeted you as you slipped out of the villa, the stars above casting a faint light over the path ahead. You pulled your cloak tighter around you, the chill seeping into your bones as you made your way toward the gladiator barracks.

The path seemed familiar now, each twist and turn etched into your memory. You avoided the main roads, sticking to the shadows, your steps quick and silent. The barracks loomed ahead, its structure dark and foreboding under the moonlight.

You found the entrance, a small side door that you had used before. With a deep breath, you slipped inside, the scent of sweat and earth filling your senses. The faint murmur of voices echoed through the halls, but you pressed on, moving toward the cell where you knew Lucius was held.

As you approached, your heart tightened at the sight of him. He sat in the corner of the small cell, his head resting against the wall, eyes closed. His face was drawn, the lines of exhaustion and pain evident even in the dim light.

“Lucius,” you whispered, your voice barely audible.

His eyes snapped open, and for a moment, there was a flicker of surprise before it was replaced by something softer. He rose slowly, moving toward the bars. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his voice low and filled with concern. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I had to see you,” you said, your fingers gripping the cold metal bars. “I couldn’t stay away. We need to talk.”

He studied you for a moment, his gaze intense. “What’s happened?” he asked, sensing the turmoil within you.

You hesitated, the weight of your recent loss pressing heavily on your chest. “I’ve lost something,” you admitted, your voice trembling. “But I can’t lose you too. We need to find a way to get you out of here.”

Lucius’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through his eyes. “You’ve been through so much,” he said, his voice filled with empathy. “But you can’t put yourself in danger for me.”

“I lost a child” you confessed.

Lucius’s eyes softened, his expression shifting from concern to deep empathy. He stepped closer to the bars, his hand resting over yours, his touch warm and steady.

“I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, his voice laced with sorrow. “I can’t imagine the pain you’re feeling right now.”

Your grip on the cold metal tightened as tears welled in your eyes. “I didn’t even know,” you whispered, the words catching in your throat. “I didn’t have the chance to-” You broke off, unable to finish the thought, the grief too overwhelming.

Lucius squeezed your hand gently, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “You’ve been carrying so much on your shoulders,” he said softly. “You’re stronger than you realize, but you don’t have to bear this alone.”

A sob escaped your lips, and you leaned against the bars, letting the weight of your emotions flow freely. Lucius stayed silent, his presence a steady anchor in the storm of your grief.

Lucius’s expression softened, a flicker of understanding passing through his eyes. “You’ve been through so much,” he said, his voice filled with empathy. “You can’t put yourself in danger for me anymore.”

“I’m not asking for your permission,” you said firmly, your resolve strengthening. “I’ll find a way, Lucius. I promise. I will free you.”

He reached through the bars, his hand brushing against yours. “You’ve always been stubborn,” he said, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

You nodded, your heart swelling with happiness at the sight of your brother.

The ride back to the villa was met by silence, the weight of your encounter with Lucius heavy in your chest. The night air was cool, but it did little to soothe the turmoil within you. As you entered the villa, the quietness of the halls seemed oppressive, each step echoing in the vast space.

You barely made it to your chambers when the door burst open behind you. Acacius stood there, his expression was a mix of worry and anger.

“Where have you been?” he demanded, his voice sharp, the worry in his eyes betraying his stern tone. “Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?”

You turned to face him, your own emotions boiling over. “I needed space,” you replied, your voice trembling with restrained anger. “I couldn’t breathe in here.”

“Space? You left in the middle of the night, without a word…” Acacius stepped closer, his jaw tightening. “After everything that’s happened, you just disappeared. In your condition.”

“I’m not a prisoner, Acacius.” you shot back, calm. “I needed to clear my head, to deal with everything. I don’t need you controlling me over.”

His eyes darkened, frustration and hurt flickered across his face. “I’m not trying to control you. I’m trying to protect you. You’ve been through so much, and I can’t stand the thought of something happening to you.”

You took a step back, shaking your head. “I don’t need protection, Acacius. What I need is space to grieve, to process everything. And you-” your voice caught, the words barely above a whisper. “You can’t fix this.”

“I know I can’t fix this,” he said, his voice softening, the anger fading into sorrow. “But I can be here for you. I can protect you and I’m sorry for how I treated you before”

You met his gaze, the weight of his words sinking in. “Stop looking at me with pity”  

Acacius flinched at your words, his shoulders slumping slightly as if your harshness had struck a nerve. For a moment, he stood there, quiet, his expression unreadable, but there was a softness behind his eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“I didn’t mean to pity you,” he said, his voice steady but tinged with regret. “I just… I don’t know how to help you through all of this. I also lost that child and I don’t where to put that pain.”

The words hung in the air between you, thick with the weight of both loss and unspoken tension. You hadn’t expected him to say that, hadn’t expected him to acknowledge the pain of your shared grief. It was a rawness in his voice you hadn’t heard before, a vulnerability that both softened and shattered the walls you had built around yourself.

For a long moment, you stood there, the truth of what he had said settling heavily in your chest. You’d been so focused on your own pain, so wrapped in your sorrow, that you hadn’t stopped to think about how deeply the loss had affected him too. But now, hearing it in his voice, you understood—he wasn’t just someone who had watched you suffer. He had lost something precious, too.

"You…" You swallowed hard, the words threatening to choke you. "You lost him, too.”

Acacius nodded, his expression tightening with the grief he had kept hidden for so long. “When the healer told me about the baby I-I couldn’t help but thinking about us having a family and then it was all ripped away and Geta said those words…I lost it.”

You could feel the sorrow in his voice, the weight of everything he had been carrying in silence, and your heart ached for him, just as it ached for yourself. You hadn’t realized how deeply the loss had cut him, how the dream of a future you both had envisioned had been shattered in an instant.

“I didn’t think about it” you said.

Acacius’s gaze softened as he looked at you, the grief in his eyes mingling with something more vulnerable, something raw. “I didn’t want you to know,” he admitted quietly. “I didn’t know how to say it, or if it even mattered. But the pain... it wasn’t just yours to carry. After all, I’m the one who must protect you.”

You stepped closer, feeling the need to be near him, to bridge the space that had grown between you. “It matters, Acacius. It always mattered.”

His hand moved to gently touch your cheek, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that felt both tender and tentative, as though he was afraid you might pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you leaned into his touch, allowing him to comfort you in the way you had needed for so long.

“I wish I hadn’t said those things to you,” he said, his voice breaking slightly, “I was angry and hurt, but that wasn’t the way to show you how much I cared.”

“I wish we hadn’t let everything build up between us,” you replied, your voice steady now, though your heart still thudded painfully in your chest. “But I understand why we did. I understand why we kept everything hidden.”

There was a silence between you then, a shared understanding that neither of you had known how to express until now. The space that had once felt like a gulf now felt a little smaller, a little less impossible to cross.

“Can we…” You paused, trying to find the right words. “Can we try to heal this together? No more hiding. No more walls between us.”

Acacius’s eyes met yours, the depth of his grief still there, but something else, something warm and hopeful, flickered in them.

Acacius’s hand remained on your cheek, his thumb moving gently as though savoring the contact, as if trying to memorize the feel of you beneath his touch. The space between you seemed to shrink with every passing second, and though the rawness of your shared grief still lingered, there was an undeniable pull between you both—one that had always been there, hidden beneath the tension, the sorrow, and the unspoken words.

He stepped closer, his breath mingling with yours, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. It was as if the world outside had faded into silence, leaving only the two of you standing there in the quiet of the room, in the quiet of this moment.

Without a word, Acacius leaned in, his gaze never leaving yours as if asking permission without speaking. His eyes held a vulnerability that you hadn’t seen before, something raw, something real—and it made your heart beat faster. You nodded almost imperceptibly, unable to put into words what you needed, what you wanted.

And then, he kissed you.

It wasn’t passionate, not at first, but of something deeper, something that carried the weight of all that had come before, of loss, of pain, and of the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, you could both heal. His lips were gentle on yours, as though he was testing the waters, waiting for any sign that you might pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, you responded, your lips parting slightly as you leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his body against yours.

Acacius’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer, his hold steady and sure, and you melted into his embrace. His kiss deepened, and there was a tenderness in it that spoke volumes of the regret, the longing, and the understanding that had finally found its way to the surface.

For a long moment, the world around you ceased to exist. There was only the feeling of his kiss, the warmth of his hands, and the quiet comfort of knowing that, despite everything, you were no longer alone in this.

When the kiss finally broke, you were both breathless, your forehead resting against his, your hearts beating in sync. He didn’t pull away, and neither did you. Instead, you stayed there, letting the silence between you speak for all the things that words could never fully express.

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice low and filled with emotion.

“And I’m here.” You replied.

The next morning, you awoke with a lingering warmth in your chest, the memory of last night’s kiss with Acacius was still fresh on your lips. It was strange, despite the pain and the heartache, there was something comforting in the way Acacius had held you, as if the weight of everything pressing down on you could be borne, if only together.

But just as the morning light began to fill the room, casting soft shadows on the walls, the harsh knock on your door interrupted the peace. You sighed softly.

One of the servants entered your quarters, announcing the presence of Emperor Geta and Emperor Caracalla.

Before you could even respond, and both Emperor Caracalla and Emperor Geta stepped into the room. Their presence was commanding, each one wearing an expression that veiled their intentions. Caracalla's eyes scanned the room first, his gaze lingering briefly on you.

"Good morning, princess” Caracalla greeted; his tone formal but with an edge of curiosity. "I trust you slept well.”

Geta, ever the more mischievous presence, did not mask his interest so well. His gaze immediately flicked between you and his brother, noting the tension that hung thick in the air. "Ah, my lady” he remarked, his smile laced with hidden meaning. "I hope we aren't interrupting something more... private?"

You could feel Geta’s eyes on you, the weight of his gaze making you uneasy. His curiosity was sharp, and you could almost feel him waiting for any sign of weakness, any crack to exploit. You forced yourself to stand taller, lifting your chin in defiance of his probing stare.

Caracalla’s eyes softened for a moment as he observed the tension, and then, with a slow nod, he motioned toward the chairs by the table. "We did not come here to pry," he said, his voice quieter now, though still full of authority. "But we were concerned. Your absence was noted at yesterday’s games. I trust everything is well?"

Geta, however, did not seem as concerned. He leaned against the doorframe casually, his smirk never wavering. "Indeed," he chimed in. "Such a pity to miss the games, especially with the gladiator’s performance. But I’m sure you’re feeling better now.”

The air between the three of you grew heavy, filled with unsaid things, fears, suspicions, and lingering emotions. Caracalla watched you closely, his sharp gaze measuring your movements though his voice remained level.

"We wanted to ensure all is well. There are matters of the empire that demand our attention, but family is still... important," Caracalla added, though his eyes seemed to linger on you, a glimmer of something unreadable flashing behind them.

