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capuccinodoll · 4 hours ago

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The boyfriend act, part 16: "The one with the unnamed surprise" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: Frankie opens up to you. And suddenly, it hits you. WC: 12.3k

A/N: Writing this chapter took me ages. Between medical appointments and the end of the semester, I was so eager to get to this part of the story. I hope you enjoy it <3 Tag list CLOSED, it ain't working anymore, too much of youu<<3. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

Friday, November 1st, 2019

The door burst open.

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Mai was already irritated. She crossed the room in long striddes and landed a firm punch to Frankie’s stomach, not hard enough to hurt that much. “Get up. You’re not spending the night here sulking like a loser.”

Frankie let out a groan, his hand drifting lazily to the spot she'd hit. He was sprawled across the bed, one sock half-off, one eye barely open.

“This doesn’t even make sense,” he muttered as he stretched. “Halloween ended like, like yesterday.”

Mai didn’t bother replying to that. She was already at the dresser, snatching the bag from where it sat on top.

“Yeah, I don’t care. Whatever reason you’ve got in that head of yours, save it. Get dressed,” she said, tossing the bag toward him. “Or I swear I’ll drag you out by your hair, I’m not joking.”

Frankie sat up slowly, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes.

“I’m not going,” he was pushing himself up off the mattress. “I’m grabbing drinks with dad.”

She turned. “You mean dad and his friends?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d really rather go hang out with a bunch of sixty-year-old than come out with me tonight?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

“Jesus, dude. You’re so tragic sometimes.” She climbed onto the bed and sat with her legs crossed. “I’ve got free drinks lined up all night. We could actually have fun. Remember fun?”

“No.”

She let her head fall back with a dramatic groan.

“I said no,” he repeated, quieter this time.

Twenty minutes later, Frankie walked out of the room with the costume on.

Gabriel appeared in the hallway, clicking his tongue. He was holding a small handful of almonds, pinching them one by one from his palm.

Since Helena had started seeing a nutritionist, Gabriel had decided to "support" her, which mostly meant copying her eating habits. Frankie wasn’t sure his father had fully grasped the concept of moderation; every day, he watched him consume what looked like an entire bag of almonds, convinced he was doing something virtuous simply because they were technically healthy.

He laughed now, head tipping back a little. “You look like me thirty years ago.”

“Blame your daughter.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “What? You trying to say looking like me at your age is a bad thing?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure,” he said, popping another almond into his mouth. “Doesn’t mean I believe ya.”

Frankie sighed and moved past him, adjusting the jacket on his shoulders as he walked. He was nearly at the door when his dad’s voice stopped him again:

“Hey.”

He turned.

Gabriel wasn’t smiling this time. “Try to enjoy yourself, yeah? A bit of fun might actually do you some good.”

Frankie nodded. “I know.”

“And watch out for your sister.”

“I will,” he said, tilting his head in a small, quiet gesture of reassurance. “Take care at the bar, alright? Don’t overdo it.”

Gabriel chuckled. “You too, Morales. God knows where you got that party streak from.”

Frankie smiled as he turned back toward the stairs, but didn’t answer.

Downstairs, Mai was waiting for him.

When she saw him, her mouth opened, ready to say something overly encouraging.

“Shut up,” Frankie said, before his sister could say anything, heading straight for the door.

Two hours in, and Frankie had already downed a couple of drinks. Not enough to feel good, not really, but... just enough.

He stood with one shoulder pressed against the bar, arms crossed, watching the crowd move like a single overstimulated organism. Everyone sweating and smiling too wide. Everyone trying a little too hard.

He hated it.

Mai had vanished ten minutes ago, promising she'd be right back, her voice already trailing off as she disappeared into the crush of bodies in search of her friend Pam. He hadn’t seen her since.

Now the air was dense, humid with other people’s breath and perfume, it was disgusting. Thanks to the music pounding from the walls, conversation was impossible and thinking inconvenient.

He needed a cigarette. Desperately.

Frankie tipped his head back and exhaled through his nose, eyes skimming the ceiling as if it might offer him oxygen or answers.

What kind of overpriced, allegedly exclusive nightclub didn’t have a smoking area? Or at the very least, some kind of outdoor patio? They were six floors up, sealed in by glass and neon, and it felt like being trapped inside a very loud snow globe. With strobe lights. And smoking inside wasn't an option, not for him, at least.

