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[poetryofmanya]

my mother's laughter: a poem by Manya.

[almostfoxglove]

^ this is me getting carried off into the sky by JOY reading this chapter. oh my gosh, watching them check this off her list was so cathartic, and HER RUNNING OVER TO TACKLE HUG HIM IS EVERYTHING IS ME. oh my god. this put the biggest smile on my face :,,) I love love loveee this fic sm

The boyfriend act, part 10: "The one with the skydiving" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: It’s the day after the wedding, and you and Frankie aren’t being too open about it. You jump together, and it makes sense, of course, that you fall. WC: 8.6K

A/N: Okay, so here’s what happened: I started writing chapter 10 and just kept going and going, and before I knew it, it was WAY too long. So, I split it in two. This is chapter 10, and chapter 11 will be up sometime between tomorrow and monday because, honestly, I can’t wait to share it!!! lol If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! LOVE YOU SO MUCH!!

Frankie was the first to wake.

He lay on his side, eyes half-lidded, his body heavy with the kind of exhaustion that doesn’t fade overnight. For a few seconds—four, maybe five—he simply existed in the quiet, his mind sluggish, untangling the fog of sleep. And then he remembered.

The previous night played back in pieces: your hands, the soft drag of your voice, the way you had looked at him. He exhaled, the air catching in his throat as his gaze settled on you. Morning light filtered through the curtains, casting pale streaks across your bare shoulder. You were still asleep, your breathing even, your face turned slightly away from him. You looked peaceful. That was the first thing that unnerved him.

The second was the sharp vibration of his phone on the nightstand. The sound cut through the silence like an alarm meant for something urgent, something ominous. Get up. Get out. Now.

For a fleeting, desperate moment, he considered it. Panic gripped him, quick and suffocating. It would be easier to leave. Slip out before you woke, before you had the chance to regret anything. Before you could look at him with the kind of quiet disappointment that would make his chest ache for days.

But he couldn’t do that. Not to you. Not to himself.

If you woke and found him gone, it would undo everything—the slow, careful progress of the past few days. He wasn’t sure what that progress meant, not exactly, but he knew it mattered. And he wasn’t ready to lose it.

So he stayed.

He reached for his phone, silencing the alarm with a swipe of his thumb. 8:00 a.m. His eyes burned, his head ached, but he closed them again, let himself drift in the shallow space between sleep and wakefulness.

When he opened them again, he startled, instinctively checking the time. Only twenty minutes had passed.

He supposed the rational thing to do would be to wake you. Shake your shoulder gently, say your name, ease you into consciousness before the weight of the morning settled in.  

But then he turned his head and saw you, exactly as you had been hours ago. You hadn’t moved. Still curled on your side, facing him, one hand tucked beneath your jaw. Your breathing steady, your face soft, undisturbed. He had never seen you like this—so completely at ease, as if the world beyond this bed didn’t exist.  

And so he stayed quiet. Let another moment pass before dragging you into the aftermath of what you’d done. Another moment before you opened your eyes and saw him there, before recognition flickered across your face, before regret had the chance to settle in your expression like a bruise.  

So he watched you instead. Two, maybe three minutes of memorizing you, as if his mind had no choice but to press the image of you deeper and deeper into itself. The curve of your brows, the dark shadow of your lashes against your cheek, the fullness of your lips—soft, inviting, impossibly close. His own breath felt unnatural in his chest, too aware of itself, too careful.  

Something shifted in him then, a pulse of warmth in his ribs that curled low in his stomach, spreading outward like a lit fuse. Familiar. Dangerous. His throat tightened. His fingers twitched against the sheets. And then, just as quickly, something cold followed—a sharp, sinking understanding. It was too late.

Too late. Something changed.

Almost without thinking—acting on impulse, or maybe just a need to break the silence pressing in on him—Frankie reached out and let his fingers brush against your shoulder. A light touch, barely there. You shifted, just slightly, but didn’t wake.

For a second, he considered letting you sleep a little longer. So he let his gaze wander around the room, taking in details he had never really considered before. He had been here before, of course, but never like this, never with the luxury of stillness. The dresser at the foot of the bed held a neat row of books, their spines softened from use, stacked beside two picture frames. One of you and Emma, arms around each other, grinning at the camera. The other, a quieter moment—your face turned toward your father, something warm and unguarded in your expression. Above it all, the television hung dark and unlit, a black void against the pale wall.

On the floor, a scattering of shoes—heels, mostly. He imagined you stepping into them, then stepping out just as quickly, discarding them in favor of something better. By the window, a chair, half-buried under a pile of clothes, as if you had thrown them there in a hurry, already thinking about something else. He could see you doing it. He could see you standing there, sighing, pressing your fingers to your temples before turning away.

Then, a sound. A quiet, insistent scratch, followed by a high, barely-there meow.

He exhaled, swung his legs over the side of the bed, and pushed himself up. The floor was cool against his feet as he walked to the door. When he cracked it open, a small shape darted in—Mr. Darcy, tail held high, back slightly arched as he rubbed himself against Frankie’s legs with a kind of determined affection.

“Good morning,” Frankie murmured, crouching down to run a hand over the cat’s head. Mr. Darcy blinked up at him, then pushed his face into Frankie’s palm before pulling away again.

He turned back toward the hallway, his green eyes wide and expectant, then let out another quiet meow.

Frankie frowned. “What’s up, buddy?” The cat meowed again. “You hungry? Thirsty?”

Mr. Darcy flicked his tail, like maybe he wasn’t impressed with the question, like maybe Frankie should already know the answer.

The cat turned without hesitation and padded down the hallway, glancing back just once, as if to make sure Frankie understood. He did. His instructions were clear. So, he followed.    

When he caught up, Darcy had already settled beside an empty dish, sitting upright, his tail curled neatly around his paws. He flicked his gaze between Frankie and the bowl, expectant.  

“Yeah, you’re hungry,” Frankie observed, rubbing the back of his neck as he stepped closer. He glanced toward the cabinets, exhaling. He had no idea where you kept the food, and he didn’t want to make a mess looking for it. Still, he crouched down, opened one door, then another, moving carefully, aware that he was rummaging through someone else’s kitchen. Eventually, he found what he was looking for—a nearly full container pushed toward the back of a shelf.  

