#i GET what people mean when they say its so long now

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 14: "The one with the nightly calls" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: With Frankie in Boston, the small phone calls at night begin to carry more weight. Meanwhile, things get harder for him. But it doesn’t take long before he’s close to you again. WC: 16k

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Wednesday, October 16th

Frankie called you after dinner. He’d been in Boston for almost two weeks now. He left on a Friday—the fourth Friday of the month.

The first night he called, it felt casual, like a passing thought. He told you about his day, the kinds of things he did and saw, because you hadn’t spoken at all that day. The next night, at almost the exact same hour, he called again. He didn’t seem to notice the pattern. But by the third night, you were already waiting for it, your phone close by, your chest pulling quietly toward the sound of his voice.

Tonight, you took a shower and got into bed with Mr. Darcy. You already knew your phone would ring, maybe not right away, but soon. And when it did, it would be him.

Sometimes the conversations meandered. He’d talk about Jamie, mostly—how they spent hours walking, sometimes talking, often in silence. Frankie didn’t say it outright, but you could tell he was trying to anchor Jamie to something steady, something outside of the hospital walls and the quiet fear threading its way through their days. Because Henry, his dad, was sick. Not just the kind of sick that passed with time, but the other kind—the one people didn’t like to name until they absolutely had to. They were still waiting on tests, on confirmation, but everyone knew. It hung there between them.

Luna seemed steadier with her family around. Frankie told you that most evenings they all sat together in the living room, watching movies with the lights low and the volume too high, like maybe sound could shield them from dread. Helena didn’t want to go back to Austin just yet. But Frankie wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay. Work was waiting, and so was everything else he’d pressed pause on. Still, every time he mentioned going back, Luna reminded him—gently, but firmly—that it was okay to leave when he needed to. That it didn’t make him a bad brother. That love could stretch across state lines and that being present didn’t always mean being in the same place.

With Jamie, Frankie seemed lighter somehow. He’d tell you stories every night—about the park they discovered not far from Luna’s house, where the trees were tall and gold-tipped, and how Jamie insisted on racing him from bench to bench, laughing so hard he nearly fell over. They rode bikes, Frankie jogging beside him when the hill felt too steep. He taught Jamie how to cast a fishing line, how to use his fingers to tie little knots that held. There was something grounding in it, he said, using your hands like that. Jamie clung to him with a kind of unspoken admiration that made something in Frankie’s voice catch when he talked about it. One night, Jamie asked him if he’d take him flying someday—really flying—and Frankie said he would. In Austin, he promised. When they came to visit.

Each night he’d give you pieces of his day, and you’d offer yours in return—your routines, the small details of your work hours. You told him that Santi had been trying, with the kind of stubborn optimism only he could sustain, to organize a group trip somewhere not too far, somewhere quiet, maybe on a weekend.

“When Fish gets back,” he had said, like it was obvious.

You’d seen Emma a few days ago too. She wasn't that subtle about this new thing going on with you. She never was. She tried, in her own way, to keep her thoughts to herself, but she had a certain look when she did—eyebrows tight, lips curved, like biting back smiles and words.

“I’m not going to say anything,” she told you one afternoon while you were pushing a cart through the grocery store. That night you were making pasta—she was on sauce duty, claiming it was the only white sauce worth making. “I know how you get. All bashful and avoidant every time I bring him up.”

“I know what you think,” you said, grabbing a bottle of olive oil and dropping it into the cart. “You think we’re rushing things. You don’t have to say it. I can see it in your face.”

“Rushing?” she said, eyebrows lifting. “He’s in another state. You talk once a day, maybe twice. I don’t think it’s too fast. I think you’re moving the way people move when something it's... you know.” She turned away from you, scanned the row of spices, distracted. “What I do think is that you haven’t realized that you’re probably already dating.”

You blinked. “We’re not dating.”

“Oh no?” she turned back, one brow still raised, like a challenge. “Then what exactly are you doing?”

“We’re… friends. More than friends. For now. I dunno. Don’t name it.”

Emma smiled, but not in a mocking way. It was softer than that.

“More than friends,” she echoed. “You should see the way you sound at night when you talk to him. You get this voice. All careful and… sweet. ‘When are you coming back?’ ‘How’s everything over there?’” she teased, doing a vague imitation of your voice that didn’t sound like you at all, but you let her have it.

You laughed, half-guilty, half-exposed. “I dunno. It just sounds too serious to say things like that.”

“To say what? That you miss him?”

You looked away, pretending to search the shelf behind her for something—anything—your fingers trailing along the edges of jars you didn’t need.

“I think he’d like to hear it,” she added, quieter this time.

And you didn’t say anything, but you wondered if maybe he would.

So the days passed quietly. The nights followed suit—predictable, comforting, marked now by something you hadn’t anticipated relying on. Each evening, almost without exception, his call came at the same time. Not by agreement, not because you’d asked him to. It just kept happening, like some new law of nature.

Tonight was no different. You were already in bed, the lights off, your room wrapped in the soft blue glow of the TV. Some show played faintly in the background, but you weren’t really watching it.

Your eyes were half-shut, your body sinking into the warmth of your comforter, your breathing deepening without your permission. It wasn’t even that late—barely past nine—but the day had pulled at you from every direction, and you felt the weight of it in your bones.

When your phone buzzed, you didn’t startle. You simply reached for it under the covers, your fingers brushing past Mr. Darcy, curled at your side. He flicked his tail in protest.

You didn’t need to check the screen. You already knew. But you did anyway, as you always did.

[Frankie🍾 ]

The contact photo was one you had taken right after the skydive. His hair had been wild from the wind, his cheeks flushed from adrenaline. He wasn’t looking straight at the camera—his smile was off to the side, crooked in that way you had started to recognize as entirely him. He was still wearing the black jumpsuit, the straps hanging loose around his shoulders like he hadn’t had the energy to take it off yet.

You pressed accept and stretched out, your voice sleep-rough as you spoke.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he said. You could hear the smile in his voice. “Were you asleep?”

“No. Almost. I’m in bed.”

“Long day?” he asked, and then you heard it—the brief crackle of static, the soft inhale. He was smoking.

“You?”

“Not really. I’m out in the yard. Bambi’s trying to lick my face.”

You laughed, quietly. “Leave him alone. Those are dog kisses. That means he loves you.”

“Well, I hope Mr. Darcy doesn’t hold it against me when I come back. Do you think he’ll know?”

“Oh, he’ll know,” you said, smiling into the dark. “He’ll smell the betrayal. You’ll have to earn his forgiveness.”

“Mmm. You know him best. What��s the strategy?”

“The obvious one,” you murmured. “Food. Kibble and wet tuna. He’s kind of basic like that.”

“Reliable,” Frankie said. “I like that in a man.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, just listened to the soft night sounds on his end of the call—the wind, maybe, the distant creak of something wooden, the faint thump of paws on the grass. You imagined him out there, sitting outside like the previous nights, Bambi pressed against his side. You imagined the glow of the cigarette, how it lit up his features for brief seconds at a time.

“And what about you?” he asked.

You turned slightly, shifting beneath the covers. “What about me?”

“How am I supposed to deal with you?”

For a moment, you didn’t speak.

“I think I’m easier,” you said eventually. “Just seeing you would be enough.”

There was a beat, and then you heard him exhale through his nose, amused. The kind of quiet, private laugh he gave when he didn’t want to sound too affected.

“I’ll be back this weekend. Maybe sooner.”

You smiled into the dark, instinctively, and tried to temper your voice. “Really?”

“Yeah. Mai and I. Mom’s staying a bit longer. She wants to be around to help Luna and Henry with Jamie while they take care of everything else.”

“How are they doing?” 

“Better,” he said, and you could hear the thoughtfulness in it. “Or, I don’t know—better within the context of everything. Henry’s holding up. Luna too. They took Jamie out for a walk today, just the three of them. She said it helped. Like things made sense, even if only for an hour.”

“That sounds nice,” you said. “I bet Jamie loved that.”

“He did,” Frankie said, and there was a warmth in his tone. “Then when they got home, he asked me to take him to the movies. Invited two of his friends. He planned the whole thing himself—texted their moms and everything.”

You smiled. “He really likes having you around.”

“Yeah, he does,” Frankie said, and he was laughing now, low and incredulous. “I think he thinks I’m cooler than I actually am. We saw some video game movie. The boys were hyped. I was just… lost.”

You laughed. “You’re getting old.”

“Maybe. Do you have any idea how many words I didn’t recognize tonight?”

“How many?”

“Definitely more than three. Jamie tried to explain them all, but when I tried to use one in a sentence, he told me I was ‘cringe’ and should just stop.”

You laughed again. Mr. Darcy shifted beside you, unimpressed by the noise.

“You’re officially out of touch.” 

“I think I’ve made peace with it,” he said. “If it means I get to be the uncool adult who buys popcorn and lets them talk through the previews, I’ll take it.”

“Come on, tell me one of the words.”

There was a pause. Frankie made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

“Please don’t make me do this.”

“Okay, I’ll wait. You can tell me when you’re back, then.”

“I’m not making any promises,” he said, amusement spilling through the line. You heard the faint inhale of a cigarette, the soft exhale that followed. “My mom says hi, by the way. Actually, they all do. But she wanted me to tell you that her hello is the most enthusiastic. Like, she made a point of that.”

You grinned. “Tell her I say hi too. To everyone. But especially her.”

“I’ll pass it on. Bambi—hey, hey, off,” he muttered, the sound of shuffling fabric and a low thud in the background. “Goddamn, I swear. He’s trying to climb on top of me. Anyway—what did you do today?”

“Nothing thrilling,” you said. “Work was the same as usual. After that I stopped by Bill’s. It’s almost finished now. It’s looking really good. Just needs the shelves filled and maybe a few more touches.”

“That sounds nice,” he said, and you could hear him settling again, like he’d shifted into a more comfortable position.

“Yeah, I think it’ll be a great space. After that Julie said she was craving burgers, so we got burgers. Then I came home. I had a headache so I took something for it and stood under the hot water for a while. That helped. And now I’m here. TV on, lights off. Mr. Darcy’s asleep at my side. Very thrilling night.”

He laughed softly. “That’s good, though. That you’re okay. God, you have no idea how much I miss my bed.”

“Are you not sleeping well?”

“Not really. Jamie wears me out in the best way—he’s got me running around after him like I’m twenty again. I forgot how much stamina kids have.” There was a pause, and a sound like he’d scratched his jaw. “But even when I’m tired, it’s hard to actually sleep. I sort of just lie there.”

You frowned a little, your voice gentler. “You should go to bed early tonight. Take a hot shower. I know I sound like one of those people who don't get it but, that helps me. Maybe it works for you too?”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll do that. Although I need to know—how hot is this magical shower supposed to be? Because when you say hot, you mean skin-peeling, bone-melting hot.”

You laughed. “I don’t know, Francisco. Hot enough for you. Warm enough to trick your body into relaxing. And then don’t get stuck in front of the TV like you always do.”

“You’re watching TV now.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have trouble sleeping,” you countered, tugging the blanket higher over your chest. “The moment we hang up, I’m out. Like a light. I’ll sleep better than a baby.”

“Are you mocking me?” he asked, half-playful, but with just enough mock offense to make you laugh again.

“I would never.”

“Oh, I have screenshots,” he said. You could hear the grin in his voice. “You think I don’t, but I do.”

“Fake screenshots. Fabricated evidence.”

“Sure, sure. Who does nothing fears nothing—or something like that.”

You didn’t speak for a few seconds. The warmth in your chest had started to climb, spreading outward.

“Well,” you said, trying to keep your voice even, “go try to sleep, okay? I miss you. Call me tomorrow.”

It came out faster than you intended, like the words had been waiting behind your teeth for too long.

There was a pause on the other end. Not long, but long enough to make your heart jump once, then again.

“What?” Frankie asked.

“Get some sleep,” you repeated, more carefully this time. “Call me tomorrow.”

“No.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “No? What do you mean no? You’re not going to call me?” you asked, voice light, teasing. “Or you’re not going to sleep?”

There was a pause before Frankie answered. On the other end of the line, you heard the soft rustle of wind or leaves, and then the familiar sound of him inhaling. A breath in. Then a quiet exhale of smoke.

He laughed softly. “Sure, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Ah, okay.”

“And I miss you too.”

You closed your eyes and felt the heat rush to your cheeks, your mouth curving helplessly. You were glad the lights were off, as if that could somehow protect you from how young and exposed you felt in that moment. There was something embarrassingly teenage about it—your heart beating a little too fast, your body betraying you.

You let out a soft laugh, not bothering to hide it. If he heard it, let him.

“Okay,” you murmured, “ now go to sleep.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You get really commanding sometimes,” he said, voice low. “But I’ll listen to you. Just this once, just tonight.”

“Mhm. Return to Ithaca, Odysseus.”

Frankie smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling up almost involuntarily. He could feel the heat rising in his face, and he didn’t bother to hide it. At his feet, Bambi was curled up, eyes lifted toward him, the whites gleaming like thin crescents in the low light.

“See you soon,” he said, voice low.

“See you soon, Francisco,” you said. Then the call ended—cut clean, final.

He stared down at the screen, thumb hovering over your name. Your contact photo was still the one he’d taken the day you went skydiving—your hair a mess, the sky swallowing the plane behind you, your smile too big for the frame. He remembered the way you had turned to him, half-nervous, half-thrilled. How he hadn’t been able to look away.

“If you keep grinning like that, it’s going to get stuck,” said a voice beside him.

Frankie startled. He hadn’t heard her come out. Luna.

She laughed, full and unbothered, and he stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray before tucking his phone into the front pocket of his hoodie.

Luna sat next to him, cross-legged, her shoulders brushing his lightly. She tipped her head back and looked up, at the sky.

“Jamie passed out like a log,” she murmured. “I’m guessing you’re wiped too.”

“A bit.”

She tilted her head to look at him properly, her expression gentle.

“You’ve got shadows under your eyes. I keep hearing you come down here after midnight.”

“Not me. Maybe the house is haunted.”

That made her laugh again. She let the silence settle for a moment before asking, “Did you tell her you’re flying back tomorrow?”

He exhaled, drawing a hand over his mouth. “No. I thought maybe—”

“Frankie.” Her voice was gentle. Not scolding, not pushy. “It’s okay. You need to go home. We’re okay here. All of us.”

He hesitated. “I told Jamie I’d take him to the museum.”

“You can take him next time.” She reached out, laid a hand on his forearm. “He’ll understand. He’s a tough kid. And honestly, he’s had the best time with you here. You’ve given him something special. I should thank you for that.”

He smiled, eyes fixed on the horizon like something might move out ther.

“It’s nothing. I .. I like it here,” he said, pausing. Then, quieter: “And sometimes I miss you. A little. You know that, right?”

Luna let out a soft laugh, folding her arms across her chest. “Do you? That’s news to me. You barely even call.”