He didn’t even think about telling anyone where he was going.

He wandered away from the bar, weaving through a few clusters of people without making eye contact, and headed vaguely in the direction of the restrooms. It was quieter there, only marginally, but enough to make him feel like he could breathe again.

That’s when he saw the staircase. Tucked behind a half-open maintenance door, mostly unnoticed.

He climbed the narrow, uncomfortable steps and there, on the door, there was a sign posted at eye level. Something official-sounding about restricted access or authorized personnel only, whatever, he didn’t read the whole thing. His attention was already on the lack of a handle on the outside. He knew what that meant. He also knew he didn’t care.

He pulled the door open with both hands, glanced around quickly, and spotted a greasy rag crumpled on the floor nearby. It looked like it had been there for weeks.

So he bent down, picked it up, and wedged it between the frame and the edge of the door, testing it once to make sure it would hold. Then, with one final glance over his shoulder, Frankie stepped outside.

It turned out to be a terrace. Just that. Nothing fancy. No lights, no chairs or benches, not even a trash can. Just concrete under his feet and open sky above him, vast and black and indifferent.

He exhaled like he hadn’t realized he’d been holding tension in his chest for the last hour.

Frankie figured he’d stay out there until Mai came looking for him, or until she got tired of the party and decided they could leave. Whichever came first.

So he pulled a cigarette from his pocket, balanced it between his lips, and lit it. He inhaled deeply, the smoke curling up around his face as he leaned forward, resting his elbows against the cold edge of the terrace railing.

Below him, Austin sprawled in every direction. Glittering streetlights. Red brake lights inching down the avenues. A city that never quite shuts the fuck up.

And without meaning to, without even wanting to, his mind circled back to Nico.

Nico. A year and three months, almost to the day. And still, Frankie thought about him daily. Sometimes it was brief; a flash of his voice, a dumb joke they used to share. Other times, like now, it hit deeper, caught him right beneath the ribs. 'Cause something inside him still hadn’t accepted the finality of it.

The thing about losing a friend like that—suddenly, permanently—was that it never felt entirely real. It was sharp. Blunt. Unreasonable. One day Nico had been there, and the next, he wasn’t. Just gone. No warning. No goodbye that felt like a goodbye.

The last night they’d seen each other, Frankie remembered it perfectly.

It had been their night off. They’d gone to the bar they always ended up at when they were tired but could afford to waste a little time.

Nico was happy that night. He’d waited until they were halfway through their drinks before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out the ring. Small, gold, classic. Nestled in a navy velvet box.

Gemma. That was her name. He was going to propose as soon as he got back to their city. He had it all mapped out, all of it.

They wanted a family, a home. But not just any home. A peaceful one. Something quiet and soft and normal.

Nico had never had that kind of life. He’d grown up with too much noise, the wrong kind of silence, and an ever-present sense of walking on eggshells. A lonely childhood followed by a teenage wasteland of rage and locked doors. He never talked about it unless he was drunk or tired enough to forget to be guarded. But Frankie knew. He always knew.

Nico told Frankie bits and pieces over the years, never all at once. A mother who screamed until her throat gave out. A father who disappeared for days and came back angry, high, or both. Doors slammed in anger. Food locked in cabinets. That constant feeling of being too much and never enough.

He didn’t want to replicate any of it. He was careful not to, in fact. He wanted a safe house. Children who weren’t afraid to come downstairs in the morning. A partner who never had to walk on eggshells just to make it through the week.

That night they talked about all of it. The future: What do you want for your future?

Frankie had told him the truth. That what he wanted was a peaceful life. Nothing extravagant, just peace. Happiness, if the universe was generous. He wanted a family. To fall in love, maybe. With someone kind. Someone who didn’t make everything feel like a battle. He remembered saying it out loud and immediately wanting to take it back. It had sounded too earnest, too fragile.

“God, that’s corny,” he’d said, wincing into his drink.

But Nico only smiled.

“Nah, it’s not corny,” he said. “But be careful. You fall too easily.”

They had one more beer after that, maybe two. Then they’d stood up, a little unsteady, promising to text in the morning, maybe grab coffee before Nico’s flight. It was nothing dramatic. No final words that hinted at their finality. Just a night between friends, and the assumption of more time.

Nico died the next morning.

A bike ride, a sharp curve, a truck going too fast. It didn’t seem real at first. Frankie remembered getting the call, and the words not making sense in his brain.