Behind him, Darcy let out a pleased little chirp of approval. Frankie huffed a quiet laugh.  

“I don’t know if she feeds you at this hour, buddy,” he said, unscrewing the lid. “You better not get me in trouble.”  

He crouched again, tipping just the right amount into the dish. Darcy immediately dipped his head, ears twitching as he focused on his meal, content and undisturbed. Frankie lingered for a moment, watching him eat, then sealed the container and put it back where he’d found it.

The apartment was quiet. He pressed his hands against the counter, letting his weight settle there for a beat. Darcy crunched his food, unconcerned.

Standing there, he let his gaze drift across your living room. His jacket was still slung over the armchair, exactly where he’d left it the night before, and your journal—left open, pages curling slightly at the edges—sat on the coffee table. The sight of it sent something uneasy through him, like he had glimpsed a version of himself that didn’t quite make sense.  

What the hell was he doing?  

Why was he here, in your house, moving through your space with an ease that should have felt unnatural but didn’t? Feeding your cat like it was just another part of his morning routine, like he had done it a hundred times before. Even the smell of your apartment—faint traces of coffee, something floral, something unmistakably you—felt familiar in a way it shouldn’t. As if he had spent more time here than he actually had.  

It didn’t add up. And it was unsettling, wrong. He had no reason to feel this comfortable. 

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

A month ago, he could barely stand you. And you—well, you had made it very clear the feeling was mutual. It hadn’t even been two months since he first stepped into your apartment and you had greeted him with a can of Coke and a look that could’ve frozen him solid. Not even two months since Santiago had taken one look at the two of you and laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all.  

The quiet stretched between him and the sound of Darcy’s methodical chewing. He needed to wake you up. To say something, to break whatever spell had settled over this moment before it unraveled into something he wouldn’t know how to explain.

He pushed himself up from the counter, rubbing a hand over his face as if that might help shake off the lingering heaviness of sleep. The apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that made him move softer, more aware of the space he was in. He took a quick detour to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, running a hand through his hair. It didn’t do much, but it was enough. Then he turned back toward your room.  

You were still there, curled up beneath the sheets, your breathing deep and steady. Sleep clung to you like a second skin. He wondered, briefly, if you’d been comfortable like that, in last night’s dress, or if it had twisted around you in ways that made it impossible to rest.  

His shoes were at the edge of your bed. He reached for them, moving carefully, the quiet feeling heavier now that he was trying not to break it. Slipping them on, he walked back to where he’d been sitting not long ago and lowered himself onto the mattress beside you.  

His fingers found your shoulder, his touch featherlight, testing. He said your name, soft, careful. You didn’t stir. Instead, you let out a small, sleepy sound—one of those drowsy, unwilling whimpers, the kind kids make when they’re being nudged awake too early for school.

He tried again, his fingertips grazing over your skin, your name forming once more on his lips. This time, your eyes fluttered open.  

Frankie watched you, still and waiting. He braced himself for something—confusion, regret, the sharp edge of a boundary being drawn.  

But instead, you smiled.  

“Hey,” you murmured, your voice thick with sleep. “You’re here.”  

“Yeah, I—”  

“What time is it?”  

Frankie glanced at his phone, the screen too bright in the dim light of the room. “Quarter to nine.”

“Oh,” you murmured, shifting beneath the sheets as you pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes. “Shit, my makeup. I probably look like a panda.”  

You sat up, blinking the sleep from your eyes, and fixed him with a squint, like you were still adjusting to the light—or maybe to the sight of him sitting there.  

“Have you been up long?” You asked.

“A little while.” He leaned back slightly, rubbing a hand over his knee. “I fed Darcy. Hope that’s okay.”  

“Ah, well.” You stretched your arms over your head, then you exhaled, your words lost for a moment in a yawn. “That’s all right.”  

Then you looked at him, really looked at him, your face still and unreadable in the quiet.  

Frankie held your gaze, steady at first, until something in his chest tightened. He looked down at his lap.  

“You feeling okay?” His voice was quieter now, less sure.

“Yeah. You?”  

“Good. Not hungover?” He tilted his head, glancing at you from the corner of his eye.  

“I need coffee.” 

Frankie huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “Me too.”  

“I’ll make some.” You swung your legs over the edge of the bed and stood up, stretching again before padding toward the door. “Feel well enough to jump out of an airplane?”  

He smirked, mirroring your movement as he got up and followed.

“Funny, I was about to ask you the same thing.” His footsteps were heavy behind you as you made your way to the kitchen. “I feel good. What about you?”  

“I’m not missing that jump,” you said, throwing him a glance as you opened the fridge. You grabbed a bottle of water, twisted off the cap, and handed it to him. He took it without thinking, his fingers brushing over yours for a brief second. “What time should we leave?”

“Ten o’clock sounds good.”  

Your eyes flicked open wider, a spark of surprise breaking through the haze of sleep. “That’s in an hour.”  

“That’s right.” Frankie lifted the bottle to his lips, tipping it back as he swallowed. The cold water cut through the dryness in his throat, and he gestured vaguely with the bottle before setting it back down. “I’ll go home, take a shower, and come back for you. That okay?”  

You nodded. “Yeah. That’s fine. A shower sounds amazing.”  

Frankie huffed out a quiet laugh. “Okay.”

He placed the bottle on the counter beside you and stepped toward the living room, grabbing his jacket from where he’d tossed it the night before.

“Aren’t you going to have coffee?” 

“When I get back, okay?”  

You nodded again, though the hesitation in your face made him grin. Jacket draped over his arm, hair still a mess from the night, he walked back toward you.  

“I’ll see you in a bit. Get ready—wear something comfortable.”  

And then, before he could think about it, before he could stop himself, he leaned in and pressed his lips to your cheek.  

It was brief, barely a second, but the warmth of your skin stayed with him as he pulled back. The realization of what he’d just done settled in immediately, heat rising up the back of his neck. He turned away, walking toward the door, suddenly hyperaware of his own movements.  

“Uh—wear, um—wear comfortable shoes,” he added, grasping for something to say.  