Frankie turned his head, gave her a look that hovered somewhere between amused and exasperated. “The phone works both ways, Luna.”

“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She nudged his knee with hers, a teasing gesture. “Speaking of phone calls... how’s your girl?”

“She’s okay,” he said, voice neutral, almost too casual.

“Did you tell her Mom says hi? You know she’ll ask me if you did.”

Frankie laughed under his breath. “Yeah. I passed it along.”

Luna leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs out in front of her.

“Another reason you should head back. She’s waiting for you.” Her voice was light, but not unkind. She tapped him on the shoulder. “And you’re turning red, by the way. I can see it even in this light.”

“Jesus,” Frankie muttered, rubbing a hand across his face.

She ignored that. “Sofi wants to make a bet,” she said with a grin. “She says we should guess how long it’ll take before you pro—”

“Oh, my God.” He groaned, dragging both hands down his face. When he looked at her again, there was a faint plea in his eyes. “Please don’t.”

“Why not?” Luna laughed, unbothered. “We like her. That’s supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it? That we all like her?”

Frankie shook his head like he was trying to dislodge the whole conversation. There was something boyish in the way he looked down at the floor, something almost shy.

“Relax, I’m joking,” Luna said, her voice light, almost airy. “It just wouldn’t be as much fun teasing you if you didn’t turn that exact shade of red every single time.”

Frankie took a step back, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah, okay.”

She kept looking at him, her smile lingering. Then her gaze shifted—first to Bambi, who was lying at her feet with his tail starting to sweep rhythmically across the floor, then back to Frankie.

“How are things with her?” she asked. “Is she good to you?”

Frankie laughed quietly. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor.

He knew what she meant. Not just the words, but what lived underneath them. Is she different from Rachel? That was the real question. Of course Luna would never ask that outright—she was too tactful for that, too soft in her own way—but he could see it in the set of her mouth, in the steadiness of her stare.

“She is,” he said eventually. “She’s better than I probably deserve.”

Luna tilted her head, frowning slightly. “What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked away. “She’s… patient. With me. More than she needs to be. Sometimes I say things, or do things, and I know they don’t come out right. I confuse her. And still, she tries to understand me. Always.”

“And you don’t think you deserve that?”

“I think I can be difficult,” he admitted. “Hard to be around, sometimes.”

“Mm. That's not true.”

“I’ve been worse than usual lately,” he added. “But I can talk to her about it. She listens.”

He looked over at his sister, and she gave him this quiet, knowing smile. Frankie hesitated, the memory creeping up before he had a chance to decide whether or not to share it.

“You know,” he said, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling for a moment. “You know we didn’t get along at first. At all.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“There was this fight. Not just a little disagreement. A real argument. We were in the car. I was driving her home, and… I said things I shouldn’t have. I pushed too far. She cried. I could tell I was making it worse even while I was doing it, but I couldn’t stop. I think I felt—desperate, or something.”

He paused, shaking his head slowly, like he still couldn’t believe himself.

“We were talking about something, about her life, something that mattered to her, and I just bulldozed through it. She got out of the car and walked home in the dark. I left. I didn’t go after her. I went home and felt like absolute shit.”

Luna didn’t interrupt. She was still watching him.

He reached down, brushed his hand along Bambi’s back.

“A couple days later, I went to her place. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I had to show up. And she was upset too. Not just about the argument, but everything that came before it. She told me I’d hurt her. Not just that night—over the years. And she was right. But then she asked if I’d forgive her too. She said she wanted to start over.”

He looked at Luna then, his voice softer. “And I told her, ‘Okay. Fine. Let’s try.’ And we did. But I still don’t know what she sees in me. I don’t feel like I’ve earned it.”

He stared ahead, posture still, his breath leaving him in a quiet exhale through his nose. Not quite a sigh. Something smaller. More contained.

Luna parted her lips, about to speak, but Frankie beat her to it.

“And I don’t mean it like a rational thing,” he said. “Not like a clear thought I tell myself—‘you don’t deserve this’—it’s not that. It’s more like... even when everything’s good, when I’m with her and I actually feel happy—I... I..." He stopped abruptly, as if startled by what he had just said. “I mean... like, like there’s this feeling underneath it. Like I’m doing something wrong by being there. Like I’ve stolen someone else’s seat.” He glanced at her, but only briefly. “Like I don’t belong next to her. Like I don’t deserve her.”

Luna didn’t move for a second. Then she tilted her head, the corners of her mouth pulled down in something between sympathy and disbelief. Frankie looked away again, eyes flicking down to the dog lying at their feet.

“And so I leave,” he added, voice lower now. “I pull away. I don’t mean to. I just… I don’t know how to hold it all without feeling like I’ll break something. And she never blames me. Somehow, she gets it.”

Luna closed her eyes briefly, pressing her lips together. When she looked at him again, there was a wrinkle between her brows.

“Why wouldn’t you deserve someone who’s patient with you? Who actually listens to you?” Her hand moved to his arm, light pressure just enough to make him feel anchored. “None of what you’re telling yourself is true. You know that, right?”

Frankie wanted to nod. He wanted to meet her eyes and say yes, he knew. But instead, his head tilted a little, the motion uncertain, unfinished.

She didn’t wait. “Well, you have to start knowing. Because someone made you believe the opposite. Someone taught you not to expect anything good. They conditioned you to settle for the scraps they gave you and convinced you that was all you’d ever get. And it wasn’t just one conversation or one mistake. It was years of it. Of being made small.”

Her voice didn’t waver, even as her fingers gripped his sleeve tighter. “Of course it’s going to take time to undo that. Of course it’s hard to believe anything else. But you can. And you have to. Because this—” she gestured, vaguely—“this doesn’t get to be the end of the story.”

Frankie looked at her, his face unreadable but not closed off.

“And I know it’s not going to be easy,” Luna said. “But you have to try. Because if what you have in front of you is something good, something that makes you better, you don’t just get to let it slip through your hands.”

She paused, watching him closely, like she was trying to gauge whether the words were landing where they needed to.

“Yeah, she’s patient,” she went on. “She obviously cares about you. But people have limits. You keep handing someone your doubt over and over again, eventually they get tired of carrying it.”

She exhaled, slowly, as if remembering something. Or maybe trying to forget. “It’s awful. That feeling of being with someone but not knowing where you stand. Wondering if they love you, or if they’re just staying because it’s easier than leaving for good.” Her gaze lifted, her expression hardening just slightly. “I’ve lived it. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

She leaned in a little, her tone shifting—not cruel, but pointed. “So figure it out. Be brave about it. Don’t leave her sitting in the dark, trying to guess how you feel. If you do, you will lose her. Don't fuck it up.”

Something tightened in Frankie’s stomach. That peculiar mix of dread and longing. He wanted to explain—wanted to say, I’m not sure she’s even mine to lose. That whatever this was between you—this warm, electric, confusing thing—hadn’t been defined, hadn’t been claimed. It felt real, sure. It felt important. But you hadn’t named it. You hadn’t promised anything.

Still, he didn’t say any of that. Because the truth made the story more complicated, and right now, he needed it to stay simple. At least on the surface.

But she was right. He knew that in his bones.

“You’re flying out tomorrow,” Luna said, gently shifting the subject. “I’ll drive you to the airport. And after you’ve settled, you’ll call me. Let me know how you’re doing.”

Frankie gave a small nod, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I will,” he said. “But answer the damn phone.”

Luna let out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I always answer the phone.”

Frankie smiled—briefly, instinctively—but the expression faded almost as soon as it had appeared. A sharp, jarring sound echoed from inside the house. A thud. Deep and unmistakable, like something solid hitting the floor. Then a low groan followed, wounded and human.

Luna was on her feet in an instant. Frankie had already moved, pushing the door open, moving into the hallway with purposeful strides.

Just beyond the entrance, at the base of the staircase, Henry was slumped on the floor. His posture was hunched, arms hanging limply at his sides, one hand weakly pressing against the side of his head. There was blood—on his forehead, smeared across his cheek—but it wasn’t immediately clear where it was coming from. His eyes were wide, unfocused.

Helena knelt beside him, her voice hushed but panicked, her fingers carefully brushing hair away from his brow as she inspected the injury. From the edge of the living room doorway, Mai stood frozen, her hands clenched tightly in front of her. She looked like she wanted to move forward but couldn’t. Her skin had gone pale. She hated the sight of blood. Always had.

“Oh my God.” Luna’s voice cracked as she rushed over to Henry, already crying. “Henry—baby—what happened? Are you okay? Your head—”

Henry blinked, his mouth moving, struggling to find words. Nothing came out at first. He looked like he didn’t know where he was.

Frankie crouched down beside him, steady hands reaching to guide Henry’s chin upward, tilting his face gently into the light. His touch was careful, instinctive.

“I was coming up the stairs,” Henry said at last, voice uneven, breath catching at the end of each word. “I—I don’t know what happened. I got dizzy. Then everything just… went.”

“Okay,” Frankie said, nodding, reassuring. “You’re alright. Doesn’t look like anything’s broken. Just stay there, alright? Keep still.” He turned briefly to Luna, who was already pulling her phone from her back pocket, hands shaking.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” she said, more to herself than anyone else, her eyes full of panic and tears already streaking her cheeks.

Behind them, a small voice broke through the noise.

“Dad?”

Frankie turned. At the top of the staircase, Jamie stood barefoot in his pajamas, holding onto the railing. His face was pale and rigid with fear, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Jamie,” Frankie said, standing up, moving toward him with soft, cautious steps.

He reached the boy and tried to take his hands, but Jamie pulled back, sudden and stiff, his eyes still locked on his father’s crumpled form at the bottom of the stairs.

Frankie hesitated. He didn’t know what the right move was—whether to stop him or let him come down. Jamie moved first, stepping down without a word, and Frankie followed just behind, arms half-raised in case he needed to catch him.

When Jamie reached the landing, he froze. Then, without warning, he burst into tears. His small fists clenched and unclenched in front of him, twisting into each other like he was trying to hold something in—but it was too late. The fear and confusion had cracked through.

Frankie stood near him, his chest tightening, unsure if reaching out again would help or scare him more.

Then he reached out, his hand finding Jamie’s small shoulder. The boy flinched at first—just a reflex—but then turned and collapsed into him, his face pressing hard into the front of Frankie’s shirt. His small hands clutched at the fabric, fingers tightening as the sobs overtook him. He was trying not to cry, Frankie could tell, trying to swallow the sound down into himself, but it kept escaping in short, hiccuping gasps.

Frankie wrapped his arms around him without hesitation. There was nothing precise about the way he held him—just instinct and care, the way you’d hold something fragile that you didn’t want to break. He turned and lifted him off the floor, arms anchored beneath his knees and back, careful not to jostle him too much, carrying him upstairs like he was still the five-year-old who used to fall asleep in the backseat of the car.

Inside Jamie’s bedroom, the air felt smaller, quieter. Frankie set him down gently on the bed and shut the door behind them. For a second, neither of them spoke. The sound of Jamie’s sniffling was soft now, like he was trying to push the noise down deep inside himself.

Frankie crossed the room and knelt in front of him, his knees hitting the carpet with a muted thump. He reached up, cupping Jamie’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing the boy’s flushed cheeks.

“Jamie,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”

He did. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes wet, mouth still trembling at the corners.

“It’s okay. Your dad’s okay.”

Jamie blinked at him, and Frankie could see the skepticism land instantly.

“That’s not true,” he whispered, voice shredded at the edges. “I know he’s sick.”

Frankie’s hands stilled. There were no words at the ready. No script. Only the sharp realization that lying wouldn't work. 

“I know.”

Jamie’s voice cracked in half. “Is he going to die?”

Frankie felt something pull tight in his chest. It was like his heart had been tied up in cloth and dipped in water—heavy, sodden, impossible to wring out. His eyes burned, and he blinked, fast and hard, willing it away.

“He...” He tried again, forcing steadiness into his tone. “He’s sick. But he’s getting help. The doctors are really good. Remember what your mom said? They're the best. She wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true.”

Jamie didn’t respond right away. He just kept crying, softer now, quieter, like his body was getting tired of holding it all up.

“But he got hurt,” he said, voice tight.

“I know. But that—” Frankie leaned in a little, pointing to his own forehead. “That was just a cut. Up here. It looked worse than it was. You remember when you fell off your bike? That scrape on your knee? All that blood? It looked huge, but it wasn’t. Just messy.”

He nodded, barely. His eyes didn’t leave Frankie’s.

“It was scary,” Frankie continued. “But it was only a scare.”

Jamie hesitated. “How do you know it’s just that?”

Frankie glanced down. The pads of his fingers were stained red. He curled them into fists and tucked his hands into his lap like they didn’t belong to him. Then he looked back up.

“Because I checked. With my own hands. It was bleeding, yeah, but it wasn’t deep. Just a surface cut.”

The boy searched his face, eyes darting between his mouth and his eyes, like trying to catch a lie midair.

There were two knocks at the door, and then it opened a beat later without waiting for an answer.

“Jamie,” Luna said softly as she stepped into the room. “Honey, are you okay?”

Jamie didn’t say anything right away. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist, his face still damp, expression uncertain. Then he gave a faint nod. Luna walked across the room and crouched beside the bed, brushing a hand through his hair.

“We’re going to the hospital, with daddy,” she said, watching his face closely, “but everything’s alright. Okay?”

Jamie looked up at her, then past her to Frankie, his mouth parting just slightly.

“Can I go?” he asked, barely above a whisper. The room fell quiet.

Luna didn’t answer right away. She glanced at Frankie—one of those looks that lasted less than a second but held a full conversation inside it—and then turned her eyes back to her son.

Frankie cleared his throat, adjusting where he knelt.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out and tapping Jamie gently on the calf. “What if we finally watch that movie you asked about yesterday? The one with the animals. Remember?”

Jamie’s eyebrows knit together, uncertain.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice thin.

Frankie shifted a little, resting one arm on the mattress.

“You know the one I mean, right?” he said, feigning confusion. “The movie with the animals and the board game... How was it called again? Tumanji?”

Jamie blinked at him for a second—then his mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile appearing.

“No,” he said, voice still a little hoarse but brighter. “Jumanji.”

Frankie snapped his fingers. “Ah. That’s it. I always mix it up with that other one. You know, the one where the guy gets stuck inside a board game and becomes a tomato.”

Jamie gave a short, surprised laugh, the kind that sneaks out before you remember you’re supposed to be upset. “That’s not a movie.”

“You sure? Sounds like Oscar material to me,” Frankie said, raising an eyebrow.

Luna gave him a look—half grateful, half exasperated—and smoothed her son’s hair again. Jamie’s body had relaxed by then, shoulders dropping just slightly, a flicker of lightness beginning to return to his face.

He turned to Frankie again. “Okay,” small but clear.

Thursday, October 17th

The morning passed quietly and the bookstore felt half-asleep. You spent most of it rearranging the same shelf three times, more for something to do than out of necessity.

