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almostfoxglove · 8 hours ago

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hey can we be so for real right now because this

[Francisco]: You’re in good hands (mine)

WAS CRAAAAAZY. the tension in that last scene just about stopped my heart. this man!!!! A MENACE. need him desperately. obsessed with this series :,)

The boyfriend act, part 9.1: "The one with the wedding" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Something’s changed, you can feel it, and you can’t fight it. Frankie keeps his promise—he accompanies you to Harry's wedding. Surprisingly, your ex isn’t the focus of the night. Instead, it's the strange, new dynamic between you and your companion that ends up tangled up in your house. Part 1 of chapter 9. WC: 14.3k

A/N: Well, the wedding’s here. Hope you enjoy this part, and don’t forget, it’s Part 1 of Chapter 9. Part 2 will be up this weekend. Hope you like it—it really helped me a lot to write this chapter this week! Love you love youuuuuuu!! Don’t forget to share your thoughts in the comments, love reading them!!!If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! love you <3

A breath slipped from your chest as you shut the front door behind you, the weight of it settling against your back like an anchor. You tipped your head back, staring at the ceiling, your pulse still uneven, still catching up with the last few minutes. Outside, the low growl of Frankie's engine cut through the stillness. You listened as the sound shifted, rolling away from the curb, fading, fading—until finally, it was gone. Only then did you let yourself move, peeling away from the door like you’d been bracing against something invisible, something heavy. Only then did it feel like you could breathe, like you had been granted permission.

There was one thing you knew with absolute certainty about Francisco Morales—he was a man. And men, in your experience, were predictable if you paid close enough attention. If you knew which buttons to press and precisely when to press them. Frankie, of course, wasn’t the kind of man who let himself be an easy read. He wasn’t careless. His walls were high, thick, carefully constructed. But that didn’t matter. Because you knew you could shake them. Even just a little.

You hadn’t been able to stop thinking about him since last saturday. Since the way he’d looked at you—like he was holding something back, like there was something just on the tip of his tongue that he had no intention of saying. You kept turning it over in your mind, the way he’d withdrawn, the way he’d been so carefully unreadable. What was he hiding so well that he couldn’t tell you? What was the thing he refused to say? The conversation with Will, the tension in his shoulders, the way the whole night seemed to spark with something unsaid—what was behind all of it?

Now, at least, you had an answer. Or something close to one. Santi's birthday. It had been a misunderstanding. That was what he said to you. Something about that night had put him on edge, made him wary, and that was why he had acted the way he did. But then, why only with you? Why not with anyone else?

But he wouldn’t tell you. Tonight, he barely even flinched after you’d spent the entire night looking at him like he was something sweet you wanted to sink your teeth into, teasing him with glances laced with suggestion, with promises of things best left unsaid. And honestly, that didn’t surprise you. Not really. Because if there was anyone who could hold their ground against you, who could meet your stubbornness and raise you twice over, it was him. Years of arguments and thinly veiled tensions had taught you that much.

If only you’d made your offer more enticing. If only you’d leaned in just a little closer, let the words slip out slower, given him something real to picture. You want to know what I dreamed? You should have asked him. You were there. We were both there.

And the worst part—the part that had your stomach in knots, your thoughts spiraling in circles—was that it wasn’t even a lie. You hadn’t just made it up to get a rise out of him. It was true. You had a fucking wet dream.

You didn’t have a good excuse for it. It had just happened.

Last night, you’d had dinner with a glass of wine, half-watched You’ve Got Mail for maybe thirty minutes before dozing off on the couch. When you woke up, groggy and disoriented, you dragged yourself to the bathroom, brushed your teeth, and climbed into bed. And that should have been it. You should have fallen asleep instantly, melted into the sheets, let exhaustion pull you under.

But instead, you lay there, wide awake, staring at the ceiling, thoughts circling the same frustrating orbit. Francisco. Frankie and his secrets. Frankie and those stupid, unreadable brown eyes that never seemed to tell you enough. You didn’t know how long you stayed like that, lost in the loops of your own mind, but eventually, sleep claimed you.

And then—somewhere between consciousness and whatever came after—you slipped into a dream. Not one of those abstract, distant ones that dissolve on waking. No, this one felt closer, eerily tangible.

You were still in bed, but the sunlight was filtering through the window, warm and golden, painting the morning across your skin. You let your eyes slip shut for a moment, pressing your fingers to your brow as if that might steady you. The light in the room shifted, dimming slightly, as though something had come between you and the sun. When you opened them again, Frankie was there. Above you. Close enough that his breath fanned over your skin. His arms caged you in, palms pressed into the mattress on either side of your head, his gaze locked onto yours with an intensity that sent a pulse of heat through your body. Then, slowly, he dipped his head, his lips brushing against the curve of your neck, stealing a gasp from your throat.

Your hands found their way into his hair, fingers threading through the dark, tousled strands, tugging just enough to make him sigh against your skin. Then lower—your hands traveled to his nape, his shoulders, your palms sliding over the warmth of bare skin, the solid lines of muscle. Nothing between you but heat.

Your nails pressed into his back, and he pulled away from your neck, his face hovering above yours once more. His eyes burned into you, dark and intent, something hungry simmering behind them. You barely had time to process it before you felt him settle between your legs, his body pressing into yours—solid, warm, achingly familiar despite the fact that this had never happened before.

Something wild and consuming unfurled inside you, tightening in your chest, curling around your ribs. Your hand slid back up, gripping the back of his neck, pulling him down to you, and then your lips met his—fierce, desperate, stealing breath from one another. The second you felt him sink into you, slow, your whole body shuddered, every nerve lit up, overtaken. He moved against you, finding a rhythm that felt inevitable, like he had always known exactly how to do this. How to fit against you. How to draw you apart and put you back together all at once.

His lips left yours, and he pulled back just enough to see your face, his gaze never wavering. A half-smile curled at the edge of his mouth, his breath uneven, his voice rough when he whispered, “It’s okay if you want it.”

And then—before you could say anything, before you could even take another breath—a sudden, deafening crash yanked you out of sleep.

Your body jolted upright, heart hammering, breath coming fast and uneven. Heat clung to your skin, coiling low in your stomach, thighs pressed tightly together, the ghost of your dream still imprinted in every inch of you. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself, but the memory of it lingered, thick and inescapable.

Another sound—this time sharper, more familiar. A meow, loud and insistent, from the kitchen.

Barefoot, you stumbled out of bed, moving quickly through the darkened hallway, still half-dazed, still somewhere between the dream and the waking world. You barely stopped in time, catching yourself at the last second before stepping straight into the mess on the floor—shards of glass scattered across the tile, glinting in the dim light. And there, perched smugly on the counter, tail flicking, eyes wide with the kind of innocence only a guilty cat could muster—Mr. Darcy.

Cleaning up the mess took longer than it should have, but by the time the floor was spotless and the adrenaline had worn off, sleep was a lost cause. You lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for morning.

By the time evening rolled around and Frankie pulled up outside, something restless had settled inside you, curling around your ribs, winding tighter and tighter. A need. Not just for answers, but for something else entirely. To provoke him. To remind him that whatever space he had occupied in your mind last night, you could just as easily take up in his.

So you did. In his room, at the table, in the car—you tested him, pushed at the edges of his composure, watched closely for the cracks. You didn’t get what you wanted, not exactly. He still wouldn’t tell you what you so desperately wanted to know. But at least you could take pleasure in the way his hands tensed on the steering wheel, the way his gaze flickered when he thought you weren’t looking, the way your presence seemed to unsettle him just enough.

And maybe—if you focused only on that, on keeping him off balance, on staying in control—you could ignore the way his eyes were starting to affect you just as much.

Thursday, September 8th.

You were on the small step stool in the juvenile literature section, adjusting a row of hardcovers, when the chime over the door sounded. At the familiar sound of it, you turned, books still in your hands, to see a figure stepping inside, his outline briefly swallowed by the daylight spilling in from the street.

“Hey, hi,” you said, hopping down lightly.

Bill was already making his way toward the counter, resting his elbow there like he belonged.

“Careful,” he said, his voice easy, his grin lopsided. “Need some help over there?”

You were already slipping behind the counter, your hands resting on the keyboard of the computer by the time you answered.

“No, that's it.” You smiled, sinking into the swivel chair. “But thanks. Though, if you’re in the mood for heavy lifting, I do have a box of photography books in the back.”

His eyes narrowed playfully. “Those are huge, aren’t they?”

“Massive,” you confirmed, pressing your lips together in mock solemnity.

He laughed, but before he could come up with something else, you tipped your chin at him. “What can I help you with?”

“Anne of Avonlea,” he said, brows tugging together like this was a serious request.

You let out a small, knowing hum. “Ah, I see we’ve advanced.”

You pushed back from the counter and motioned for him to follow you toward the shelves. He fell into step beside you without hesitation.