His hand was on the doorknob when he finally glanced back at you. Your expression unreadable, your posture relaxed, still tucked into the kitchen like you hadn’t quite caught up to the moment either.  

“I’ll be back,” he said, voice quieter now. Then, after a beat, “I’ll be right back.”  

“Bye, Francisco,” you murmured, your voice soft.

Frankie pulled the door shut behind him and took the stairs two at a time, his heartbeat a little too quick, his breath coming out in uneven bursts. His body felt too warm, like he’d just stepped out of a too-hot shower, but at the same time, his hands were cold. By the time he reached the front door and stepped outside, the cool morning air hit his face, soft and bracing all at once. It felt like a reset. Like a kiss against his overheated skin.

But the relief was short-lived.

A creeping discomfort settled in his chest, something uneasy and unformed. You hadn’t said anything. Hadn’t flinched or looked at him funny. No wide-eyed stare, no awkward shifting. It was like nothing had happened.

Hadn’t it?

Maybe it wasn’t a big deal. Maybe you’d already forgotten.

But—no. He was almost sure you weren’t drunk enough to forget something like that. Almost. And yet, the possibility wedged itself into his mind, refusing to be dismissed.

Had you forgotten?

Or worse—had it just meant nothing?

Christ.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face as he crossed the street. 

What the hell had he been thinking?

“Nothing. It was like nothing happened.”

Emma narrowed her eyes at you from the video call, her face filling most of your screen as you propped your phone up on the nightstand. You were sitting on the edge of your bed, pulling on your sneakers, hair still damp from the shower. The conversation had been going since you stepped out, and you had told her everything. Everything.

“Would you have liked him to say something about it,” she asked, tilting her head, “or am I imagining that?”

“Yes,” you admitted without hesitation, before catching yourself. You glanced at the screen. “I mean—see, we almost fucked last night. That doesn’t exactly seem insignificant.”

“What surprises me most is that you even kissed.” She folded her arms, looking personally offended. “When exactly were you going to tell me things had changed this much? I feel like I’ve been lied to.”

“I did tell you we kissed.”

“You told me you kissed at his mother’s birthday. Pretend kissed. For show. That’s very different from actually kissing.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you tied the laces of your shoes. “That was all that had happened until last night. I wasn’t keeping anything from you. Don’t be toxic.”

Emma scoffed, unconvinced. “So just the staged kiss at Helena’s birthday, and then last night?”

“Exactly.” You stood up, grabbing your phone and holding it closer.

She hummed, unconvinced. “Sounds like a lot more than nothing, babe.”

You pursed your lips, shaking your head at her, but the truth of it was sitting somewhere in your chest, annoying and persistent.

“Yeah, well, apparently we’re pretending it didn’t happen.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “Don’t wait for him to bring it up. You bring it up. He’s probably overthinking it, freaking out, or some dumb shit like that. It’s not like your relationship is the most normal one in the world.”

“You’re not wrong about that.”

“Exactly. So say something.”

You groaned, tilting your head back. “I won’t.”

“Coward.”

“That’s not true!”

“Are you afraid of what he’s going to say?”

“No,” you said, forcing a smile. “It’s just—awkward, isn’t it? We almost slept together. Am I supposed to pretend like nothing happened? Good God, he saw me half-naked.”

Emma’s eyes widened in exaggerated shock. “No way. Francisco Morales saw you naked? That’s it, you’re going to disintegrate. It was nice knowing you.”

You didn’t laugh. Instead, heat crawled up your neck, settling in your cheeks like a second-degree burn. You groaned, pressing a hand over your face, shaking your head as if that would somehow undo everything.

“This can’t be happening, Emma. Francisco. We’re talking about Francisco. Francisco the obnoxious. Francisco the asshole. Santiago’s Francisco. What the fuck did I do? I completely fucked up.”

Emma sighed, tucking her phone between her shoulder and her ear as she walked through her apartment.

“Uh-huh. You didn’t fuck anything up. Nothing would’ve happened if he wasn’t up for it too, honey.” She adjusted the camera so she could look directly at you. “This is—listen to me.” Her voice softened slightly. “It happened, okay? And you need to deal with that. It’s not your fault, and it’s not his fault. Jesus, you’re two horny adults who almost slept together. That’s all.”

You let out a miserable groan, dropping back onto your bed.

“It’s humiliating. ‘You’re Santi’s sister.’” You mimicked his voice, rolling your eyes at yourself. “Fuck. I don’t even know what’s going on.”

Emma went quiet then, watching you carefully through the screen.

Your stomach twisted. “What?” you asked, more impatiently than you intended.

She didn’t blink. “You like him.”

The words hit like a sharp, well-aimed dart, right in the center of your chest. For a second, you didn’t move.

“No.” The denial left your lips automatically, even as you stayed perfectly still.

Emma’s lips curled into a knowing smile. “Yes, sweetheart. You like him.”

“That’s not true.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“I don’t like Francisco.”

Her lips twitched, like she was holding back laughter, her eyes bright with something unbearably smug.

“You like Francisco.”

“Emma, listen to me. I don’t like him. I can’t like him. It’s not possible. It’s not—” You searched for the right word, your brain scrambling. “It’s not functional.”

She barked out a laugh. “Functional?”

“Yes, functional,” you snapped. “He’s my brother’s best friend. He’s—he’s Francisco.” As if that alone should be enough. “Do you know what would happen if something like that happened? No—no, it’s not—”

Emma cut in before you could spiral further. “If the only excuse you can come up with for not letting yourself think about him that way is that he’s Santi’s friend, then, babe, that’s not a good enough reason.” She leaned closer to the camera, her voice firm. “And honestly, what does that even have to do with anything? You can like him. You don’t choose who you’re attracted to. It just happens.”

You pressed your lips together, heart hammering.

“And look,” she continued, “you know I don’t like him very much. I’ve spent years listening to you complain about him, about all the shit he’s said to you, the way he acted. I wanted to kill him. It sucked. But everything you’ve been telling me lately?” She shook her head. “I don’t know. It sounds convincing. All that stuff about confusion and about that night ages ago—” She exhaled. “I have good judgment. Really good judgment. And you know it.”

“I know.”