Geta stepped closer, a twisted smile curling his lips. "No prisoner has ever had such treatment," he said, gesturing around the luxurious room as if the walls and fine furnishings were a gift from him. "I have given you everything."

Your anger surged, and you couldn’t hold it back any longer. "Everything?" you spat, your voice shaking with fury. "You mean the punishment? The abuse of your power? Poisoning me? Making me lose a child?"

Geta froze, his eyes widening in shock at your words. He hadn’t expected you to confront him so directly, hadn’t anticipated the raw pain and anger that laced your voice. For a moment, he looked almost human, almost remorseful, but it was fleeting, quickly replaced by a cold, calculating expression.

"I... didn’t know," he muttered, though his tone lacked genuine remorse. "That wasn’t my intention."

You took a step closer, your eyes blazing with defiance. "Your intentions don’t matter," you said, your voice low but cutting. "You have taken everything you could from me.”

Geta’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing more. Caracalla’s gaze flicked between you and his brother, a faint smirk playing on his lips as if he found the whole exchange amusing. The tension in the room was suffocating, each moment stretching into eternity.

Finally, Geta turned away, his expression dark and unreadable. "We’ll speak again soon," he said, coming close to you, reaching your ear for you to hear, his voice devoid of the usual warmth he tried to feign. "But remember, no matter how you feel, you are still mine."

After Geta left your quarters, Caracalla lingered for a moment longer, his gaze softened unexpectedly. His voice, usually sharp and cold, dropped to something almost gentle. "You would have made a wonderful mother," he said quietly, his words hanging in the air.

You stiffened at his remark, the unexpected sentiment cutting through the tension like a blade. Before you could respond, he turned and followed Geta out of the room, leaving you in stunned silence.

Acacius stepped inside the room and closed behind the two emperors. His eyes were filled with concern, his jaw tight as he crossed the room to you.

He reached for you, his hands settling on your shoulders. "Are you alright?" he asked softly, searching your face for any sign of how you were feeling.

You nodded slowly, though the weight of Caracalla's words lingered in your mind. "I’m... I’m fine," you whispered, though the crack in your voice betrayed the truth.

Acacius pulled you into his arms, holding you tightly. "You don’t have to pretend," he murmured, his voice gentle. "I’m here. Whatever you need, I’m here."

You buried your face in his chest, the tears you had been holding back finally spilling over. "It’s just too much," you whispered. "Everything... it’s too much."

He tightened his hold on you, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "I know," he said softly. "But we’ll get through this."

Acacius held you close, his voice low but determined. "I’m taking you away from here," he said, his tone filled with resolve. "You’ve endured enough. I’ll defeat Geta and Caracalla, bring down their empire, and when it’s safe... I’ll come back for you."

You pulled back slightly, searching his eyes. "Acacius, that’s treason. it’s too dangerous. If they find out-"

"They won’t," he interrupted firmly, his hands tightening on your arms. "I have an army. Men who are loyal to me only. They’ll arrive in a 3 days and we’re bringing Rome to what it was, but I need you to out of here before that.”

Your breath caught in your throat at his words, the weight of what he was proposing sinking in. "Acacius, you can’t be serious," you whispered, fear creeping into your voice. "This is madness. If they discover your plans, they’ll kill you. They’ll kill us."

His expression softened, but his resolve remained unshaken. "I’ve never been more serious," he said quietly. "I’ve watched this empire fall apart under their rule, seen too many suffer because of their greed and cruelty. I won’t let it continue. Not while I have the power to stop it."

You shook your head, heart pounding. "And what about me? You’re asking me to leave, to run while you stay and fight. I can’t do that, Acacius. I can’t leave you behind."

He cupped your face in his hands, his eyes intense but filled with a deep affection. "I need you safe," he insisted. "If you stay, they’ll use you against me. They’ll hurt you to get to me, and I can’t allow that."

Tears welled in your eyes again as the weight of his words pressed down on you. "I don’t want to lose you," you whispered, your voice breaking.

"You won’t," he promised, his thumb brushing away a tear that escaped down your cheek. "I’ll come back for you. I swear it."

He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours. "Then at least you’ll be safe," he said softly. "And you’ll know that I did everything I could to make things right."

"I can't leave my brother behind," you said, your voice trembling as you pulled back slightly, your eyes searching his face.

Acacius froze, his brow furrowing in confusion. "What?" he asked, disbelief coloring his tone.

"Lucius is alive," you confessed, the weight of the secret you’d been holding finally lifting from your chest. "The gladiator I healed... that's my brother.”

His eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face. "Your brother?" he repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "Lucius... he's alive?"

You nodded, tears brimming in your eyes. "He survived all these years, but I couldn’t tell anyone. If Geta or Caracalla found out, they would kill him.”

Acacius ran a hand through his hair, taking a step back as he tried to process the revelation. "This... changes everything," he muttered, his mind racing. "Lucius is alive?”

You nodded.

He exhaled slowly, the weight of the situation settling on his shoulders. "We’ll have to get him out, too," he said, his voice resolute. "I won’t leave your brother behind. We’ll take him with us."

Acacius stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you close once more. His embrace was firm yet gentle, a silent promise of solidarity and protection. You leaned into him, finding comfort in his warmth, the weight of your shared burden momentarily lifted.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The gravity of what lay ahead hung heavy in the air, but there was also an unspoken understanding between you, a mutual resolve to face the impending storm together.

Everything that hurt you, it hurt him. Every broken piece that fell out from your heart got stuck on your skin. Everything about the world he used to hate, he loved it now. You had made his life bearable because every time he opened his eyes and saw your lashes kissed your skin, how your chest inhale and exhale. He was glad he had survived thousands of battles just for his fate ending up being next to you.  He would choose this path again and he would vow his promise to Lucilla just to kiss your face all over again.

And just as his promised he would put your life under protection to end the reign that had taunted you for so many years.

“I’ll end this” Acacius murmured against your hair, his voice steady with determination. “I’ll save Lucius, and I’ll put an end to Geta and Caracalla’s reign, and you will be out, safe for now.”

You nodded against his chest, knowing damn well that your plan wasn’t the same as his, but both of them would meet the same fate.

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[4ever-feral]

Older men with big noses, beards and wavy hair >>>>

[capuccinodoll]

Chapter summary: The journey from Dallas to Austin is tense but tolerable, as you and Frankie do your best to ignore the mutual disdain simmering between you. But everything derails when a chance encounter with Harry—your ex—and his fiancée pushes you to tell a spur-of-the-moment lie. Frankie’s reaction makes it clear he’s not on board. WC: 14.3k

A/N: Okay, here's my new baby! And I fucking love it! I hope you enjoy this story as much as I've been enjoying writing it. Also, just a heads-up: I’ve taken some creative liberties with the characters. While this story is inspired by the ones in Triple Frontier, it barely follows the events of the movie, and the characters themselves aren’t portrayed exactly as they are in the film. PS: I’d love to hear your thoughts—your feedback means so much to me! Knowing what you think truly motivates me to keep going. So don't hesitate and let me know <3 Also, if you want to be on the tag list, let me know. And don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifs :)

When Santiago’s message arrived, you read it three times, as if repetition might change the words or soften their impact.

[Santi]: Hey bubs, mornin. I’m really sorry but I won’t be able to come get you. I’ll meet you at home later tho. Frankie will pick you up, same time as planned, don’t worry:)

The words seemed to pulse faintly on the screen, a quiet disruption of the neat plan you’d constructed in your head.

Frankie. He wasn’t your first choice—or your second, or third. If you were honest, he didn’t even make the list.

That morning had started with a sense of calm, a kind of orderly anticipation. The steady hum of the fan in the corner of Emma’s room, the cool sting of the shower water, the first sip of coffee, sweet and bitter all at once—it all felt like the clean slate of a well-prepared day. You’d zipped your suitcase shut with a satisfying finality, placed your carry-on by the door. Nothing left to chance.

The plan was simple: you’d take the bus. Predictable, unremarkable. But Santiago had insisted earlier that week, his voice crackling through the phone with a kind of rare, unguarded enthusiasm.

“We can stop for lunch, you know? Like we used to do with dad. Maybe even take a detour if we find somethin' cool,” he’d said, his tone warm, almost playful.

You’d been leaning against Emma’s kitchen counter at the time, a glass of wine in one hand, a cube of cheese in the other, and your phone between your cheek and your shoulder. Emma raised an eyebrow from across the room, silently prompting you to explain.

“Everything okay with Yovanna?” you teased, your voice carrying just enough edge to feel like a joke, even though it wasn’t entirely one. “Or is this an excuse to run away for the day?”

“Fuck you,” he laughed, the kind of laugh that came easily between you two. “I just want to spend time with you. It’s been ages since we really caught up. I miss you like hell.”

That stopped you. He wasn’t wrong—months had passed since the two of you had talked properly, beyond the surface-level exchanges over meals or texts.

“Okay,” you’d said, your voice softer than before, though you avoided looking at Emma. “I miss you too. I’ll wait for you then.”

And now, this. No Santiago, no shared lunch or detours. Just Frankie, an unwelcome rewrite of the day you thought you had mapped out so clearly.

You sat back against the bed frame, rereading the message one last time. Frankie will pick you up. Frankie will pick you up. Frankie. Frankie. Fucking Frankie. Now the plan had unraveled, and the disappointment felt sharper than you wanted to admit.

You let the phone fall to the bed beside you, the screen dimming as it landed.

Emma lay stretched out next to you, her head tilted toward the TV, where an episode of Friends played on low volume. It was one of those episodes you both knew by heart, the kind you could recite without effort. The one where everybody finds out. The blue light from the screen washed over her face, softening her features, making her eyes look brighter than they really were. Without looking away, she reached out and hooked her arm around yours, a quiet gesture that felt like home. She’d done the same thing when you were teenagers, sharing the lumpy couch in your parents’ living room, giggling over something trivial while your mom cooked dinner in the next room.

“What happened?” she murmured, her voice soft but curious, as if she could already sense the shift in your mood. The laugh track bubbled in the background, filling the space between her words.

“Santi’s not coming,” you said, glancing at the TV without really seeing it. “He sent Frankie.”

You felt a pang, not just from the change in plans but from the weight of the goodbye looming in the background. You’d learned to carry that feeling since Emma moved out of Austin—this persistent ache, like a thread pulling tighter with every visit that ended. On most days, it faded into the background. But today, it stuck to you, clinging like a damp sock you couldn’t quite shake off.

“That Frankie?” 

“I doubt he knows any others.”

“How convenient,” she said, her voice low with mockery, though her arm squeezed yours gently. “Well, call me when you get there. And try to be nice to him, if you can manage it.”

Emma turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of her eye. “And don’t take too long to come back and visit me, okay?” 