“Yeah, she's really excited. She found out there’s a tv series yesterday, and now we have to watch it, but only after we finish the books. Strict rule.”

You nodded approvingly, running your fingers along the spines as you scanned for the title.

“That’s smart. The one from the seventies?”

“Yup,” he confirmed, his voice a low murmur just behind you.

You let out a small sigh as your fingers found the right book.

“I hope you like it.” You tapped the spine lightly before stretching forward to pull it from the shelf. You turned, holding it out with a bright smile. “Anne of Avonlea.”

“Perfect.” He took it from you, his smile lingering as he glanced at the cover. “Thanks. Julie’s gonna love it.”

You leaned back against the shelves, arms crossing loosely.

“Julie. That’s a beautiful name.”

“Thanks. Her mom and I met at a movie night at a friend’s place. We watched Natural Born Killers.”

Your lips parted slightly, then curled upward. “Oh, don’t tell me. Julie as in Juliette?”

He nodded, cheeks tinged pink. “Yeah. I know, it’s a little—”

“It’s not,” you cut in, shaking your head. “Not at all. My cat’s name is Mr. Darcy,” you added, suddenly very serious. “Not that I’m comparing your daughter to my cat.”

Bill’s laugh was sudden, warm. His eyes shone, bright green.

“I bet he’s cute, though.”

“He is,” you admitted, rolling your eyes. “But don’t let him hear you. He’s got an ego.”

You turned back toward the counter, Bill following easily, like he had nowhere else to be. Once settled in your chair again, you glanced up to find him already watching you, forearms resting on the counter.

“Bring Julie anytime. I have all of Anne’s books. Your wife too—what does she like to read?”

Bill barely reacted at first, his smile small, almost absentminded. Then, after a pause, his brows lifted just slightly.

“She... Carla…” His voice shifted, quieter now, careful. “Actually, she passed away last year.” A breath. “But she loved Anaïs Nin.”

Your mouth parted, the casual warmth in your expression dissolving in an instant.

“Oh, Bill,” you said, voice soft, almost apologetic. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to—” You stopped, suddenly aware of how intrusive the question might have felt, how careless.

But Bill shook his head, his smile still there, though fainter now.

“No, no. It’s okay. You couldn’t have known.”

Even so, a wave of heat crept up your chest, an unshakable embarrassment settling in your ribs. You hated the idea of stepping too far, of pressing on something raw without realizing it.

“Still,” you murmured, shifting slightly, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. I like talking about her.”

“That’s nice,” you said, meeting his gaze. “A way to remember.” You hesitated, then added, a little softer, “And maybe when Julie’s older, she can read some Anaïs, right?”

Bill let out a quiet laugh, something fond and distant in his expression.

“Oh, definitely when she’s older,” he said, shaking his head. “For now, we’ll stick with Anne.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“How much do I owe you, darlin’?”

For the smallest fraction of a second, your breath caught, the word slipping under your skin like a needle.

“Oh, nothing,” you murmured, recovering. “Tell her it’s a gift from me. I love Anne of Green Gables too.”

Bill’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Really?”

“Of course. From one bookworm to another.”

His chuckle was soft, appreciative. He watched as you took the book back, reached under the counter for a gift bag, and slid it carefully inside. You peeled off the adhesive strip, smoothing the flap down, leaving it neatly wrapped in the store’s off-white packaging, its name written in deep blue script. When you placed it on the counter, he took a moment before reaching for it.

“Thank you.” His voice had shifted slightly, something in it almost tentative. Then, a flicker of something amused. “I don’t know if you knew this, but I have a coffee shop just a few feet away.”

You widened your eyes, deadpan. “No kidding.”

“Yeah. You should stop by sometime. Coffee’s on the house.”

Your head tilted slightly, an amused smile playing on your lips. “That’s awfully generous of you.”

“We like to think so,” he said, dipping his head in a mock bow before stepping away from the counter. "Have a nice day."

You watched as he walked to the door, his fingers brushing the handle. He turned slightly, offering a small wave, and you lifted your hand in return just as the chime rang again, the bright summer light swallowing him whole as he stepped outside.

Shifting your gaze away from the window, you turned back to the computer screen, where a paused video had been waiting, frozen in time for the past fifteen minutes. The still image captured Mark, 45, from Omaha, mid-fall, his arms flung out, mouth open in a mix of exhilaration and terror. Behind him, the instructor remained steady, hands firm on the harness, face unreadable behind mirrored goggles. The sky around them was a perfect, endless blue, the earth beneath barely more than a hazy patchwork of green and brown.

You pressed play, and the scene jolted back to life. Wind roared through the speakers as Mark tumbled forward, gravity pulling him fast, his limbs flailing before he found some kind of rhythm. The instructor tapped his shoulder, a signal, and Mark managed to stabilize, his expression flickering between fear and something like joy. The camera strapped to his wrist caught everything—the dizzying spin of the world below, the wild blur of movement, the sheer reckless beauty of falling.

You leaned in slightly, watching as the parachute finally deployed, snapping open with a force that yanked them upward. Mark’s face split into a disbelieving grin, breathless laughter spilling from his lips. You could hear it, even over the rush of air.

Your phone buzzed against the desk, rattling slightly against the keyboard. You blinked, pulled from the video on the screen, and reached for it without much thought. The message preview lit up in the dim glow of the display.

[Francisco]: Next saturday, 12 pm, is that okay with u?

Your brows knit together, fingers hesitating over the screen.

[You]: What?

There was barely a pause before the next message came through.

[Francisco]: Would u like to jump out of a plane this saturday at 12 pm?

A small, tight knot twisted in your stomach. You exhaled, thumb hovering before you typed.

[You]: Yesssss

[You]: Why do u have to say it like that tho?

The response came almost instantly.

[Francisco]: 🪂

[Francisco]: Are u excited?

A slow grin tugged at the corner of your lips as you typed back, the soft clack of the keys blending with the quiet music humming from the bookstore speakers.

[You]: Yes. Especially because tomorrow is the wedding and that means that on saturday I will be able to shout into the sky how much I give zero fucks

A short beat. Then:

[Francisco]: That’s my (fake) girl (friend)

A quiet laugh left your lips.

[You]: Fake friend?

The typing dots appeared. Disappeared. Came back again.

[Francisco]: U know what I meant.

[Francisco]: (That’s my) fake (girl) friend

Another laugh, this one slipping out before you could stop it.

[You]: Can’t wait for Saturday (I'm scared)

Dots. Then nothing. Then dots again.

[Francisco]: Don’t worry

[Francisco]: You’re in good hands (mine)

You rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see you. And then the chime above the door rang again, pulling you back to the present, forcing you to slip the phone face down onto the desk and get back to work.

Friday, September 9

“I’ll be right there!” you called out the kitchen window, barely sparing a glance downward before turning away.

Frankie stood at your front door, dressed in a black suit that cut a sharp silhouette against the fading evening light.

You shoved your feet into slippers and hurried downstairs, your steps quick and uneven, the sound of them filling the quiet space before you reached the door. The moment you opened it, a small, unbidden smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

He was leaning against the doorframe, one elbow resting casually on the threshold above his head. There was something almost careless about the way he stood, but you knew better.

Your gaze moved over him in a practiced sweep, taking in everything in the span of a breath.

His hair was tousled, but deliberately so, as if he’d run his fingers through it just once before leaving the house, and somehow, it had settled into place exactly right. His beard was trimmed, sharp along the edges, the mustache sitting just above his upper lip like an invitation. The black suit was sleek, perfectly tailored to him, the pristine white dress shirt beneath it unbuttoned just enough at the collar to suggest ease, effortlessness. On his feet, polished black shoes—classic, no-nonsense, the kind you’d expect him to own. Who was this man?

You stepped forward, and that’s when it hit you—the scent of his cologne. Woodsy, deep, something warm and clean that made the pit of your stomach tighten.

“You’re twenty minutes early,” you said, one eyebrow lifting, your smile still intact.

He tilted his head slightly, a teasing glint in his dark eyes.

“And? No comment? Do I look okay?” His voice was laced with amusement as he raised an eyebrow, lifting his chin just enough to emphasize the question. His arm stretched higher against the doorframe, making the space between you feel even smaller.

“You look good,” you admitted, then exhaled a little softer. “Really good.”

“Just as well, Shortcake.” His voice was smooth, familiar, the nickname rolling off his tongue. Then he stepped forward, forcing you to shift aside, and his eyes flicked over you, taking in your oversized t-shirt and soft cotton shorts with something bordering on amusement. “Why aren’t you dressed yet?”

You scoffed, shutting the door behind him.

“Because you're twenty minutes early.” You gestured vaguely at your face. “But my hair and makeup are done. What do you think?”

Tilting your head just so, you struck a pose—chin high, expression deliberately blank, imitating the models from the glossy magazines your mother used to leave scattered across the living room when you were a kid.