“I believe him. I don’t think he’s that bad. And I don’t think there’s anything wrong with liking him either.”

“I told you—”

“Yes, and I don’t believe you.” She crossed her arms, tilting her head like she could see straight through you. “I’ve known you for twenty years; you can’t lie to me. It’s in your eyes. And that whole thing that happened last night, at the wedding? Are you fucking kidding me? That was hot.”

You let out a laugh, but it felt thin, forced. “Yeah, it was hot. But he wasn’t serious. He was just teasing me. He likes to do that—play with me. And since we don’t fight anymore, he’s just… trying to beat me at something else.”

Emma raised an eyebrow. “I doubt a man would be that creative. He likes you.”

You opened your mouth, but she didn’t give you the chance.

“He told you he wouldn’t regret it in the morning. For God’s sake, are you kidding me?”

“He was drunk.”

She scoffed. “Even you don’t believe that.”

“Emma—”

“Okay.” She held up a hand. “Fine. I get it. It’s complicated. Just… think about it, consider it. There’s nothing wrong with liking someone.”

You stared at her through the screen, your chest tightening.

“It’s Francisco.”

Emma shrugged. “And you’re you. So?”

Your throat felt tight. You looked at her, doubt settling over you like a weight you weren’t prepared to carry.

“I don’t even know if he wants to talk about it,” you admitted. “The easiest thing to do is just… pretend it didn’t happen. That it was a mistake, that we were drunk, and…” You exhaled sharply. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I know, I get it.” Emma’s voice softened, but her words carried a quiet insistence. “But listen—he was there when you woke up. He didn’t leave. He fed your cat, for crying out loud. And after you woke up? He didn’t run off. He could have come up with an excuse to bail on the skydiving, couldn’t he? He could’ve said he was hungover, or in pain, or—hell, anything. But he didn’t. He stayed.”

As she spoke, a strange warmth spread across your chest, curling into your stomach. She was right. The easy way out was always within reach. But Frankie hadn’t taken it. Instead, he had kept pushing forward, right there with you, even if his reasons remained unclear. He kept showing up. Helping with the list, coming up with ideas, and maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t out of guilt. Maybe it was something else. But he was still there.

You let out a quiet breath.

“You really want it to be that simple,” you said softly, a smile playing at the corners of your lips. “But it’s complicated. I… I need to take it one step at a time.”

“That’s acceptable.” 

Almost as if on cue, the doorbell rang, sharp and sudden, making you jump.

Emma laughed. “First step: open the door for him.”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t suppress a reluctant chuckle.

“I have to go, but I promise I’ll write you later, okay?”

“Don’t forget to send me a picture of you in the sky.”

“I won't.” You smiled, feeling a little lighter than before.

“And don’t forget to think about what I told you.”

“Believe me, I won’t.”

Frankie set his hand against the doorframe, then thought better of it and pulled away. He took a half step back, creating space between himself and the entrance, listening to the faint sound of your voice from the other side. You were laughing, saying something too low for him to catch.

It was 10:05 a.m. He made a point of being on time. He’d showered quickly, dressed even faster. He hadn’t managed a sip of coffee before leaving, and now the late-morning heat pressed against his skin, settling in the fabric of his shirt. But he felt all right, better than an hour ago. His hair, still faintly damp from the shower, was hidden beneath a dark gray cap. His clothes were light—a black t-shirt, chino shorts.

When you opened the door, you were smiling, phone in hand, still halfway inside whatever conversation you’d been having a minute ago.

"Right on time," you said, stepping aside so he could come in.

He moved past you, eyes flicking toward you, careful and quick. Black denim shorts, a fitted white t-shirt, hair pulled back. You turned, already moving toward the stairs, and he followed, gaze fixed firmly on the steps, refusing to look at you in any way that might betray something unspoken. Especially not from that angle.

"I'm ready now, okay? Just need to check everything before we go," you said, disappearing into the apartment. Then, a brief glance back at him, like you were remembering something. "Have you had coffee?"

"No. You?"

"No," you said, already in the kitchen. You reached for Mr. Darcy’s saucer, filling it with water, your movements practiced, unthinking. His food bowl was still half full.

Frankie watched as you moved through the apartment, methodically shutting windows, pulling curtains closed with a practiced ease. The light shifted, dimming slightly, the space growing cooler. You grabbed your purse from the coffee table and walked toward the door, stopping beside him, your fingers curling around the doorknob.  

"We can grab coffee before we head out," you said, looking up at him.  

Frankie stepped over the threshold as you turned, shutting the door behind you. The lock clicked into place.

"Sounds good. I wouldn’t go for anything too heavy, though."  

"But I’m craving something good," you said, already making your way down the stairs. "Aren’t you?"  

He followed, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Maybe. I think we deserve it."  

"I think so too."  

At the bottom of the stairs, you opened the door, and he stepped out first. You locked up behind him, and as you turned, the movement sent a whisper of your perfume into the warm air between you. Clean, floral—like early summer mornings, fresh and soft.  

"Come with me, it'll be quick," you said, already walking, not bothering to check if he was following.  

Of course, he was. His gaze flickered over the back of your neck, the line of your spine, the curve of your shoulders, the way your arms swung naturally at your sides. Then lower—to your legs, to the sway of your hips, to the way your shorts sat on your body as you moved.  

Frankie cleared his throat, tearing his eyes away, his hand ghosting to the back of his neck like it might ground him.  

You walked a little further before stopping in front of a coffee shop. The storefront was charming, the kind of place that felt tucked away even when it was right in front of you. Through the window, people sat scattered at small tables, quiet in the hush of the morning.  

You pulled open the door, and a rush of cool air greeted you both, a welcome contrast to the warmth outside. Frankie followed as you stepped in, scanning the space as you joined the line. Only one person stood ahead of you.

"The coffee here is really good," you murmured, leaning in slightly, your voice just for him. "And if you're getting something to eat, I recommend the blueberry cupcakes and the glazed donuts. The coconut cake is great too."  

Frankie tilted his head, lowering his voice to match yours. "I’ll probably just get whatever’s easiest to eat in the car, to be honest."  

You grinned, eyes bright with amusement. "No need. Order whatever you want—I can feed you while you drive."  