“You could always visit Austin, you know."

“It’s more fun if you come here. You get to be a tourist,” she said, with that breezy logic she always used to disarm you. “I already know Austin. That’s not so exciting.”

You snorted, more out of habit than disagreement. She wasn’t wrong. Emma rarely was.

The rest of the evening passed in near silence, broken only by the low murmur of the television. First, another episode of Friends, then one of The Nanny. The rhythm of the shows was familiar, the kind of easy, forgettable comfort that didn’t require much from you. At some point, Emma shifted closer, resting her head on your shoulder. Her breathing slowed, deepened, a steady rise and fall that seemed to sync with your own. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. There was something about her presence, her weight against you, that felt like a reminder—you were understood here, even when you didn’t have the words to explain yourself. She wasn't just your best friend, she was your sister.

The sharp blare of a car horn shattered the calm, breaking through the evening like the crack of distant thunder. You flinched, your body instinctively tensing, the warm cocoon of the moment dissolving in an instant. Emma didn’t stir much, her eyes still closed, her arm still draped over yours. You nudged her gently, tapping her arm until she groaned softly and sat up, squinting against the glow of the TV.

“I think he’s here,” you said, your voice low but cutting through the quiet.

Emma stretched in one graceful motion, her arms arching overhead before she bent down to grab the bright lavender Crocs she kept by the bed. The shoes, adorned with an assortment of decorative pins—a blue flower, a miniature coffee cup, and a small plastic dinosaur—were an oddly perfect reflection of her: delicate, energetic, and just the right amount of ridiculous, in the best way. 

“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” she said, her tone casual, but there was a softness to it, an unspoken understanding that made the impending goodbye feel heavier.

Outside, the heat clung to you immediately, the air thick and sticky, humming with the faint buzz of cicadas. Your gaze landed on the car parked in front of Emma’s house, and something in you tensed. It wasn’t Santi’s car, of course, and it wasn’t Santi standing there waiting.

Frankie was leaning against the hood, arms crossed, his whole posture radiating impatience. He looked as though he’d been sculpted there, his bored expression so exaggerated it almost felt theatrical. The heat shimmered in waves around him, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care. He wore a rumpled gray shirt that looked like it hadn’t been ironed in weeks and a pair of dark sunglasses, their reflective lenses hiding whatever was going on behind them. The cap was familiar, too—plain, worn, the same style you’d seen him wear before, though this time in a faded gray that matched his shirt.

For a fleeting, irrational moment, you thought maybe this was all a mistake. That Santi might suddenly appear, stepping out from behind the car or walking up the driveway with that easy laugh of his, telling you it had all been a joke. But the driveway remained empty, and Frankie, noticing you, straightened up with a kind of deliberate slowness.

He started walking toward you, each step measured, as if he were pacing himself for an obligation he didn’t particularly want to fulfill. His movements had the casual indifference of someone who would rather be anywhere else, but was too resigned to argue.

“Where’s Santi?” you asked as you approached, the question coming out sharper than you’d intended.

Frankie didn’t answer immediately. He simply closed the distance between you with deliberate, unhurried steps. Then, without a word, he grabbed the suitcase from your hand in one fluid motion. The gesture caught you off guard—not because he took it, but because of how mechanical it felt. He didn’t look at you, didn’t acknowledge you in any meaningful way. It was as though you were just an extension of the bag he was moving, an obstacle to be dealt with as quickly as possible.

“He couldn’t make it,” he said at last, his voice flat, almost dismissive.

He hauled the suitcase toward the trunk and tossed it in with a thud that seemed louder than it should’ve been. The sound echoed briefly, underscoring his lack of finesse. He slammed the trunk shut with a single decisive motion and turned back toward the driver’s seat, his body language broadcasting that he considered the interaction over.

“He didn’t tell me anything about it,” you said, your voice rising slightly, tinged with disbelief. You stayed rooted to the spot, your feet planted as if the weight of the confusion had sunk into the concrete beneath you.

Frankie paused, his hand on the car door.

“It was a last-minute thing.” 

Before you could respond—before you could even begin to untangle your frustration into something coherent—he opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and pulled it shut behind him with a force that made the air shudder.

You turned back toward the house. Emma was watching from the porch, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her expression hovered somewhere between curiosity and bewilderment, her head tilting slightly as you approached.

She hugged you tightly, holding on a beat longer than usual. When you pulled away, her eyes searched yours, silently asking questions you didn’t have answers for.

“I’ll call you when I get there,” you said, though you weren’t sure what the call would entail—whether you’d laugh about all this, or vent, or just let her voice fill the empty spaces.

Her lips twitched into a faint smile, one tinged with resignation.

“I love you so much,” you added, your voice quieter now. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I always do. I love you too. Take care and call me as soon as you can."

She stepped back as you turned toward the car, your feet dragging slightly with each step.

Now, an hour and a half later, the car sped steadily toward Austin, the scenery blurring into a series of indistinct shapes. Frankie hadn’t said a word since you’d left Emma’s house, and the silence had settled in the car like a heavy fog, pressing down on you with every passing mile.

You’d considered speaking—several times, in fact—but every potential conversation starter you thought of seemed pointless. What was there to say to him? You barely knew each other, and what little you did know felt more like a series of grudges than shared history. The only things you had in common were your mutual love for Santi and, apparently, your mutual irritation with each other. Neither felt like enough to bridge the yawning gap between you.

You stared out the window, the dry, flat landscape sliding by in endless monotony, like a movie stripped of plot and color. Pale beige fields stretched into the horizon, broken only by the occasional cluster of power lines. The sameness of it all seemed to lull the world into a kind of dull, static hum.  

The only relief came from the music spilling softly from the car’s speakers—classic rock, its grainy tones unmistakable even at low volume. The sound was tethered to Frankie’s phone, resting in the cupholder beside him, the screen glowing faintly every so often with an incoming notification he didn’t bother to check. A Fleetwood Mac song began again, its familiar opening chords filling the silence for the third time since you’d left.  

You shifted in your seat, glancing at him from the corner of your eye before turning your attention back to the road ahead.

“Do you like this song?” 

“I think so.”

“It’s played three times already.”

“It’s a good song,” he said softly, his voice low enough to be mistaken for an afterthought. 

You turned back to the window, letting the conversation dissolve into the space between you. He hadn’t said it to be defensive—just matter-of-fact, like the song itself was reason enough. You folded your arms across your chest, the seatbelt digging slightly into your side.  

Then, your mind wandered back to Santi, to the message that had upended your day. What had he been thinking? Of all his friends, why send Frankie? The question rolled over in your head, each repetition more insistent than the last. Was it an oversight? A logistical decision made in haste, without considering how you’d feel about it? Or was it intentional? That idea sat uneasily with you, gnawing at the edge of your thoughts. He knew how strange things felt between you and Frankie. Hell, everyone knew. They’d all been there, witnessed it firsthand—the arguments, the uncomfortable silences, the way your personalities seemed to clash as naturally as oil and water.  

The possibility that Santi might’ve chosen Frankie on purpose—maybe even as some misguided attempt to force you into tolerating each other—bothered you more than you wanted to admit. You shifted again, suddenly restless, as the car hummed along the empty stretch of highway, the silence between you growing heavier despite the steady background of Fleetwood Mac.

Over the last few years, Frankie had been a fixture in your life, the way someone else’s shadow might be—not yours, but unavoidable. Being your brother’s best friend meant your paths crossed often enough, though you both seemed to approach these encounters with mutual disdain. You didn’t like him, and he didn’t bother pretending to like you. Disgust was the word that came to mind when you thought about how he looked at you. Not exaggerated or theatrical, just a cool, unflinching disgust, as though he found something about you fundamentally wrong. 

The last time you’d spoken more than a handful of clipped, perfunctory words to each other was in Santi’s kitchen a few years ago. That was the breaking point. The fight. It wasn’t dramatic, not really—no yelling, no slammed doors—but it was the kind of exchange that changed things irreversibly. After that, you decided you didn’t want to think about him, let alone look at him, ever again.

And that was the end of it. You stopped trying to explain. You'd come to accept that to Santi, Frankie was probably nothing like how you saw him. You weren't sure what it was about him that rubbed you the wrong way, but you knew that with your brother, Frankie surely couldn't be as unpleasant as he was with you. 

So, you ignored him. Every time you saw him, you made sure your gaze passed over him like he was just another fixture in the room. And he did the same. It was as though you were two people occupying the same space, but never truly sharing it.

Why on earth, then, had he agreed to come and pick you up?

The silence in the car stretched on, and you settled into the uncomfortable rhythm of it, letting it fill the space between you and him. Frankie’s eyes stayed fixed on the road, and his thumbs twitched restlessly over the steering wheel.

Finally, he broke the silence, but his words felt like a formality.

“We'll stop for lunch,” he said, his voice low, almost indifferent. His gaze flickered to you for a brief second, enough to make sure you had heard, before returning to the road. “I haven’t eaten anything all day. Do you mind?”

You were starting to feel the pangs of hunger yourself, but you didn’t let that soften your response. You couldn’t. 

“No,” you replied, your voice curt, colder than you intended.

Frankie nodded, the movement barely noticeable. He turned his attention back to the road, his expression unchanged, as though you hadn’t spoken at all. His calmness was maddening. 

For a moment, you considered breaking the silence again, saying something just to disrupt his steady composure. But then you thought better of it. There was still a long way to go, and the last thing you wanted was for this trip to feel even more suffocating than it already was. So you stayed silent, the weight of your irritation pressing down on you, knowing that with each mile, you were only getting closer to end of this torture.

Fifteen minutes later, the engine turned off  and you looked over at the driver's side, half-expecting Frankie to say something—anything—but he was already in motion. Before you could open your mouth, the door swung open, and he was out of the car, his body moving with an urgency that seemed to come from some invisible force, as though he were escaping the confines of the vehicle. For a moment, the empty passenger seat seemed to expand, making the car feel smaller, quieter. 

You stayed there a second longer, watching as Frankie made his way across the parking lot. His steps were steady, deliberate, almost too casual, as if walking away from you might somehow erase you from the moment entirely. He didn’t look back, didn’t pause to see if you were following. And honestly, you weren’t in any rush to do so. There was no reason to catch up with him. He clearly didn’t want you there, and you didn’t want to be near him either. This trip wasn’t about you; it was about doing your brother a favor.

The parking lot was modest, just enough space for the few cars scattered about. It wasn’t anything remarkable, just a typical lot for a small, unassuming restaurant. The faded lines barely marked the spots, and you counted five cars parked across the patch of asphalt. The windows of the restaurant were perfectly clean, and you could see people inside. A couple of families were chatting animatedly at their tables, and a few solitary diners were hunched over their food, their focus far from the simple meal in front of them.