Frankie’s gaze lingered, his expression unreadable for a second before something softened in his features.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, voice was quieter than usual. He sounded lighter tonight.

You turned away, satisfied with his response, and started up the stairs without hesitation.

“You’re in a good mood today,” you remarked, climbing the steps quickly, your feet moving with practiced ease. Frankie followed, matching your pace without effort.

“I’m a little hungry, to be honest,” he said. “And my back hurts a little. I'm gettin' older by the second.”

You scoffed, shaking your head as you reached the top step and crossed the short distance to your door.

“I see you’ve decided to take this whole honesty thing very seriously,” you said, pushing it open. A rush of cool air greeted you, the inside of the house noticeably cooler than the narrow foyer.

Frankie stepped in behind you, his movements quiet, but you could feel him there. His gaze tracked you as you made your way toward the kitchen. Behind you, the soft click of the door closing.

“You told me to be honest,” he said, moving closer, resting his hip against the counter. “And I’m getting a taste for it.”

You pressed your lips together, biting back the impulse to make a sharp remark, to bring up Will’s business again. If he was so committed to honesty, maybe he could start by telling you something real—something about that night.

But no. You’d already decided not to let it take up too much space in your head. At least, not right now.

Instead, you turned, raising your eyebrows at him.

“I’ll go change... Instead of asking you anything.”

Frankie smiled at that—small, a little sheepish, as if he knew exactly what you weren’t saying.

“Where’s Darcy?” he asked.

You glanced around, half-heartedly scanning the room, but the cat was nowhere in sight.

“Probably in my bed.”

You started toward your room, intending to find him, scoop him up, and bring him into the living room so Frankie wouldn’t be left alone. But then—footsteps. Close behind you.

You turned your head slightly, catching him in your periphery. He was... following you?

A strange smile curled at the corner of your mouth, unbidden, as you looked down at your own feet moving across the floor.

You pushed open the door to your room, already anticipating what you would find. And there he was.

Mr. Darcy lay sprawled across your bed, all four paws tucked neatly beneath his round body, his eyes narrowed in quiet suspicion. He looked like a perfectly baked loaf of bread, soft and self-assured, wholly unconcerned with your presence.

Frankie stepped toward him, and immediately, Darcy let out a sharp, clipped meow—something between a greeting and a warning. You lingered for a second, watching as Frankie murmured something low to the cat, his voice smooth. Then, without comment, you turned and crossed the room to your dresser.

Your hands moved on instinct, slipping into the closet to pull out the dress you’d set aside earlier. The fabric felt cool and soft between your fingers, unwrinkled and waiting. You carried it to the bathroom, shut the door behind you, and peeled off your clothes, letting them fall in a heap on the tiled floor.

Something made you pause. A quiet sort of curiosity crept in, and you turned toward the mirror, catching your reflection in the soft overhead light.

You didn’t normally look at yourself like this—like you were something to be observed rather than dressed, adjusted, prepared. But now, you took your time.

Your eyes traced over the length of your body—your neck, the lines of your collarbones, the slope of your shoulders. The curve of your breasts, the subtle rise and fall of your stomach as you breathed. Your hips, your thighs, the softness of your skin, marked here and there with tiny, familiar imperfections. Every part of of your body that had once seemed foreign but now just felt like you. It struck you then, the quiet realization of it. At some point, without noticing, you had stopped feeling like a girl and become someone else entirely.

You were a woman now. You had been for a while, of course. But somehow, standing here, looking at yourself, you saw it. Not just in your body, but in the weight of your gaze, in the quiet calm of your expression. If you spoke, you thought you might even hear it in your voice.

When had it happened? You weren’t sure. There had been no defining moment, no clear shift. Just a slow, quiet change, the kind that creeps up on you so gradually, you don’t notice it until one day you look at yourself—really look—and realize you are someone new. Someone older. Someone different.

A smile curved at your lips. Not a wide, beaming kind of smile, but something softer.

You reached for the dress, slipping it off the hanger with a quiet rustle of fabric. Holding it up, you studied it in the mirror for a second before stepping into it, watching the way the fabric slid over your skin, how it caught the light. You adjusted it at your waist first, smoothing out the material, then over your hips. You ran your fingers along the delicate straps, pulling them into place over your shoulders, letting them settle against your skin.

It was beautiful. You had bought it months ago, let it hang untouched in your closet, waiting for the right moment—the right excuse—to finally wear it. The color was a soft, muted pink, something delicate but not overly sweet. It fit like it had been made for you, skimming over your body in a way that felt effortless. The fabric clung in all the right places, smoothing over the curve of your waist, the line of your hips.

Thin, barely-there straps rested on your shoulders, so delicate they felt like they might slip with the wrong movement. The neckline dipped just enough to reveal the right amount of cleavage, the gentle swell of your breasts visible beneath the silky material. They looked soft, full.

Yeah. You looked hot as shit.

Turning slightly, you opened the drawer in the bathroom cabinet and sifted through the tangle of small things inside—lip balm, bobby pins, a perfume bottle with a chipped cap. You moved things aside, searching for the tiny hook you used to pull up the zipper.

For a fleeting moment, the memory of Helena’s birthday surfaced. The way your stomach had clenched, panic twisting through you, though in retrospect, it hadn’t been entirely unwarranted. Your favorite dress, ruined—or at least, that’s how it had felt in the moment. A bold streak of red bleeding into the fabric, stubborn. And Frankie, kneeling in front of you, rifling through this very same drawer, his fingers brushing against the things you were touching now. His face set in concentration, his movements oddly careful.

The stain was still there. A faint trace remained, like a ghost of that night. You wondered, briefly, if his shirt had suffered the same fate. If somewhere in his closet, there was a reminder of it too. The thought was ridiculous, and you shook it off, smiling a little at yourself as you closed the drawer.

After a few moments of searching, you came up empty. The damn zipper hook was nowhere to be found. With a sigh, you left the bathroom and walked into the bedroom, heading straight for the bedside table.

Frankie was stretched out on his side, head propped up by his hand, elbow sinking into the mattress. His other hand moved absentmindedly over Mr. Darcy’s belly, fingers tracing slow, lazy strokes through the cat’s fur. He glanced up at you as you passed.

“So I take it that’s a choice,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward your dress. “The open zipper, I mean.”

You barely spared him a glance, shaking your head as you continued rifling through drawers.

After a beat, his voice came again, teasing. “No moon and sun tonight?”

Straightening up, you folded your arms and turned to face him. Frankie’s mouth was curled into an infuriating half-smile, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. He was enjoying himself far too much.

“Why?” you asked, tilting your head. “Do you think about that a lot?”

His laugh was quiet, barely contained.

“What, about the moon and the sun?” He paused, pretending to consider it. “Now that you mention it—yeah. Every time I see them. That is, in the morning. At night.”

“Pervert,” you muttered, rolling your eyes. Without missing a beat, you reached for one of the cushions resting against your pillows and hurled it at him.

Frankie caught himself with one hand, fingers pressing into the mattress as the pillow bounced off his shoulder and landed squarely on Mr. Darcy. The cat let out a sharp, indignant noise before darting off the bed in a flurry of fur and irritation. Frankie exhaled dramatically, shaking his head as he watched the cat disappear.

“Hey,” he said, turning back to you, amusement curling at the edges of his voice. “That was uncalled for. For the record, I’m not a pervert. I was merely making an observation.”

“Right,” you said, folding your arms over your chest. “An observation about my lower back.”

He clicked his tongue, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling for a brief second before he pushed himself upright. Then, slowly—purposefully—he made his way toward you, arms loosely crossing over his chest as he moved. He stopped just short of you, standing close enough that you could feel the faint heat radiating from him. His chin lifted slightly as he looked down at you, assessing.

“Can I see it?”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your tattoo,” he clarified, tilting his head to the side. “Can I see it?”

A quiet, incredulous laugh bubbled up in your throat. “What? Why?”

Frankie’s lips twitched. “I told you—I didn’t get a good look at it the other night. Just a glimpse. I’m curious.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard.”

He huffed out a laugh, rolling his eyes. “Then you’ve clearly heard very few excuses.”

You glanced off to the side, pretending to consider it, then let out a small sigh.

“Fine. But you have to zip me up after.”

His eyes flickered with something—triumph, maybe—but he kept his expression neutral.

“Where’s your little zipper thingy?”

“I dunno,” you muttered, already turning so your back was to him. “Can’t find it anywhere.”

“You’re lucky to have me here, aren’t you?” His voice came from just behind your right ear, low, the sound of it settling over your skin. He had moved closer. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him at your back, the space between you narrowing by the second.

You exhaled. “Big ego. How badly do you want me to say yes to you?”

“As much as anyone,” he said without missing a beat, his fingers finding the clasp of your dress. They grazed the delicate metal before sliding downward, tracing the line of the zipper, stopping just where the slit in the fabric began. He applied the faintest pressure, fingertips dragging against the material. “Maybe more.”