Nancy stopped by before noon. She came every few weeks, always with lipstick on, her earrings matching her outfit. She was in her seventies—sharp as ever— with the kind of silver-white hair that looked like it had absorbed sunlight and kept it, somehow. You liked her. She had a warm, sturdy way of being that made you feel less alone in your skin. She always brought up Piero, her husband, who sounded like the kind of man who made tea before you asked and let you have the last cookie. They sunbathed on their patio every afternoon, she said, beneath a striped umbrella. She talked about it fondly, like sun and silence were sacred, like afternoons stretched longer when you spent them side by side with someone who knew where all your scars were and loved you anyway.

She told you she used to teach math but had always preferred stories. “Numbers are always perfect, but people are interesting,” she said once. She kept journals—dozens of them, she claimed—stacked in boxes in her attic. You told her you’d love to read one, just to see how someone like her had seen the world when they were younger.

Before she left, she narrowed her eyes at you playfully.

“How old are you, sweetheart?” she asked, leaning slightly over the counter.

“Twenty-nine,” you answered, your voice soft, the way it always was when someone surprised you with affection.

She smiled as if you’d given her the exact answer she was hoping for.

“I’ll bring you the one I wrote when I was your age. Maybe there’s something useful in it.”

Later, the stillness cracked open. A group of teenagers tumbled into the store like a wind you hadn't prepared for. They made a mess of the juvenile section, speaking too loudly, touching everything with the kind of reckless hands that had never had to shelve anything. You asked them more than once to be careful, using the voice you reserved for rules you wished didn’t need saying. One of them dropped a copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower like it meant nothing at all.

They didn’t buy anything. They left the shelves in chaos. Normally, you would have accepted it as part of the rhythm of the place—books always moved, never stayed where you put them. But today it stung. There was something careless about their presence. Putting the books back felt like an apology you weren’t sure who to give to.

Later, a man came in asking for a book. He couldn’t remember the title, just that it was about a man, something existential, maybe something to do with murder, or exile, or the sea. You suggested The Stranger by Camus.

“No, no, not that one,” he insisted, shaking his head like you’d misunderstood him completely. And then he described The Stranger to you, again, nearly word for word.

You didn’t correct him. You just let him keep talking. Because some people need to arrive at the truth on their own. 

By the time the sign on the door read closed, your whole body ached with the kind of exhaustion that comes from quiet tasks performed for hours on end. You moved through the familiar routine almost without thinking—lights off, blinds drawn, register counted, the keys pressing cool and metallic into your palm as you locked up.

At home, you undressed slowly, letting your clothes fall where they wanted to, and stepped into the bath. The water climbed around you, and for a moment, everything felt still again. It was the kind of warmth that softened you, let the tension uncurl from your shoulders, made you forget how much your feet had hurt.

Afterward, wrapped in your robe and already feeling better, you padded into the kitchen with the light kind of optimism that sometimes appears when you're clean and your hair is damp and everything feels slightly reset. You opened the fridge, thinking about pasta or maybe something with melted cheese.

What you found was something closer to satire than sustenance: one pathetic lemon, the skin hardened like old leather, and a wedge of cheese in the kind of condition that made you feel vaguely judged by your own refrigerator. You laughed out loud—just once, flatly—then let the door close with a gentle thud.

You could’ve ordered in. Of course, that was always an option. But something about the quietness of the evening made you want to cook. Something comforting, something with cheese and butter or... bolognesa, but the really well done one, like the kind of meal Emma would send you videos of in the middle of the night with messages like we NEED to try this. So you got dressed, pulling on jeans and a nice shirt, trying to look like someone who might bump into someone they used to love at the grocery store, even though that wasn't true.

It was already six, the sky dipped in pale pinks and oranges, the air still a little bit thick. You moved quickly, maybe too quickly—partly because you were hungry, partly because the idea of dinner had already taken root in your mind and you wanted to see it through.

On the way back, your grocery bag hung from one shoulder, slightly digging into your skin. The sun was almost fully gone. You tilted your head back to look at the sky, letting the dark soft colors press into your mind.

You were still looking up when you reached your block. And then, without warning, your attention snapped downward. A figure. Familiar. Standing just outside your front door, hands tucked into his jean jacket pockets, head tilted slightly, like he’d been waiting a while.

You frowned, not quite alarmed but confused, and started walking faster, your footsteps picking up rhythm against the sidewalk.

He rang the doorbell just as you reached shouting distance. And then he turned.

“Frankie?”

His eyes found yours. He smiled, and something about it made you stop walking entirely, just a few feet away from him now. You adjusted the strap of the bag on your shoulder, your smile echoing his. For a second, neither of you said anything. You just looked at him. Like you were reading his face.

He looked different. That’s what struck you first. Not bad—just different. The tired kind of different. His eyes were glassy and faintly red around the rims, like he’d slept too little or thought too much. Maybe both.

You noticed it immediately.

He crossed the short distance between you and gently slid the bag from your shoulder without asking, his fingers brushing against your skin. You let him. You watched him in the soft dusk light—his profile, the quiet concentration on his face as he adjusted the weight of the bag—and something in your chest softened.

You stepped closer. Without overthinking it, your arms wrapped around his neck, your body leaning into his with a kind of quiet certainty. He held you the way he always did: arms snug around your waist, pulling you into him. He pressed a kiss to your cheek. You felt the heat of it long after his lips left your skin.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice low, your face turned slightly so you could get a clearer look at him. “I thought you weren’t coming back until the weekend.”

He smiled, barely. “Or sooner, I said.”

You opened the door and stepped aside so he could come in. The small suitcase in his hand bumped against the frame as he passed, and you watched him carry it up the narrow stairs, placing it just inside the apartment, next to the door. You realized then that he probably hadn’t even gone home. Most likely, he’d come straight from the airport.

You set the groceries on the kitchen counter, the plastic rustling against the marble. When you turned back around, he was standing beside the couch, looking at you as if he was trying to remember something important. Your smile hadn’t left yet.

“Well?” you said, stepping toward him. “How are you?”

That’s when it shifted.

His mouth twitched, a near-smile interrupted midway. His shoulders fell, not all at once, but in degrees, like gravity had started pulling harder. His eyebrows knit slowly, his whole expression beginning to slide. His eyes—always expressive, always easy to read if you knew how to look—began to shine. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else might notice. But you did. Of course you did.

“Hey,” you whispered, reaching for him without hesitation, both hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing lightly across the skin beneath his eyes.

He didn’t answer.

He just looked at you. Close up now, you could see it more clearly—how tired he was. His eyes rimmed with red, the faint trace of tears that hadn’t yet fallen. The kind of exhaustion that lived deep in the bones, behind the eyes, beneath the skin. And something more.

Then you pulled him into your arms again, tighter this time. He dropped his face into the curve of your neck, and you felt his breath catch slightly as he exhaled. You pressed your hands into his hair, threading your fingers through the messy strands, and held him there.

At first, his breathing came in short, uneven bursts. You felt it in the way his chest rose and fell against yours, in the way his arms clung to you a little too tightly, as if you might disappear if he let go. But you didn’t move. You just held him, one hand in his hair, the other splayed across his back.

Eventually, his body began to ease. Not entirely, but enough. His breaths evened out, becoming quieter, steadier. He pulled back just slightly, enough that your faces were no longer touching, and you tilted your head to look at him properly. He did the same.

Your eyes scanned his face. The sharp line of his jaw, the subtle crease between his brows that seemed to have taken up permanent residence. You reached up and brushed your fingertips along his cheek, a gesture so gentle it barely registered.

He kissed you. It wasn’t rushed or hard, but there was urgency in it nonetheless—like he'd been waiting to do it, or needing to. His lips met yours and you responded instantly, your mouth moving with his as the space between you disappeared again. You tilted your head and the kiss deepened. But then he pulled back, leaving your lips warm and a little dazed.

You studied his face, your expression shifting into something you hadn’t planned. Tenderness, yes, but also a quiet ache for him.

You reached up and brushed your fingers through the side of his hair.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice soft, your thumb grazing the edge of his jaw.

He let out a breath through his nose.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, but then paused. “I mean… I’m just tired.”

You didn’t believe him, not fully, but you didn’t push. You let your hand rest against his cheek, tracing light, absentminded shapes along his skin.

“We can talk about it later,” you said. “If you want.”

“I’d like that.”

You smiled, small and reassuring, and nodded. “Now tell me—are you hungry?”

He squinted slightly, the ghost of a smile creeping across his lips.

“Starving.”

“Good,” you said, patting his chest before stepping back. “Now I’ve got the perfect excuse to make something that’ll impress you.”

He didn’t say anything, just watched you cross the room.

About thirty minutes later, you were standing at the stove, carefully pouring the chopped vegetables into the pot where the tomato sauce had already begun to simmer. You’d pulled up a recipe Emma had texted you weeks ago—something she’d raved about that night she sent five voice notes in a row. 

The ingredients were simple—onions, garlic, bell peppers, crushed tomatoes, some ground meat you’d picked out after asking the butcher three separate questions, and just enough red wine to make it taste richer than it actually was. Still, there was a method to getting it right. Things had to be done in order, in the right way, or it wouldn’t come together. You were focused on that now, adjusting the heat beneath the pot until the bubbles at the surface softened. You stirred gently, watching the sauce thicken, hoping the meat would turn tender enough to fall apart with a fork. The pasta would come later, once the sauce had earned it.

The smell was already blooming through the kitchen. You leaned in, eyes fluttering closed for a second, just to take it in.

Then, the sound of a door opening, then closing again. The quiet shuffle of feet along the hallway.

Frankie appeared a second later, leaning into the wall next to you, one shoulder pressed casually against it.

“That smells really good,” he said, eyes drifting toward the stove.

You looked at him and smiled. He was wearing those soft gray-and-black striped pajama pants you’d seen once, paired with a plain white T-shirt that clung just slightly to his chest. He’d pulled them from his suitcase before heading into the shower.

“Thanks,” you said, eyes drifting to the damp patches forming on his shoulders. “Your hair’s still dripping. You’re getting your shirt all wet.”

“I can shake it out, if you want,” he offered, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Before you could stop him, he tilted his head and gave it a little shake like a dog just out of the rain, droplets scattering into the air, some landing on your cheek.

“No!” you laughed, holding your hands up in protest as he moved a step closer.

He retreated, still grinning, and reached up to push his damp curls back from his forehead.

“I’ll dry off,” he said. “I just wanted to see what you were up to.”

“So impatient,” you teased, pressing a hand lightly to his stomach as he passed behind you. “How was the shower?”

“Hot,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yeah, but don’t you feel renewed? Like your whole nervous system just reset?”

He tilted his face toward you, that crooked little smile still playing on his lips. “I’ll let you know after dinner.”

You rolled your eyes, even though he wasn’t looking. Earlier, you’d adjusted the water for his shower, turning the handle just right, testing the temperature with your wrist like you were preparing it for a toddler instead of a grown man.

“Not so hot,” he’d said, already pulling his T-shirt over his head. And then, as soon as the water hit his skin, he let out an exaggerated groan. Sure enough, seconds later came a low, satisfied sigh, like he'd just entered some kind of heaven.

You didn’t comment on it. But now, standing in front of him, you gave a soft shake of your head and said, “Come here,” brushing past him gently and catching his arm as you went.

He let himself be pulled, trailing behind you. You brought him into the bathroom and pointed to the closed toilet lid.

“Sit,” you instructed. He did.

Frankie looked at you with mock suspicion. “What are you going to do to me?”

His voice was cautious, playful, like he half-expected you to pull out a pair of scissors. You didn’t respond, just reached for a clean towel and began pressing the soft fabric into his damp hair, patting and squeezing gently, your movements steady but firm. His head dipped forward under your hands, shoulders relaxing a little as you worked.

“Look at you,” you murmured, a teasing edge in your voice, “like a child.”

He gave a snort in response, a quiet puff of breath.

“I hadn’t finished drying myself,” he said, his voice a bit muffled, like he was talking more to the floor than to you.

You didn’t answer. Just kept working. After a moment, you tossed the towel onto the edge of the sink and knelt to open the cabinet beneath it. Frankie stayed where he was, watching quietly now, as you pulled out a small hair dryer and plugged it into the socket by the mirror. You glanced back at him, holding it in your hand like a weapon.

“Bend your head a little,” you said, and he did, obedient.

The dryer clicked on with a soft hum, not too loud, and warm air began to rush over the back of his neck. You ran your fingers through his hair as you dried it, lifting and separating the strands, moving with a rhythm that felt almost instinctive. Your fingers grazed his scalp as you worked, massaging without thinking, just because it felt right to do.

After a few minutes, he exhaled slowly and said, “You’re going to put me to sleep.”

You smiled but didn’t stop. Instead, you nudged his chin up with the back of your fingers, tilting his head so you could reach the front. He opened his eyes, just barely, as if it took a real effort. You met his gaze briefly before moving your eyes again, concentrating on what you were doing.

He didn’t say anything else. He just looked at you. And you didn’t feel the need to break the silence.

After a while, you clicked off the dryer, the hum falling away like a thought slipping from your mind. The room felt quieter now, the only sound was the faint hum of the television playing in the living room. You wrapped the cord carefully around your fingers, looping it into a neat coil without rushing, then set it down on the cabinet.

You turned back to Frankie. He was still sitting, head slightly tilted, watching you in that unblinking way he had. You ran a hand through his hair.

“All done,” you said quietly, offering him a faint smile.

He stood with a soft grunt, lifting his arms above his head to stretch. The hem of his shirt shifted slightly, exposing a thin line of skin. You were just about to open the door when you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist. You turned, caught off guard, and he pulled you toward him in one fluid motion.

His hand came up to your face, cupping your cheek with a familiarity that made your breath catch. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief, tender, almost shy. Then, without waiting, he kissed you again, this time properly.

You smiled into it. That unconscious, reflexive smile that made your cheeks ache a little. He felt it and smiled too, the curve of his lips brushing against yours. You slid your hands up the front of his shirt, fingertips gliding over the fabric, settling on his shoulders. The cotton felt damp under your palms.

You pulled away, just enough to see his face clearly, to speak without your lips brushing.

“Your shirt’s still wet,” you murmured, your voice lighter now, teasing.

He gave a dramatic roll of his eyes but didn’t release you. His arms stayed around your waist, grounding you there. And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Apparently, you were a damn good cook. The kind that surprised even yourself. Because an hour later, Frankie was sitting across from you at the small kitchen table, setting his fork down with a soft clink against the plate. He reached for the wine glass with the same hand and took a sip, his eyes closing briefly like it really hit the spot.

The apartment was quiet, save for Al Green playing on the speaker in the living room—How Can You Mend a Broken Heart drifting across the place, soft and clear.