With a sigh, you walked toward the entrance. Above the door, the sign Jimmy’s buzzed softly in red neon, its glow a little too bright for the evening light. Next to it, a yellow arrow with tiny, flickering bulbs pointed inside, inviting anyone who passed by to come in. "Eat here!" The sign seemed eager, almost enthusiastic in its attempt to catch attention.

You pushed open the door, the bell chiming brightly above your head as you stepped inside. The rush of cool air from the air conditioning met you instantly, a welcome contrast to the heat that still clung to your skin from the car. The coolness was almost too sharp, sending a slight shiver down your spine as you paused just inside the doorway. Your eyes took a moment to adjust to the softer light inside. The diner was small, but it had a cozy, familiar feel, with colorful walls and a few tables scattered around. The noise inside was a comfortable hum, punctuated by the occasional clink of silverware, low conversation and the music in the background.

It didn’t take long to spot him. Frankie was seated at the bar, absorbed in the menu in front of him. His posture was casual, but there was something about the way he held himself, his shoulders slightly hunched, that made it feel like he was a little too withdrawn, like he didn’t want to engage. 

You walked toward him slowly, the sound of your footsteps softened by the tiles beneath you. You were just about to sit next to him when he looked up, his gaze meeting yours briefly before returning to the menu. His voice was flat, almost bored as he spoke, as if the interaction was nothing more than a passing inconvenience.

“Go find a table,” he said, his tone neither rude nor warm.

You frowned, taking the menu from his hand without a word. His gaze didn’t follow you as he stood up, stretching slightly as he rose from the bar stool. There was something about his movements—relaxed, yet sharp—that made you feel like you weren’t really a part of whatever was going on. His shirt clung slightly to his back from the heat of the car, the evidence of sweat still visible on his skin, and you couldn't help but notice the fine hairs on his arms standing on end, a subtle sign of the sharp contrast between the stifling heat outside and the chill of the air-conditioned room.

“I’m goin' to the bathroom. Be back in a sec,” he added casually, his voice even, before disappearing down the narrow hallway to the right. No expectation of a response. No glance to see if you were still standing there, just a simple statement. He was gone before you could offer anything in reply.

You were left standing there, the laminated menu in your hands, a slight weariness creeping in.

With a sigh, you turned on your heels and began scanning the room for a table. There was still at least an hour and a half of travel left, plus however long you'd spend eating. Why hadn’t Santi given you a heads-up? You could’ve taken the bus or the train, something that didn’t involve sitting in a car with anyone but him. But no, that wasn’t even an option, apparently. 

You spotted an empty table near the back, next to the window, and as you walked toward it, the decor around you caught your eye. The place had a playful, nostalgic vibe, as if it were trying to channel the spirit of another time. Framed posters of Grease, Fame, Footloose, and Saturday Night Fever hung on the walls, adding to the feeling of a throwback to the ‘70s and ‘80s. It was all very upbeat, almost theatrical, like a movie set. The tables were red and white, and a jukebox stood in the corner.

You glanced at the posters, half wondering if the owner had lived through that era or just loved the aesthetic of it all. Either way, it gave the place a sense of warmth and a bit of character, a stark contrast to the outside. 

Suddenly, a voice cut through the quiet murmur of the restaurant, sharp and unexpected, and your name echoed in the air. You froze, the sound ricocheting in your chest, followed by a rush of emotions you didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone feel. You could feel the familiar tension ripple through your muscles, a mix of surprise, confusion, and something deeper you couldn’t quite place. Slowly, you turned to face him, every step feeling like it took an eternity.

“Harry,” you said, the name falling from your lips like it belonged to someone else, someone distant. A smile flickered across your face—perfectly timed and just the right shape, though it felt hollow, as fake as the kindness you were trying to project. Your lips tightened, a familiar mask of politeness slipping over your expression, one you wished you didn’t have to wear. “What... what are you doing here?”

His smile was instant and disarming, his surprise clear, and his happiness so genuine it made your chest tighten. For a moment, it erased the absurdity of seeing him here, of all places, in the middle of nowhere. The coincidence felt cruel, as if the universe was playing a cruel joke on you.

The last time you saw him, three months ago, it felt like a lifetime ago—a goodbye steeped in heartbreak. You’d clung to him, tears soaking his crisp white shirt as he whispered reassurances: “It’s okay. You’ll be okay. I care about you.” But the words he didn’t say cut deeper: he cared for you, but he loved her.  

It had been a casual fling, no strings attached—or so you told yourself. Then came the day he confessed: he was in love with Lisa, a friend you’d never met. They were getting married. His words, calm and rehearsed, felt like a gut punch, but his excitement betrayed him. He was happy. You weren’t.  

You tried to be strong, to tell him you were fine, even as you broke down. Because you loved him, and you couldn’t bear the thought of him with her.  

And now, here he was, smiling like nothing had happened, curiosity in his eyes—oblivious to the wreckage he’d left behind.  

In front of him, Lisa was sitting with a big bright smile. You’d seen her face before, her perfectly curated Instagram photos, her flawless smile that could have been lifted straight from a movie. But in person? She was even more striking, the kind of beauty that didn’t need filters or captions. The kind of beauty that made everything around her seem insignificant, that made you feel small just standing next to her. Her presence was magnetic, the sort of thing that pulled your gaze despite every instinct telling you to look away.

Suddenly, the air conditioning hit you like a blast of cold, sharp enough to make you flinch. But then again, maybe it wasn’t the air conditioning. Maybe it was just your body freezing in place, rigid with surprise and something much harder to define. You didn’t know how to respond. Harry was talking—his voice was there, filling the space, but the words barely reached you. They felt like distant echoes, the kind that might have meant something once but now were just noise, reverberating uselessly around you.

“What are you doing around here?” he asked, pulling you back from the tangle of thoughts you were trying so hard to keep at bay.

You blinked, trying to center yourself, but it was like you had forgotten how to breathe properly.

“We’re... I’m just passing through, heading back to Austin,” you said, your voice sounding too steady, too rehearsed, even to your own ears. Your heart was lodged somewhere near your throat, threatening to choke you if you said too much. “I went to visit Emma.”

“Ah, Emma. How is she? Is she still in Dallas?”

“Yep,” you answered, the word sharp and clipped, offering nothing more. 

The silence hung between you, thick and uncomfortable. You could feel it stretching, wrapping itself around your words, making them heavier than they needed to be. Finally, you exhaled, the air coming out in a slow, resigned sigh.

“What about you guys? What are you doing around here?”

You didn’t really want to know, not at all.

“Lisa’s grandparents live in Waco,” Harry said with that wide smile of his, the one that always made you feel like you were watching the world tilt on its axis. He looked at Lisa like she was the center of his universe, as if everything that mattered began and ended with her. “We went to take the invitation to them personally and I met the rest of the family while we were at it.”

You didn’t smile. You couldn’t. Your lips pulled tight, the gesture feeling almost painful, like your face wasn’t sure how to form the expression anymore. The words were there, though, just beneath the surface.

“Right, right.” You swallowed, forcing the words out despite how hollow they felt. “How cool. You must be so excited—a summer wedding, then?”

You’d known for weeks—September 6th. The invitation, with its sparkling gold lettering, had made your stomach churn. You buried it under junk mail, unable to face seeing him so happy, so certain of what he had.

But you couldn’t say that, could you? You couldn’t tell him that the mere thought of them together, of their future, felt like a knife to your chest. So you forced a smile, a tight, lifeless thing, and let the conversation carry on.

"That's right," Harry said, laughing as his gaze flickered to Lisa, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Even though we wanted to enjoy the early days of fall, Lisa wanted to get married around summer, mostly because of her parents. They got married during summer too."

Lisa laughed softly, the sound like a note held too long, then spoke, her voice low and warm.

"It's not just that," she said, her hand resting lightly on Harry's. You found yourself looking away, unable to hold the image of them together for too long. "Everything looks more beautiful during this season, doesn't it? Even the days last longer."

Her voice was thick with something you couldn't quite place—familiarity, maybe. Or maybe it was love, that unspoken thing that you couldn’t ignore, even if you wanted to. The way they fit together made everything else seem smaller, less important. And yet Harry’s eyes shifted to you, seeking something. Approval, maybe. He didn’t say it, but it was clear. His look said: Don’t disagree.

"That's true. Summer is beautiful," you replied, feeling the words slip out too easily, forced through your teeth. Your voice came out softer than you intended, and you felt Lisa’s smile hit you like a jolt. It was stunning—perfect in a way that seemed almost too much, like she’d been born to smile in that exact way. You hated her for it, just a little.

"We look forward to seeing you there," Harry said, breaking the moment, his words direct and heavy. "We haven't received your confirmation—you’re going, aren't you?"

How could he ask that, not see how unnatural this felt? But Harry wasn’t cruel—just unaware. You’d never told him you loved him, never made your feelings clear. To him, this was normal. He thought you’d be fine.

“I... um—” 

“Don’t worry about going alone,” he said, that same nonchalant tone that had once made you smile. "You always meet people at weddings."

Heat flooded your face, burning like a slap. The words stung, but his obliviousness made it worse. You wished the ground would swallow you whole—or anything to escape. Instead, you laughed—a thin, brittle sound that barely masked the pain.

"Ah, no, that’s not it," you lied, your voice trembling just enough for Harry to notice. "That's covered."

“Oh, is it?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow, his interest piqued. He leaned forward, a relieved smile crossing his face.

"Sure," you said, forcing a confidence into your tone that you didn’t feel. "I’ll... I’ll go with my boyfriend."

Harry's eyes widened a little, and then the smile appeared again—this one more genuine, more curious. He tapped the table, an excited gesture that made your stomach twist.

“You don’t say?” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “And who’s the lucky guy?”

You wanted to crumble. You wanted to say nothing, because the truth felt too big, too overwhelming, and there was no way to say it without everything falling apart. But you couldn't. You just couldn't.

As if by some celestial miracle, you saw Frankie emerge from the hallway, his attention absorbed by the screen of his phone, scrolling, unaware of anything around him. His timing was perfect, and relief washed over you, as if fate had sent him. He wasn’t supposed to be here, yet there he was—a lifeline in the chaos.  

For a moment, he seemed to glow, his familiar, worn cap catching the harsh lights like a crown. You’d never been so glad to see someone. Then his eyes met yours, and his expression shifted—confusion flickering as he took in your frantic stance, the mess of emotions written on your face.  

Before you could stop it, before you could make any sense of what was happening, a smile stretched across your face—too wide, too fast, like a reflex you hadn’t been prepared for. It was probably a little too sharp to be anything but forced, but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t help anything.

"Frankie," you said, the words tumbling out with more enthusiasm than you intended. It sounded too bright, almost exaggerated, but there was no stopping it now. "This is Frankie... Frankie, my boyfriend.”

