#had to share here too before I revoke his wing privileges

[black-quadrant]

⁽⁽ଘ( ˊωˋ )ଓ⁾⁾

[pellucid-constellations]

If It All Fell (8)

Pairing: Azriel x Reader

Summary: If it all fell apart—if you forgot who you were—would you love him again? Would the bond guide you back? Azriel doesn't know if that uncertainty is one he can bear.

Word count: 3.6k

Warnings: Angst, pining, injury

a/n: I appreciate thoughts and reactions more than you know!!! <333 Italics indicate flashbacks.

Series Masterlist (all parts ♡)

~~

The next two weeks were interesting. 

In the first few days after the accident—the ones filled with confusion and incorrect suspicions—you had spent most of your time alone or sleeping. Mor visited your bedroom every morning to share limited information about your past, but there was no routine beyond that. Everyone tiptoed around you, too afraid to set off the timebomb they assumed was your mind.

But Helion had disputed that assumption. 

You were allowed to know who you were, to become the person you had been. 

So, a routine began to form. 

Breakfast early in the morning, usually with a random assortment of the inner circle. Mor was always present, keeping up with her responsibility of telling you about yourself. Cassian joined more often than not—an early riser, he deemed himself. Azriel made it when he could. He was always busy in the morning. Doing… something, everyone told you.

Rhysand would join you after the meal, whisking you away for an hour or two to work on the powers you still could not call upon. He would have a different objective in mind every day and it was your job to parse out what it was. 

You failed. 

Obviously. 

He started bringing in random Velaris citizens instead, but you still felt nothing. It was nice to see the smiling strangers; they were all kind to you, all apparently knowing who you were. The vagueness surrounding them leveled the playing field more. They didn’t know your whole life story and you weren’t supposed to know theirs. 

“You’ve explained it to me before,” Rhysand had said. “It’s a vibration, sometimes a light or a color. You see it around them, feel it. You understand a deep part within them that they don’t even know they’re revealing.” 

Well, there was never any light or vibration or color. You could never tell that the fae were lying or that Rhysand was planning something big for his anniversary with his mate. None of this otherworldly intuition that the Night Court seemed to value so highly. It was all just stagnant. 

After spending some time failing with Rhys, you got to explore Velaris. You had insisted that you didn’t need a chaperone, and your family believed you—for a time. You had three whole days of walking around the city alone before that privilege was revoked.

Granted, it was your fault that it was revoked, but that was neither here nor there. 

It hadn’t been your plan to get lost, just as it hadn’t been your plan to get caught up in a street brawl over a cart of potatoes. But when you weren’t at the designated meeting spot for Cassian to bring you back up the house, and when he found you with a bleeding nose an hour later, what you meant to do didn’t matter. 

“Y/n?” you heard a voice shout, heavy footsteps shaking the ground beneath you. “Shit—y/n, look at me, you okay?” 

Warm hands enveloped your shaking ones, drawing them back and catching sight of the red staining your fingerprints. It was Cassian, you realized, with his broad wings cloaking you in their shadow. The General’s expression hardened when he took in your face.

“What happened?” he asked, voice low, comfort combatting fury. “Where have you been? We have about 10 people looking for you, sweetheart.” 

You grimaced—both at the pain in your nose and the notion of your family scouring the streets of Velaris. “I’m so, so sorry, Cassian. I got turned around and then I was in this alley and there was a boy—” 

“Hey!” Defeat washed through you at the sound of another voice in the alley, all hopes for a peaceful return home washed away. “Is your girlfriend over there gonna pay for the product I lost?” 

The Illyrian before you paused, body going still at the accusatory tone. Cassian’s jaw clenched and he turned, keeping you well behind him. You still caught a glimpse of the scene from between his legs, and the merchant—to his credit—had the mind to stop his taunting. 

And to look afraid. 

Really, truly afraid. 

“You did this to her?” Cassian growled, fists clenching at his sides. 

The merchant swallowed. “You’re—and she’s…” 

“Did you. Do this. To her?” Cassian asked again, words broken up by malice. 

A beat of pressing silence, only whispers of the street meeting your ears. The merchant took several, shaky steps back, but the movement damned him. His hands swayed with his backtracking feet, and red glistened on his knuckles. 

Cassian’s wings flared at the sight. It only took a small uptick of his brow for the smaller man to fall to the floor in a plea. 