Dinner had been easy. No heavy conversations, nothing you had to tiptoe around. Frankie seemed lighter now, more himself, in a dry T-shirt this time. He told you stories from his days in Boston, sticking to the parts he liked, the positive ones, wich were a lot. He asked about Bill then, about how things were going at the coffee shop, and you gave him the short version. Not because you didn’t want to talk, but because there wasn’t much to say. And you didn't feel like talking about Bill.

Mr. Darcy took the dinner invitation too, hopping into the spare chair between you like he’d been formally seated. He spent half the meal squinting at the table’s edge, trying to sniff his way into a bite, before giving up and curling himself into a quiet loaf.

“This was amazing,” Frankie said finally, leaning back with a sigh, like his body needed to announce how satisfied it was.

And honestly, it had been amazing. The meat had turned out just the way you’d hoped. Tender, flavorful, melting on the tongue in a way that made you close your eyes for a second. The vegetables soaked up the wine and seasonings too. And Frankie had eaten like a really starving man, which maybe wasn’t far from the truth. You had no problem refilling his plate twice, then again when he scraped up the last of the sauce with a piece of bread.

You tilted your head and smiled. “I’ll accept that compliment. Graciously.”

He laughed, and then nudged your foot under the table with his, a quiet, almost instinctive gesture. You looked up just as a yawn slipped out of him, unfiltered.

“So, how’d you sleep last night?” you asked, raising your glass, swirling the last sip of red wine before bringing it to your lips.

Frankie paused. He didn’t answer right away.

“I didn’t,” he said eventually, with a small, apologetic smile.

You tilted your head again. “You didn’t?”

He shook his head, and his fingers began to move around the stem of the wine glass, drawing quiet circles. 

“Henry had an accident.”

You didn’t speak at first. You watched him carefully, expecting an explanation to follow, but it didn’t. He just sat there, eyes fixed somewhere near your hands.

So you shifted in your seat, and then you asked: “What happened to him?”

“He fell down the stairs,” he said. “He got dizzy.”

Your stomach turned. Frankie gave a faint nod, as if trying to convince himself more than you.

“It wasn’t terrible,” he added quickly, “just a few stitches. Nothing broken. But the fall was bad enough that they kept him at the hospital for observation. He hit his head.”

You winced, your mind catching on the small detail.

You remembered what Frankie had told you last week—about the tumor. A small mass, tucked inside Henry’s frontal lobe, as if that part of the brain had quietly betrayed him. It had started with the dizzy spells, sure, but then there was that evening—he’d gotten confused during dinner with some friends, blanked out while telling a story he’d told a dozen times before. Then the blurriness came, the sudden jolts in his chest, the racing heartbeat. Frankie had listed the symptoms without drama, just a steady recounting. The headaches had been going on for months, along with the exhaustion and his growing inability to concentrate. Tests followed, more than one. And more still to come. They hadn’t reached a decision about surgery yet. But they would soon. One way or another.

Frankie’s voice cut back in, quieter now. “Jamie saw him.”

Your gaze flicked to his face.

“On the floor,” Frankie continued, eyes fixed on the tablecloth, tracing the pattern with the edge of his finger like he needed something tactile to focus on. “Henry was just lying there, blood all over his face. And Jamie—he just cried. He asked me if his dad was going to die.”

You inhaled sharply, instinctively. “Frankie…”

You wanted to reach across the table and touch him. You almost did. But something held you in place.

He looked up at you then, and his eyes were watery but not spilling over.

“I didn’t know what to say, I felt like an idiot. Like some useless bystander in the middle of this thing that’s eating him from the inside out.”

You said nothing.

“I couldn’t lie to him,” he went on. “He’s just a kid, but he’s not stupid. And he deserves more than some empty reassurance. I couldn’t look at him and say, No, your dad’s not going to die, because how the hell would I know that? What if I said it and I was wrong?”

His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t fall apart. He just looked at you, like he was still waiting for someone to tell him the right thing to say.

“What did you tell him?”

“That Henry had good doctors looking after him. And it’s true.” He gestured vaguely, his hand moving in the air like the thought couldn’t quite land. “But the feeling—it was awful. Just awful.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You reached across the table, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand in a soft, steady motion. He turned his palm upward, and his thumb found your fingers like it was second nature.

“He’s so little,” Frankie murmured. “Just ten. Still thinks the moon actually follows him when he walks home at night. He’s not supposed to know what it means to be scared like that. Not really. Not yet. He’s not supposed to be worried about things like this. He’s supposed to be, I don't know, riding his bike or forgetting to do his homework. Not standing over his dad wondering if he’s going to die.”

Your fingers traced over the curve of his knuckles. “I’m sure you were good with him. And I'm sure it helped him a lot to have you there with him. I don’t think that kind of presence goes unnoticed. Even at that age, kids know when someone shows up for them.” Your voice was soft, as were your fingers stroking his hand. "There are things that no one can protect him from, but you can be there for him. And I think he'll always be grateful for that, to know that his family was there. Whatever the outcome of all this."

Frankie didn’t reply at first. You saw something pass across his face—tiredness, maybe, or something more complicated. Then a faint smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, barely there.

“We watched a movie after they left for the hospital. Luna and my mom went with Henry. So it was just the three of us. Jamie, Mai, and me. We put on Jumanji.”

“Oh yeah? Does he like Jumanji?”

“He loves it,” Frankie nodded. “Though he didn’t make it to the end. Fell asleep halfway through. Mai and I just looked at each other and decided to let him be. I stayed on the couch with him till they got home.”

He glanced down then, his eyes landing on Mr. Darcy, curled up beside the table with his head resting on one outstretched paw.

“I didn’t sleep at all,” he added quietly. “Not when they came back, not even after I got into bed. I just laid there with my eyes closed, trying to feel normal. It wasn’t until eleven in the morning that I even looked at the time.”

He sighed, not dramatically, but like something heavy was pushing out of his chest. Then his gaze returned to you.

“I needed to come back,” he added. “I wanted to stay longer too—mostly for Jamie. But Luna said she’d take care of it. She’s good like that. She drove me to the airport. And the whole time, I was just thinking... I had to see you.”

The words settled into your chest with more weight than you’d expected. You blinked once, then again.

And suddenly, guilt crept in. You thought about how much time you’d taken earlier, moving through the kitchen like you had nowhere to be. You’d cooked like it was a weekend, like this was just another evening. You’d focused on simmering and seasoning and letting the wine reduce just right, and he—he had been running on fumes. Barely holding himself up.

He’d crossed the country running on nerves and zero sleep, and you’d made him wait for dinner.

Your eyes dropped to your lap, and your voice softened. “Frankie, I didn’t know. I would’ve—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted gently. “Being here feels... good. Normal. And that helps more than you think.”

“But you must be exhausted. I’m sorry.”

Frankie smiled. “No, I’m okay. Honestly. I think that shower of yours worked some kind of miracle.”

You shook your head lightly, resting your chin in your palm, elbow anchored to the table.

“Oh, so now you believe in the healing power of water,” you said, with a faint smirk.

He laughed. “Between that and three servings of your cooking, I’m practically a new man. Almost.”

“Almost?”

He shrugged, a little dramatically. “Well, I’m sort of counting on you to escort me to bed. In case that part wasn’t clear.”

The comment caught you off guard and made you laugh out loud.

“Wow. Bold of you.”

“Me?” he said, leaning forward like he had every right to be amused. “Come on, Shortcake. Don’t act innocent now. We both know you’ve been using me for my body.”

You burst into laughter again, covering your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to suppress the grin that had already taken over your face.

“Alright,” you said, rising to your feet. “Get up, I’ll take you to bed.”

From his seat, he didn’t move, just looked at you with exaggerated offense. “So you’re not denying it?”

You turned to face him, hands finding his shoulders, your thumbs brushing over the fabric of his T-shirt. He was warm under your touch, and his eyes flicked up to meet yours.

“Something tells me that even if that were the case,” you said, voice low, “you’d be completely fine with it.”

He chuckled, head tilting toward your hand. “Ha. You're right,” he said. “Got me.”

“Such a slut,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, though the smile hadn’t left your face. 

You turned toward the table, beginning to stack the plates absentmindedly. Behind you, Frankie stood up too, and without needing to say anything, he joined in, making quick work of the task. It took barely two minutes—your movements wordless but coordinated.

Then, before you could stop him, he was at the sink. You told him to leave it, that it could wait, but he shook his head, already reaching for the sponge.

“Bad manners,” he said over his shoulder. “Can’t just eat three plates of your food and leave you to clean up alone.”

So you didn’t argue again. Instead, you stayed beside him, leaning your hip against the counter, your arms crossed loosely over your chest. He told you about the day Jamie convinced him to climb a tree in the backyard, how he scraped his elbow and Jamie laughed so hard he nearly fell off the branch above him. Mr. Darcy circled your feet as he spoke, issuing small, dramatic meows, clearly under the impression that it was dinnertime for cats too.

Once the counters gleamed and the dishes were stacked neatly in the rack, the two of you drifted down the hallway in easy, familiar silence. Going to bed together didn’t feel like a decision, exactly—it felt like a continuation of the evening. Like the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask what to do or where to go. He just followed you.

In the bathroom, you watched his reflection in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, his hair soft under the light, a slight crease between his brows as he concentrated. You stood beside him and picked up your toothbrush. Washed your face. Moved around each other without bumping into one another.

Later, you opened the quilt on your bed, fluffing the pillows absently. Frankie stepped into the room carrying Darcy in his arms like a baby, muttering something about him being spoiled. He set him gently on the mattress, where the cat immediately made a low-pitched grunt of satisfaction and curled up without ceremony.

You began to undress, turning your back toward Frankie out of instinct. And it was only when you felt the cool air touch your skin that you realized your face had grown warm. You weren’t used to this part—the exposed version of yourself, no lights dimmed, no rushed urgency to distract from the fact that he was watching you.

But he didn’t say anything. He just lay back on the bed with his arms folded behind his head, his eyes resting quietly on you, steady but unintrusive. You felt them on your back like sunlight through a window. Not harsh. Just there. 

You pulled the T-shirt over your head, the fabric brushing lightly over your skin as it settled around your torso and hips in soft folds. Then the pajama shorts slid into place. The air in the room felt nice against your skin.

You climbed into bed, moving across the mattress on your hands and knees until you reached his side. Frankie was already lying down, one arm bent beneath his head, eyes watching you as if he’d been waiting for you to arrive. You asked him to switch off the lamp on the nightstand, and he reached over to do it without a word. The room shifted into semi-darkness, shadows cast against the walls.

Then he asked if you could put something on the TV—just for a while, he said—and you didn’t argue. You reached for the remote, flipping through the titles.

“See?” you said, bumping your hand gently against his stomach. “You always end up watching something before bed.”

He smiled, the corners of his mouth curving upward without effort, and didn’t deny it. You let your head rest on his chest, the weight of you melting into him like it had always belonged there, your ear tuned to the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart. You scrolled through the options until you passed You’ve Got Mail.

“That one,” he said.

You turned your head slightly, gave him a sideways look. “Tom Hanks again?”

He nodded like it was the most obvious choice in the world, and you remembered—of course—the time he confused You’ve Got Mail with When Harry Met Sally, and how he still owed you a viewing of that one. You pressed play anyway.

The remote ended up somewhere between you both, half-lost in the sheets. You adjusted your position slightly, shifting until your hand came to rest against his stomach, the warmth of his body seeping into your palm. You tilted your head to look at him, just to make sure he was okay. His smile had softened, his features quieter now, the tiredness more visible around his eyes.

You leaned up to kiss him—just a small kiss, one that lingered more in feeling than in time. Then another, closer to the corner of his mouth, which made him exhale softly. You felt his hand move across your back, not hurried. His fingers settled in the space between your ribs and your hip, that narrow, delicate stretch of skin that always seemed to hum a little under touch.

You lowered yourself back down, head on his chest again, eyes turned toward the screen. Meg Ryan was typing, oblivious to the irony of her anonymous confidant being the man she resented most in real life. The small bookstore, the way she poured herself into it, the quiet sense of being edged out by something bigger and more impersonal—you understood it. You smiled faintly at a comment made by the woman who worked with her, something dry and sweet and accurate.

After a while, you noticed Frankie’s breathing had changed. It had deepened, evened out. You felt the full rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. You looked up and found him fully asleep, his face softened in that way people’s faces only do when they’re truly resting, the tension drained from his brow.

You reached for the remote again and switched off the television. Then you adjusted your position without really thinking, curling closer to him, your arm draped across his middle.

Within moments, your own body followed his into sleep.

Friday, October 18th

You rolled onto your back, the sheets shifting beneath you, and laughter spilled from your mouth as Frankie’s teeth grazed your neck. Your hands reached for him instinctively, fingers weaving into the softness of his hair. He laughed against your throat, and the sound sent something warm crawling down your spine.

The alarm had gone off ten minutes earlier—seven a.m.—but it had hardly mattered. He’d been awake an hour before that. When you’d asked him why he hadn’t woken you, he said, simply, that you looked like you needed more sleep. So he got up, used the bathroom, then came back to lie beside you. Awake. Still. Waiting until you woke up.

Now his hands trailed across your stomach, and at first you laughed again, your body twitching under the softness of his touch. But the laughter thinned quickly into silence, replaced by something else. Something heavier, slower-burning. His mouth traveled from your neck to your jaw, the sharp little bites replaced by warm, open kisses. 

He adjusted his weight over you, settling into the space you made for him without question, your legs curling around his hips. Like your body already knew how this was supposed to go. You pulled him closer without speaking.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t something you eased into. It was immediate, almost greedy—the way someone kisses after too much waiting, too much wanting. Your hands came together at the back of his neck, fingers tightening against the heat of his skin, and his tongue brushed yours, coaxing a response that felt like surrender. You kissed him back like you needed to prove something. He moaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, and the room was full of heat and breath and the wet, open sounds of two people lost in each other.

Then there was a soft thud beside you, something landing on the mattress with a little bounce. You pulled back instinctively, your lips parting from Frankie’s with a sound that felt too loud in the quiet. Both of you turned your heads at the same time.

Mr. Darcy had made himself comfortable on the bed, his front paws neatly folded like he owned the place.

You laughed under your breath, the sound caught somewhere between affection and exasperation. Frankie shifted back slightly, still close but no longer pressed against you.

“Close the door,” you murmured, your voice already taut with frustration and want.

Frankie let out a breath and peeled himself away from your body. You watched him move without meaning to, your gaze dragging to the unmistakable bulge pressing against the front of his pants. He reached for the cat, pausing with his hands hovering in the air, expression torn between hesitation and amusement.

“He’s going to be mad at me,” he said, eyes flicking toward yours.

“What?”

“Darcy.”

You sat upright, your body still tingling with everything unfinished, and let out a quiet laugh. “He’s not going to be mad.”

“Cats get offended. You know that.”

You rolled your eyes and got up, the air around you cooler now without him so close. You bent to scoop Mr. Darcy into your arms, your fingers sinking into his thick, soft fur. He didn’t protest. He never really did with you.