He let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "That actually sounds kind of fun."  

"Of course it does. I’m very skilled with the little airplane method."  

Frankie laughed again but didn’t respond, his attention drifting to the glass display case lined with pastries. Donuts were the practical choice—no mess, no crumbs, nothing that would end up in his lap while he drove.  

The woman ahead of you collected her order and stepped aside, moving toward the pickup counter, where cups of coffee were lined up in neat rows. Behind the counter, a barista worked quickly, pouring shots of espresso, scribbling names onto cups with a black marker.  

You stepped forward, and the man at the register greeted you with an easy smile. Frankie moved up beside you, resting one hand on the counter, the other settling on his hip.  

"It’s always good to see you," the guy said, his tone warm, familiar. "Made my morning, actually. I was thinking about stopping by to see you yesterday."  

Frankie’s eyes flicked up, attention sharpening.  

You smiled, and something in your body language shifted—smaller, softer. Shy, maybe.  

"Oh yeah?" you asked, tilting your head. "Any particular reason?"  

Frankie’s gaze slid from your profile to the man behind the counter. Was he invisible? 

"Yeah, actually. Two reasons," the guy said. "One—I need a book recommendation for my mom. And two, well, that one’s a little more complicated." He lowered his voice slightly. "I was wondering if we could talk later, if you have time. Nothing weird, don’t worry."  

Frankie cleared his throat, glancing away before looking back at you. You nodded, your expression unreadable but amused.  

"Sure," you said. "Are you going to be here later?"

"I'm afraid I'm only here until noon today," he said, leaning slightly against the counter. "But I can swing by the bookstore later if you want, after closing."  

You nodded, but then your gaze flickered to Frankie, like you’d just remembered he was there.

"Oh, I won’t be in, sorry," you said easily. "We’ll be skydiving."  

Frankie glanced at you, catching the flash of amusement in your eyes, the way you said it like it was the most natural thing in the world. A quiet sort of pride sat beneath your words, like you were pleased with yourself for saying it out loud.

Then, as if just realizing, you gestured between them. "This is Frankie, by the way."  

The stranger’s smile didn’t falter as he turned to him.

"Oh, nice to meet you, Frankie," he said, extending a hand. "I’m Bill."  

Frankie reached out at an unhurried pace, his grip firm but easy, a small, unreadable smile on his lips.

"Bill. Nice to meet you. I heard the coffee here is good."  

Bill’s face lit up a little more at the comment. "I hope so. Let me know what you think. First time here?"  

Frankie gave a single nod.  

"It is," you answered at the same time, looking at him with a knowing smile.  

"Well, then," Bill said, resting his hands on the counter, "it’s on the house. Take your pick."  

Frankie straightened slightly. "Oh, no need."  

Bill mirrored the movement, studying him.

"No, I’m serious. Whatever you want." Then he shifted his gaze back to you, his voice taking on an easy familiarity. "Actually, you and I had an arrangement, didn’t we?"  

You let out a quiet laugh, your fingers brushing against the side of your neck, a movement Frankie caught.

"That still stands?" you asked.  

"Of course," the man said. "Anything for my favorite book dealer."

The laugh that slipped from your throat was quiet, intentional. A sound that felt as if it had been considered before being released. Your eyes narrowed, the corners creasing, fine, barely-there lines appearing for the briefest moment before smoothing out again.

Frankie ordered first. Black coffee, no sugar, no nonsense. Strong, thick, almost aggressive in its weight. Glazed doughnuts. You followed. A latte—also strong, also heavy, but softened with milk. Chocolate donuts because why not. Bill, all easy smiles and practiced efficiency, rang it up, then paused, lifting an eyebrow:

“So, skydiving?” He asked.

Which led to five minutes of you explaining the list thing, skirting around the details, giving just enough to satisfy curiosity but not enough to invite further questions. Bill nodded along, impressed. Wished you both luck. And just before you stepped away, he turned to Frankie.

“How’s the coffee?”

Frankie’s response was a single nod. "It's really good." He said, his cap shadowing his eyes as he reached for the door. That was that.

Ten minutes later, the car smelled like coffee and sugar.

Neither of you had said much, both too preoccupied with the food in your hands, the heat of the coffee on your tongues.

Shit. It was good. Really good.

Through the speakers, I Wanna Be Your Dog by The Stooges pulsed low and scratchy. Frankie chewed, his jaw working as he shook his head slightly, almost to himself, eyes fixed on the road ahead.

Then, still chewing, still looking straight ahead, he spoke. “He’s into you.”

You had your coffee raised halfway to your mouth. Paused. Lowered it.

“What?”

Frankie swallowed. “Bill.”

You frowned. “Bill?”

“Yes.”

“No, he’s not.” You shook your head, attention flicking back to your donut.

Frankie let out a small, almost amused breath. “Yeah. He is.”

He could feel your gaze on him like sunlight pressing against the side of his face. He didn’t look at you. Just smiled.

“No,” you said finally, certain. “I don’t think so. He’s just nice. A nice person.”

“A nice man who’s into you.”

“Mhm.” You made a small sound, noncommittal, tilting your head slightly. “I bet you'd like that.”

That made him laugh. He glanced at you, brief, testing. You were still looking at him and for some reason, it made his chest feel too open, like he’d turned himself inside out without meaning to.

“How’s that?”

“Well.” You stretched the word out, dragging it a little. “If that were true, it’d work out pretty well for you. Maybe I’d get a real boyfriend and finally leave you alone.”

“You think so?”

“Yes,” you said, voice barely softer than usual, but just enough that he caught it. Then silence. A silence he didn’t want to break. A silence he wanted to hand over to you, let you decide what to do with it.

And then you did.

“I don’t need a boyfriend.” You shrugged, the movement easy, thoughtless. “I already have a fake one, anyway. That counts, doesn’t it?”

“Does it?” he asked, watching the road, fingers flexing against the steering wheel.

“Yeah. I mean, you’re here. And you’re good at faking it.” You exhaled, the sound barely there. “Lately, you don’t even need a witness.”