“Please, please don’t kill me! I didn’t know who she was. Don’t turn me over to the Shadowsinger, I won’t make it! I have a family to care for—a wife! I was only trying to protect my crops and she butted in. I didn’t want to hurt her!”

The General hooked his chin over his shoulder and sent you a questioning gaze, one you were sheepish to answer. With a harrowing breath, you revealed, “There was a little boy stealing potatoes. He was going to hit him. I stepped in the way.” 

A tug at your chest had you gasping as Cassian turned back around. The feeling had been persistent the moment you got lost, increasing after you’d been implicated in the merchant’s conflict. It pulled and pulled, a desperate winding around your ribs that you didn’t know how to relieve. 

It had to have been fear. Or stress. 

Cassian eyed the man crumpled to the floor. “Is the boy okay?” he asked, the question meant for you but directed across the alley. 

“Yes,” you confirmed, pressing your hand to the blood running down your chin. “He ran away.” 

Cassian grunted, sent a harsh warning to the man, and then crouched back down to your place on the ground, shaking his head in frustration. “Let’s get you home.” And then he grumbled, “I might get my ass kicked but…” 

Cassian had not gotten his ass kicked when you got home, but many other things happened. Mor just about cried in relief, her arms thrown around your neck followed by a string of commands to never do such a thing again. Rhys rubbed at his jaw as tension lifted from the House. He also had a command—that you wouldn’t be traveling alone anymore. 

And Azriel… Azriel looked like he would vomit, his shadows flitting angrily around him before bridging a path to you. He had cleaned the blood from your face, eyes haunted by misplaced grief, and pure guilt replaced all else in your myriad of emotions. 

You agreed an escort would be better. 

Azriel volunteered. Every day. 

And so you got to know Azriel. 

Mor had described him as reserved, not one to offer the intimacy of touch or personal information so readily. That was not your experience with the Shadowsinger. 

Fleeting touches had become commonplace between the two of you, whether it was his hands or his wings or the brush of his thigh as you sat by the Sidra. You weren’t sure if he was doing it consciously, but you welcomed the familiarity. You found he did it most when he wasn’t paying attention—when he was deep into a story about your past or listening to your opinions intently. 

He was open, sharing pieces of himself you didn’t have to pry to receive. He told you about his mother, about his scars, about how he overcame them. He shared with you how important you were to him many, many times, slipping it into conversations so causally. A thread connected the pieces of his life, and you, it appeared, made up the spool. 

He did not speak of his mate, despite being prompted. 

A sadness came over him at any mention of her, one so achingly melancholy that you told yourself you wouldn’t ask again. 

He loved her deeply, but something had happened there.

You tried not to get too close. This was friendship, a deep familial love that he relied on. That you seemed to have relied on for so many years.

And Azriel was hurt. Even if he and his mate were no longer intertwined by their bond, he didn’t need the onslaught of emotions his amnesiac friend was suddenly overcome with. 

Because you were—overcome by emotions for him. 

It was wrong. 

You wished you had the context to separate those feelings. If you understood your history—if you had memories beyond the few weeks of sweet stories and brushes of his fingers along your hair—maybe you wouldn't be feeling this way. Maybe your heart wouldn’t beat painfully against your ribs each time he entered the room… each time his eyes met yours as if he could feel your admiration for him within his own chest. 

You wouldn’t be feeling this way, surely. Because no one had told you that you should be. 

You only had the recounts of your friends, and the three of them had made no insinuations about you and Azriel. 

You wished you could meet the rest of the inner circle. 

There had been plans to, but then you came home with blood on your face and a disorientation in your eyes and that was suddenly off the table. 

After your time exploring Velaris, you read. 

Mor would pile your favorite books beside you in the small reading room you had come to love and rave about how great of an opportunity this was for you.

“You would kill to be able to read these for the first time again,” she’d laugh. “So have at it!” 

Reading felt easy. 

Books did not pressure you to remember things you weren’t able to. 

You could see it all in their eyes, the way your family clung to each of your words for even a hint of reminiscence. They’d make a joke and hold their breath, desperate for the laugh that should be bubbling out of you. But you never got it, never making the connections that they did. 

Azriel was the only one who’d catch the shame you felt at your lack of deliverance. Although he was the one with the most torture in his expression, he was also the one with the most understanding. He’d lean his head down and whisper what you needed to know in your ear, and then you’d giggle—for show—and hope would return to the room. 

But nothing had returned to you. 

You were still a shell.

~~

“What do you think?” 