You weren’t sure what you were doing, but it didn’t matter—you needed to make something clear. Frankie tensed beside you, glancing your way, trying to read the situation. His eyes met yours, and you silently begged him: Help. Please.

For a moment, he studied you, his gaze flicking between you and the couple. Then, as if something clicked, his expression shifted to understanding. He realized what he had to do and adjusted instantly.

"Right," he finally said, his voice low, the smile on his face still a little unsure but polite. "I’m Frankie."

Harry extended his hand with a practiced smile, warm but a touch too bright. Frankie hesitated, his gaze shifting from Harry’s hand to your face, brow slightly furrowed as he tried to assess the situation—or his role in it.  

You stepped closer, tapping his waist lightly, a subtle signal to act. He blinked, refocusing, and finally took Harry’s hand, his grip firm and deliberate. But in his eyes, there was a flicker of discomfort—one only you noticed.

“Frankie,” Harry said, his voice carrying a weight of something too calm for the situation. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, I'm Harry.” Then, he nodded enthusiastically, dropping his hand back to the table. “And this is Lisa."

Lisa smiled, her gaze bright and almost blinding.

“Nice to meet ya, Frankie,” she said, her voice the epitome of warmth, her charm effortless, her presence just... perfect. Oh my God, just stop it!

Frankie finally turned his attention back to you, though it wasn’t immediately clear if he was still processing the social niceties or deciding how best to carry this conversation forward. His voice shifted slightly as he spoke again.

“Same here,” he said, his tone unfamiliar to you—something smoother, almost softer, like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else. 

He moved closer, just a bit too close, slipping his arm around your waist with ease, sending a flutter through your stomach. His hand rested lightly against your side, his palm warm at your back. You froze, unable to focus on anything but the pulse of his touch, the way he effortlessly played the boyfriend role.

It felt wrong, uncomfortable.

Confusion and relief mixed inside you, unsure if the relief came from the act itself or the distraction it provided from the situation.

"Well," Frankie broke the silence. "Sorry to interrupt, but we need to leave soon. I want to make sure this beautiful woman gets some food before we go—otherwise, she goes bad."

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the way he phrased it. 

Harry chuckled, his easy laughter filling the space.

“Yeah, I believe you,” he said, his grin still wide but with a spark of curiosity. He shot a look at Lisa, then back at Frankie, narrowing his eyes just a touch. “That’s the main reason we stopped. Though I’ll admit,” he added, glancing down at the table with a mock grimace, “I was the one really starving.”

The awkwardness of the moment barely registered for Harry. He seemed to think everything was going smoothly, unaware of the small cracks in the facade that were threatening to show. Frankie, however, was more aware than anyone, and you could see it in his eyes—the way his face shifted from the casual smile to something more guarded, something more carefully neutral. 

Frankie gave a short, almost amused laugh, pulling his arm back from your waist with a light tap. His tone was polite, more deliberate than before.

“Yeah, I’m sure you can relate,” he said, a flicker of warmth in his eyes. “Keeping your lady happy, that's what it's all about, isn't it?” 

You tried to smile, but it came out thin, tight around the edges. Your legs became weak. 

Harry’s laugh was light. He buyed it.

Frankie straightened up slightly, offering his hand to Harry in that careful, calculated way that now seemed practiced, even though it hadn’t been moments ago. His movements were calculated, polite, but entirely different from the Frankie you knew. The way he was acting felt like an entirely unfamiliar version of him—Thank God.

“Okay, thanks for the chat, but we bett—” 

"Yeah, of course," Harry interrupted, still upbeat and completely oblivious to the tension. "It was nice meeting you, Frankie. Take care of her, alright? She's... well, you know. A special one."

Frankie’s smile stiffened, the edges barely moving as he gave a short nod. His eyes flicked to you for a fleeting second, his expression tight and controlled, though something was definitely off.

"I will, man," he replied, voice steady but carrying an underlying edge. "I’ve got her covered. Don’t worry. She’s in good hands."

“Bye, Harry,” you said, turning to him with a friendly but somewhat distant smile, your hand lifting in a wave that felt too casual for the weight of everything you hadn’t said. “And you too, Lisa. Good luck with the wedding!”

Lisa smiled warmly. “Thank you,” she replied, her voice smooth. “Let us know if you're coming."

“Yeah. Hope to see you at the wedding. You too, Frankie,” Harry said, just before you thought about starting to walk to the table at the back of the place.

Frankie looked confused, and looked at you for an answer, or for you to say something.

"Sure," you said, taking him by the arm, ready to leave. "We'll definitely be there!"

You moved in silence toward the booth, Frankie's hand resting at the small of your back, guiding you like an automatic reflex. The low hum of conversation in the restaurant seemed to fade as you both reached the table, and you were strangely relieved that the high backs of the seats shielded you from Harry’s view. 

He dropped into the seat across from you, his presence as loud and brash as ever, even without a word. When you looked at him, it struck you how quickly he'd reverted to the expression he always wore around you—furrowed brows, lips pressed into a thin, almost unnatural line. It wasn’t clear if it was annoyance, confusion, or just him being him.

“I’m so hungry,” you said, flipping through the laminated menu like it might hold the answers to something bigger than lunch. “I really want a burger, and some fries.”

He didn’t reply immediately, his stare heavy on you. Then:

“What the fuck was that?”

You sighed, closing the menu and flattening your hands on the table as if bracing yourself. His face was a familiar mix of wide eyes, creased forehead, and that particular grimace that always made you feel like you’d said something wrong.

You shrugged. “My ex.”

“Okay? And?”

“And that’s it. Nothing else.”

Frankie leaned back with a dramatic exhale, the leather of the booth creaking under him. He shook his head in disbelief, his jaw tightening.

“Since when am I your boyfriend?” he asked, his tone sharp with irritation. “Last time I checked, I was doing your brother a favor.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said quickly, cheeks warming. You picked up the menu again, trying to will your face back to neutrality. “Thanks for playing along, anyway.”

He sighed—loud, pointed. You glanced up, and sure enough, he was staring at you, his fingers drumming a steady rhythm on the table. Not impatient, exactly. Calculated.

“You’re not going to tell me what the fuck that was?”

You ignored him, letting the embarrassment swirl hot in your stomach as you fixed your eyes on the menu. Burgers. Burgers. Burgers. Burgers. Fries. Onion rings, maybe.

“Hey,” he said sharply, snapping his fingers in front of your face.

You blinked, snapping your head up to look at him.

“Oh, are you talking to me?”

Frankie gave you a look so exaggerated you almost laughed, except you knew he wasn’t joking.

“Who else would I be talking to? You think I’m out here monologuing? Who are you, fucking De Niro?”

“Hey!” you snapped, slamming the menu down on the table. The sound echoed between you, a sharp punctuation that sent a ripple of air across his forehead, lifting the dark strands just slightly. “Don’t talk to me like that, Francisco. Who do you think you’re talking to? We’re not friends.”

He snorted, the sound sharp but oddly soft at the same time, pulling off his cap and placing it on the seat beside him. With a low groan, he ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching briefly in the strands. His gaze found yours again, his posture seemingly relaxed but betraying a subtle tension. You could see it in the way his shoulders didn’t quite settle, in the way his eyes didn’t blink as he studied you.

“I know, we’re not friends. But I just lied for you. Why? Who was that? And why are you acting so weird?”

Before you could answer, he straightened in his seat, leaning forward slightly. “No, wait. The real question is: why are you acting weirder than usual?”

You folded your arms, leaning back until you felt the booth press into your shoulders. Your gaze flicked to the front door, the thought of walking out taking root in your mind. Leaving felt easier—safer. Honestly, you’d rather trudge all the way back to Austin on foot, the heat and endless asphalt blistering your skin, than sit here and explain yourself to Frankie. He wouldn’t care. Worse, he might care just enough to make you regret opening your mouth.

When your eyes returned to him, though, his expression surprised you. Serious, yes. But not angry. He was watching you with an almost disarming calmness, like he’d decided he had all the time in the world to wait for your answer.

You sighed, the sound shaky as it escaped your chest.

“It’s my ex,” you said, barely above a murmur.

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Your ex. I got that part. And?”

“And his fiancée.”

“Aha,” he nodded slowly, like he was piecing something together, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. “Why did you lie to them?”

You swallowed hard, the pulse in your neck thudding too loudly in your ears.

“Because...” Your voice wavered, and you hated it. “Because... Um, he told me I might meet someone at the wedding.”

Frankie blinked, his confusion shifting into something closer to disbelief.

“What?”

“God,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as heat crept up your neck. Your hands dropped to your thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans. “We dated for four months, and he broke up with me to get engaged to her. Then he invited me to their wedding. When I said I’d go, he told me not to worry about showing up alone, because I’d probably meet someone there.”

Frankie’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out, so you pressed on, a flush of anger sparking under your skin.

“So, I panicked,” you admitted, your voice sharpening. “I told him not to worry, that I’d bring my boyfriend. And then you showed up, and it just—it made sense in the moment, okay? That’s it.”

“It made sense to you to say I was your boyfriend?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “You couldn’t have said I was someone else? Made up something better?”

“No, it didn’t occur to me!” you hissed, your eyes widening as your voice rose, though you kept it just shy of shouting. “I panicked, okay? I’m sorry! What was I supposed to do?”

He stared at you for a moment, his face a mix of annoyance and bafflement, before leaning back again. You could see the wheels turning in his head, though whatever he was thinking, he wasn’t about to share it with you.

You sank deeper into your seat, glaring at the table like it might offer some kind of solace. But all you could feel was the mortifying heat of his gaze, still fixed firmly on you.

Frankie scratched his forehead, his fingers dragging slowly down to his chin, where they rested briefly before falling to the table. His expression was skeptical, as if he were trying to solve a particularly irritating puzzle.

“Okay,” he started, his voice even but edged with disbelief. “So, you dated this guy for three months—”

“Four months,” you corrected, your tone clipped.

“Right. Four months. And then he left you to get engaged?”

“Yeah.”

Frankie leaned back, his posture deceptively relaxed, but the sharpness in his eyes gave him away.

“You’re telling me he cheated on you, and you’re still planning to go to his fucking wedding? Are you out of your mind?”

He propped his chin on his left hand, elbow planted firmly on the table, and his gaze locked onto you. There was something in his expression that made your stomach twist—a combination of pity and incredulity that made you feel stupid, even if he hadn’t said the word outright.

“No, he didn’t cheat on me,” you replied, lowering your voice as you leaned forward slightly, not wanting anyone else to overhear. “We weren’t in a serious relationship. We were just... casually dating. He was always in love with her, but they couldn’t figure things out. I knew that. He told me.”

Frankie’s eyebrows lifted, his disbelief evident.

“He told you he was in love with another woman, and you still kept dating him?”