You turned your head slightly, catching just the edge of his face in your periphery.

“Do you have a praise kink or something? Now that I think about it, that makes sense.”

Frankie let out a short, amused breath, the sound warm and rough in his chest behind you.

“Define praise kink.”

His fingers skimmed the bare skin of your back, the touch fleeting but intentional, before slipping lower to grasp the fabric. With a single motion, he pulled it down, holding it there, his fingertips framing the ink on your lower spine. He said nothing, just looking at it, as if trying to commit it to memory. You could feel the weight of his gaze, the quiet consideration in it.

“You really like being told what a good boy you are, don’t you?”

His fingers traced lightly along your back, the motion absentminded, like he was waiting to see where this would go.

“Like a well-trained dog,” you added, tilting your head slightly, just enough to catch his expression out of the corner of your eye. “Always eager to follow orders.”

Frankie hummed, the sound vibrating low in his throat. “I am a well-trained dog.”

“Yeah, I bet you are.”

He pressed his index finger to your spine, a slow drag downward, featherlight but certain.

Then, lowering his head so his mouth nearly grazed your ear, he added, “Yeah, right. But don’t forget, baby—good dogs bite too.”

“Oh yeah? I’d have to see it to believe it.” A pause. “Isn’t there a saying? Barking dogs don’t bite? And you do bark a lot.”

You felt, rather than heard, the low chuckle that rumbled through his chest, the sound more of a reaction than a response. He didn’t bother arguing.

You waited a beat. Then another.

“Are you even listening to me, Francisco?”

“I am.”

A satisfied hum escaped your lips.

“Good job,” you murmured, mocking him, tipping your head back until it rested lightly against his shoulder. His mouth quirked, something amused flickering in his eyes, but he said nothing. His fingers pressed a fraction harder into your skin like he had every intention of staying there a little longer. With the barest hint of a smirk, you tilted your chin up at him. “Now be a good boy and zip up my dress.”

Frankie’s hand settled on your waist, firm but not forceful, a steady point of contact as he held you in place. His other hand worked the clasp at your back, fingers brushing against your skin. You stood still, your breath measured, though your heartbeat was anything but. It pounded in your chest, restless, erratic.

He began to pull the zipper upward, and instinctively, you shifted forward, just enough to give him space.

“All set.”

You stepped away before you could think too much about it, crossing the room toward the mirror in the corner. Your fingers found your hair, adjusting it with idle precision, but your focus wasn’t really on yourself—it was on the reflection behind you. On Frankie, standing where you left him, watching you.

“See? What did I tell you?” His voice was softer now, and in the mirror, you saw him move, closing the space between you until he stood just behind you. His gaze caught yours in the glass. “You look amazing in that dress.”

You exhaled, your eyes drifting down your own reflection. The fabric hugged your body, elegant, but that wasn’t what made your stomach tighten. It was the weight of Frankie’s presence, the solidness of him so near, the quiet intensity in his face as he looked at you.

And the strangest part was—you didn’t mind it.

If anything, you wanted to lean into it. To let your body relax against his, your back pressing into his chest, your head finding his shoulder. It would be so easy to let go, just for a moment, to let him be the thing keeping you upright.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you met his eyes in the reflection, a quiet sort of smile forming at the edges of your lips.

“Thank you,” you said, tilting your head slightly. “You look amazing too.”

Frankie’s mouth quirked, like he was about to say something, but he didn’t. He only stood there, his dark eyes locked on yours, unwilling to break the contact.

A slow warmth crept up your neck, spreading through your stomach in a way you weren’t prepared for. As if he could sense it, Frankie leaned in, his breath ghosting against your skin as his mouth brushed near your ear.

“I’ll get an uber,” he murmured, voice lower now, quieter.

And then he stepped back, turning without hesitation, crossing the room and disappearing through the doorway, leaving you standing alone in front of the mirror.

“I don’t want to have a hangover tomorrow,” you murmured to Frankie as you stepped into the Marriott’s party. Your arm was looped through his, your body angled slightly toward him like he was the only person here you trusted not to drive you insane. “Can you imagine? Puking from heaven?”

Frankie huffed out a quiet laugh. The ceremony had been painfully sentimental, the kind of over-the-top romanticism that left little room for subtlety. You and Frankie had sat near the back, exchanging glances every time Harry or Lisa said something particularly saccharine. You could feel his amusement vibrating beneath his skin, a quiet, internal laugh that matched yours.

They were a cliché. But they were in love.

And the two of you? Yeah, also a cliché. But a different kind, a diffierent version. The bitter, disillusioned wedding guests who made quiet fun of people who still believed in grand gestures and happily-ever-afters. The inevitable result of being heartbroken, right?

“We’ll leave early,” Frankie assured you, his voice low, just for you. “Get you home at a decent hour. The drive’s over an hour, and I wouldn’t wish that hungover on my worst enemy.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but before you could, a hand clamped around your free arm.

“Holy shit,” a voice said, full of delighted surprise. “I thought I was seeing things when I spotted you at the ceremony, but nope. It’s actually you.”

Henry. Harry’s brother.

He was grinning as he leaned in, too close, forcing you to subtly pull back. His breath smelled like alcohol, like he’d started celebrating hours ago.

“I didn’t think you’d actually show up,” he continued. “Told Harry he was crazy to even invite you.”

Beside you, Frankie exhaled sharply—a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh but carried the same edge of amusement. You felt him shift closer, the space between your bodies narrowing.

“Why, Henry?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, curious to see how he’d wriggle out of this one.

Henry’s gaze flickered from your face to Frankie’s, then back to yours. “Well, you know.”

“I really don’t.” You let the silence stretch, watching him squirm. Then, before he could answer, you said, “Anyway, this is Frankie, my boyfriend. Frankie, this is Henry—Harry’s brother.”

Frankie nodded, extending his hand, and Henry took it with a grin that bordered on friendly but didn’t quite make it there.

“Henry,” Frankie said, shaking his hand. “Henry and Harry. Your parents were feeling creative, huh?”

Henry chuckled. “That’s what they tell me.”

They released hands, and Henry’s gaze slid back to you, his grin widening, unbearably smug. “Have you said hi to Harry yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Well, you should. He’d love to see you.” Henry’s expression was all performative innocence. Then, as if he’d just remembered something incredibly important, he clapped his hands together. “I took it upon myself to make the evening spectacular, by the way. If there’s one thing I know, it’s how to throw a party. And personally, I like expensive parties.”

“I can imagine,” you murmured.

“If you’re not gonna do it big, don’t do it at all, right?”

“Exactly.” Frankie turned to you, his dark eyes gleaming with barely hidden amusement. “Isn’t that what you always say?”

“It is,” you said solemnly, nodding.

“Two hundred bottles of Dom Pérignon,” Henry continued, gesturing grandly. “No more, no less. One of my gifts to the happy couple. Because really, is there anything better than a proper glass of champagne?”

“I couldn’t agree more,” you said, raising your eyebrows.

“See? That’s the attitude I like.” Henry rested a hand on your shoulder, his expression shifting into something more pointed. “And I have to say, I’m glad to see you here. You’re a beautiful woman, and it’s about time you both put all this behind you, don’t you think?”

Your spine stiffened, but before you could decide exactly how to respond, Frankie was already moving. He clapped a firm hand on Henry’s shoulder, forcing him to shift his attention.

“We should go find our table,” Frankie said, his tone pleasant, easy, but somehow final. “Nice meeting you, Henry. You really are a lot like your brother. Uncanny.”

Henry’s grin twitched.

“So they say.” His eyes flickered between you both, as if sizing something up, but then he just shrugged. “Well, enjoy yourselves.”

Frankie nodded once, then slipped his arm back around yours, steering you away as Henry melted back into the crowd.

“Harry and Henry,” he murmured close to your ear as you wove through the room, scanning for your seats. His breath was warm against your skin, but his tone was flat. “Is this a joke?”

“It’s a family tradition. Their dad’s name is Hugo. Their mom’s name is Hillary.”

“I guess being obnoxiously consistent is a family tradition too.”

You let out a quiet laugh, the sound barely carrying over the hum of conversation and the clinking of glassware. He gestured vaguely as you walked, like he was painting his exasperation into the air.

“I dunno, never met their parents. Just Henry.”

“He’s an idiot. I hope you’re aware of that.”

“Sure, but he’s an idiot who ordered two hundred bottles of Dom Pérignon, so we’re not leaving until we’ve had at least one.”

You spotted your table near a set of tall windows overlooking the courtyard, candlelight flickering against the panes. Without thinking, you reached for Frankie’s hand, your fingers slipping easily around his wrist as you guided him forward.