“I know,” you said, pressing a kiss to the top of his little head, “but I don’t think he’s going to take this personally.”

You stepped out into the hallway and set him down gently, giving him a fond stroke between his ears before straightening. When you turned back, Frankie was already waiting. He closed the door behind you with a quiet click.

You hadn’t even finished turning when his hands were already on your hips—firm, certain, hungry—and he walked you backward without saying a word. The backs of your thighs met the edge of the mattress, your balance faltering just slightly.

And then there was only him again.

You landed on the mattress with a soft bounce, sitting first and then rolling back, your hair fanning out over the sheets. Frankie followed, his body settling over yours with ease, like gravity made the decision for him. His hands bracketed your waist, grounding you there as his mouth returned to your neck—small, scattered kisses pressed into your skin.

His hands shifted, thumbs brushing lightly over your ribs before gathering the hem of your shirt and tugging it upward. You arched your back to help him, lifting your arms above your head as the fabric slipped off and disappeared somewhere behind him. His fingers moved without hesitation, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts—no pause, no teasing—and he dragged them down in one swift motion, underwear and all, until the fabric was a memory at the end of the bed.

You laughed, the sound breathy and full of something that felt like disbelief. Your whole body buzzed, cheeks flushed and chest warm as your hands roamed over him—his arms, the curve of his shoulders, the warm plane of his stomach under his shirt. He kissed you again, deeper this time, his breath uneven and catching as he pressed his body to yours. The feel of his clothes against your bare skin made you restless, every second tightening something inside you.

You broke the kiss with a smirk. “So desperate.”

Frankie tilted his head slightly, a crooked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and it hit you low in your stomach—how much you wanted him right then, how much you liked watching him like this.

One of his hands slid along your waist, then down the curve of your hip and thigh, fingers firm against the softest part of you. He squeezed gently, just enough to make you bite your lip. His eyes stayed on yours, that maddening smile still tugging at his lips as his hand moved higher. He touched you where you needed him, his fingers slipping between your folds—just enough pressure to make your breath catch, to make your teasing dissolve into something quieter and hungrier. Your legs parted instinctively, your body answering before your mind could catch up.

He laughed under his breath. “And I’m the desperate one?”

You were about to say something back—some clever response—but you didn’t get the chance. He dipped his head and kissed your collarbones, his mouth hot against your skin. The kisses trailed downward in a lazy, almost reverent pattern, until he reached your breasts. He opened his mouth over one nipple, drawing it in with soft pressure, his tongue moving in slow, careful circles that made your back lift from the mattress. A moan slipped out of you, unrestrained, and you closed your eyes, your hand tangling gently in his hair.

He released you with a quiet pop, breath warm against your chest, and didn’t pause before continuing down, mouth brushing over your stomach, your navel, lower still, until he was right there, in front of you.

And you didn’t dare breathe.

You leaned back onto your elbows, your arms trembling just slightly under your weight, trying to keep yourself upright so you could see him. Your eyelids fluttered halfway shut, lips parted as if you might say something, though the only thing leaving your mouth were uneven, stuttering breaths. You were already unraveling, and he hadn’t even really started.

And still—still—he wore that fucking smile. That smirk that tugged at one corner of his mouth like he knew exactly how this was going to end and how badly you were going to fall apart in front of him.

You shifted beneath him, restless with anticipation, your hips tilting up on their own. Frankie’s hands gripped your thighs firmly, grounding you.

“Hold still,” he murmured, the grin vanishing from his face like a curtain pulled shut, his voice edged with mock severity. Like he was scolding you. Like you were misbehaving.

You were opening your mouth to say something back—something witty or obscene or both—but then his lips met you. Right there. No warning. No space for speech. Just him.

His mouth closed over your clit, his tongue moving in steady, broad strokes, soft but focused, like he was tasting you and thinking about it, like he could memorize the shape of you with his mouth alone. The air left your lungs in jagged exhales. One of your hands found the back of his head, your fingers threading into his hair, not pulling yet, just holding. Needing to touch him, to anchor yourself to something solid while the rest of you dissolved.

He devoured you like he hadn’t eaten in days. There was nothing hesitant about it—just his tongue, his lips, the heat of his mouth, working you with a pace that sent electricity firing down your spine. He kissed you, licked into you, sucked at the most sensitive parts of you like he was possessed by the need to make you come apart. A low sound came from his throat, something close to a growl, and the vibration of it nearly undid you. You cried out and your hips bucked, but his arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you in place, his grip unyielding but not rough.

And somehow—somehow—he still managed to be gentle. You were burning up. Every inch of your skin too hot, your thoughts too scattered to hold onto. You couldn’t take it anymore.

With a desperate sound—half-groan, half-command—you sat up and reached for him, grabbing his hair and tugging it back, not harshly, but with enough force that he lifted his head.

He released you with a slick, obscene sound. His mouth was wet, his lips flushed, and his eyes met yours—dark, gleaming, the kind of look that made your knees weak even though you were already lying down. His breath caught in his throat. His cheeks were tinted pink, heat radiating from him like a second sun.

You reached for his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric with something that felt like insistence. He didn’t resist. As you tugged it upward, he shifted easily, dropping to his knees on the mattress so you could pull it over his head. The shirt landed somewhere behind him with no ceremony. Then he placed his hands on your waist and pushed—not harshly, but with just enough force to send you tipping back against the pillows.

He stood beside the bed and undressed in one fluid movement, pants and boxers sliding down together, left pooled on the floor. Your breath caught—just for a second—and heat bloomed in your chest, rising to your face. The sight of him made your stomach tighten.

Frankie climbed back onto the bed, one hand wrapped around himself, moving with quiet pressure as his eyes drank you in. The way you lay there—waiting, open, flushed—clearly affecting him. His breathing shifted. His pupils darkened. For a moment, he just hovered there, like he was taking a mental picture.

Then he leaned down and kissed you. Not with hunger, not yet. As if he wanted to be tender before losing control.

But then he pulled back.

“Where are you going?” you asked, your hand reaching instinctively for his arm.

He glanced toward the door.

“Wallet,” he said. “I’ve got a condom in there. Just a second.”

You didn’t let go. “I’m on the pill.”

He paused. Just for a beat. His expression changed—something unreadable passed through his eyes before he gave you a half-smile, crooked and curious.

“I know. But are you sure?”

You nodded, your fingers tightening slightly on his skin.

“Yes. Unless you’ve been with someone else in the last two weeks.”

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You think I have that much game?”

“So no?” You were smiling already, because you already knew the answer.

He grinned, then settled over you again, the heat of him returning like a tide.

“What do you think?” he said, voice close to your ear. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“There hasn’t been anyone else these past two weeks?”

“No. No one.”

“Good,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. “You’re dirty, you know that?”

You let your head fall back, a breathy laugh slipping from your lips. Frankie was still looking at you and his hands shifted on your thighs, guiding your legs open. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he settled between them, his body warm and solid and so unbearably close.

He lined himself up with you, the pressure unmistakable, and stayed like that for a second longer than necessary. His eyes didn’t move from yours. You felt the first inch of him press in, a careful tease of sensation, then retreat. Then again. Your breathing stuttered, lips parting as he rocked forward one more time, deeper this time—until he was all the way inside you.

The stretch of him made you gasp. Your arms went around his shoulders instinctively, anchoring yourself to the firm heat of his body. He buried his face in your neck, not kissing, not speaking, just breathing against your skin like he needed that closeness just as badly as you did.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You felt him in every part of you. Your legs curled around his waist, the tension in your muscles easing as you adjusted to him.

Then he started to move. Gentle thrusts at first—unhurried, almost reverent—but they built gradually, gathering heat with every motion. You felt your breathing pick up, a soft ache forming deep inside you, the kind that was only ever satisfied by more.

Frankie pulled back just enough to look down, eyes trailing over where your bodies met. Your own gaze followed his—tracing the sweat on his chest, the flex of his arms where they braced beside your head, the slight furrow in his brow, the pink flush creeping down his neck.

Your heart thudded hard against your ribcage, a wild, fast rhythm that echoed through your whole body. The sound of his hips meeting yours—the sharp, wet cadence of it—wrapped around you like heat, made your hands tighten on his back, your legs press harder into his sides.

“Harder,” you whispered, your voice shaky, breathless. “Faster.”

His eyes met yours again, and something lit behind them—something raw and dark and beautiful. He didn’t answer, just gave you what you asked for. His pace shifted. The thrusts turned deeper, rougher. The bed hit the wall behind you in time with every movement, and your body arched up to meet him without thinking.

Little cries spilled out of you, rising and falling with each motion. Your skin felt too tight for your body, your chest too small to contain the rush of feeling inside it. Every nerve ending sparked to life under his touch, under the way he pressed into you like he couldn’t get close enough.

You weren’t thinking anymore, not in words. You were all sensation and sound. The slap of skin, the creak of the bed, the heat of his breath on your neck as he sank his teeth into your skin—harder this time, almost too much.

“Don’t stop,” you said, not even sure if it came out as words or just sound. “Don’t stop, please.”

He didn’t. His rhythm didn’t falter. You felt the world tilt around you, narrowing to the shape of his body over yours, the pulse between your legs, the wild flutter of something huge and inevitable building inside your chest.

“Yes,” you breathed—maybe out loud, maybe not. It didn’t matter.

His skin was flushed and slick against yours. Your nails pressed into his back without thinking, dragging down the slope of his spine. He made a sound in response—something caught between a moan and a gasp—and then he lifted his chest from yours, just slightly, like the heat had become too much.

His hands framed your face, but his hips kept moving, pulling you with him. His eyes dragged down your body, like he needed to memorize every inch of you, and you reached for him, one hand curling around his arm, the other flattening against his stomach. The muscles jumped beneath your touch, taut and flexing with every movement.

Something was building low inside you, quiet at first. But then his hand slipped between you, his palm resting on your belly like he wanted to feel what you were feeling from the outside. And then—his fingers. His thumb circled your clit with an unsteady rhythm, the pressure sending a hot jolt through you so fast it knocked the air from your lungs.

A choked cry tore from your throat before you could hold it back. Your hands gripped his arms instinctively, like if you let go, you'd float away entirely.

Frankie thrust deeper, harder. Your body moved in sync with his, like there was no boundary anymore between where you ended and he began. The feeling in your abdomen swelled and then you were falling into it. Your mouth opened in a soundless gasp, your whole body locking around him as the orgasm ripped through you in pulses that felt too intense to contain.

“Fuck,” he groaned, and there was something raw in his voice, as if he couldn’t hold himself together either. “Where—oh, fuck—”

He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, his hips still working, but messier now, rougher. His breath stuttered as he came, and you felt it—the warmth spilling into you, the throb of it, how every part of him seemed to stutter and collapse in the same breath.

You wrapped your arms around his back, your legs still spread beneath him, your chest rising and falling against his. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move for a long moment, except to breathe. You both did. And then, finally, gently, he pulled out of you.

You exhaled at the loss, an ache already beginning to take shape where he’d been. But then he kissed you. Softly, his lips brushing yours with a sweetness that made your heart clench.

Was it wrong—was it selfish—to feel this sense of quiet satisfaction? To think, even for a second, that you were glad he was back, alone, with you? That he was here, in your home, within reach, surrounded by your things. That you had him to yourself, even if just for now.

Frankie let himself fall beside you, his body heavy with leftover heat, the curve of his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. He hadn't caught his breath yet. Neither had you.

You turned toward him and propped yourself against the curve of his shoulder. Your hand found the line of his jaw, fingers skating gently across the stubble there.

“Well,” you said, “looks like you slept really well.”

A low sound caught in Frankie’s throat—half a laugh, half a hum—and he let his eyes close for a moment.

Thirty minutes later, you were both in the kitchen. You sat across from each other at the small breakfast bar, twin cups of coffee resting between your arms. Your hair was damp but not dripping, his too, curling faintly at the ends after the shower.

Darcy was chewing noisily near your feet, tail brushing across the floor every so often. Frankie was absorbed in something on his phone, his brow drawn together in focus. You sipped from your cup while scrolling the morning news, the headlines half-forgotten as soon as you read them.

Then your phone vibrated in your hand.

Santi.

You glanced up, your expression shifting. Frankie looked up too, a flicker of recognition passing across his face. You lifted a hand slightly to let him know it was fine, and picked up.

“Hey, Santi?”

The noise on the other end told you he was outside.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a little rushed, “how are you? Are you at the bookstore already?”

You checked the time. Almost nine. “I’m good. Not there yet, though. Why?”

“No reason. Just wondering.” A beat. “What’s going on?”

You leaned back slightly. “Not much. What’s up?”

“I talked to Frankie early yesterday. I think he got back.”

You flicked your eyes up to the man sitting across from you, who looked especially focused on not looking up just then.

“Yeah?” you said. “That right?”

“Sort of. I thought he was coming in today, but whatever.” You heard the soft thud of a door closing on his end. “We’re heading to Will’s cabin with Yov. He and Benny are going early. Since Fish is back already, I thought maybe we could head out this afternoon. Before dinner. It’s only about an hour away. What do you think?”

“Oh. Yeah? What time?” 

Across the table, Frankie raised his eyebrows in your direction and tilted his head slightly, a question embedded in the movement. You met his eyes for a second and bit down gently on the inside of your lip.

“Around six. Maybe a little after? Could be seven,” Santi said.

“Yeah, I—um—yeah.”

“If it doesn’t work for you, that’s fine. Maybe you’ve got plans or something.”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then found your voice again. It came out lighter than you intended. Too eager, maybe. “No, it’s not that. I like the idea. Six works. That way I can get a few things packed and maybe close the bookstore a little early.”

“Perfect,” he said, the smile clear in his voice. “I’ll check with Frankie just to be sure.”

You hesitated. “It’s okay. I’ll be ready then.”

“Good. That’s good.” He paused, and the background noise on his end seemed to quiet for a second. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah. Bye. Take care. Love you.”

His reply came faintly, like he wasn’t quite near the phone anymore. “Love you, too.” And then, the call ended.

You set your phone down on the counter. The screen darkened. The room filled back up with the sound of Mr. Darcy still gnawing at his breakfast and the soft hum of the refrigerator. You looked across the counter at Frankie.

“What was that about?” he asked, eyes narrowed slightly with gentle curiosity.

You opened your mouth to answer, but his phone buzzed before you could speak. It vibrated sharply against the surface, and when you both looked down, Santi’s contact photo was lit up on the screen. Determined.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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[magicalrocketships]

Rivers of Light || Max/Daniel || part 10 ||

(reminder that this in its entirety contains mpreg, reference to giving birth, Max Verstappen's bad dad, past abuse, and on-track accidents.) Cyril's hot wife remains made up (I mean, she may be hot in real life but I don't even know for certain if she exists, therefore this version of his hot wife remains made up).

All previous parts can be found in the masterpost here. This chapter is on AO3 here.