“No,” you shot back, frowning. “He told me after a while—around the time we broke up. I would never date someone who was in love with someone else.”

“But you were in love with him, weren’t you?”

There it was. That tone. The one that suggested Frankie thought he had you all figured out, as if your life and feelings were nothing more than a series of obvious moves on a chessboard he could read from across the room. He was so infuriatingly arrogant, so sure of himself.

You narrowed your eyes, but the involuntary twitch of your eyebrows betrayed you.

“I had feelings for him,” you admitted, your voice stiff with frustration.

Frankie tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking into a half-smile that made you want to smack him.

“Okay, let me make sure I’ve got this straight: this guy you casually dated for four months left you for another woman, got engaged, invited you to the wedding, and you, still hung up on him, agreed to go but invented an imaginary boyfriend so you wouldn’t have to show up alone. That about right?”

“I’m not in love with him,” you snapped, crossing your arms defensively and shaking your head.

“I don’t believe you."

“I don’t care what you believe."

“You want to know what I think?”

“Are you deaf?” you said, your lips pressing into a pout. “I just told you I don’t care.”

“I think you’re crazy for going to that wedding,” he said, leaning forward slightly. His voice dropped lower, as though he were sharing a secret, though his words carried no sympathy. “Do you want to torture yourself or something? Are you a masochist?”

The word slipped out like a dagger, his eyes narrowing as he studied your reaction, his face drawing closer, his voice almost a whisper.

You exhaled sharply, a mix of frustration and disbelief, biting your lower lip as you turned to look out the window. The distant hum of cars on the road outside felt like the only thing grounding you in the moment.

When you looked back at him, your voice was steadier, quieter.

“We’re friends. Things between us ended well. Why wouldn’t I go to his wedding?”

“So he broke your heart, and you’re still going to his wedding. Got it.” Frankie leaned back slightly as he said it, his tone deliberately even, but the words were sharp enough to make you flinch.

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, anger mixing with a deep, familiar embarrassment.

“Why the fuck do you care anyway? I already told you everything. Make fun of me all you want, but stop interrogating me and leave me alone.”

Frankie’s eyebrows lifted, his expression shifting into something maddeningly amused. A slow, sarcastic smile spread across his face, the kind that made your stomach twist in irritation.

“You got me involved in this, remember?” he said, his voice light, almost playful, which only made you angrier.

“It was just a little lie, that’s all.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“Well, you didn’t think it through,” he said flatly, reaching across the table to grab the menu you’d abandoned. He straightened it out in front of him, his fingers smoothing the creases, and his eyes scanned the options with an air of exaggerated focus.

For a moment, you thought he might actually drop it. But of course, he didn’t.

“I wonder what he’ll think,” Frankie said suddenly, his tone casual but cutting, “when he sees you show up to the wedding alone.” His eyes stayed on the menu, but his words hung heavy in the air between you. “You should’ve come up with something else. Be more witty next time. Or, I don’t know, just don’t go to the wedding. That works too.”

Oh.

Your stomach churned at the thought, the weight of it pressing down on you as your mind raced through the possibilities. He was right, of course. What were you going to do? There was no way you could actually show up to the wedding now. You’d have to turn down the invitation at the last minute, make up some absurd excuse about why you couldn’t make it. Or maybe you wouldn’t say anything at all. Harry didn’t deserve an explanation. He wasn’t entitled to one.

The silence stretched between you, uncomfortable and loud. You didn’t answer him. What could you say? You felt silly, even ridiculous, sitting there, replaying the moment over and over in your mind. Of all the places in the world, did you really have to run into Harry there, in the middle of the road, with Frankie of all people?

None of this would’ve happened if Santiago had come to pick you up like he was supposed to. If he’d warned you he couldn’t make it, you would’ve saved yourself the humiliation. You wouldn’t have had to deal with Frankie’s smirking face or his infuriating commentary.

You stared at the table, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of it. God, why did everything have to turn into a mess? Why couldn’t things just go smoothly for once?

Frankie didn’t seem to notice—or care—that you hadn’t responded. He flipped a page of the menu, his expression unreadable now, as if he’d already moved on. But his words lingered, heavy and persistent, refusing to leave you alone.

With your appetite nearly nonexistent, you ordered a hamburger. It sat heavy in front of you, unappealing and far too big. You nibbled at it slowly, methodically, as if chewing it down might somehow help you swallow the rest of your humiliation. Across the table, Frankie made quick work of his own meal. He ate like someone who hadn’t seen food in days, the kind of eating that could make anyone watching feel small.

When he finished—barely ten minutes in—he leaned back in his chair and fixed you with a look. Not an outright stare, but enough of one that you could feel the weight of his impatience.

You didn’t care.

Instead, you turned your attention to the fries on your plate. Picking up each one with deliberate slowness, you savored them, your gaze drifting toward the window. Outside, the road stretched on endlessly, shimmering in the summer heat. Frankie sighed, low and exasperated, every few minutes, but to your surprise, he didn’t rush you.

When you finally stood to leave, Harry and Lisa were nowhere to be seen. Relief swept over you like cool water. If you’d had to exchange goodbyes with them, you were sure you’d lose every bite of food you’d managed to stomach.

You followed Frankie out to the car. His footsteps were quick and purposeful, the kind that demanded anyone trailing behind him keep up or risk being left behind. Once inside, the tight, enclosed space of the vehicle made your skin crawl. You clicked your seatbelt into place, but the snugness of the strap across your chest only added to your discomfort.

For a fleeting moment, you considered bolting. What if you just opened the door and threw yourself onto the hot, sticky asphalt? You’d roll a little, maybe scrape a knee, but at least you wouldn’t be here.

The car started with a low rumble, and Frankie turned up the music without a word. The sound wasn’t loud enough to drown out your thoughts, but it added a layer of noise, a distraction you didn’t ask for but didn’t resist either.

Your gaze shifted to the scenery blurring past the window. You rested your forehead against the cool glass, welcoming the breeze coming in through the lowered window. The air smelled faintly of gasoline and sun-warmed earth.

Frankie drove in silence, his hands steady on the wheel. His thumbs tapped along to the rhythm of the song playing faintly in the background—Rebel Yell by Billy Idol. You stared at the horizon, but your mind kept circling back to him.

He probably thought this whole situation was hilarious. You could see it in the way his eyebrows had lifted earlier, the way his lips twitched with incredulity every time he asked about Harry. He didn’t need to say it—he thought you were foolish, and maybe you were. You felt it, deep in your chest, that heavy, sinking shame that told you he was right to think so.

What the hell were you going to do?

Not going to the wedding wasn’t an option, not unless you wanted Harry to think you were still upset—or worse, that you still cared. But going? Going alone? That wasn’t an option either. You could bring someone else, maybe. But who?

Harry knew all your friends, and you didn’t have many male ones left who weren’t married, taken, or entirely inappropriate. Your brother’s friends? Sure, because that would work out great. Another one of Santiago’s buddies, strolling in on your arm. You ran through the list in your head. Will? No. Ben? Ben had a girlfriend.

It was hopeless. Every scenario felt more humiliating than the last.

God, you wished you could disappear. Or better yet, transform into something simple and unbothered. A worm, maybe. Worms didn’t have exes. They didn’t have weddings to dread.

You were spiraling, and it must have shown on your face because Frankie spoke up, his voice breaking through your chaotic thoughts.

“We’ll make a stop to fill up the tank, okay?” His tone was casual, distracted, as he turned left into the gas station lot.

“Sure,” you mumbled, barely lifting your head.

The car slowed to a stop, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. For a moment, the world outside felt steadier than the one inside your head.

You followed Frankie out of the car, your steps slower and more hesitant than his easy stride. He moved with the kind of casual confidence that seemed effortless, his shoulders relaxed and his head bobbing slightly as he hummed along to a song that had been playing a few miles back. The heat pressed down on you, thick and relentless, but he didn’t seem to notice.  

You lingered by the passenger side, arms folded across your chest. Your gaze flitted to the gas station shop, where shelves of snacks and cold drinks promised brief relief from the sweltering air. For a fleeting moment, you considered going inside—maybe grabbing a soda, or even just standing under the blast of an air conditioner. But then you thought about how much longer that would draw out this journey. The idea of extending your time in Frankie’s company, even by a minute, was enough to keep you rooted in place.  

So you waited, watching him in silence. He moved with the kind of efficiency you’d expect from someone used to things like this—mundane tasks, long drives, solitude. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t dawdle either. He glanced at you once as he replaced the nozzle, his expression unreadable, and then he climbed back into the car without a word.  

You followed suit, settling into your seat and pulling the door shut with a soft click.  

The miles ahead stretched out endlessly, yet the closer you got to Austin, the more your thoughts swirled. You cycled through possibilities, none of them good. Each option felt like another layer of embarrassment, a new way to showcase just how deeply you’d tangled yourself in this ridiculous situation.  

Eventually, your mind settled on one solution—a compromise of sorts, though it was far from ideal. You turned it over and over, weighing the risk against your pride. It felt heavy in your chest, but the closer you got to the city, the harder it became to ignore.  

Finally, as the familiar outline of Austin came into view, you forced yourself to speak.  

“Frankie,” you said, your voice tentative. You turned to look at him, your hands fidgeting nervously in your lap.  

He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What?”  

“You know,” you began, cautiously, “Santi loves you a lot. You’re one of his best friends.”  

“I know.” 

“And you must love Santi too, right? I mean, you’d do anything for him.”  

At that, he glanced at you, his brows knitting together in confusion. The kindness in your voice must have thrown him off. But what really seemed to unnerve him was the faint, almost hesitant smile you were giving him.  

“Of course I love him,” he said slowly, his tone edged with suspicion. “What do you want?”  

You smiled a little wider, tilting your head. “Why do you think I want something?”  

“Because you’re smiling at me like that,” he shot back, returning his focus to the road. “And it’s creepy. Stop it. You’re scaring me.”  

“I just think,” you said carefully, “that it was really nice of you to go all the way to Dallas to pick me up. You didn’t have to, you know. I could’ve taken a bus or figured something out. But you did it anyway. You did me a favor today, and I just—”  

He cut you off with a dry laugh, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. A bead of sweat had formed there, glistening in the harsh afternoon light.

“If you want to call it that,” he muttered.  

“I mean it,” you insisted, leaning slightly toward him. “You didn’t have to do this. You could’ve said no, and I wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. Why?”  

His grip tightened on the wheel, and he shot you another quick, sidelong glance. His expression was guarded, like he wasn’t sure where this was going or if he wanted to know.

“I dunno,” he said finally, his tone clipped. “Because Santi asked me to. Because I had nothing else to do. Does it matter?”  

You pursed your lips, staring straight ahead as your thoughts spiraled. Why were you nervous? It wasn’t fear—definitely not fear of him. But still, there was something about Frankie that unsettled you, something sharp-edged and unyielding in the way he looked at you, like he could see more than you intended to show.