Cassian’s question blanketed the table, forks halting their movements atop plates. Breakfast had just begun and you were dressed for a morning in Velaris at the theater, this time with Cassian. 

“Are you sure that’s the best idea?” Mor questioned, eyeing the General beneath a raised brow. 

“Were you there last week when I brought her home all bloody? I think it’s a great idea. Rhys agrees.” 

“And Az?” 

Cassian continued his breakfast, reaching for his drink. “Cassian—”

And so you found yourself steps away from the roof of the House of Wind—no longer in the comfortable daywear you’d been sporting—squinting into the morning sun. Leathers fitted for your body were laced up at your back and waist, stretching with a groan as you reached up to block the light from your eyes. Although the pain in your head had subsided to practically nonexistence, it often flared up in brightness or in times of stress. 

Like when you stood atop a mountain and stared into the sun. Or got punched in the nose by a potato merchant. 

“This is where I go while you go galavanting around the city,” Cassian chimed in, a grin evident in his words. 

“Charming,” you muttered, still adjusting to the jarring assault of the sun.

The sound of grunts and clashing metal oriented you quicker, and as your eyesight settled you were met with the image of Azriel. He was bare-chested, leathers donning his legs as he pressed further and further forward, the knife you always saw at his hips hacking away at the metal dummy before him. 

He moved so quickly that it was difficult to track him, one swipe after another, so carefully skilled and practiced. Sweat beaded down his tattooed skin. His wings rippled and spread in time with his footwork. 

He was mesmerizing, a force of nature only halting as his shadows wound around his ear, whispering. Azriel whipped around, sheathing his knife at his side and staring out beyond the training ring with a narrowed gaze. He spotted you instantly, without looking near or around—a magnetic force. 

Until he wasn’t looking at you, instead glowering in Cassian’s direction. “What are you doing, brother?” he bit out. The back of his hand made a quick pass along his forehead. 

Cassian didn’t look the slightest bit sheepish, ushering you to the outskirts of the ring. “She’s going to train. Now that we know she won’t break at the slightest thing.” 

Hazel eyes slid back to you, a softness overcoming them as you quickly averted your gaze from the broadness of his chest. You were not ogling him. 

You bit into your cheek to stave off the embarrassment. 

“I thought we agreed—” 

“Az, come on. It’s been a couple of weeks now. We need to get her back in the swing of things.” 

A crack of defeat edged its way onto the Shadowsinger’s face. 

What had they agreed on? To wait it out? To treat you like glass until you were their version of yourself again? Something ugly licked up into your chest, something raw. 

For a moment—just one—you stood on the sidelines and felt pathetic. While the two Illyrians stared at each other, a silent conversation between eyes, you let yourself feel like an outsider. They had had discussions about you, but not really about you. About the you that they loved—the one with memories and reciprocation. 

“Will you be careful?” Azriel’s even voice snapped you out of the spiral you had initiated. His expression was uneasy, a hand pressed to his chest. “And tell us if you need to stop? If your head—” 

“My head has been completely fine for a while now,” you assured, hands coming up to grasp the rungs of the training ring. “Promise.” 

Azriel pressed his lips into a line but motioned you in with a nod of his head. 

Despite the conflict still raging within your mind, you smiled at Cassian, the two of you letting out a small cheer and high-fiving before the General lifted you by your hips and past the rungs. You regained your footing and stood before the spymaster, meeting his level gaze with your own. 

“Alright, sweetheart,” Cassian began, a loud clap resonating behind you. “Muscle memory is going to play a big role here, but I don’t want to risk you getting hurt, so you’re just with this guy for now.” He patted the shoulder of the dummy Azriel had been practicing with. 

You scoffed, dropping your hands to hang by your thighs. “What? I still have the same muscle tone from before and last I checked my face was beaten in by a real person, not a chunk of metal.” 

“And that will not happen again,” Azriel cut it. “Ever. But especially not when you’re… in this state.”

You ignored the unsettling remark. “Okay, well I think sparring one of you would be more effective in the prevention of that, don’t you?” 

“Cassian and I could hurt you.” 

“You wouldn’t.” 

“We can’t guarantee—” 

“I trust you,” you interrupted, your view of Azriel partially obstructed by the shadows that wound up your body. “I know you wouldn’t hurt me. Let me do this, Az.” 

The male before you faltered, his eyes darting quickly between yours. His chest, gleaming in the sunlight, rose and fell with strenuous effort. A clench of his jaw. Another pass of silence. 