“If you want to leave, just say the word,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

You nodded. The truth was, if it were entirely up to you, you’d be gone already. But you were starving, and after sitting through an entire ceremony—one that would have been unbearable if not for Frankie at your side—you figured you’d earned a decent meal.

At the table sat Lydia, Eric, and Noah—friends of Harry’s—and Lucy, Eric’s girlfriend. You knew Lydia, but the rest were strangers, and judging by Lydia’s slightly startled expression when she saw you, she hadn’t expected you to be here either. You gave her a small, reassuring nod, the same one you had given Henry earlier. It’s fine.

You assumed Henry had handled dinner as well, given the absurdly decadent spread in front of you. The first course arrived, each plate looking like something out of a high-production culinary docuseries: fresh oysters crowned with lemon foam and caviar, served alongside champagne mignonette and delicate sprigs of herbs. Burrata and prosciutto salad followed, the cheese nestled among caramelized figs, arugula, toasted almonds, and a drizzle of aged balsamic.

Frankie didn’t talk much, too absorbed in his food, eating with the kind of quiet satisfaction that suggested he had no intention of wasting a single bite. You chimed in here and there, but the conversation quickly veered toward topics that held no interest for you. Harry’s friends all worked in the same field—cyber engineering, or something equally impenetrable, whatever—and there was nothing in the world you cared about less.

Just as the waitstaff began to move through the room, balancing trays and murmuring amongst themselves, Lydia turned to Frankie with a curious tilt of her head. She was seated close to him—closer than necessary—and the soft glow of the overhead lights caught the mischievous glint in her brown eyes as she spoke.

“How did you two meet?”

Frankie reached for his wine glass, taking a measured sip before glancing at you.

“I’m friends with her brother. Best friend, actually.”

Lydia’s lips parted slightly in surprise, then curved into a knowing smile.

“No shit,” she said, her fingers drifting to rest on his bicep in a way that felt both casual and deliberate. “I assume it was a secret thing for a while, right?”

“A little,” you admitted, letting your hand slide over Frankie’s where it rested on the table. His skin was warm beneath your palm, his fingers slightly tense. “But my brother took it well, thankfully.”

“When did you two start dating?”

“Almost four months ago,” Frankie said, so easily, so naturally, that for a second, even you almost believed it.

Lydia grinned, her eyes flicking between the two of you like she was cataloging details.

“I like it, I like you,” she said finally. “You make a good couple. You look great together.”

You tilted your head, resting your chin in the palm of your hand, elbow propped on the table.

“Really?” you teased, then turned to Frankie, lifting your brows up and down in an exaggerated motion.

Lydia gave an affirming nod, lifting her glass to her lips just as the waiters arrived with the main course.

Frankie’s grip on your hand tightened—just slightly, barely perceptible. But you felt it. His thumb traced absentminded circles against the back of your hand as his gaze flickered to the waitstaff moving seamlessly through the room. Men and women in crisp white shirts and dark blue aprons carried silver trays. There were three options: meat, fish, or vegetarian. You had confirmed your choice in advance, so when the waiter set your plate down, it was exactly as expected—a perfectly seared beef fillet, dark and rich beneath a glossy truffle and red wine reduction. Beside it, a portion of rustic mashed potatoes, thick with butter, and a handful of grilled asparagus, charred just enough at the edges. It looked like a painting, like you were about to devour a Millais piece of art.

The conversation at the table carried on effortlessly, drifting from one topic to the next, until—unexpectedly—it landed on Frankie and his time in the Air Force, specifically CAG. You hadn’t anticipated it, but he took it in stride, fielding questions with ease. And the stories he shared were, for lack of a better word, unreal. Incredible, even. And yet, no one at the table doubted him. You didn't. There was something about the way he spoke—measured, composed, always keeping just enough back. He offered glimpses but never the full picture.

Like everyone else, you found yourself hanging onto his words. But it wasn’t just the stories that held your attention—it was him. The way he carried himself, his voice even and certain, the weight of experience settled into every syllable. He didn’t embellish. He didn’t need to.

You felt it in your stomach, that low, twisting awareness of him. Your gaze kept catching on the line of his jaw, the set of his soft mouth as he spoke, the way his hands moved when he gestured. You had never given much thought to the appeal of pilots, but suddenly, it made perfect sense.

You imagined him in a cockpit, eyes locked straight ahead, jaw tight in focus, hands steady on the controls. Big hands, thick fingers knowing exactly what to do. Flying a plane, or maybe a helicopter, his brows drawn together in concentration, gripping the throttle. You could see it so clearly, like a memory that wasn’t yours.

“Join me outside?”

His voice broke through your thoughts, pulling you back. You blinked, realizing you’d been staring at him for too long. Heat crept up your neck.

“Sure,” you said, covering your embarrassment with a quick smile. “You okay?”

“Just need a smoke.” He tipped his head toward the door, his own mouth curving slightly.

“Okay, let’s go.”

You both stood, murmuring quick apologies to the table before slipping away, weaving through the room toward the patio doors.

Outside, the night air was crisp, carrying the faint hum of conversation from inside. Frankie walked past the windows to the far end of the patio, where the light was softer. He reached into his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes with one hand, his lighter with the other.

You stood in front of him, watching as he brought the cigarette to his lips, tilting his head just slightly as he flicked the lighter. The small flame sparked, illuminating his face in a brief flash of gold, shadows shifting across his features. His eyes caught the light, reflecting it back like polished amber.

For a moment, he looked impossibly warm.

“Oh, they all loved you,” you said, stepping closer, your heels pressing softly against the stone patio.

Frankie took a drag from his cigarette, then exhaled to the side, careful to direct the smoke away from you.

“I’m convincing,” he said, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “But I needed to get out of there for a minute. I think you did too.”

You tilted your head. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He studied you for a second. “You were quiet in there. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you said, nodding. You crossed your arms over your chest, more out of instinct than anything else. The movement pushed your breasts up slightly, the soft night air drawing a slow breath from you.

Frankie’s eyes flickered downward—so quick you might have missed it. And then just as quickly, he looked away, clearing his throat, focusing somewhere off to the side.

“Good,” he said, his voice steady again. “It’s a nice party.”

“It is. They seem happy.”

“Harry was watching you earlier. Looked like he wanted to come over.”

“I’ll find him later. He’s busy with all the guests.”

Frankie nodded, then lifted the cigarette back to his lips.

“So, you think we should head out after the cake?”

You let out a short laugh, tilting your head. “Unbelievable. That’s your plan? Wait around for the cake. It's always the cake.”

He exhaled another stream of smoke, this time straight up, and from where you stood, your eyes dropped to the movement of his throat, the way the muscles shifted as he swallowed.

“I just want to make sure you’re comfortable,” he said, his voice low. "And yeah, I want cake."

“Oh don’t even think about it,” you said, stepping even closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne beneath the smoke. “You think I’m leaving a wedding without dancing at least once? I didn’t put on this dress just to sit around all night.”

For a second, Frankie looked almost serious. Then, without warning, his hand reached out, resting lightly on your arm. His palm was warm, his thumb brushing absently against your skin.

“That’s true. And lucky for you, I know a couple of moves you might like.”

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Oh, yeah?”

He snorted, shaking his head. “I have sisters. Do you know how many times they made me practice for their school dances?”

“Oh I’ll believe it when I see it, Travolta.”

He smiled, and his gaze dropped, trailing the length of your body in a way that should have felt obvious. But it didn’t. It didn’t feel leering or calculated—it felt like something else entirely. Something measured. Like he was taking in a view he hadn’t expected to find himself looking at for too long. Under his gaze, this time, you felt warm.

And yet, it settled inside you in a way you weren’t ready for.

No.

You pushed the thought away, rejecting it outright, like swatting at a mosquito buzzing too close to your ear. This—whatever this was—wasn’t supposed to burrow under your skin. It wasn’t supposed to live in you.

Nothing had even happened. Not really. There was no reason for your chest to feel tight, for your stomach to flip when he so much as looked at you for too long. You’d had a dream, that was all. A dream he knew almost nothing about. And yet, something was shifting. Your perception of him was warping, reshaping itself in ways you didn’t entirely trust.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

It wasn’t supposed to.

“I’m going to get a little drunk tonight,” you announced suddenly, as if saying it out loud would root you back in the moment. A sweet, practiced smile curled at your lips. “Just a little. Just enough to be happy and giggly.”

Frankie’s mouth twitched. “Champagne happiness, heard it’s dangerous.”

“Are you going to celebrate with me?”

He quirked a brow. “What, baby?”

The way he said it—casual, unthinking, like it was something he’d called you a hundred times before—sent a sharp, unexpected pulse through you. A deep, insistent thrum that settled low in your body, uninvited and impossible to ignore. But you ignored it anyway. Or at least, you tried to.

You let your head tip back slightly, arms falling to your sides in an exaggerated motion, playing up the lightness in your voice, the teasing in your expression. Then, closing the space between you, you pressed your hands lightly to his chest. Beneath your palms, you felt the warmth of his skin through the fabric of his suit, the steady rise and fall of his breath.