And even now, months later, it still felt like the biggest fucking lie life had ever told him.

How could someone like Nico be here one minute, talking about marriage, about peace, about all the things he’d never had but was finally ready to build and then just… gone?

What kind of joke was that?

He kept asking the same questions. How? How? How?

Wasn’t it unfair? Wasn’t it cruel? Wasn’t it complete and utter bullshit that someone like Nico didn’t even get the chance to try?

If there was a God, some higher being keeping tabs from above, then what the hell was He doing? Watching? Testing? Letting good people get crushed under the weight of completely avoidable tragedy?

And then there was his own life. The work Frankie did. The structure he was part of. Always carrying grief around like equipment. Failed missions. Names that didn’t make it onto safe lists. People dying. Families never getting the phone call they’d been praying for.

What was any of it for?

Every time he closed his eyes, it was Nico’s face he saw. Not smiling, just gone. The feeling of too much time and not enough breath. The senselessness of all of it.

He lit his third cigarette, the tip flaring red as he pulled in smoke and let it burn his lungs.

Below, the city carried on. Lights stretching out in messy patterns, people dancing to music that pulsed from the floor beneath him.

And all he could think was: none of this makes sense.

Not the dancing, not the laughter, not the overpriced drinks, not even the cigarette between his finger or the weight of grief or the fact that the person who’d understood him best would never call him again.

None of it made sense. Not then. Not now.

Just pure SHIT.

And then there was the costume. He looked ridiculous. Like someone else entirely. Maybe that was the point, but it didn’t make it feel any less stupid.

He raised the cigarette to his mouth, inhaled—and behind him, something slammed. The door.

Frankie choked.

He spun around, coughing, eyes watering. For a second, he thought maybe the wind had pulled it shut or that the rag had slipped, betrayed him. But no, the door hadn’t moved on its own.

There was someone standing in front of it.

A woman.

“Jesus,” he said, catching his breath. “What the hell—?”

She jumped at the sound of his voice, stumbling back a step before she turned to face him fully.

“Oh my God! You almost scared me to death,” she said, pressing a hand to her chest.

Frankie stared at her, annoyed but too tired to express it properly. He reached up to rub a hand over his face, forgetting about the mask. The fabric scraped against his skin and the gesture landed half-heartedly.

He exhaled. “You closed the door.”

She turned, registering it for the first time. The door was definitely shut. No handle on this side. No way back in.

Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

Frankie took her in now. She was wearing a little black dress, tight, cut just below her collarbones. A pair of delicate black horns sat perched on a headband in her hair. White transluscent thigh-high stockings. Tall, black lace-up boots. Small bat wings, stitched and glittering, stuck out from her shoulder blades.

He raised an eyebrow. “Vampire?”

She turned back to him, like she’d forgotten he was there. For a second, her face was blank. Then she caught on and nodded once, lips quirking slightly.

“Zorro?”

Frankie nodded, exhaling smoke out the side of his mouth. “Yeah. You almost gave me a heart attack, by the way. And you just locked us up here.”

Her hand flew to her forehead, the gesture dramatic and a little self-conscious. “Oh, shit. Shit. I’ll call my friends, don’t worry.”

He didn’t answer.

He didn’t actually care.

So he turned back to the railing, settling into the same position he’d been in before she’d arrived. One foot crossed over the other. Cigarette balanced between his fingers.

There wasn’t anything urgent to return to anyway. Inside was just noise. He could live without it.

So he smoked. And did exactly what he’d been doing before the interruption; staring out at the city and letting his mind drift wherever it wanted. Thinking about his own life. Thinking about other people’s lives too, sometimes, because that was easier.

He felt so empty. Not in a dramatic, falling-into-a-void kind of way. Just blank. He assumed that was normal. Or at least, normal enough not to mention.

After a few minutes, she appeared beside him again. Frankie didn’t notice her at first. He was still leaning on the railing.

“They're not answering,” she said, glancing sideways at him. Her voice was quieter now. Less sure. “What are we supposed to do?”

Frankie turned his head and met her eyes. He hadn’t expected to find them so close.

Something in his chest hit pause.

She gave him a nervous smile. “I’m sorry. Do you think you could call someone?”

It took him a second longer than it should have to respond. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He reached for his phone, thumbed through his contacts. First Mai. Then Pam. He held the phone to his ear, listening to the tone of voicemail.