“Okay,” he nodded, gaze roving over your features. “Okay, y/n. Get warmed up and we can spar.” 

You warmed up with Cassian, stretching and relishing in the feel of your body moving. He went over a few basic maneuvers with you, and you tried your hardest to pay close attention to how his feet slid around the ring. 

It was a rather hard task, seeing as Azriel had continued his blade work on the dummy. Still shirtless. 

After the General was satisfied with your progress, he passed you off to his brother. The Shadowsinger’s posture had softened a hair from when you first entered the ring, his wings coiled back and his shadows creating uneven shapes along the floor. He kept his hands by his sides, his feet relaxed—not a fighting stance in the slightest. 

“Come on,” you teased, cocking your head to the side. “You have to at least try, Az.” 

“I did not spar with you often before your memories were lost,” he admitted. “I do not enjoy the thought of hurting you.” 

Guilt immediately flooded you. You hadn’t even thought about what this would be like for him, too caught up in your own strife. Your stance dropped, the fists at your chin loosening and falling. 

“Oh, Azriel, I’m sorry. I can have Cassian—” 

“No.” He dragged his left foot back. A ghost of a fighting position. “Only me.” 

You took a painful breath in. 

He didn’t move, allowing you to lead. 

You shook your hands out and then your body moved of its own accord. 

You swiped at his legs first, unsurprised when he leaped back with practiced grace. The two of you fell into a dance of drawn arms and calculated shifts and you were almost unnerved by how your body moved without you willing it to. 

Cassian had said that muscle memory would play a role. 

It seemed to be the only thing driving you.  

You went for his knees, but in a way that maneuvered past his wings. 

You used his shadows as cover, taking advantage of their familiarity with you and cloaking yourself in their mist. 

Azriel swung a halfhearted punch at your shoulder and you bypassed the motion, grabbing his wrist and twisting at his back. 

It felt right. Your actions were not your own but they were ingrained in your being. 

This was your body. 

Something that remained unchanged. 

In your newfound joy, you missed the open palm Azriel carefully directed at your chest. The impact caught you off guard, stealing your breath from your lungs as you were pushed to the ground. As your back hit the floor, another shocking burst of air was ripped from you. 

You laid frozen for a moment before a shadow cast over your body, the sun no longer beating down on your skin. Through the ringing in your ears, Azriel’s voice flowed through. 

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have—y/n, take a breath.” A scarred hand rubbed along your clavicle. “Breathe. You’re okay. Breathe.” 

A startling gasp of oxygen entered your lungs. You were fine, completely unharmed, only shocked and disoriented. Azriel bowed his head as you continued to circulate the air into your body, and it was then that you saw it. 

A chain hung between you, dangling from his neck and brushing against your chin. It swayed back and forth, a grounding point as you blinked back the tears lining your eyes. The ring glinted in the sun, rubbing against the golden chain, looking as if it did not belong there. 

Azriel tracked your gaze as he raised his head, looking down at the object of your attention. He sat back on his ankles and the diamond followed him, resting close to his chest. 

You raised yourself to your elbows. “Who’s—” You coughed. Azriel winced. “Is that yours?”  

A stupid question, but you couldn’t stop yourself from asking. A guarded look passed over the Shadowsinger’s face and you regretted it instantly. He reached up and clutched the necklace in a closed fist.  

“No,” he responded. “Are you okay?” 

He didn’t release the ring. 

“I’m okay,” you confirmed. “I’m not hurt. It just knocked the wind out of me.” 

Azriel nodded. A grim line formed between his brows. 

“Hey! She alright?” Cassian called. He had moved clear across the roof when you began to spar with Azriel, mentioning something about inventory or knives or something you hadn’t paid attention to. You had been too focused on the warmth you felt from being so close to Azriel’s skin. 

The sound of Cassian’s voice did nothing to break the hold Azriel’s eyes had on you. 

Another beat of silence passed. 

The wind blew a strand of his hair across his forehead. 

“I—” 

“I have a mission. I was supposed to meet with Rhys before midday.” He spoke the words apologetically but his hand shook when it lowered to his knee. 

The sun was already past the high point in the sky. It was no longer midday. 

“Okay,” you whispered. “I want to thank you for—” 

“Don’t thank me. Please, just—Be careful. I have to go.” 

A quiet collection of parting words fell from your lips and Aziel twitched, looking as if he would move forward but thinking better of it. 