Something about the way you said it landed differently. Not playful, not teasing, just something you were letting into the air, unclaimed. Frankie’s hands tightened, his knuckles briefly going white. Last night sat there between you. He wondered if you were finally going to say something about it.

But you didn’t.

“You take me places,” you continued, as if you hadn’t just given him a reason to stop breathing. “You help me with my list. You even fed my cat.”

A quiet laugh escaped him. He shook his head, glanced at you again, then back at the road.

“I think you’re describing a servant.” His lips twitched. “I am your servant.”

You clicked your tongue. “Don’t say that.”

“Don’t worry. I like helping you. Feels good to be useful for a change.”

"Francisco, enough. Don’t say that."  

He laughed, the sound rolling through his chest like a wave, rising and settling. “It’s okay.”

“Right. Well, let me help you with something too.”

Frankie huffed, shaking his head slightly. “You’re already helping me. You’re my girlfriend, the light of my eyes, my heart—at least in front of my family, remember?”

You laughed, filling the tight space of the car like sunlight through a crack. Frankie caught the slight nod of your head in his peripheral vision.

“Oh, right,” you said. “But I mean it. If there’s anything you need, just ask.”

He glanced at you, longer than he should have, taking in the shape of you in his passenger seat, the way your fingers curled around your coffee cup.

“You’re doing good. Don’t worry.”

You didn’t respond, just smiled to yourself, eyes dropping to the cup in your hands.

A few seconds passed, the kind that stretched out too long, where the air seemed to change in density, pressing down just a little. The music played, filling the space, but it wasn’t enough to stop the creeping thoughts. Frankie exhaled, thumb tapping against the steering wheel, a small, restless movement.

Why weren’t you saying anything about last night? Had you really forgotten?

Without thinking, he reached down and grabbed his phone, holding it out toward you.

“Here,” he said. “Put on some music.”

You took it without hesitation, eyebrows lifting, a slow, triumphant smile spreading across your face.

“Wow. You’re actually handing over control of the music? Must be my lucky day.”

Frankie laughed, his mind drifting somewhere else entirely.

The drive from Austin to San Antonio passed in pieces—fragments of conversation, long stretches of silence thick with things unsaid. By the time you pulled up at the airfield, the sun was high, casting sharp-edged shadows across the tarmac. The place felt wide open, almost empty, the metal hangars spaced out along the runway, a handful of small planes parked off to the side. A flag snapped in the wind, the Texas air heavy with heat and the distant churn of engines and propellers, voices carrying from the other jumpers and staff.

Eric, the instructor, was tall, mid-forties, with a loose, easy smile and a handshake that felt like a formality rather than a necessity. His jumpsuit was blue, sleeves patched with embroidered logos, sunglasses catching the glare off the pavement.

He and Frankie hugged, the kind of greeting that held years of familiarity. Then, casually, Frankie introduced you—his girlfriend. They fell into conversation, catching up on life, exchanging news. Their voices blurred together as your eyes drifted over the space, your stomach twisting with something you didn’t want to name. Then, suddenly, the thought landed fully in your mind: you were about to throw yourself out of a fucking plane.

But before you could sink too deep into that, Eric clapped his hands.

“Alright, first things first—we have to deal with the boring part,” he said, amused, leading you inside a small office. The walls were cluttered with framed certificates and pictures of past jumpers, frozen mid-air, grinning.

He slid a stack of papers across the desk—liability waivers, legal forms outlining all the things that could go wrong.

“Basically, this says that if you die, you can’t sue us,” he said, grinning. “But don’t worry, that won’t happen.”

“Wow,” you said. “So reassuring.”

Eric laughed, and just as you were about to reach for the pen, you felt it—Frankie’s hand, warm against your back, moving in a slow, careful rhythm. Your breath caught slightly before you exhaled.

Once the forms were signed, Eric led you both to a training area where the other participants were already gathered. He walked through the basics: how to hold your body in freefall, how to bend your legs for landing, why it was important to keep your head up and, above all, not to grab at anything once you were in the air.

“It’s kind of like swimming in a vacuum,” he said, tightening the straps on the harness. “The trick is to let go and trust the equipment.”

He checked each buckle with precision, giving them a final tug before patting you both on the shoulder. "Ready?"

You turned to Frankie. He was already looking at you. His black jumpsuit fit snugly, his hair a mess from the cap he’d been wearing earlier, from his hands running through it. Without thinking, you moved closer, your body tilting toward him. His hand found its place on your back again, tracing up until it rested on your shoulder.

"It’s going to be fine," he said, low and close to your ear. "Eric’s a pro. And I’ll be right there, watching you from above when you jump."

"I’m really scared," you admitted, a nervous smile forming before you could stop it.

Frankie pulled you in, his arms warm around you. You let your forehead rest against his chest. Beneath all the noise—voices, wind, the distant hum of engines—you could hear his heartbeat.

After a moment, you leaned back just enough to look up at him, something tight forming in your throat.

"You’ve done this before?"

"No." His lips twitched, his eyes fixed on you.

"And you’re not scared?" You glanced toward Eric, who was deep in conversation with another instructor a few feet away. "I know you’re used to flying, but this is different, right?"

"In some ways, yeah."

You exhaled, shaking your head. "I mean, you’ve seen worse. You’ve probably been through things in CAG that make this feel ridiculous."

Frankie’s grip on your shoulder tightened just slightly. "It’s not ridiculous. It’s new. And to be honest with you, I think it’s going to feel good to fall through the air without being the one responsible for keeping myself alive." He let out a small laugh.

You opened your mouth to answer, but Eric waved you both over.

The group started moving toward the runway. The plane was waiting, red and white, its side door already open. The engine hummed like it knew what was coming. The wind had picked up, kicking dust into the air, lifting the edges of shirts and loose strands of hair.

Frankie walked beside you, hands curled into easy fists, his expression unreadable. Neither of you said anything. You didn’t have to.

"Wait, hey—look at me." Frankie’s voice pulled you back just as you were about to head up the steps.

You turned to find him holding up his phone, his grin bright. 

"Come on, smile." The camera clicked as you obeyed, your expression probably a mix of excitement and sheer panic.

You gestured to your jumpsuit—a black one-piece with straps pulled tight across your torso, the sleeves a little too long. "I look like an astronaut from a budget sci-fi movie."