He tried again. Same thing.

And again.

He didn’t realize how tightly he was gripping the phone until the fourth time.

There wasn’t a fifth.

With a long sigh, Frankie sank to the ground, lowering himself until his back met the railing.

She was already sitting next to him, legs stretched out in front of her, her phone resting on her lap.

“I’m sorry,” she said again, turning her head slightly. “I was just looking for one of my friends.”

Frankie clicked his tongue, not quite annoyed. “And you thought she’d be up here?”

“You don’t know her.”

Frankie studied her profile for a moment, the way her hair brushed the top of her shoulder, the way she bit her bottom lip, the way her eyelashes brushed her cheeks with every blink. Then he leaned his head back against the railing, eyes drifting toward the sky.

“Well, it’s fine. I was feeling like shit anyway, so honestly, you have great timing.”

She looked at him. “What? Why?”

Frankie gave a half-laugh, nothing too revealing.

She laughed too, softly.

“Come on,” she said. “Tell me, what’s Zorro doing on a rooftop, miserable on a Friday night at a party?”

“I don’t know. What does a vampire do when she’s stuck on a rooftop and the threat of sunrise is getting closer?”

She raised both eyebrows, impressed. “I think the answer to both is: I closed the broken door.”

Frankie looked at her and smiled. “Yeah. That’s about right.”

“Well, feel free to continue your misery spiral. I can join you, if you’ll have me.”

His eyes drifted shut.

“Be my guest,” he murmured. Then, after a beat, his gaze flicked toward her. “But let me tell you something. You won’t win.”

She blinked, parting her lips.

“You’re suggesting this is… competitive?”

“That’s exactly what it is.”

A laugh slipped from her. “You honestly think you’re more miserable than me tonight?”

“Absolutely.”

She pushed off the wall, stepping forward, one hand braced casually behind him, fingers splayed across the chipped paint. Her legs crossed at the ankles.

“Want to make it interesting?”

“Define interesting.”

“Wanna bet?”

“On what?” He furrowed his brow. “I don't have anything left to give.”

She tilted her head. “How dramatic. Not even a drink?”

He exhaled softly, something close to a smile threading through his voice.

“A drink I can manage. Actually, I can manage several. Want to know something?” He leaned in a fraction. “I’ve got connections.”

She laughed. “Connections?”

“Swear to God. I’m an honest man.”

“What, you’re like… Halloween party royalty? Nepo baby of the booze table?”

“Technically,” he said, eyes narrowing, “nepo brother.”

“Oh,” she grinned, closing the space between. “A nepo bro.”

She was close now, really close, and he wasn’t entirely sure she’d clocked the distance yet. But he had. His heart, irritatingly, had too.

There was something unnerving about being looked at like that by someone so stunning, so unbothered by proximity. And worse, knowing she could probably hear the slight edge to his breathing.

God, he hoped it wasn’t obvious.

“So,” she said suddenly. “What’s going on with you?”

Frankie exhaled. His eyes drifted upward, as if the answer might be there.

“Well,” he said eventually, glancing back at her, “first of all, I didn’t even want to come here. I was basically dragged. My actual plan was to grab a drink with my dad tonight.”

He caught her nodding.

“Second,” he continued, “I’ve been drinking a lot, like, enough that I should probably be on the floor by now, but somehow I’m not, which feels… unsettling. Third,” he paused, scratching the back of his neck, “this whole year has been, honestly, a disaster. I quit my job. Moved back in with my parents, which—humiliating. Constantly questioning the entire structure of my existence. But mostly, I miss one of my best friends. And he’s dead. So.”

She opened her mouth, the automatic reflex of sympathy, but he raised a hand, cutting her off gently.

“Don’t. Please don’t say you’re sorry. Let’s not do that. Now, your turn,” he prompted. “Unless you already know I’ve won, in which case you can just buy me a drink and concede defeat. I’ll take whiskey. Or vodka. Honestly, anything with alcohol will work.”

She squinted at him, half-smiling, half-scolding. “How charmingly confident you are.”

He shrugged, almost grinning.

“Well, let’s see,” she began, arms folding tightly across her chest. “First of all, my ex-boyfriend is somewhere down there, in the middle of that crowd. We broke up a week ago because he said he needed to be alone to figure himself out.” She pulled a face. “Except, apparently, he’s figuring himself out by making out with someone else at this very moment. So. There’s that.”