You looked up at him, eyes catching on his. Deep coffee eyes, they could keep you awake.

"We'll jump out of a plane tomorrow."

Frankie’s fingers wrapped around your wrists and he stepped back, drawing you with him until his back met the wall.

"Yes, we will."

He lowered his hand, pressing the cigarette against the wall to put it out, then flicked it toward the bin a few feet away. It arced lazily through the air before landing neatly inside.

You slid your hands down, settling them at his waist.

"Impressive." The teasing edge in your voice made him laugh.

He covered your hands with his own, resting them over his chest, his palms warm and solid. Then he shifted, bending slightly at the knees, his body slotting in closer to yours, his face suddenly right there.

"Ready to go back inside?"

"Ready."

And then—so brief it might not have happened at all—he leaned in and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Barely there. A brush of warmth, gone before your breath could catch up with it. But it stayed, somehow, like a ghost of heat on your skin.

Straightening, he stepped to your side, offering his hand. No hesitation. No smugness. Just an easy, open gesture and you took it without thinking. His fingers curled around yours, warm as he led you back inside.

Lydia greeted you with an easy smile, her chair scraping lightly against the floor as she scooted closer—not necessarily to you, but to Frankie, sitting beside her. She leaned in slightly, one hand curled around the stem of her wine glass, the other resting on the table as she tossed out a question about flying. Her bright brown eyes were glossy with the weight of the night as she touched her dark hair, curls falling over her shoulder.

Frankie answered without hesitation, his voice relaxed, slipping into laughter as she made some joke you didn’t quite catch. You weren’t really listening. Your mind was occupied elsewhere, preoccupied with the weight in your chest—a strange, persistent thing, both soft and heavy, pulsing faintly, not overwhelming but impossible to ignore.

Every few moments, he glanced your way, his gaze landing on you as if to check that you were still there. And you were, technically. You nodded at the right times, reacted just enough to seem present, though the words around you barely registered. It was like hearing a conversation through a thick wall, muffled, distant.

You let your head rest in the palm of your hand, tilting slightly as you watched him. The curve of his mouth, the sharp cut of his jaw, the way the light caught the faint crease between his brows when he focused on something. Then he turned toward you fully, his expression careful, warm, like he saw you—really saw you—even though you weren’t saying anything at all.

Without thinking, your free hand moved to rest over his knee. A light squeeze. Quiet, grounding.

Half an hour passed, the conversation drifting into topics that no longer had anything to do with neither of you. The wine glasses sat empty, waiting to be refilled, and though you weren’t drunk, you’d had enough to feel lighter, your limbs looser, your thoughts a little hazier around the edges.

At some point, the bride and groom stood for a toast. People clinked glasses, raised them in the air, laughter rippling through the room. You listened, but only barely. It was strange, how little interest you had in any of it. And Frankie seemed to notice. He leaned in, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “Do you want to go for another smoke?”

The corner of your mouth lifted, a quiet chuckle slipping out. “That would be rude,” you murmured back. “Later.”

At last, the champagne arrived. Waiters moved seamlessly through the room, carrying silver buckets brimming with ice, the necks of dark green bottles peeking out as condensation dripped onto polished trays. The music swelled, a subtle shift in energy, signaling the arrival of dessert. Over by the dance floor, an entire spread of sweets had been arranged under the glow of warm lights, a feast of sugar and cream and fresh fruit.

In front of you, delicate plates were set down—thin layers of almond sponge cake stacked with glossy chocolate ganache and silky coffee cream. Next to them, red fruit tarts sat like tiny works of art, mascarpone swirled into soft peaks, crushed pistachios scattered over the top, a drizzle of raspberry coulis glistening beneath a sheer, glassy icing.

The waitstaff moved through the tables again, offering bottles of crisp white and deep red wines, the bubbles of a brut sparkling ready for the toast. Frankie reached for his glass, ordering a sauvignon with practiced ease. You stayed with champagne, the cool stem of the flute pressed lightly between your fingers as you took a sip, the sharp fizz of it settling on your tongue.

Apparently, there were still more speeches to get through. Henry—the best man—took the microphone, followed by a handful of other guests, each offering heartfelt words for the bride and groom. The messages were exactly what you’d expect: warm wishes, fond memories, jokes about the honeymoon a handful of mildly embarrassing anecdotes that made the room laugh. Behind the head table, a slideshow played on a screen, flickering through childhood photos, vacation snapshots, and candid moments. Then, finally, the moment everyone had been waiting for—the official announcement that the party was about to begin.

Finally.

The staff moved quickly, clearing the dance floor as the music shifted. The lights dimmed, leaving only the soft glow of delicate strands of twinkling bulbs hanging from the ceiling, casting everything in a warm, golden haze. It looked almost unreal, like a scene lifted straight out of a fairy tale. In the center of the room, a mirrored disco ball began to turn, scattering shards of light across the space, tiny reflections dancing over tables, faces, the polished floor.

Frankie extended a hand toward you, palm up, fingers slightly curled. “Come on, I’ll lead the way.”

You laughed, mostly at the self-assured look on his face. “ I need to use the restroom. I'll be right back.”

He waved a hand, a casual I’ll wait for you, and leaned back in his chair. You stood, weaving your way past the crowd as they moved toward the dance floor, slipping along the edge of the music and laughter until you reached the hallway by the windows, where the restrooms overlooked the courtyard.

The bathroom caught you off guard. You hadn’t expected the luxury to extend this far, but of course, it had. The walls, clad in black marble with striking white veins, gleamed under the soft light of recessed gold sconces, casting everything in a soft, opulent glow. The floor, a stretch of polished black porcelain, reflected the warm light overhead, your silhouette mirrored faintly at your feet.

At the sinks, two women stood talking animatedly, their voices bouncing off the marble. Something about a Jenny. You barely registered it, and they paid you the same indifference as you slipped into one of the stalls.

When you emerged, the place was quiet again, just the faint hum of the music filtering in from the outside. You stepped toward the mirror, running your hands under the stream of cold water, watching yourself as you lathered the soap between your fingers. You looked good. Better than good, actually. The dress had been the right choice. Not to be vain, but your boobs looked phenomenal.

Your palm smoothed over the fabric, fingertips grazing the delicate material, adjusting where it clung just right. A quiet sigh left your lips. You reached into your purse, pulling out your lipstick and uncapping it. A quick swipe of color, then a gentle dab with your fingertip to blend, leaving just the right stain behind. The I've just been kissed kinda look.

Then, you straightened, squared your shoulders, and made your way to the door. The moment it swung open, the sound of the party crashed back into you.

A pop song from the nineties played, something ridiculously catchy. Your gaze flickered across the room, searching, landing almost immediately on Frankie. He was leaning against one of the columns near the dance floor, watching the crowd with that quiet attentiveness he always carried.

You picked up your pace, weaving through the shifting bodies, ready to reach him—

Until a voice cut through the noise, calling your name.

Harry.

He approached with a wide grin, his cheeks flushed, a drink clutched loosely in one hand. He looked happy—tipsy, maybe more than that.

“Hey, hey, there you are,” he said, his voice slightly louder than necessary as he rested a hand on your shoulder and bent toward you. “How are you liking the party?”

“It’s amazing,” you said truthfully, then tilted your head toward the dance floor. “How’s Lisa?”

Harry followed your gaze, nodding toward where Lisa was dancing in the middle of a group of women, all of them belting out the lyrics to the song playing over the speakers. She looked radiant, beautiful.

“Her dream wedding,” he said, sounding both proud and a little dazed by it all. Then he turned back to you. “You having a good time? Did you come alone?”

“No, I came with Frankie.” You gestured behind you instinctively, eyes scanning for him.

And there he was. Still leaning against the column. But now he wasn’t alone. Lydia stood in front of him, her body angled toward his, her fingers resting lightly on his bicep as she laughed at something he’d said.

Harry didn’t seem to notice—his attention elsewhere, the shifting crowd blocking his line of sight.

“I’ll stop by and say hi in a bit, okay? I’m really glad you came. And with him.”

“It’s nothing,” you said, smiling softly, already turning, already stepping away before he could say anything else.

When you looked back at Frankie, he was watching you now. He raised both eyebrows, his mouth curving into something smug and amused, as if to say, Are you seeing this?

Lydia tilted her head, still talking, still smiling.

And you smiled too—sharp, incredulous.

This bitch.

She was flirting with your boyfriend?

Well. Not really your boyfriend. But as far as she knew, he was.

How fucking dare she?

You stopped in your tracks just a few feet away, arms crossing tightly over your chest. Your gaze flicked between them—Frankie, who looked momentarily confused, and Lydia, who had somehow managed to inch even closer.