But you had thoughts too, and they worked against Azriel’s

You raised to your knees and brushed the hair on his forehead back, a small smile gracing your face, trying so hard to melt some of the tension that had grown between you. Azriel’s breath caught as you moved, but you only doubled down, softly dragging your nails along his scalp. 

He shuddered, eyes falling shut for a brief, unguarded moment. 

His shadows consumed him. 

Azriel was gone. 

[parrishsrubberplant]

For the 100 word drabbles - something involving OMGCP and the Winter Olympics?

This ended up–way, way over 100 words. Sorry/not sorry?

Jack hadn’t said much about not being able to go to the Olympics. When the news was announced, Bitty had expected him to say something about how unfair it was, maybe curse Bettman’s name. But Jack didn’t say much. When Bitty showed him the picture from Twitter, he looked at the team Canada jerseys and sighed wistfully.

“It’s not like I would have been invited anyway.” Bitty was ready to protest indignantly. Jack waved a hand at him. “Did you ever hear the story of World Juniors in…whatever year it was. 2010? 2011? Before I went to Samwell.”

“No,” Bitty said.

Jack shrugged. “I would have thought Ransom would have told you–I fucked up bad.” He shook his head at the memory. “Bad.”

“It can’t possibly be as bad as falling over like a miniature fainting goat every time someone skates in your direction.”

“I shouldn’t have even said yes,” Jack said. “But I wanted–I wanted to feel like I could play again.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t ready, and I was a year out of shape, and it was bad.” He handed back Bitty’s phone. “Anyway, Hockey Canada has a long memory. I’ll have to win a Stanley Cup before they ask me again.”

Bitty folded his arms. “Sweetheart, you have won a Stanley Cup. I was there.”

Jack broke into a smile. “Now I remember. Didn’t you come rushing onto the ice and throw yourself at me?”

“Hey, now. You threw yourself at me,” Bitty said.

Jack laughed.

Remembering this now, Bitty wonders if Jack will even watch the Olympics. Will he care? Or will it be too painful to think that maybe it could have been him, skating out to play Slovakia or the USA or Germany or whoever.

The Falconers are traveling during most of the Olympics anyway, a run of games against Metropolitan Division teams. Good because Jack is mostly on buses instead of airplanes, and that means he’s more likely to respond to calls or texts. Less good because Bitty’s very, very likely to talk to Tater, Snowy, Thirdy, and most of the rest of Jack’s team. Apparently the concept of “privacy” is as nonexistent on a pro hockey team as it is at Samwell. Thanks, guys. Bitty seriously considers revoking pie privileges about once a week.

He’d never actually do it. He enjoys cooking for such appreciative eaters too much. But he definitely considers it.

By Bitty’s calculations, they’re about an hour and a half from Raleigh, maybe less depending on traffic. He goes to his Favorites and presses Call. “Jack?”

“Nope!” the voice is young and cheerful. Bitty can’t tell which of the rookies it is. “Moose?” he guesses.

“Sorry, no.” Bitty has more of a clue now: it’s one of the Canadian rookies. No one else would a) apologize or b) have a Canadian accent. “Could you put Jack on please?” he says. He’s learned that getting upset means it’ll take even longer for Jack to appear. He hears a thwap in the background.

“My phone,” Jack says, muffled. It sounds like he’s wrestling the rookie for possession of his phone.

“Cap, Jack’s being–” the muted sounds of a scuffle.

“Give me–” Jack says. More grunting and rustling in the background.

Bitty puts his phone on speaker and tidies his desk. He puts his pens and pencils back in their cup. He sticks his stylus pen back in his bag so it’s ready for his next lecture. He throws out three crumpled tissues, two empty Annie’s cups, and some lozenge wrappers. He waits for Jack to defeat the rookie. Or rookies.

“Hello?” Jack says.

“Oh hey sugar plum,” Bitty says. He hears a chuckle in the background. “Hi, whichever Canadian rookie you are. I will take away your pie privileges, see if I don’t.” The background noise drops noticeably at this. Bitty laughs to himself. “Who was that?” he asks.

“Olivier,” Jack says. “Rolly.”

“Oh, meat pie,” Bitty says. He knows Jack’s teammates by their pie orders almost as much as by their names at this point, and he’s not even sorry.

“Yeah,” Jack says. “It’s quiet where you are.”

“I’m up in my room,” Bitty says. “I just finished filming the intro and the outro for the lemon bars video.”