Max hasn't had many people be kind to him since he crashed out of Formula 1. He'd forgotten how it had felt.

Part 10

Bastiaan falls asleep in Cyril's arms after dinner. One minute he's frowning up at him, and the next, his little eyes are closing and he's falling asleep right where he's tucked up against Cyril's chest.

Max contains his jealousy well. Bastiaan's never fallen asleep anywhere other than with him. This whole trip has been full of new experiences for his baby, and he must be very tired. Max would like to fall asleep too, but he hasn't slept through the night in a long time. He's used to it by now, but even being used to it doesn't mean he doesn't wish it was different sometimes. 

That he could, just for once, put the weight down. 

He and Daniel don't stay long after Bastiaan falls asleep. It's late anyway, but his baby stays mostly asleep through having his little hat and sleeping bag put on him, and his mittens tucked down over his hands. He stirs as he's put down in the carrycot, but he's asleep again after Max has shushed him, moved the pram back and forth to rock him a little as Daniel says goodnight to Cyril and Sephine before they turn their attention to Max. He gets kissed on the cheek by both of them. Cyril says he will call when Max is back home, and Sephine says they'll have to have Max and Bastiaan to stay when Max is next in Paris. It's nice. It's kind. It's a lot. Max hasn't had many people be kind to him since he crashed out of Formula 1. He'd forgotten how it had felt. 

It almost makes him want to cry. 

He doesn't. 

He's not sure he can anymore. 

&&&

Bastiaan wakes up an hour after they get back to the hotel, which is about half an hour after Max has passed out in the big bed with the carrycot next to him. When he'd gone to sleep, Daniel was still awake, scrolling through his phone with the lamp on by the little bed under the window. He had refused to let Max sleep there. But when Bastiaan starts to cry, the lamps are off, and Max tries to keep it that way in case Daniel can somehow sleep through his tiny, tearful baby making his feelings known. 

He's not a happy baby. Max cycles through the things he knows to do: nappy change, trying for a feed, nappy check again, a little playtime with his giraffe and his rattle, but Bastiaan doesn't want or need any of it. He's miserable and fierce about it, red cheeked and angry, little cries that tear Max's chest in half. He sadly accepts a feed after about half an hour, and that keeps him quiet for a while, but the moment Max tries to put him back down in his carrycot he's crying again, the saddest baby that anyone has ever seen. Max wants to cry too. He's so, so tired. He hates Bastiaan being so unhappy and not being able to tell Max what he needs. He hopes babies don't get nightmares. Bad dreams are awful enough when you're old enough to understand them. Max kisses his little flushed cheeks. 

"I'm sorry, little baby," Max says, over Bastiaan's exhausted sobs. "I know we're not at home. You've met all these new people today and I think everything smells funny and you don't know where you are. You've been very brave and now you don't want to be anymore, do you? You just want to be asleep but you don't know that you have to stop crying to get that, because you're only little. Such a little baby, my baby Bastiaan." He kisses his hair. Cradles him close. "We're not alone like normal, my baby, and it's not just me you're keeping awake. You made a new friend today, didn't you? And I think he'd like to go back to sleep now. Can we let him? Can we just go to sleep, baby?"

"It's okay," Daniel says finally. "You can put the lamp on. I'm awake."

"I'm sorry," Max says. He sounds desperate because he is. He's so tired. "I don't know why he's so upset. I can't make him stop."

"He's a baby, I think," Daniel says. He switches the lamp on. Sits up and swings his legs out of bed. He's in a t-shirt and his boxers. He'd still been dressed when Max had fallen asleep.

Max is topless because he'd fed Bastiaan, and part of him wants to cover up. He wants to shut that voice down inside of his head that's his dad, that's telling him to be ashamed of feeding his baby, but he's too tired to fight it. He cradles Bastiaan to his chest instead. Kisses his head. 

Daniel looks at him. "Max," he says. "Come on. Take a break. Why don't you give him to me for a few minutes. Go and wash your face or have a shower or something. You look wrecked."

"He's crying," Max says, trying to shush his distraught, exhausted baby, but Max is so, so tired. "I can't leave him."

"You can," Daniel says. "I'm assuming you don't have help in the middle of the night normally. Just let me help this time. Take a break. Go on. Have a shower or something."

"I don't want a shower," Max says. He wants his baby to go to sleep. 

"Honestly," Daniel says. "Give him here. Just for a few minutes."

Max finds himself holding out his baby for Daniel to take. He doesn't want to trust anyone with Bastiaan, but he needs to pee and it would be nice to do that just once without holding a baby in the middle of the night. A shower would be nice too, but it's not shower time. He lets out a ragged, desperate breath.

"Take a shower," Daniel says, as he rocks a crying Bastiaan, cradling him close. "Go on. I'll call if I need you."

"I'll be two minutes," Max says, staring longingly at the bathroom. Back at his tearful baby.

"Take five," Daniel says. "Push the boat out."

Max takes four. He comes out with his underwear pulled back on with a fresh pad inside, and a towel around his waist. His hair's wet and Daniel had been right, it had been good to stand under the hot spray for a minute. Breathe. Bastiaan's still crying but it's not as urgent as it had been before. He sounds so, so tired. Such a tired little baby. 

Daniel's got his phone in one hand and Bastiaan in his other. He's playing a soft little video of baby lullabies and water sounds with a slow animation of little twinkling stars accompanying it. He looks over at Max and winks. Bastiaan's eyes are starting to droop, but he's still crying. He's trying to chew on his fist. 

"Does that mean he's hungry?" Daniel asks. 

Max nods. He holds his hands out, but Daniel shakes his head.

"It's okay. Get into bed and then I'll hand him to you. Do you need anything?"

Max has his water bottle by the bed. He's okay. He drops the towel on the floor and gets into bed. He beckons Daniel over with his baby. 

Daniel tucks Bastiaan carefully into Max's arms, then makes a big show of getting the pillows from the other side of the bed and putting them behind Max to prop him up. It is more comfortable, but it's okay. Max was coping. Bastiaan doesn't need much help latching on, and for a moment there's quiet except for the soft sound of Daniel's lullaby video and Bastiaan's sleepy little sucks. 

"I'll leave it on," Daniel says quietly. "I think it helped."

Max nods. He's so, so tired. 

Daniel takes Max's water bottle and goes to refill it in the bathroom. He brings it back, then goes back into the bathroom to pee. When he comes back out, he sits on the end of Max's bed, by Max's feet. 

"You okay?" Daniel asks. 

Max doesn't shake his head. He hasn't been okay for a very long time, but he's holding on. He's holding on so tight it's making his fingers bleed. 

"I'm fine," Max says. He doesn't look away, not until Daniel does. 

"Think he'll fall asleep?" 

Bastiaan's eyes are already drooping. Max strokes his cheek. His lovely little baby. 

"Yeah," he says. "At some point."

"You're doing great, you know. He's perfect."

Max has been lying for such a long time. One more won't hurt. 

"Everything is good," he says. "Go back to bed."

"In a minute," Daniel says. "When he's sleeping."

They sit there, quiet in the middle of the night, until Bastiaan falls asleep. 

Max looks away first. 

[gaywalker80085]

Party

Pairing: Wanda x G!P NB reader

Genre: Smut

Summary: You are attending a party and see a beautiful woman, but there's no way she would ever be interested in you. Right?

Warnings: Smut, Drinking, and drunk smut

A/N: Hey y'all all sorry again for disappearing for so long. All of my fics will still be coming out at random intervals, but for the foreseeable future, they will be scenarios I daydream about meeting my girlfriend in. And guess what not proof read

Words: 3527

Masterlist

All you wanted to do was get ready for bed early so you could bedrot and still go to bed at a good time. Even though it's the weekend, how are you supposed to have the maximum amount of time to rot your brain tomorrow if you don't wake up at a reasonable hour?

But of course, Natasha just had to go to this week's Stark party and would not relent when you tried to deny her invite. "Come on, it will be fun, I know you like to dress up. Pleeaassee."

You do like to dress up. Despite being a home body you know you clean up nicely, and it is pretty fun to see how sharp you can get yourself and how many longing stares you can attract.

"You've been working out more too so you know someone will come home with you, just saying."

Sold

Now its 7pm and your contemplating how many buttons to have open while factiming Natasha. "1 seems to closed, but 2 shows my tank top and I don't know if that's good or bad. Also, 1 hides my chain.."

"So obviously 2, I know you like to be modest and all, but I'm telling you girls will like 2."

"I suppose you're right."

You finish getting ready by putting in your small silver hoops and spraying your cologne before heading to Natasha's room. She wanted you to get ready there, but you know all too well that you need maximum alone time before going to this party if you want to stay for any real amount of time.

The party being in the same building as your room makes it all too easy to bail and the slightest amount of overstimulation.

You dont even knock on her door before Natasha opens it. "Wooow Y/N looking good looking good."

"Really? Is there anything you would change, be honest?"

"No, I think you really got it this time,e even your hair is looking pretty good."

She's right for some reason, recently your hair is a frizzy mess more often than not. It's most likely because you stopped putting in as much effort as before, but with your new schedule of waking up early and training, it's going to be a mess immediately anyway, so why bother?

You're a trainee for Shield, but you met Natasha when she was subbing for one of your teachers on a day she had nothing better to do. She thought you were pretty cool, so she spent extra time talking to you, and your friendship just blossomed from there.

"Are you ready yet It starts at 7, and it's 6:5,5 we're about to be lat.e"

Natasha just rolls her eyes at you. "Calm down its a party, they don't really start until an hour after they say. So when it says ,7 that actually means 8."

"Then why don't they say 8?"

"Because then everyone would come at 9."

"Why?"

"Because that's just how it is."

"But why is it that way?"

Natasha annoyingly elects to stop answering you. You are a punctual person, she tells you this hour after stuff all of the time, but it's just so annoying. Why say 7 if not 7? Why is it a culture to be late? There is no on time, only early or late, what do people not understand?

You decide to go into Natasha's room and take a quick nap before it is time to go. You have found that napping is the only way to keep yourself from stressing about the time.

Once it is time to go, Natasha actually wakes you up nicely for once. Over time, she has realized that abruptly waking you up, whilst temporarily funny, is not good for anyone unless they want you to be a snarky zombie for the next 1-2 hours.

You both head downstairs once you've had a few moments to come to your senses. You're armed with your earbuds and your over-ear headphones in Natasha's purse just in case your earbuds aren't cutting it.

Once you and Natasha make it into the room right at 8, of course, it isn't too packed, thank god.

You spot Bucky and Sam across the room and head over to them. You give Sam and Bucky some quick side hugs. You 4 had hung out a few times recently, slowly becoming a small friend group. Sam and Natasha head to get some drinks.

"I'm surprised you weren't here earlier. How in the world did Natasha talk you past 7:30?"

"She let me sleep in her bed. She had no choice unless she wanted to be here at 7."

"Well, you haven't missed much. I'm hearing a lot of 8:30's so you're still early in reference to most."

Natsha and Sam come back 10 minutes later, and you all stand around talking and laughing as the room fills up.

By the time you're 3 drinks deep, you're feeling loose enough to get your next drink yourself.

You head up to the bar, waiting your turn to be served, when you look over and see the most gorgeous woman you've ever seen. Wanda. You had seen pictures in the news and stuff, but despite frequenting Natasha's room and therefore the Avengers floor, you had somehow never crossed paths with the witch.

You quickly realise you've been staring and tear your eyes away from her. All you can think about is her now. You want her to be burned into your memory so she's all you'll ever see again.

You can help but sneak another glance, quickly looking over. You try to keep it short, but you also need your eyes to have time to focus on every part of her.

She's sitting with her back to the bar, talking to Carol, joking about god knows what. Shes wearing a simple black dress with a slit down the leg and heels. She's enjoying the conversation, but you know you could make her laugh more.

You turn your gaze back to the bartender in time to give him your order.

By the time you make it back to your friends, they are talking about something new, but you don't care; you're just thinking about her.

After 5 or 10 you have no idea minutes have passed your friends need more drinks. Natasha is about to go but you quickly volunteer.

"I'll go!" You say a little to quickly

Natasha looks at you confused "You just go a drink you've barely touched yet?"

Shoot, you were so deep in that you hadn't even tasted your drink yet, but you want another chance to see Wanda. So you do what you gotta do and throw your drink back in 2 big gulps and snatch your friends' empty cups before they can question you any further.

When you make it back to the bar, you look over, surprised to see that Wanda is now sitting alone. This time, you choose to stand a little closer to her, granted you're still 3 or 4 seats away, it is technically closer than before, so you call it progress.

The bartender is taking his time to make his way over to you but you arent complaining since this gives you all the time in the world to admire Wandas side profile as she scrolls on her phone. She seems quite uninterested in the party.

You could show her something that she would be quite interested in. Just as you think that Wanda's lips quirk into a slight smile.

You wonder what she's looking at. Nothing could be as fulfilling as looking at her. Her smile grows wider, but she seems to be trying to fight it. Weird.

The bartender comes over and you give him the order for all 4 of you, but when he walks away and you look back to continue staring at the beautiful Wanda, she's gone.

You look around, but you don't see where she went, deflating your shoulders a little, but when you look back toward the bar, you see auburn hair out of the corner of your eye.

Snapping your head towards it shes sitting right next to you, back on her phone, but she looks up at your sudden movement.

"Oh, I'm sorry, was someone sitting here? The vent was blowing on me over there,e and it was making me cold," she says, looking up at you through her eyelashes.

Fuck. Up close, she's even more beautiful, not a single imperfection on her flawless skin.

Her cheeks grow red, and you realize you haven't answered.

"Oh, um, no, sorry I just uh..." you ramble like an idiot trying to make an excuse for whipping your head around.

"Are you sure? I can move if you're here with someone, really, it's no problem."

"NO! I mean uh, no, sorry, no, I'm not really here with anyone, just my friend."

Wanda smiles softly, looking amused at your ramblings. "Oh really, whose your friend?"

"Uh, Natasha, she made me come."

"Made you?"

"Yeah, I normally just chill on the weekends, but she convinced me, I guess."

"And how did she convince you?"

'Women'

"Oh, you know, just saying I'll have fun and whatnot, you know the usual."

"Really, that's all it took? That seems pretty broad to me."

The look in her eyes seems like she knows something, but what would she know?

The bartender comes over with your drinks, and considering how hard you're bombing, you take that as your cue to exit.

"Well, I need to bring these to my friends, so if you'll excuse me."

Wanda smiles as you try to start balancing all 4 drinks in 4 different types of glasses. 'Damn them and their differing tastes this was easier when they were empty'

"Why don't I help you with one of those?" Wanda suggests, and before you can answer, she's picked up a drink. Your drink.

You don't protest as youd rather accept her help than embarrass yourself by spilling.

When you make it back to your group, you turn to take you drink back only to see a breathtaking sight.