Frankie just laughed.

The roar of the plane’s engine filled the air as you climbed the metal steps.

Inside, space was tight—just two rows of seats on the floor, the pilot focused on the controls up front. Eric moved efficiently through the cabin, checking harnesses, giving instructions. The side door stayed open, letting in gusts of wind, fragments of conversation from the ground below.

Frankie sat beside you, straps secured across his chest. His gaze was distant, locked on something you couldn’t see.

Your heart was racing, and not just from adrenaline. It was the certainty of what was about to happen, the realization that there was no backing out now. No chance to claim dizziness, to blame it on a delayed hangover—

No.

The plane lifted off, the ground dropping away fast. The streets and houses of San Antonio shrank to toy-sized versions of themselves, colors and grids blending together. The river cut through the city like a streak of silver, roads and fields stretching out until everything looked impossibly small, distant, unreal.

Eric had gone over the plan earlier. A 25-minute flight to reach the jump altitude—9,000 feet. Then, 35 seconds of free fall, plummeting at 130 miles per hour. After that, six to eight minutes drifting under the parachute before landing. They would take pictures. Record a video. But all you could think was: please don’t throw up.

Your eyes stayed on the view, your pulse high and erratic. Your breathing turned uneven, and at some point—without noticing—you started bouncing your knee, shifting your legs. Then, warmth. A hand on yours, grounding, steady. Frankie.

His fingers wove through yours, a quiet, easy motion, and your heart stuttered. His thumb moved over your skin, light, absentminded. You tried to focus on breathing. In, out. In, out.

"Here you go," Logan, the other instructor, cut in, handing you a pair of goggles. The moment shattered. Whatever had been happening between you—if anything had been happening at all—was interrupted.

Minutes blurred together. Eric tugged at your harness one last time, double-checking every buckle, every strap. His voice was loud but distant, muffled beneath the rush of blood in your ears.

"Ready?"

You weren’t. You nodded anyway.

The moment arrived too fast. The door slid open, and the wind howled through the cabin, sharp and cutting, like it wanted to rip you straight out of the plane. Eric led you to the edge.

Your feet met nothing. The space between you and the ground stretched forever. You tried to turn, to catch one last glimpse of Frankie, but the angle made it impossible. If you called his name, you weren’t sure he’d hear you. But he was there.

The wind tore at your face. The city below was impossibly small, the sky endless in every direction. Your lungs clenched.

Eric counted down.

"Three... two... one."

And then—you fell.

Or maybe, the world opened up and swallowed you whole, a deafening rush in every direction. Everything you thought you knew about gravity unraveled in an instant—you weren’t falling, you weren’t floating. You just were. Suspended in nothing, weightless and untethered.  

The wind lashed against your body, hot and unrelenting, turning the descent into a collision with speed itself. And for a second, there was no space in your mind for anything else. No fear, no doubt. Just motion.  

The world spun, stretched endlessly around you, and adrenaline burst inside your chest, wild and consuming, like a star collapsing and expanding all at once.  

And then you screamed.  

Not from fear. From something bigger than that. Something closer to exhilaration, to release.  

The wind roared in your ears, thick against your skin, the force of it making the air feel solid. But none of it mattered.  

Because you were falling. Hell, you were falling. And somehow, impossibly, it felt so fucking right. It was the best thing you had ever felt.  

It took a moment to understand it, to really let it sink in. But when it did—when it fully hit you—your body stopped resisting. Something inside you loosened, unraveled.  

And you laughed.  

The sound barely existed before the wind stole it away, torn from your throat as if the sky itself wanted to keep it. Your heart pounded hard, so hard you could feel it everywhere—in your fingertips, in your toes, in every cell of your body—as the ground rushed closer and the sky stretched infinite behind you.

Eric waved you over, checking if you were okay. You shot him a thumbs-up, your grin so wide it almost hurt.

To your right, another instructor coasted effortlessly through the air, a helmet-mounted camera fixed on him. He waved his hands dramatically, motioning for you to do something.

Without thinking, you threw your arms out, wiggled your fingers, feeling both ridiculous and euphoric. The instructor mimed the click of a camera, then gave you an approving thumbs-up before drifting back, adjusting his position with an ease that made the whole thing look effortless.

You had no idea how long you’d been falling—fifteen seconds? Twenty? It could have been hours. It could have been nothing at all.

But here, in the open sky, with the world stretched out in every direction, with your body weightless in a way you’d never known before—one thing was certain. 

You didn’t want it to end.

But it did.

Minutes later, you touched down in a vast stretch of green, landing just the way they’d told you to. Your stomach was fluttering, your pulse hammering, your entire body alive with an energy you had never felt before. The ground felt too solid, too still beneath you.

Eric unhooked the harness, stepping back as you stayed where you were, hands pressing into the earth like you needed proof that you were actually here, back on the ground. He grinned, holding up both thumbs.

“So, how are you feeling?”

Your breath came out in a laugh, wide and uncontained. “I didn’t want it to end.”

He chuckled, reaching out a hand to pull you up. Your legs were unsteady, not from weakness but from whatever was still coursing through you, whatever part of you hadn’t quite landed yet.

You tilted your head back, scanning the sky, searching. And there—far above—you caught them. Two dark figures cutting through the blue. Frankie and Logan, still falling, still weightless.

Eric nudged you, gesturing for you to move toward the pavement. You followed him, your steps uneven, gaze flicking between the sky and the field, as if you could still feel yourself in both places at once.

When Frankie landed, you felt the pull before you even decided to move. You waited. Ten seconds maybe. And then he got up, a smile on his face as he started talking to Logan, smiling, his body still humming with the same high that was thrumming through yours. But his eyes kept finding you, like a signal, a call.

You didn’t think. You just ran.

Your legs were shaky, the harness still tight around your chest, but none of it mattered. Maybe it was reckless, maybe you were supposed to wait, but you didn’t.

Frankie saw you coming. His arms opened instinctively, and then you crashed into him, his body warm, solid, the adrenaline between you mixing into something electric.

He lifted you, feet leaving the ground again, arms locked around his neck, your breath catching in your throat. You didn’t know if it was the fall or if it was this—him.