You forced yourself to steady your breathing, trying to reason with your own hesitation. It didn’t matter if he was intimidating. It didn’t matter what he thought of you.

“I think you should come to the wedding with me,” you blurted, the words tumbling out before you had the chance to second-guess them. As soon as they were out, you snapped your gaze away, focusing intently on a crack in the dashboard as though it held the secrets of the universe.

“What?” Frankie’s tone wasn’t as surprised as you’d expected—it was more amused, like he thought you’d just said something profoundly ridiculous.

“You should come to the wedding with me,” you repeated, forcing yourself to look at him this time.

He turned his head briefly, his eyes scanning your face, his expression unreadable. He seemed to be studying you, trying to decide whether you were joking or if you’d completely lost your mind. Finally, he clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“No,” he said flatly.

“Frankie.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, his voice rising slightly in exasperation. “Did you hit your head or something? Have you completely lost it?”

“No, just hear me out,” you said, raising a hand in what you hoped was a calming gesture. He shot you a wary glance but didn’t interrupt. “It’ll just be a favor—a small favor. I swear, if you do this for me, I’ll give you whatever you want. Wathever. Um, well—not whatever you want,” you corrected quickly. “Something reasonable. Something human. Please.”

Frankie snorted, a small, incredulous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re asking me to pretend to be your boyfriend at the wedding of a guy who dumped you? And you’re the sister of one of my best friends?” He shook his head, laughing quietly, like he couldn’t quite believe the words coming out of your mouth.

You sighed, the weight of your desperation pressing down on you.

“Santi will understand,” you argued, your tone bordering on pleading now. “He will. And it’s not like I’m asking for much—just come with me for a little while. We don’t even have to stay all night. Just long enough to…” You trailed off, realizing how pathetic you sounded. “Just long enough to make it believable.”

“Sorry, no,” Frankie said firmly, cutting you off. “I’m not getting dragged into your drama. And honestly? I think it’s stupid for you to go to that wedding in the first place. What are you trying to prove? My answer is no. Invite someone else.”

Frustration burned in your chest, rising up to your cheeks as his words landed. You could feel your face heating, both from embarrassment and anger.

“I can’t invite someone else,” you snapped. “You’re my boyfriend, remember? That’s what Harry thinks. He saw you. They saw you. And you did a pretty good job pretending to be nice to me today—can’t you do it one more time? Just this once?”

“No—”

“I’ll do anything you want,” you interrupted, your voice insistent. “I mean it. Any favor you can think of. Just name it.”

Frankie tilted his head, giving you a skeptical look.

“I’m not interested in any favors from you,” he said bluntly. “I don’t need anything.”

“Then do it for Santi,” you said, desperate now.

Frankie laughed at that, a low, disbelieving sound that only irritated you further.

“What does your brother have to do with any of this?”

“He’s your best friend,” you said, leaning toward him slightly, like you could will him to understand. “And you love him. And I’m his sister.”

“Uh-huh,” Frankie said, still smirking. “So?”

“So, doesn’t that mean you should help me?”

Frankie’s laugh grew louder, his shoulders shaking slightly as he glanced at you.

“You’re really reaching now, aren’t you?”

He turned to look at you then, the movement deliberate, his eyes narrowing slightly as they met yours. There was no malice there, but the firm set of his jaw told you all you needed to know—there was no convincing him. He understood the weight of your request, the quiet urgency stitched into each word, but it didn’t sway him.

“I’ve never asked you for help before,” you said, your voice softer now, almost brittle. “In fact, I’ve refused your help plenty of times. You said I was childish, remember? Well, fine. Maybe I’m being childish. But now I’m asking. Just this once.”

He shook his head slowly.

“It’s not the same thing,” he said, his voice low and steady, like he was trying to explain something simple to a child. “And you are being childish. Like I told you—no. The answer’s fucking no.”

You blinked hard, swallowing against the sting of rejection that settled heavy in your throat.

“Okay, fine,” you replied, the word clipped, your voice devoid of emotion. You turned your face away from him, angling it toward the window, not wanting him to see the look on your face—humiliation, maybe, or something closer to defeat. “Thank you.”

Frankie sighed, long and low, his hands flexing around the steering wheel as though he were squeezing the last ounce of patience from himself. The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the low hum of the car and the faint thrum of your pulse in your ears.

The rest of the drive passed without a single word exchanged. You stared out the window while Frankie focused intently on the road, his grip on the wheel tight and unyielding.

When the car finally pulled up in front of your house, the relief that washed over you was immediate and overwhelming. You reached for the door handle, your fingers trembling slightly, and stepped out into the humid air.

Frankie followed, moving around to the back of the car with the same mechanical precision he’d had all day. He popped the trunk and pulled out your suitcase, the effort seemingly as uninspired as when he’d loaded it hours ago.

He carried it to the door and set it down, his movements brisk, almost dismissive. You stood there, arms crossed, your body angled away from him, unwilling to meet his gaze.

“That’ll be all,” he said finally, his tone flat, his sunglasses obscuring his eyes on your face.

“Thank you,” you murmured, barely audible. “I’ll let Santi know I’m home.”

“Good.”

You didn’t look up as he turned back toward the car. You didn’t watch him leave, but you heard the sound of his door slamming shut, the low rumble of the engine as he drove off.

As the noise of his departure faded into the distance, you stayed rooted to the spot for a moment longer, the weight of the day pressing heavy on your shoulders. The heat prickled against your skin, and your head ached faintly, a dull reminder of how much you wanted this day to end.

You grabbed the handle of your suitcase, pulling it inside as the silence of the house enveloped you. You needed a shower—cold water to wash away the heat, the frustration, the embarrassment of it all. You needed to be alone, to let the day dissolve into nothingness behind a locked door.

Nearly two weeks slipped by, lost in the haze of your routines and the background hum of self-destructive thoughts.

What were you going to do? Probably nothing. You wouldn’t go. That was the easiest answer, and maybe the only one that made sense. What choice did you really have?

Still, Frankie’s words stuck in your head, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. What are you trying to prove? he’d asked. And after a few restless nights, staring at the ceiling and replaying the conversation, you realized he was right. You did want to prove something—to Harry, to yourself. You wanted him to see you happy, radiantly happy, at his wedding, as though it didn’t touch you at all. You wanted to seem light and unbothered, the kind of woman who could be at her ex’s wedding without flinching.

Except you did care. Of course, you cared. You hated that you cared. And you hated Harry for putting you in this position. How could you not be upset? The man had left you only a few months ago, and now he was marrying someone else. It wasn’t normal—none of it was. But you couldn’t shake the question gnawing at the back of your mind: why did you have to be the one left hurt?

And Frankie. You’d hated the way he’d looked at you when he said it; What are you trying to prove? What the hell were you trying to prove? like he couldn’t believe how foolish you were. If you hadn’t wanted to see him before, you definitely didn’t want to now. You resolved to talk to Santi, to tell him how uncomfortable the trip had been—without blaming Frankie, exactly—and to ask, kindly but firmly, that he warn you if Frankie would be around in the future.

It was humiliating, this whole situation. But you were sure about one thing: you never wanted to see Francisco Morales again.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving your kitchen in soft shadows as you stirred sugar into your coffee. Your gaze stayed fixed on your laptop, on Harry’s wedding invitation glowing on the screen. You’d read it so many times it felt permanently etched into your mind. But now, you’d decided. You weren’t going.

Your finger hovered over the trackpad, guiding the cursor to the “RSVP not attending” option. You paused, just for a second, your chest tightening. Then, before you could click, the doorbell rang, sharp and sudden, making you flinch.

Setting the mug down, you crossed to the window, peering out at the sidewalk. The sight below made your brows knit together. That couldn’t be right. Surely, you were imagining things.

You slipped on a pair of shoes and headed downstairs, opening the door without much thought.

“Francisco,” you said flatly, his name sitting awkwardly on your tongue. “What are you doing here? Did something happen with Santi?”

He dragged a hand over his mouth and shook his head, slow and deliberate.

“Can we talk?”

“About what?” Your tone was sharp, incredulous, your expression twisted like he’d just said something absurd.

He looked different somehow. Neater, you thought, though you hated yourself for noticing. His hair was slightly shorter, his beard more trimmed than usual.

He sighed, long and heavy, like he’d been forced into something he didn’t want to do. The sound made you laugh, a sharp, derisive snort. As if he had the right to be irritated. He’d shown up unannounced, at night, on your doorstep. If anyone should feel fed up, it was you.

“I’m going to help you,” he said finally, the words clipped and begrudging.

“With what?”

“With your ex.”

“What?” The confusion on your face deepened. “Harry?”

Frankie glanced to the side, as if checking for onlookers, before returning his gaze to you and nodding.

“Are there other exes you need help with?”

His question was thick with sarcasm, and you rolled your eyes in response.  

“Well, I don’t need your help anymore. But thanks,” you said quickly, your voice tight, as you began to push the door shut, inch by inch.  

Then his hand was on it, stopping you.  

“Wait,” he said, and this time his voice was different—tinged with something almost like desperation. “I’m serious.”  

You paused, narrowing your eyes at him through the gap.

“Why would you help me? You were very clear the other day,” you said, your tone sharp. “There’s no point in me going to the wedding.”  

“True, there’s no point,” he said, his gaze steady on yours. “But I know you well enough to know you’d love to go anyway. To show Harry how great you’re doing. Am I wrong?”  

“You’re wrong,” you shot back instantly, too quickly.  

Frankie sighed, the sound dragging out like he was trying to buy himself time. He glanced away for a second, then back at you, his expression suddenly resolute.  

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.  

You blinked at him, stunned into silence for a moment.

Then, with a raised brow, you asked, “Are you sick? Do you have a fever, Francisco?” You brought your hand up toward his forehead, but he flinched back dramatically before you could touch him.  

“What are you up to?” you asked, pulling the door open wider, suspicion laced in your tone.  

Frankie stood there, his posture stiff, his expression uncomfortable, like he was holding something in that might burst out if you pressed too hard.  

“May I come in?” he asked finally, his brown eyes soft and glinting, almost boyish.  

You hesitated, studying him for a few beats, letting the curiosity outweigh your disdain. Then you stepped back and opened the door fully, sealing the moment with the soft click of the latch behind him.  

Frankie climbed the stairs ahead of you, pausing at the top to wait as you opened the door to your apartment. He stepped inside, scanning the space.  

Your living room was warm, cozy but cluttered—books and mugs scattered across the coffee table and nearly every other available surface, interspersed with pens, pencils, and random odds and ends. Behind the sofa, the kitchen was visible, small but functional.  

You stood back, watching him take it all in. His expression was unreadable, but you imagined him silently judging the chaos. You almost wanted him to—let him think it was messy, or that your style was lacking. You didn’t care.