For a second, he glanced at you, then back at her, and you could see it—the slight crease in his brow, the way his mouth pulled at the corners, amused but uncertain. You had no idea what they were talking about, couldn’t hear a damn thing over the music and the hum of conversation around you. But still, irritation prickled at the back of your neck, heat pooling in your chest.

Why wasn’t he stopping her?

She was looking up at him, all effortless charm, fingers lightly grazing his arm. And Frankie—smiling, a little uncomfortable, sure, but not moving away.

Then she lifted her hand, fingers brushing the side of his neck.

And something in you snapped. You closed the distance between you in seconds, stepping up beside her with so much force she barely had time to react. She was still mid-sentence, still focused on him, and you didn’t wait for her to turn. Instead, your hand found her shoulder, firm but not forceful, and pulled her back.

“Take your hands off him.”

Your voice came out even, controlled. Not angry—just final.

Her eyes widened in surprise, feigned innocence flickering across her expression like she had no idea what you could possibly be talking about.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I was just asking—”

“I don’t care.” You smiled at her, wide and sharp, tilting your head slightly. “Step back.”

She let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head like this was all some kind of joke.

“Darlin', I—”

“Aren’t you listening to me?” you cut in again, your voice dropping slightly. “I said step back. Now.”

You didn’t move, didn’t blink, just flicked your chin toward the other end of the room, arms still folded over your chest. Go on.

Lydia exhaled, something between a scoff and a sigh, her eyes narrowing slightly like you had just accused her of something truly outrageous. Then, with an exaggerated shake of her head, she turned on her heel and walked away, each step sharp and offended.

The second she was out of earshot, Frankie let out a strangled laugh, low and rough, pressing his knuckles against his mouth to muffle it.

You turned on him next, raising an eyebrow.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He grinned, utterly unbothered.

“I was waiting for you. She came up to me, that’s all.” The fucker was enjoying this.

“Ah. And why’s that?”

“She just asked me something about my job.”

“Oh, really? What is it? She interested in joining the Air Force?”

Frankie let out a low laugh, shaking his head.

“Don’t think so.” He cocked an eyebrow, watching you. “But she’s interested in flying. Asked if I could give her, you know… lessons.”

Your gaze swept over him, from his boots to his eyes, dragging your gaze up and locking onto his. A dry, humorless chuckle escaped your lips.

“Lessons,” you repeated, stretching out the word, lips curling. “Well, that explains why she was hanging onto your every word at dinner.”

“She’s got the passion for it.”

You pressed your lips together, nodding.

“Mhm.” That was all you gave him before turning on your heel and heading toward the dance floor.

Three seconds later, a hand curled around your waist, pulling you back with such certainty you barely had time to react before you found yourself against his chest, the warmth of him seeping through the thin fabric of your dress.

He didn’t let go. Instead, his hand shifted, moving higher, resting over your ribs. His thumb barely grazing the soft skin of your chest above the fabric, oblivious, the touch light, absentminded.

“Don’t go,” he murmured against your ear, voice edged with smile.

You turned your face toward him, just enough that your breath almost mingled with his, your mouth a whisper away from his own. The scent of his cologne wrapped around you, settling in your chest like a slow, creeping warmth. It wasn’t overpowering, just enough to make you aware of how close he was.

“This whole pilot thing, I imagine it must be useful with women.”

You flicked your gaze forward before he could answer, landing on Lydia across the room, mid-laugh, one hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass, the other gesturing in animated conversation with someone whose name you didn’t know.

He didn’t hesitate. “It is.”

“Does it work for you?”

His chuckle was low, more felt than heard. “Most of the time.”

You turned toward him again, not quite meeting his eyes, his lips so close they could almost be mistaken for yours in a darkened room.

Your voice carried a hint of a lie. “I don’t see the appeal.”

“I know you don’t.”

“But I like uniforms. Do you wear one?”

“I used to. Full-body flight suit. A helmet, if I was flying. Full protective gear.”

A hum left your throat, thoughtful, considering. You nodded, but said nothing.

“I could give you lessons too, if you want.”

Your eyebrows knitted together, your expression shifting into something thoughtful, as if you were genuinely considering it. You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you turned, unhurried, until you were facing him fully. The space between you barely existed—your chest pressed against his, so close that the contact made you ticklish. Your hands moved, trailing up his chest in a way that could have been absentminded if not for how deliberate it felt. They came to rest against his shoulders, then slid higher, fingers curling lightly around either side of his neck.

“I see, did you tell Lydia that too?”

“Careful,” he said, voice dipping lower, teasing. “Or I’m going to start thinking you’re jealous.”

A surprised laugh pressed against your ribs, got caught in your throat before you let it out, short and sharp. Your gaze flickered away for a moment, as if checking the room, as if needing to look anywhere else. Jealous. The suggestion was ridiculous. Completely absurd.

“Jealous? Of what? A fake relationship?”

“Who knows.”

Your fingers twitched slightly where they rested against his skin, your right hand skimming higher, grazing the place Lydia’s had been just minutes ago.

“No, but I do want to make something clear. Right now, you’re with me,” you went on, your voice quieter but no less firm. “That’s the story, isn’t it? We’re together. We’re a couple.”

“We are.”

“So don’t flirt with anyone else,” you continued, fingers pressing just a little deeper into the warm skin at his neck. “Don’t let them touch you, don’t let them get too close.”

His eyes traced your face, taking their time, unreadable. The corner of his mouth twitched again, his upper lip lifting slightly, like he was fighting against something—maybe a smirk, maybe a retort.

“If any woman approaches you while we’re at it, you tell her—respectfully—that you have a girlfriend,” you said, unwavering. “We can’t risk it. And I certainly don’t need people thinking you’re cheating on me. Right?”

“Right.”

“Other than that,” you added, tilting your chin slightly, “you’re free to do whatever you want.”

Frankie exhaled, tilting his head back slightly as his gaze swept the room. His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth—thoughtful, maybe frustrated. Before you could ask, before you could even register the shift in his posture, he stepped away from you. The absence of his body heat was brief, because a second later, his hand found your waist. Again.

He didn’t say anything. He just started walking, guiding you with him, his grip firm but not forceful at all. You could have stopped him if you wanted to. You didn’t. Instead, you let yourself be led through the clusters of people, past the conversation, the clinking of glasses, the bursts of laughter that grew fainter as he maneuvered you toward the door leading to the courtyard.

The air outside felt delicious, still carrying the remnants of summer heat but cooled by the open space. It was quieter here, though the muffled echoes of the party still drifted from inside. You glanced up at him, waiting for some kind of explanation, but he gave you nothing. Just kept moving, steering you toward the spot where you’d stood earlier in the night.

Then, with a firm nudge against the side of your ribcage, he pressed you toward the wall. Your spine met the cool surface, a muted shock against the warmth of your skin. He positioned himself in front of you, close enough that you felt the residual energy buzzing off him, though his expression remained composed.

“If we’re going to set rules,” he said finally, stepping nearer, “they should go both ways.”

His mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smirk, his right hand lifting, two fingers extended in your direction like he was making a point.

You blinked at him, unimpressed. “I haven’t flirted with anyone, Francisco.”

He didn’t break eye contact. “Keep it that way.”

You let out a quiet breath. “Okay.”

"I mean—I mean as long as we're together doing this in public, keep it that way."

“Okay.”

He exhaled through his nose, gaze still steady. “And this thing with your little games—you need to stop.”

Your arms crossed over your chest, a slow, deliberate movement. He noticed, his eyes flickering downward before snapping back up to your face, like he hadn’t meant to look. Like it annoyed him that he had.

A beat passed. Then you lifted your eyebrows, voice soft, feigning innocence.

“What are you talking about?”

His jaw tightened for just a fraction of a second.

“I know what you’re doing,” he said, voice measured, even. “I know what you tried to do at my mom’s house.”

You stared at him, your expression unreadable but enjoying all of this.

“The weird dreams,” he continued. "The way you act. All sweet and nice and pretending not to know exactly what you’re doing.”

He was so close now that you could see the faint crease between his brows, the way his lips curled just slightly at the edges, the soft texture of his lips, a hint of amusement masking whatever was simmering underneath. He lifted a hand, pressing his palm against the wall beside your head, leaning in, caging you in place without actually touching you.

“All of that,” he murmured, gaze unwavering. “Out of nowhere?”

“I never said anything about a weird dream.”

Frankie exhaled sharply through his nose, an incredulous half-laugh. “Of course you did.”

“No. I said wet dream, not weird dream.”

For a second, just a fraction of one, his expression faltered. Then he coughed out a rough laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe you.

“Same thing. And it’s still a lie.”

Something warm flickered low in your stomach, then curled upward, spreading through your chest. Maybe it was the champagne. Or the wine from dinner. Or maybe it was just him, standing so close, looking at you like that. Not that it mattered.

You smiled, slowy shaking your head. “I wasn’t lying.”