Wanda is taking a long sip of your drink, making eye contact with you through her eyelashes over the rim of your glass. All you can do is stand there, hand half outstretched, mouth agape.

She finished her sip, putting your drink into your open hand while licking her lips. All you can do is close your hand and stare at her lips

"That's pretty good, maybe I should get one for my next drink."

Your mouth is dry as you try to come up with a response, but Natasha beats you to it.

"Oh hey Wanda, what are you doing over here?"

"Hey, Nat, I was just helping your friend... I'm sorry I didn't catch your name." She says, turning her attention back to you, placing a distracting hand on your bicep, which you swear she gives a squeeze, still pretty much in your same position.

"Uh, Y Y/N" You stutter out.

Natasha gives you a knowing smirk before looking back at Wanda.

"Well, that was very kind of you, thank you so much, Wanda," Natasha exclaimed a little too nicely.

Wanda stood around talking to your group for a little bit hand never leaving your arm.

As you watched her talk to your friends, your mind began to wander, especially as your 4th drink started hitting. All you could think about was wanting to kiss, which progressed into touching Wanda, which then progressed into tasting Wanda. With that, though, Wanda choked on her words, a little bit confusing you. Nothing out of the ordinary had been said in their conversation, at least out of what you heard.

Then, all of a sudden, a very vivid scene played in your mind. You're standing in a room you'd never seen before, holding Wanda upside down, tasting her and teasing her as she takes your full length into her mouth. The scene was so clear you swore you could feel it.

Just as fast as the vision came, it went. When your eyes refocused on Wanda, her face and chest were flush. She turned to you before coming close and whispering in your ear, "I need another drink, would you like to come with me?" before looking up at you, making direct eye contact.

You just nod, and her hand slips into yours, pulling you quickly towards the bar, but before you make it there, she pulls you towards the door. You're confused, but you don't care enough to resist as long as she keeps her hand in yours.

"Where are we going?" You ask even though you don't really care you feel you should at least pretend.

"My room," Wanda says quickly before pressing the button for the elevator.

"Your room? What's in your room?" you ask. confused.

Would you like to go to her room? Yes.

Do you think she would randomly take you up to her room for the reason you would prefer? Hell no.

"I'll be there, is that enough reason?" She asks, seeming impatient as you both step onto the elevator.

You nod your head side to side, "I suppose," you say, racking your brain to try and figure out what the hell is going on.

When the doors open, Wanda pulls you out of the elevator so fast you could have gotten whiplash.

She pushes you into the 3rd door on the right before quickly closing the door behind her.

You've seen this room. This is the room from that... Dream? You saw. Wanda steps in front of you, looking up at you with is that.. lust in her eyes? No way.

"Wanda, what is-" you begin to ask before she cuts you off, reaching her hands to the side of your face, tilting your head to meet her eyes. "Your thoughts are very loud, возлюбленный (sweetheart)"

You're confused for a second until. Fuck. How could you forget "The mindreader" What the fuck how do you forget that.

You're about to start profusely apologizing, but before you can, she pulls your head farther down so your lips are hovering over hers.

Staring at your lips, she asks, "Do you want to act on them?" looking back up into your eyes.

Fuck.

You lean in to meet her lips and lift her up as she wraps her legs around your waist her dress raising in the process. The kiss is fast and sloppy. Just the way you like it.

She's smiling, and she pulls herself tighter to you, grabbing a fistful of your hair.

You reach up to put a hand to her jaw as you lay her on the bed, never breaking the kiss. You try to savor the moment, not wanting to rush too much, but she has other plans. She reaches a hand down to grab your pants and pull your hips to grind into her center.

You let out a groan as you give in and start rubbing yourself against her, giving her the friction she desires.

Quickly, however, this begins to not be enough for the witch as her hand moves over to your belt buckle as she tries to open it. She gets impatient and her failed one-handed attempts, and her eyes flash red as your pants literally fly off of you, leaving you in only your boxers.

Surprised and half confused, you pull away for a second, but she's not having it as she pulls you back to her and flips you both over so she's on top of you.

She grinds her hips up and down your full length, her dress now high enough that you can feel her warmth through her thin panties. She moves her kisses down your jaw and to your neck. All you can do is grip her hips and tilt your head to give her better access.

She lifts the bottom of your shirt and starts kissing down your torso before sitting up. At the loss of contact, you prop yourself up on your elbows, looking at her in a confused daze.

"Take it off," she demands, and you quickly throw your shirt over your head. You look back at her as she stares at your torso, admiring you.

You begin to grow uncomfortable with the scrutiny. Seeming to sense it, she leans back in to kiss you. She moves your hands to the bottom of her shirt, wrapping your fingers around the bottom of her dress. "Take it off," she whispers against your lips. You nod quickly, gathering the bottom of her dress and lifting it over her head.

Oh shit. She's not wearing a bra. You've been trying to contain yourself, but it is proving somehow harder than you expected.

She grabs your wrists to move your calloused hands and places them on her hips, slowly moving them up her curvy sides until you reach her breasts, where she places her hands over yours to squeeze and knead her.

You don't need to be told twice. You take to massaging her on your own, sitting up to kiss her. She allows you one kiss before pushing you back and placing her hands on your shoulders to support herself as she resumes grinding down on your now fully hardened member, eyes closing.

If she doesn't stop soon, you're going to finish before her. You can't have that.

You move one hand to her side and one to her face before flipping you both back over.

She looks angry for a second, but you begin an almost attack on her neck as you begin grinding against her warmth again.

Her eyes close as one of your hands slides down her side towards the waistband of her underwear. You slide your fingers just ever so slightly underneath and run them slowly across back and forth.

You move your mouth up to her ear before whispering, "Do you want me to touch you, Wanda?" And you pull back to look into her eyes.

She nods quickly and grabs the back of your head to pull you into another searing kiss.

You slowly slide your fingers down until you reach her warm center and groan as you feel how wet she is. You slide your fingers up and down from her entrance to circle her clitoris and back.

She moans loudly into your mouth at the sensation.

You move your kisses back to her neck and then down to her hardened nipples as you slide your fingers into her.

At this, she digs her nails into your back while arching off the bed, moaning loudly. It doesn't take long before she's wiggling and writhing, but just before she finishes, you'd gently pull your fingers out.

She whines at the loss, sitting up. "Why'd you store? Please don't stop."

You smile, moving up to kiss her. "Don't you want to play out your little show from earlier?" you whisper.

You place a hand on the back of her head, pulling her up onto her knees while you stand up, still kissing her. You then bend to grab her waist and, in one motion, lift her up and flip her over legs over your shoulders pussy against your face.

She lets out a small yelp, which quickly turns into a moan as you dig in. She wastes no time before fumbling to get your boxers off, 8" of you slapping her in the face.

She moves to taste you moaning as she does.

Her mouth plus the vibrations of her moans make you rethink if you'll stay stable enough to hold her, but you know you must power through.

You both continue your acts on each other like your lives depended on it.

You knew it wasn't long before you would climax, whether you liked it or not, but you just hoped you were good enough for her to be in the same situation.

You soon became confident that your hopes were true as her thighs began to squeeze your head like she was trying to crush a watermelon.

As you felt yourself getting closer, you couldn't help but begin thrusting into her mouth, though trying to keep it gentle, you could only control yourself so much.

With a little more moaning and groaning from both of you, you knew you would break soon. Just when you thought you couldn't hold it anymore, you heard a loud moan from Wanda and felt her reach to massage your balls, forcing you to climax with her.

You tried your best to stay upright somehow successfully before walking over to lay her on the bed. You move on top of her and move lower to clean her up with your mouth. She whines at the stimulation, and you rub a gentle hand over her stomach before moving to get up.

Once you're standing and about to gather your things, you hear a disgruntled sound come from the sleepy witch before you're lifted up and placed under the covers beside her.

You aren't complaining, and you're crazy tired, so you scoot closer and she rolls to lie her head on your chest.

Masterlist

A/N: Sorry its short and probably not as well written as some of my other works I have to written in forever and also haven't been reading as often

@natashamaximoff-69 @i-dont-know-what-iamdoing @diaryoflife @cd-4848 @r3dheadenthusiast @bishopscheeseburger @winterstorm311

If you want to be tagged and weren't or your tag didn't work you can join/ rejoin the taglist

[scrivenger-grimgar]

I came to you for calamity xie lian and i am EATING with your white gold gathers au.

Tell me more please 🥺

thank you?!? okay so food time!

quan yizhen and his followers are stupidly good at stumbling across magic items, to the point where its actually become a part of his mythos!!

additionaly quan yizhen: 1 is autistic (so is xl, trust), and 2 has extreme trust issues due to boththe 'tidm and his background, the brocade immortal incident took his neutral trust in Heaven and sunk it down to hell.

so he doesn't trust heaven with ANY of the magic items he is offered or that he finds, to the point where he actually just seals them into a cave labeled DO NOT TOUCH.

xie lian LOVES cursed objects and weird magic. when he finds this cave, his natural instinct is "oh i simply must possess this!" and so he takes it.

and when quan yizhen comes back snd finds his curse cave empty, he naturally tracks the qi trail back to white gold's gilded forest, and then immediately fights xie lian for the stuff.

quan yizhen loses, but he does manage to stab xie lian's leg; xie lian had so much fun so he's like "why'd you attack me!? :D"

quan yizhen tells him, assuming the ghost is going to kill him, that he can't just let those artifacts be floating around, they could hurt someone or cause problems!! and xie lian looks at him and says "im doing the same thing!"

so xie lian takes this feral god around his laur and shows him all his stuff and explains how uts guarded and tracked, and that he's got a whole catalogue detailing each item and how its cursed and what the curse does, and quan yizhen only follows at first bc obvs white gold is going to kill him, but then they get to the part thats mostly bespelled weapons and qyz completely forgets about that part.

they spend three days yelling excitedly back and forth about different weapons and fighting styles from certain kingdoms and empires and different centuries and why one part of a style continued while another was discarded-

until ling wen contacts him asking where tf he went bc hes been gone for two weeks, please come back.

anyway, xie lian gives him an open invitation to return whenever and quan yizhen and xie lian becomes friends after a few years. qyz goes to xie lian with any cursed objects that he comes across and they'll have a short (4 day long) sparring session, and xie lian teaches him about obscure magics while qyz updates him on whatever heaven is up to and where not to go when it comes to curse collecting.

now quan yizhen has a natural talent for identiying people*, regardless of what skin they're wearing, but will only reffer to them with the name they used at introduction. so when xie lian ascends for the third time, quan yizhen already knows thats his friend, the calamity white gold gathers. but xie lian told him to call him by name. so even when he's wearing his human disguise, qyz knows that thats xie lian.

this is very confusing to everyone, actually, bc why tf does general qi ying know the disgraced plague god of xianle? neither of them will explain even if directly asked.

jun wu isnt aware of this freindship either, bc xie lian doesnt bring it up, ling wen doesnt think its important, and quan yizhen just doesnt show up to court; its not worth the rffort to send two other martial gods to drag him in when he wont listen and will activrly talk over someone else, even jun wu himself.

*this talent for identifying people also works on both shi qingxuan and ming yi. quan yizhen is known for calling many, many, junior officials and low-middle class deities "ming yi". he was already known for being weird at this point so no one thought anything of it. this also means that were he to see bwx qyz would adress him as jw. this is bc he has a weird form of qi synesthesia that lets him identify individual people, but becomes overwhelming in a crowd. This is partially why he finds xie lian's domain so relaxing; other than the curses its just one signature, everywhere.

this entire relationship is s parralel to yin yu and hua cheng bc i find it really cute!

anyway quan yizhen's vacation home in the gilded forest is his actual house, his palace in heaven is basically just an empty shell. he has a small shrine for yin yu, and even prays to him.

[adhdevankinard]

its kinda scary how the show keeps nailing in the fact how bddie might not ever be a thing, getting increasingly toxic just to drive the point home and Still the fans are like “oh wow. romance!” like how

Personally, I don’t think the show is deliberately making their dynamic toxic to put off shippers. I think the writers don’t know what they’re doing with Eddie as a character.

Because they’re not letting Eddie have any character development. The consequences don’t matter and that’s a failure of storytelling on the writer’s part. It’s not just Eddie — having consequences has been a problem for the show for a long time. I mean, that’s the reason they decided to kill off Bobby. They needed the characters to finally be faced with a long-lasting consequence. Yet, they still haven’t learned, apparently, because Eddie is still not developing as a character.

And to touch on the romanticization, I think what makes it so difficult for me to personally understand is that the show is presenting it as Buck and Eddie being on equal footing when it’s not. And people who are romanticizing it are imagining a relationship dynamic that is not on screen. Like there’s fanon and there’s what’s on screen.

Because as it stands now, Buck is the narrative punching bag and Eddie is always forgiven even when he doesn’t apologize. So I just don’t understand how people can think that is basis for an equal romantic relationship. It’s not even interesting, lol.

And I’m not saying that complex power dynamics can’t be explored in media. I have mentioned Interview with the Vampire — I also love that show and it is full of toxic relationships and grey characters. The writers of Interview with the Vampire know their show is about toxic relationships — the writers are not going to have Lestat be cruel to Louis but at the end of the episode have it all be forgotten and everything is fine and not have an eventual confrontation about Lestat’s words and actions. 911 is not Interview with the Vampire — these are not morally grey characters. Eddie and Buck are supposed to be best friends. But the writers of 911 seemingly are unaware, again, of not giving the characters something to be confronted with. And are unaware that their relationship is so unequal.

Sorry this kinda went off on a tangent but I had so many thoughts that needed to get out!

Thank you for the ask!! ❤️❤️❤️

[bloody-bee-tea]

Emotional Spring 2025 Day 21 - Somebody help me, please!

Hitoshi feels as if he's going to vibrate out of his skin. He's not yet in class 1-A but right now he's seated in the last row anyway, because during a training exercise that he was allowed to join there was a mishap with a quirk from one of the people who were supposed to play victims and now he's here.

He grinds his teeth together, trying to keep the words rising up in his throat trapped where they belong and he forces himself to listen to Aizawa.

"The quirk you all were hit with forces you to say something that you've kept trapped inside for too long to someone who can hear you. That will mean something different for everyone. The discomfort you feel right now will only get worse until the end of the day when the quirk apparently runs its course.” Midoriya raises his hand but Aizawa only sighs. “No, I can't erase it for you. You either stick the pain out, knowing that it doesn't have any actual physical repercussions for you or you find someone you trust and who you can talk to; that decision is up to you," Aizawa explains to them and he looks about as unhappy about the situation as most of the class feels.

"Classes are obviously cancelled for the rest of the day, so I suggest you decide what to do with your time now. Remember, we teachers are here for you, too, if you have something to say," Aizawa reminds them and Hitoshi shrinks down in his chair when Aizawa's unwavering gaze falls on him.

Hitoshi knows what he's thinking, knows what Aizawa must expect him to say, but Hitoshi won't do it.