"You did it, baby," he murmured, voice low, still breathless. His grin was wide, shining. He pulled back just enough to see your face, his eyes flickering downward for a second—just a second—before meeting yours again. "I knew you could."

"That was insane," you breathed. "I loved it."

"Me too."

"What did you think? Everything looked so different from up there, so small. And the sky—"

His hands were still on your waist, grounding you in a way the earth couldn’t.

"It felt fucking good," he said, laughing, shaking his head like he couldn’t quite believe it himself. "Wanna do it again?"

You smiled, your hand trailing down his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his breath beneath your fingers.

"Thank you for doing this with me." 

His eyes stayed on yours, locked. But then—

"Hey, lovebirds!" Eric’s voice cut through the air.

You blinked, exhaling a laugh as you stepped back. Frankie’s hands lingered a second longer before he let you go.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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(Please let me know if your tag isn't working!!)

[princessofbookaholics]

borrowed from the library 🔍

[thepersonalwords]

I spend money on convenient, comfortable and luxurious things; I spend money on books too.

Amit Kalantri

[t-plad]

Allow and encourage

[milliexxreads]

[briechyne]

Cigarette smoke and old books. Faded sketches and rain-soaked streets. The poetry of solitude written in sepia tones.

[readtheuniverse]

[almostfoxglove]

oh my god.

oh my GODDDDDD

ex-husband!javier and reader??!!! smut and angst 🥸😆

Hi non!!! Okay, LOVE this idea, but idk if I'm the Javi girlie (gn) to make it happen, as I am only physically capable of writing this man as a head over heels, lovesick, wife guy 🤠 I could TOTALLY see how ex-husband Javi would still be so deep in the feels for his ex-wife, especially if she started dating again 👀

[louisa-gc]

how to start reading again

from someone who was a voracious reader until high school and is now getting back into it in her twenties.

start with an old favourite. even though it felt a little silly, i re-read the harry potter series one christmas and it wiped away my worry that i wasn't capable of reading anymore. they are long books, but i was still able to get completely immersed and to read just as fast as i had years and years ago.

don't be afraid of "easier" books. before high school i was reading the french existentialists, but when getting back into reading, i picked up lucinda riley and sally rooney. not my favourite authors by far, but easier to read while not being totally terrible. i needed to remind myself that only choosing classics would not make me a better or smarter person. if a book requires a slower pace of reading to be understood, it's easier to just drop it, which is exactly what i wanted to avoid at first.

go for essays and short stories. no need to explain this one: the shorter the whole, the less daunting it is. i definitely avoided all books over 350 pages at first and stuck to essay collections until i suddenly devoured donna tartt's goldfinch.

remember it's okay not to finish. i was one of those people who finished every book they started, but not anymore! if i pick up a book at the library and after a few chapters realise i'd rather not read it, i just return it. (another good reason to use your local library! no money spent on books you might end up disliking.)

analyse — or don't. some people enjoy reading more when they take notes or really stop to think about the contents. for me, at first, it was more important to build the habit of reading, and the thought of analysing what i read felt daunting. once i let go of that expectation, i realised i naturally analyse and process what i read anyway.

read when you would usually use your phone. just as i did when i was a child, i try to read when eating, in the bathroom, on public transport, right before sleeping. i even read when i walk, because that's normally a time i stare at my screen anyway. those few pages you read when you brush your teeth and wait for a friend very quickly stack up.

finish the chapter. if you have time, try to finish the part you're reading before closing the book. usually i find i actually don't want to stop reading once i get to the end of a chapter — and if i do, it feels like a good place to pick up again later.

try different languages. i was quickly approaching a reading slump towards the end of my exchange year, until i realised i had only had access to books in english and that, despite my fluency, i was tired of the language. so as soon as i got back home i started picking up books in my native tongue, which made reading feel much easier and more fun again! after some nine months, i'm starting to read in english again without it feeling like a huge task.

forget what's popular. i thought social media would be a fun way to find interesting books to read, but i quickly grew frustrated after hating every single book i picked up on some influencer's recommendation. it's certainly more time-consuming to find new books on your own, but this way i don't despise every novel i pick up.

remember it isn't about quantity. the online book community's endless posts about reading 150 books each year or 6 books in a single day easily make us feel like we're slow, bad readers, but here's the thing: it does not matter at all how many books you read or what your reading pace is. we all lead different lives, just be proud of yourself for reading at all!

stop stressing about it. we all know why reading is important, and since the pandemic reading has become an even more popular hobby than it was before (which is wonderful!). however, there's no need to force yourself to be "a reader". pick up a book every now and then and keep reading if you enjoy it, but not reading regularly doesn't make you any less of a good person. i find the pressure to become "a person who reads" or to rediscover my inner bookworm only distances me from the very act of reading.

[joytri]

Life is just a series of obstacles preventing you from reading a book.

[life-imitates-art-far-more]

Franz Eybl (1806-1880) "Reading Girl" (1850) Oil on canvas

[snoopdogcone]

😂😂😂😂😂 So funny!

Sibling Day Roast

Premise: Cassie and Max go a bit overboard for National Sibling Day.

Fandom: Open Heart Pairing: Ethan Ramsey x F!MC (Cassie Valentine); feat. Max Valentine (OC) and OPH Gang Format: Text & Pic Fic Rating/Category: Teen. Fluff.

A/N: Yesterday was National Sibling Day, and what better way to celebrate than with the Valentine Twins. Submission for @choicesapril2025 for the forgiveness prompt (loosely lol)

Part 1: The Roast

Part 2: The Aftermath

All Fics & Edits: @bluebelle08 @coffeeheartaddict2 @jerzwriter @kyra75 @lady-calypso @loreofyore @peonierose @potionsprefect @quixoticdreamer16 @snoopdogcone @tessa-liam @trappedinfanfiction

Submissions: @choicesficwriterscreations @openheartfanfics

Ethan & Cassie only: @custaroonie @youlookappropriate

[karisumawrites]

Don't shine so others can see you. Shine so that through you, others can see Him. - C.S. Lewis

[imissmymonster]

Also, what's the best book you read this year?

I'm a very curious human! Tell me! haha