Frankie raised an eyebrow. “That’s it? Your big tragedy?”

“Please. That’s just the headline.” Her voice softened as she continued. “I’ve been—God, I’ve been stressed. Not like, ‘busy-week’ stressed. It’s this constant buzzing in my body. Even when I’m asleep, I can’t unclench my jaw. I wake up with these headaches that feel like my skull’s being split in two.”

He watched her carefully now.

“I have to run this family business that my father left me, and I thought I’d feel good about it, but instead I’m terrified I’m doing everything wrong. And I can’t ask my mom for help because she left the city. For good. Just packed up and left a few weeks ago. Like she didn't even care about me. And my dad... I miss him more than I can explain. But he's dead. And I still feel like I’m waiting for him to walk through the door. And the worst part?” she added finally, her gaze locking onto his. “I feel lonely. Like, really lonely. Even in a place like this. Especially in a place like this.”

Frankie watched her, saying nothing. He caught it, that brief flicker behind her eyes, like someone had turned down the brightness for just a second before she recovered. He almost said I’m sorry, but he bit the words back.

Instead, he exhaled softly and said, “I was standing here a moment ago, thinking about jumping off.”

Her expression shifted instantly. “What? Are you serious?”

He nodded once. “Just… wondered what it’d feel like. You know? The fall.”

She let out an exasperated breath, rolling her eyes. “Yeah. Right. I’m not falling for that. You’re not winning this competition.”

Frankie laughed. “I tried.”

“Want to know something really pathetic?”

“Obviously.”

She tucked her hair behind her ear, eyes dropping for a second before meeting his again.

“When I was little, my dad used to take me out for strawberry shortcake. It was my favorite thing. Still is, probably.” She shrugged lightly. “We’d go just us, or sometimes the rest of my family would come too. He always got me cake on special occasions. Or if I did something worth celebrating.”

She exhaled, a faint, humorless laugh slipping through. “Last night, I bought myself this tiny shortcake from the grocery store. One of those sad little ones with the plastic lid. Sat in my kitchen, ate the whole thing by myself, and cried like some cliché. Just sat there thinking, God, I’m so pathetic.”

“What was the occasion?”

“There wasn’t one,” she replied, her mouth pulling into a crooked smile as she glanced at him sideways. “I cheated. Bought it for no good reason. I felt awful, and I—” She paused, searching for the words. “I just needed sugar. Something sweet to drown it out.” She laughed quietly, but there was no joy in it. “Didn’t help. It made it worse, actually. The taste reminded me of him.”

Frankie opened his mouth, then closed it again. There wasn’t anything useful to say. No polished, comforting sentence that wouldn’t sound cheap.

So instead, he just looked at her, and she looked back. He let himself drown in her eyes and for a moment, it was as if time had stopped completely.

A few seconds passed, Frankie didn't know how many. It felt eternal. And then, she let out a quiet sigh. Her lips curved into a smile, and she turned away, leaning back against the railing beside him until their shoulders brushed.

Without saying anything, she tilted her head gently onto his shoulder. Frankie froze, not in panic, but because her proximity knocked the words straight out of him.

Time passed. He wasn’t sure how much. It could’ve been minutes, or more. An hour, maybe. He didn’t know. It was just the two of them, in silence, her head resting on his shoulder.

Then, her voice came through, soft.

“You have really beautiful eyes,” she murmured.

His face flushed instantly, the heat crawling up his neck before he could stop it. He smiled without meaning to, a small, private thing that stayed tucked into the corner of his mouth.

She tilted her chin up, her eyes meeting his again. “You’re shy, aren’t you?”

He let out a breath, deciding against retreat. “Apparently, that’s what happens when a beautiful woman leans against me.”

He saw it. The exact moment her face changed — the flicker in her eyes, the slight, almost embarrassed curve of her mouth, the way her lashes dipped for a second, like she wasn’t entirely prepared for him to say it.

“How charming,” she whispered, but her voice wavered slightly, just enough to give her away.

Frankie felt it too; the spark at the center of his chest, sudden and electric, pulling him toward her like he couldn’t help it.

When he reached out, his hand settling gently along the curve of her cheek, his fingertips tingled like static had built up under his skin.

Her eyes softened, her voice barely above a breath. “Can I see your face?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His thumb brushed lightly beneath her jaw, and for the first time all night, everything else faded; the noise, the crowd under them, even the ache that had been sitting under his ribs for weeks.