He'll endure the pain and he'll keep his mouth shut; two things Hitoshi is extraordinarily good at and then come tomorrow no one will care about what his words would have been anyway.

Another wave of discomfort rolls through him when Hitoshi pushes himself to his feet and Aizawa's eyes are still on him.

"Shinsou," Aizawa calls out for him something like worry on his face, but Hitoshi only shakes his head and speeds out of the classroom, desperate to get away from people who might crack him and make him say whatever is trying to get out.

Hitoshi can guess what it is, what kind of desperate plea for help will leave his mouth and he's not going to do it.

Not again.

Not when it's not going to change anything, not when Aizawa doesn't really care, not when Hitoshi doesn't get to stay with—

He cuts himself off, because he learned early on that wishful thinking like that only ever hurts him in the long term and he's already hurt enough as it is. He learned his lesson on that already.

There's no need to add disappointment to it as well, especially not when the pain in his body gradually gets worse. As soon as he's in his room he hides himself away under the bed, where it's dark and safe and quiet and where people won't find him at first glance, not that it has ever done him any good if his foster parents were really determined.

Hitoshi distantly wonders if they were informed about the mishap, if they answered the phone and how badly he's going to get punished for making them have to pretend they are worried about him while he grinds his teeth together to not make a sound with the mounting pain wrecking his body.

He gets his phone out with shaky hands, but it's only barely past noon and so that means the quirk will last another twelve hours at least.

Hitoshi is very good at withstanding pain, but he's not sure he's going to survive this if it gets steadily more worse than this.

He toughs it out for another three hours, suffering in absolute silence under the bed, desperately keeping his mouth shut so the words threatening to come out won't have a chance, before the pain makes him whimper.

Hitoshi tries to remind himself that Aizawa said that this has no physical effect, that it's psychological at best and just stupid quirk shenanigans at worst, but his body feels as if it's being broken apart, as if he's being flayed alive and tears stream down Hitoshi's face before the hour is over.

He's used to pain, is used to suffering, but this is taking it to a new level.

Silent tears make it down his cheeks; even with this much pain he knows better than to make a sound, he's been taught better than to make his suffering someone else's problem, and he sticks it out for another hour.

He's not sure how he manages it, can't actually think past the pain filling his every cell and when his phone goes off he startles badly enough to make new pain shoot through him, causing him to let out a wet gasp.

Moving is an entire new form of hell but the only people who would ever call him are Aizawa and Yamada and he knows that if he doesn't answer, they are probably going to kick his door down in no time, so Hitoshi forces himself to move, forces himself to accept the call and then clenches his jaw so tightly shut that his muscles cramp up.

It's barely noticeably in between all the other pain that is assaulting him.

"Hey, there, little listener," Yamada's voice rings out into the absolute silence under Hitoshi's bed. "How are you doing?" he wants to know and Hitoshi is so distracted by the pain, that his usual snark doesn't kick in for which he's thankful for.

He really doesn't want to know what's going to come out of his mouth and worse, what Yamada is going to do about it.

"Shouta told me about the quirk. Are you still toughing it out?" Yamada asks and Hitoshi can't help the little whimper. "Ah, shit, kiddo," Yamada mutters and then everything goes muffled for a moment or ten.

Hitoshi isn't sure if it's because Yamada did something to cover the speaker or because of the pain and he's not actually going to ask because keeping his mouth shut means surviving this and that's all Hitoshi wants to do.

He doesn't even need to come out of this unscathed; even if the pain isn't physical, Hitoshi knows that pain like this changes a person. But it doesn't matter if he's the same once this ends; no matter what happens he's going to figure himself out again but for that he has to survive.

And the pain is not going to get him killed whereas the words beating against the back of his teeth just might.

"Hitoshi," Yamada sighs out, sounding pained and Hitoshi wishes he couldn't hear him over the rushing in his ears. "Please, you can tell us whatever it is you need to say," Yamada says and Hitoshi only clams his mouth shut harder.

He's not going to say it; he's not going to give them that kind of ammunition, will not allow them to hurt him with their inaction; or worse, with their actions that will leave him in the hands of someone else.

He won't do it.

"I know it must hurt, kiddo," Yamada goes on and Hitoshi would end the call but he can no longer move, his body locked up with the pain. "Just say it. We're here. No matter what it is, we're here to help you. We won't leave you alone with this."

There's something knowing to his voice, as if he already knows what Hitoshi is going to say, what he's so desperately trying to bite back and new tears spill over.

"Hitoshi, please. Trust us," Yamada whispers and Hitoshi is so, so fucked, because he does; deep down he trusts them more than anyone else and that realisation makes him gasp out a pained breath, makes him open his mouth the tiniest bit and that's all the words that are trapped need to come tumbling out.

"Somebody help me, please!" he wails out, curling into himself even as the pain almost immediately starts to lessen.

"Shouta, go now!" Yamada snaps out before he tries to calm Hitoshi down.

"Kiddo, it's okay, we're here, alright? We've got you, you don't have to worry about anything anymore. How are you feeling?"

Hitoshi sobs and he shakes and he feels as if he's coming apart and he gasps out a desperate "As if I'm dying," because it does feel like that.

It's out there. His cry for help is out there now and now Yamada and Aizawa get to hurt him by doing nothing, or by doing the wrong thing.

It's all going to come down now, everything is going to crumble because he's just not strong enough and Hitoshi almost chokes on his sobs.

Yamada continues to say something to him but Hitoshi can no longer hear him over his crying. What he does hear though, is the door flying open and Hitoshi presses himself against the wall, further away from whoever just came in, whoever wants to hurt him.

"Hitoshi," Aizawa says, his voice suddenly near and he must be looking underneath the bed, but Hitoshi can't see anything through his tears. "Oh, kid," Aizawa mutters and then there's movement, Hitoshi can feel it and he braces himself because usually that means someone is going to pull him out from under the bed.

But it's not him who is moving; it's Aizawa who is moving and who is shoving himself under the bed, slowly inching closer until he can pull Hitoshi into his arms.

"I've got you, Hitoshi," he says and Hitoshi only cries harder because he doesn't know for how much longer that is true.

Aizawa might have him now but he's going to get rid of him sooner rather than later and then Hitoshi will have nothing at all.

"Shhh, kid, you're safe, you're good, I'm so proud of you, thank you for saying something," Aizawa mutters and Hitoshi cries and cries and cries.

"Shou? How's he doing?" Yamada's voice eventually reaches Hitoshi and Hitoshi feels how Aizawa lets out a long breath.

"I don't know, he won't stop crying," Aizawa gives back and then Hitoshi is moved, like he feared all along and despite his struggles Aizawa manages to pull him out from under the bed, even though he keeps him in his arms still.

"Hitoshi, kiddo, what's going on?" Yamada asks, stealing him right out of Aizawa's arms to settle him in his lap and hold him close and even though Hitoshi wants to push him away, wants to run and never come back, he clings to his shirt and buries his face in his chest as he continues to cry.

"Hitoshi," Aizawa says, somewhat helpless even as he crowds close and puts an arm around Hitoshi's middle and it's so warm and so safe and he'll never get to have this again.

"Please don't get rid of me," Hitoshi finally manages to get out, his voice warbled from his tears and the quirk might still have an effect on him because it feels as if those words have been dragged out from the deepest place within him.

"We're not, Hitoshi, we're not going to get rid of you," Yamada immediately says and it does exactly nothing to stop Hitoshi's tears.

He knows better than to believe empty promises.

"You're going to stay with us, Hitoshi, we're not letting you go," Aizawa says and Hitoshi just—stops.

It feels as if even the tears running down his cheeks slow down.

"What?" he breathes out, doesn't dare to believe, but hope is blooming in his chest so rapidly, so violently that it takes his breath away.

"Hitoshi, you're going to stay with us, no matter what. If you want that. We're going to be your foster parents, you won't ever have to go somewhere where they hurt you ever again," Yamada tells him and when Hitoshi manages to look over at Aizawa he nods.

"You're with us now, kid," Aizawa promises him as well and just like that, Hitoshi is crying again.

But where before it was out of pain and helplessness, now his tears are full of relief and hope.

"Please, please," he chants, clinging to Yamada's shirt and reaching out for Aizawa's, too, trying to keep them there, to keep them close and Yamada tightens his arms around him while Aizawa shuffles even closer.

"Of course, kiddo, we're here," Yamada mutters into his hair and Aizawa fully embraces them both.

"It's okay, Hitoshi. It will all be okay."

It's something Hitoshi learned not to believe; words, Hitoshi learned never to trust and yet.

And yet it feels as if it could be true, as if Aizawa and Yamada could really mean it, as if it might happen simply because they want it to.

It's scary, and horrible, and wonderful, and warm, and the most terrifying thing all at once and despite it all, Hitoshi decides to trust.

He decides to trust Aizawa and Yamada, just this once.

(And for once, everything turns out exactly right.)

[kralierror404]

SIT DOWN CHAT. ITS RANT TIME.

What do you mean Alex started making his actual film when he was aroud 20 and then at age 27-28 he fucking dies. I cant. He was so young and it ruins me man, i gotta rant about my fave.

Alex seemed so determined and happy about making this movie, it had auditions, a trailer, a few recorded takes that never released, his “best” friend literally got cast as the main character for it!! - bro was so excited for ppl to audition for his project (you can hear it in his voice when hes talking to Brian abt asking Tim to try out). Alex also literally declined going to dinner so he could work on things for Marble Hornets. He had such a nice like friendgroup too Brian, Tim, Jay.

Like Alex pre-operator was probably the sweetest guy imo, he was proud of the people working with and for him, he cared about them (he says hes very proud of Jay and also asks Tim abt his like coughing), he was also quite patient i believe.

Then yk shit hits the fan over the 3 months Marble Hornets is being shot and he changes so so much its so insane - he gets paranoid and irritable and his passion isnt all there anymore :C which probably was really upsetting, and maybe caused some internal confusion and conflicting feelings in himself of: “Why cant i just be normal!?” meaning he’s kinda at war with himself. Also not to mention he was going through the operators effects alone at the time so its not like he could just bring it up without sounding crazy, he probably felt so alone and that no one would understand.

As we know he moves away, probably to hopefully escape whatever was happening to him and to put things behind him, to start over in a new place, where its safe and thats with Amy!. Now ive brought this up before but idc- he says on the phone to her

“Im gonna come visit you soon okay?”

“Okay.”

“And while im up there we might actually film a few things for Marble Hornets”

“Good i could use the company.”

“Actually uh..ive been thinking, i might try to transfer there after im done shooting all this.”

(That to me is Alex already planning to stop shooting it, already making plans to move with Amy but hes still unsure if he’ll be putting her in danger)

“For real?”

“Yeah, i mean the film program is better the one im at now so..i mean well thats what ive heard at least”

“Also i just dont like being this far away from you.”

(He says that so ominously but hes definitely like sure of himself and obviously Amy sees nothing wrong with it, she’s probably just happy that her boyfriend is going to come see her for the first time in..however long. Alex probably thinks he can keep her safe too)

MY POINT WITH THAT PHONE CALL ISS: His solution of escape was to 1. Burn the tapes and 2. Go to Amy to be safe but also to make sure SHES okay

Literally he thought that the operator and him murdering Brian would magically go away if he just left the area to be with someone who loved him, it was probably also his way of ignoring those things which all in all was a HORRIBLE coping mechanism (yk ignoring it) but heyy its Alex, he is not healthy. So, for 4 whole years he lives with Amy, away from everything and then WHOOPS Mr pale tall and skinny is there again to fuck up his day.

I honestly dont even wanna go in depth about how Alex mustve felt, how bad it must have hurt for his past to come back on him and find him somewhere he was meant to be okay. Also the way he probably killed Amy, did he make her feel secure then did it as she died in his arms? did she fight him? Amy does seem confrontational in a way- then he had to leave her behind, start anew AGAIN.

Except this time, he finds Jay has gotten himself involved and there is Alexs new goal, his new task that continues to drive him throughout the series that absolutely turns him into more of a horrible person: STOP THE SPREAD OF THE SICKNESS AND ‘SAVE’ EVERYONEE…except for that one guy he just killed while he was going insane.

One person i doubt he was trying to save eventually, was Brian, given that apparently Brian has been killed multiple times, instead Brian became like a pest getting in his way which makes sense. SO OVER THE COURSE OF 3-4 years, all this shit his happening and it gets to the point where Alex admits he thought HE was the problem (which in a way, he is), he shifts that blame onto Tim, then the big fight happens where they’re ultimately trying to kill eachother.

Alex is dying but as he is, he seems sorta sad, he fully believes he was doing the right thing and now, the only “right” thing to do, is die.

God its just his transition from making a silly student film and then 7 or 8 years later, dying due to an Eldritch being really messing up his and everyones life.

[redrosydiaz]

MOBY DICK MAY HAVE BEAT THE BOAT BUT I FUCKIN BEAT MOBY DICK JFC LONGEST BOOK EVER

[teratomatica]

you always land on all fours

[mamawasatesttube]

ok can i be honest. lately my biggest pet peeve in the timkon tag is the kind of fic that i can't actually blacklist because it lies about what it is. theres some fics that pretend theyre kon fics but theyre actually like not at all about any of his cast or the superfam at all and its like kon might be a pov character but the entire rest of the setting and cast is gotham and the bats etc. and they usually include a couple of lines that just completely fuck up the kon & clark relationship despite not even being about kon & clark because theyre actually hashtag batfam fics that are just Pretending to be about kon. and bc of that its incredibly hard to blacklist this sort of thing. i gnaw on wood

[icewindandboringhorror]

It's always interesting to hear about people's weird/unexpected "alternate life paths". Like, something that you could have done with your life, a job you almost took, a school you almost went to, etc - that was still actually realistic enough that it could have happened, but NOW it seems to not suit your current personality.

Like for example, I currently hate advertising (how manipulative it is, brands trying to be 'relatable', social media amplifying it to an obnoxious extreme, etc.) so much that even seeing a little ad before a youtube video is grating to even witness, but there was a point in time where I was genuinely seriously considering going into marketing/making commercials as a career lol. Or like, I have a relative who was very inclined to be a pastor when they were younger, even though today they're a super strong atheist, etc. etc.

[hauntingblue]

Stampede aka another episode of luffy turning haters into dick riders just with his kind and big heart

[pitsommelier]

x

[quietwingsinthesky]

maybe i should just put proship in my bio already

[terrorbirb]

Nothing against low level jobs really, but one of our engineering techs was only a food service worker before this. Like an associates does something for you (don't know if that's what he has even he may be a student) I guess, but no wonder these guys aren't ready for engineering.

[vogelmeister]

I was always under the impression that you are Dutch.... Succesful dutchification

ah huh! i have fooled another one (jk jk).

i am not, i am very much still a humble australian, last time i checked. and unless this ancestry dna test on my desk proves anything otherwise, i remain very much Not Dutch.