“Just editing left?” Jack asks.

“Yeah. Edit it together, and then I’ve got to do the bit with the recipe. I’m trying a new thing where I type up the recipe and then use this thing to make it look animated? Kind of like a cartoon? I’m not sure people will like it, but I wanted to try something new.”

“Well, the lemon bars were really good,” Jack says. “I’m sure whatever you do with the video is going to be great too. Send it to me when you’re done?”

Faintly, in the background, Bitty hears: “There were lemon bars? Zimmboni, you traitor!” in Tater’s accent. “Sounds like you’re in trouble,” he says. “And sure, I’ll send you the file before I post it, if you want. Or I can just send the link after.”

Jack laughs. “They’ll get over it. And I’ll probably have time to watch the file? Maybe share it over Drive? I didn’t pack my computer this time.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart. Where are you now?”

Jack hums, thinking as he looks out the window. “Just passing Halifax, I think. Maybe another hour? I’ll be glad to get off this bus. One of the rookies stunk up the bathroom.” Bitty hears a yelp of “Hey! Wasn’t me!” in the background. “Are you cooking tonight?” Jack asks.

“No, it’s Supper Club. Dex and Tango signed up for it. They took Whiskey’s car yesterday and came back with about ten pounds of potatoes. And a whole bunch of wings that they put in a couple different marinades. It should be pretty good. Good smells coming up the stairs so far, anyway.”

“I’m sad Supper Club became a thing after I left,” Jack says.

“You should be,” Bitty says. “It’s kind of nice. Like having a family meal.”

“And it gives you a chance to procrasti-bake,” Jack teases.

“Procrasti-cook, excuse you.” Bitty huffs. He puts Jack on speaker and rolls over onto his back. He drops the phone onto his chest. He’s not going to tell Jack he misses him. He isn’t. It’s not helpful, and Jack knows that anyway. He thinks it, thought: I miss you.

“Ready for the game next weekend?” Jack asks.

Bitty closes his eyes. “I keep telling myself there’s still time, you know? And I’m trying not to look at our standings, at just how close we are. I know it isn’t helpful. And I’m not a stats nerd at all–Tango does that. But I still–”

“Yeah,” Jack says. “You just have to keep your head in the game.”

“I know,” Bitty says. “So I’m watching the Colgate team from last year but I can’t help wondering, if they have any new people…and then I go looking on Twitter and Reddit for college hockey streams and then–”

“Yep,” Jack says.

“You did that?”

“Sometimes, when I couldn’t sleep. Not really Twitter, but Reddit used to have a bunch of links.” Jack laughs. “It’s hard not to want to be as prepared as possible.”

“But at what point does it stop being ‘prepared’ and start becoming ‘obsessive?’”

“Couldn’t tell you, bud,” Jack says.

“Are you going to watch the Olympics tonight?” Bitty asks. “We’ve got a viewing party planned here.”

“We’ve got wifi on the bus,” Jack says. “A couple of guys are streaming stuff on their phones up at the front.” He sighs. “The women’s hockey game is going to be right in the middle of our game. Let me know what I should watch later?”

“I’ll text you updates,” Bitty promises.

“Of course you will.” Jack sighs. “I should go soon. Rolly looks like he’s going to steal my phone again.” Bitty thinks he hears a muffled “Was not!” in the background.

“What, you aren’t going to chirp me about how the Canadian women are obviously going to beat the American women?” Bitty asks.

Jack laughs softly. “I’m sure it’s going to be a great game.”

“Very diplomatic.”

Jack’s voice drops. “Did you want to make a bet about it?”

“Like, a sexy bet?”

“Yeah.”

Bitty turns his head. Senor Bun is sitting beside his pillow. He turns Bun so he’s facing the wall. “Nah,” Bitty says.

“You don’t trust your country-women?” Jack teases.

“Oh, I do,” Bitty says. “We’re going to wreck you.”

“Love you too,” Jack says. Bitty hears a howl of “FINE!” from the background. “Ooops,” Jack says. “Got to go.”

“Ha,” Bitty says. “I can say it. I love you! I love you so much! I love you to the moon and back! I love you!” He’s laughing as he says it.

“Goodbye, Bittle,” Jack says, and hangs up the phone. Five seconds later he texts Bitty a string of heart emojis.

“Wouldn’t want to get you in trouble,” Bitty sends back.

Jack texts him an even longer string of heart emojis. You’re so ridiculous, Bitty thinks fondly.