He didn’t belong there, in your space. Everything about him seemed incongruous with the world you’d built for yourself—his presence like a mismatched puzzle piece, forcibly shoved into place where it clearly didn’t fit. He was out of tune with your reality, standing in the warmth of your living room like he’d wandered in from an entirely different life.

You crossed to the kitchen island, where your half-drunk coffee sat waiting. Sliding onto the stool, you gestured at the one across from you.

“Have a seat.”

Frankie hesitated but eventually sat down, his movements stiff and reluctant, like he’d rather be anywhere else. His expression was tight, uncomfortable, like he was a vampire catching the faintest whiff of garlic in the air. His eyes landed immediately on your laptop, still glowing with Harry’s wedding invitation.

“I see you’re taking the wedding well,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

You sighed audibly, refusing to take the bait.

“What do you want?”

As you waited for him to answer, you lifted your coffee to your lips. It had already cooled, the bitterness more pronounced now that it was lukewarm. Another thing he ruined for you, you thought bitterly. Your fucking coffee. 

“I’ve been thinking—”

“Congratulations,” you cut in, deadpan.

Frankie’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and unamused. He didn’t even blink, just stared at you like he was waiting for you to get it out of your system. You shrugged, feigning indifference, though the weight of his gaze made your skin prickle.

“I’ve decided I’m going to the wedding with you,” he said finally.

You raised an eyebrow, lowering your mug to the counter.

“You decided? I thought you didn’t want to go with me.”

“I don’t,” he said. His fingers brushed the edge of your laptop, tracing a line along it.

“But you’re still here,” you said, your voice laced with suspicion.

Frankie exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly.

“I’ll help you… if you help me.”

“If I help you? With what? Don’t tell me you’re finally going to therapy,” you blurted out, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

Frankie straightened in his seat, his back stiffening like you’d just landed a verbal jab. For a moment, it looked like he might get up and leave—walk out and never look back. But instead, he stayed. He clenched his jaw, his eyes locking on yours with a determined, almost defiant look.

“I had dinner with my family tonight,” he began, his voice measured but tense. “With my mom and two of my sisters—”

“Is that why you look like that?” you interrupted, tilting your head.

“What?”

“Like you finally took a bath,” you said, your smirk widening.

Frankie exhaled sharply, his patience visibly fraying. “Can you shut up and listen to me for a second? I’ll be brief.”

You held up a hand as if to say, Fine, go on.

“They’re nice, my family, but they won’t leave me alone,” he said, his tone growing more frustrated. “All through dinner, they kept asking me these awkward questions, trying to convince me to go on these dates they’ve been setting up with their friends’ daughters or coworkers or whoever.”

Your smile widened, thoroughly amused. “Why? Why don’t you just go? Come to think of it—”

“No,” he cut you off, his voice sharp. “I already agreed once, and it was a disaster. I’m not doing it again. And I’m not about to get into that with you.”

“Good,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Because I’m not interested.”

Frankie sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair.

“Every time I see them—for over a year now—it’s the same thing. They won’t leave me alone. And look, I get it. They’re trying to be helpful. But I’ve had enough.”

Your curiosity piqued at that. “What happened a year ago? Why?”

Frankie’s face tightened, his upper lip curling slightly as if the question had caught him off guard.

He frowned, his brows drawing together, before finally muttering, “That doesn’t matter.”

The dodge only made you more curious, but you let it go, watching as he leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.

“The point is,” he continued, “I got fed up. So tonight, when they started in on me again, I told them to back off. That I didn’t need them setting me up on dates because… because I already have a girlfriend.”

His words hung in the air for a moment, their weight sinking in.

Oh.

“Oh,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your eyebrows lifted just enough to show your surprise, though you tried to mask it.

Frankie shifted in his seat, his gaze falling to his hand resting on his knee. He shook his head slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible motion, as though he was trying to block out whatever he feared you might say next.  

“Funny,” you said, your voice light with mockery. “And your mother believed you?”  

When he looked up at you, his expression darkened. The amused smile playing on your lips ignited a flash of irritation in his eyes. You looked entirely too entertained by the situation, and it made him bristle.  

“Hardly,” he admitted, his tone sharp. “I don’t even think I convinced her. That’s why I need your help.”  

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly, as though creating space from whatever absurdity was about to come out of his mouth.

“You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?”  

Frankie nodded once, curtly. “My mom’s birthday is in a few days. She’s turning sixty. She’s having this big nice party, and she told me she wants to meet my girlfriend then.”  

You crossed your arms, still trying to gauge whether or not this was some elaborate joke.

“When’s the party?”  

“Next Saturday.”  

Your eyebrows shot up, and your lips parted in disbelief.

“Francisco,” you grumbled, the word low and heavy. “That’s in three days.”  

“I know,” he muttered, matching your tone. His jaw tightened like he was already regretting the entire conversation.  

“And what did you tell her?” you demanded. “What did you say when she asked?”  

Frankie’s hand moved to the counter, his fingers drumming once before he let them still.

He hesitated, and then, in a resigned voice, said, “I told her yes. That I’d bring my girlfriend to her birthday.” He paused, meeting your gaze. “So she’d finally leave me alone.”  

You pushed back from the stool, standing in one swift, exasperated motion. Your hands flew to your hips, your whole body radiating irritation as you glared at him.  

“Oh, so you just assumed I’d help you, didn’t you?” you snapped, your voice loud in the otherwise quiet apartment. “What if I said no?”  

“I knew you wouldn’t say no,” Frankie said, meeting your anger with calm certainty.  

You let out an incredulous laugh, your head tilting back briefly before you fixed him with a sharp look.

“My God, what’s wrong with you? You don’t know what I’m thinking.”  

He didn’t flinch, though you could see his patience thinning in the slight twitch of his brow.

“I know you well enough to know you’ll say yes,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, as though he were stating the obvious.  

The sheer audacity of it made you want to scream.

Frankie rose from his spot, his movements deliberate and quick. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the room, closing the space between you with purposeful strides. He stopped in front of you, standing taller, looking down at you with an intensity that was hard to ignore.  

“I know you want to go to the wedding,” he said, his voice firm. “I know you asked me to go with you, and you were persistent. And anyway, I think you owe me.”  

You blinked, incredulous, a small laugh escaping your lips despite yourself.

“I owe you?”  

Frankie’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he took a small step closer.

“Don’t forget that the only reason you didn’t make a complete fool of yourself in front of Harry was because I decided to help you. I played along. If I’d wanted to, I could’ve exposed you in front of him and his fiancée. I could’ve made it worse.”  

“Thank you so much, Francisco, you're a fucking angel,” you spat, your tone thick with sarcasm, though the incredulous smile on your face betrayed how absurd it all felt. “What do you want me to do? Give you a hero of the century award?”  

Frankie’s expression didn’t waver; he was dead serious. “No. Come with me to my mom’s birthday and we’re even.”  

You froze for a moment, processing his words, the sheer audacity of them making your heart skip a beat. This was beyond ridiculous.  

"You're fucking crazy! Are you serious?" you demanded, unable to hide the disbelief in your voice. "It’s not even close. Harry’s my ex something, nothing more. And you’re asking me to go with you to a family event, full of your relatives, and you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend in front of all of them?”  

Frankie’s eyes flicked upwards, his impatience seeping into his expression. He rolled his eyes.  

“It’s not like we’re getting married,” he said, dismissive, his voice tinged with frustration. “You’re exaggerating. It’s not the first time I’ve taken a girlfriend to a family thing. What are you, fifteen?”  

You crossed your arms, giving him a skeptical look. “I don’t know, by my standards, introducing a girlfriend to your family seems like a pretty serious thing.”  

Frankie exhaled through his nose, clearly growing more insistent. He looked at you with unwavering intensity, his gaze now pointed, as if trying to break through the walls you were building between you and this ridiculous proposition.  

“I’ll take care of that,” he said, his voice steady but with a finality that made it clear he wasn’t backing down.

You stood there for a moment, the room stretching in a strange, suspended silence. You weighed his words in your mind, the absurdity of the situation tangled with a strange sense of reluctant curiosity.  

“Are you really going to accompany me to the wedding?” you asked, your voice quieter than you’d intended, the question slipping out like something you hadn’t meant to say aloud.  

Frankie nodded, a reassuring, almost teasing gesture, as though he was certain he had already won.

“I’ll help you catch the bouquet and everything,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling in a grin that almost made you want to punch him.  

“You’re ridiculous,” you muttered, your voice edged with irritation.  

“And yet, here you are, still going with me to that wedding.”  

Frustration rose in your chest, pooling in your throat like heat. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the rush of emotion that threatened to spill over. How utterly insolent. How impossible.  

“Fine,” you finally spat out, barely containing the anger simmering beneath your words. “I’ll help you. But you’d better make my time count, Francisco.”  

He flashed a half-smile, the kind of smug, self-satisfied smirk that made your fingers itch to slap him. You wanted to say something else—something cutting, something that would make him regret this entire conversation. But you couldn’t.  

Instead, Frankie reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen a couple of times before handing it to you.

“Give me your number.”  

You took the phone from him with a swift, almost startled motion, your fingers brushing against his as you punched in your number. The action felt mechanical, as if you were moving through a script you didn’t want to follow. When you handed it back to him, you watched him tap the screen, adding you to his contacts with deliberate motions. His fingers moved quickly, but you couldn’t catch the name he gave you. It was probably something ridiculous, something that made you cringe even without knowing it.

He didn’t say anything, just slid the phone back into his pocket, and turned to head for the door. But before he reached it, he stopped and looked at you, his eyes meeting yours once more.  

“I’ll text you,” he said abruptly, almost as if it were a last-minute afterthought.  

And then, without waiting for a response, he opened the door and left, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the quiet stairs. You stood there, still staring at the empty doorway, the weight of his words hanging in the air long after he was gone.

With one click, you confirmed your attendance.

tags: @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti (a few of the tags aren't working, idk why, fix it tumblr!!!!)

beautiful divider by @saradika-graphics 💗

[edsrosetattoo]

This is the best idea in the history of film.

[vadersaber]

People turning against Chappell Roan for not accepting harassment & stalking of her and her family, saying Hozier is acting embarrassing for defending his girlfriend THAT Y'ALL WEREN'T EVEN SUPPOSED TO KNOW ABOUT after she got harassed online, calling Pedro Pascal names for.. apparently not greeting fans loudly in his own private time?

Y'all have GOT to get a grip on real life if you think celebs establishing boundaries is working against you. You do not know these people, you will not sleep with these people and they do not owe you anything!!!!!!

[fleurdeladore]

oh how i miss the lionscage era :’)

See those two guys over there? They’ve been watching us.

The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent (2022) dir. Tom Gormican