“Yeah, right.”

“I wasn’t,” you insisted, leaning slightly into the space between you.

He scoffed. “You didn’t even know what to say when I asked you about it.”

“Well, I was a little embarrassed, wouldn’t you be?”

Frankie gave a short, disbelieving shake of his head. “Not a chance.”

“Okay,” you said, inhaling. “Then let’s see. I’ll tell you. Since you’re so sure I made it up.”

A few hours ago, maybe a few hours from now, you might have had the good sense to keep your mouth shut. But right now, with him standing there looking so smug, so convinced he was right, something in you hardened, filled with certainty. A slow grin tugged at the corner of your lips as you took in the self-satisfied look on his face.

“Well,” you started, your tone casual, like this was just any conversation. “I was in bed, and it was daylight. Probably morning, since the sun hits right outside my window at that hour.”

“Uh-huh. Noted.”

“I closed my eyes, and the light dimmed. When I opened them, you were there.”

His smirk wavered slightly.

“On top of me,” you clarified, watching him carefully, gauging his reaction. A pleasant sort of nervousness buzzed beneath your skin, excitement curling around your spine. Your face felt warm, but you didn’t stop. “You were kissing my neck. My hands were in your hair—”

“Okay. Stop it,” he said, his voice a little rougher now, the effect of your words obvious in the way his jaw tensed, the way his posture shifted.

But you ignored him, eyes glinting with something close to triumph.

“And you kissed me. Sweet, hard, soft,” you went on, undeterred.

He didn’t tell you to stop again. Just watched you, his gaze dark and unreadable, eyes shining like black pearls.

“And... well,” you shrugged, feigning innocence, lips curling. “You know the rest.”

"I certainly don't."

A pause stretched between you, thick and charged with the air pressing in around you like something tangible, like you were swimming in mousse. He was a contradiction in real time—so eager to hear you say it, but so visibly bracing against it. Like he wanted to know and didn’t, all at once.

"Francisco—"

"Tell me what happened."

The confidence you’d walked in with was beginning to leak out of you, leaving a warm flush in its absence, like heat rising from your skin.

He opened his mouth again. "Are you embarrassed—"

"You fucked me," you said, the words coming out in a breath. "Like you knew exactly how, like it was second nature. And, to be honest, right now, looking at you from this angle, it’s like watching it happen all over again."

Something in him shifted. It was barely visible, the kind of change you’d miss if you weren’t already attuned to him in a way that felt dangerous. His body tilted forward, unintentionally, his hand still planted on the wall just beside your head. His gaze tracked yours with precision, like he was waiting for you to flinch first. Your head tilted back, chin lifting to meet him. Your mouth felt dry, your chest heavy.

A breath left him, uneven. His pupils dark and wide, mouth slightly parted like he might say something, but he didn’t. Instead, he held himself there, frozen in some strange balance between defiance and surrender.

"Out of nowhere," he said after a few seconds, voice lower now, more controlled than it had been a moment ago. "You bring these things up out of nowhere. You really think I’m just going to take your word for it?"

"You already do. You believe me because it’s true. Do you really think I’d make something like this up?"

A slow, almost lazy smile unfurled on his lips. "Of course you would. You love playing games with me."

"Do you actually believe that?"

"Yeah, I do. You used to do it before, you're still at it now. The only difference is, back then, you loved torturing me with other kind of stuff. Now, you’ve just switched it up a bit. I guess all that energy’s gotta go somewhere."

"Sure, well, just remember this—if there's gonna be tension, it’s gotta pull from both sides, right? If we’re talking energy... there need to be two hands on each side of the thread."

"So, you’re accepting it? That you're playing with me?"

"I never said that."

"I told you before—I know what you’re doing. These little looks you think I don’t catch. The way you push just enough to see if I’ll bite. Now that we’re not fighting all the time, this is your new strategy?"

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head. "Like you don’t love every second of it."

"I don’t—"

"You do," you cut in smoothly. "And you don’t just take it, you give it right back. Let’s not pretend. You had me pressed against you in there, whispering in my ear like you didn’t have another option." Your chin lifted again, your lips inches from his. "Just admit it."

"Admit what?" He wanted to make you mad. But you weren’t mad.

"Admit that you’re playing the same game." A soft smile curved your mouth. "Don’t act like I’m the one setting the rules when you follow them so damn well. And even if I were the one setting them, you’d still follow them, wouldn’t you? You said it yourself—a well-trained dog."

Your hand moved to his chest, slow and knowing, fingers trailing upward to the base of his throat. His pulse beat against your palm.

"And don’t get too cocky," you murmured, pressing just slightly, feeling the way he swallowed under your touch. "I know exactly how to win."

His smile faltered, the edges softening until it was gone entirely. His expression was intoxicating—his heavy-lidded gaze sweeping over your face, lingering, tracing every detail like he was trying to memorize it. He wet his bottom lip with the tip of his tongue, exhaling through his nose as he leaned in, tilting his head just enough for his mouth to ghost over your cheek.

"And what exactly is the prize?"

Your pulse slammed against your ribs, heat unfurling low in your stomach, molten and insistent. You had a response ready, but you held it back, breathing through the moment, trying to steady yourself enough that he wouldn’t hear how uneven you sounded.

Frankie pulled back just slightly, just enough to catch your eyes again. The air between you felt weighted, a thread stretched so tight it might snap.

Your fingers drifted up the column of his neck, brushing along his jawline, tucking a stray curl behind his ear. He didn't move away, didn’t even blink, just watched you with the kind of focus that made your skin burn. You leaned in, your lips grazing his in a touch so light it barely existed. The ghost of a kiss, suspended between you, aching to be realized.

"Do you think you can win?" you murmured, the words pressing into his mouth more than being spoken.

Frankie closed his eyes, the barest smile curving his lips. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

"I bet you are. Wrong," you mused, your fingers trailing downward, stopping at his throat, pressing lightly against the steady beat of his pulse. "Can you tell me something?"

His breath hitched, almost imperceptible. "Mhm."

"That night," you whispered, "you were talking about me with Will, weren’t you?"

His lashes fluttered, but he didn’t hesitate. "Yeah."

"But what you told him wasn’t true."

"No, it wasn’t."

"Why did you lie to him?"

A beat of silence. His throat bobbed under your fingers.

"You know Will."

"What did he tell you?"

Frankie closed the space between you, his movements unhurried but decisive, like he’d already made up his mind about what was going to happen next. His lips pressed the corner of your mouth—just enough to make your breath catch—but instead of deepening the kiss, he shifted, tracing a slow path up your cheek, leaving the faintest, teasing kisses in his wake.

By the time he reached your ear, your eyes had already fluttered shut, a small, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. You felt the warmth of his breath before he spoke.

"He insisted," he murmured, his voice impossibly low.

You swallowed, pulse skipping. "On what?"

His hand found your waist, fingers pressing into the fabric of your dress. His thumb moved in slow, measured circles, a silent rhythm against your skin, like he wasn’t in any hurry to let go. The touch sent a shiver up your spine, made your body react before your mind caught up—your back arching slightly, your frame pressing into his without thought.

"I insist, baby. Drop it," he said, his voice shifting—no longer just a whisper but something sharper, something awake. "It’s not going to work on me."

And then—suddenly, without warning—he pulled away.

The absence of his body against yours was jarring, a sharp contrast to the way he still held your waist in place, his grip firm as his chest separated from yours. The cold air rushed into the space where he had just been, and for a brief, humiliating moment, you realized you were leaning into nothing.

Frankie lingered for a beat longer, fingers flexing slightly at your hip, before he finally let go. He turned on his heel, putting distance between you with calculated ease.

Then, as if nothing had happened, he glanced back, his expression shifting into something smug, something infuriatingly self-assured. His gaze flickered over you—your lips, your throat, the rise and fall of your chest—as if he were assessing the damage he’d done.

"Aren’t you coming?" he asked, extending a hand toward you, the challenge unmistakable in his voice. "I did promise you a couple of dances. Let’s go."

Without a word, you pushed away from the wall, peeling yourself off like something unstuck, and started toward the door. Your steps were smooth, collected, an almost conscious effort at elegance despite everything—the heat clinging to your skin, the slight tightness in your chest, the residual tremor of words left unsaid. As you passed Frankie, you caught the amused curl of his mouth from the corner of your eye, but you didn’t spare him a glance. His hand hovered for a second like he might reach for you, but he didn’t. You walked on.

Then, the sound of his footsteps. A half-step faster than yours, and then, suddenly, he was in front of you, fingers wrapping around the door handle before you could reach it. You stopped short. He pulled it open with a casual flick of his wrist, and the pulse of the party crashed into you again.

You looked at him then, properly. His eyes flickered down to yours, alert.

He lifted his hand in a gesture so simple it almost felt absurd. “After you.”

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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#read #bookshelf #frankie fic #ficrec #queued

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