Just her. Right there.

“Hey—hey, you two. You can’t be up here!”

The voice cut through the quiet, loud and so, so uninvited.

They both startled, shoulders tensing in unison like they’d been caught doing something criminal. Frankie turned toward the sound and saw a man standing in the doorway, holding it open with one hand. He was dressed head to toe in black, his suit expensive enough to suggest authority, his expression hard and bored and unamused.

“Come on, downstairs,” the man instructed, gesturing with a clipped movement of his wrist.

Frankie was the first to react, pushing himself to his feet and instinctively holding out his hand for her. She slid her fingers into his, and their hands stayed joined as she stood, their fingers brushing, tightening. They both laughed, the sound bubbling up at the ridiculousness of getting scolded like teenagers.

They slipped back inside, moving fast down the narrow stairwell, her shoulder bumping his every other step.

When they reached the lower floor, the music hit them all at once. Heavy, loud, annoyingly pulsing through the walls and floors like the building itself was vibrating.

She turned to him, that same smile curling at her mouth, the one that had been steadily undoing him since the moment they started talking.

He stepped closer without thinking, close enough that the bass rattled in his chest, close enough to smell the faint sweetness of her perfume.

He leaned in, his mouth hovering near her ear.

“Can I get your number?” His voice was rougher now, shaped by nerves, barely carrying over the music. He straightened up slightly, still too close. “Only if you want to. If you think—”

“Oh my God!” Someone interrupted loudly behind them. “We’ve been looking for you everywhere! Where the hell were you?”

Two girls pushed through the crowd toward them. One wore pink bunny ears, the other had a leather cap tilted low over her forehead, some costume Frankie couldn’t quite piece together.

He glanced at the vamp in front of him, her mouth was already half open, like she’d been about to answer before they were interrupted.

“I—” she started.

“We’ve gotta go,” Bunny Ears said urgently, grabbing for her wrist. “Lizzy confronted Alex, and he’s freaking out and wants to talk to you.”

Everything happened quickly. They were pulling her away, her body turning reluctantly, her eyes still on him like the rest of her hadn’t caught up yet.

But before the crowd could swallow her completely, she twisted over her shoulder and called back, voice rushed but clear:

“Berta's Café, tomorrow—no! Monday. Five o’clock!”

And then she was gone, disappearing into the mass of bodies, their hands slipping apart.

Frankie stood there, heart pounding in his throat, realizing as the music crashed around him—he hadn't even asked her name.

Saturday, November 2nd, 2019

“You should just make posters or something,” Will said, barely looking at him. He cracked open a can of Coke. “Zorro looking for vampire girl from Kairos party. Real subtle.”

Frankie clicked his tongue. “That’s desperate.”

Will shot him a sideways glance, lifting the can to his lips. “And what exactly do you think this is? You look desperate already.”

“I’m not doing anything. Monday I’ll go to the café. That’s it.”

Will snorted, kicking his foot lightly against Frankie’s leg. “You say that like you’re calm. Inside you’re losing your mind, aren’t you?”

Frankie didn’t answer. His silence was answer enough.

Will laughed under his breath. “So what was she like?”

“Jesus, man, I already told you. Stop being a dick.”

But the truth was, yeah—he’d already told him. Twice. And replayed it in his own head a hundred more times than that.

That morning, Frankie woke up with a headache that pulsed behind his eyes and this gnawing, unavoidable sense of loss, like he’d misplaced something vital. His body ached from bad sleep, his thoughts worse.

He stayed in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling, dissecting the night before with surgical precision. Every word, every glance, every near-miss. He regretted a lot of things—first, not kissing her when he’d wanted to. Second, not asking her name. Third, not offering his.

Stupid. All of it stupid.

But he still had one chance left, the last card to play. Monday. Berta's Café. Five o’clock.

She’d said it, hadn’t she? She wouldn’t forget… would she?

He hated how hopeful he was about a stranger. Hated how much of him had been unraveling ever since.

He probably would’ve stayed in bed all day if Will hadn’t called around noon, insisting they drive to San Marcos to look at a car. There wasn’t really a question in it, Will already decided Frankie was coming.

Frankie knew what was happening. The whole group had been doing this since he moved back to Austin; dragging him out, pulling him along to things he wouldn’t have gone to on his own.

For the first few months, he’d resisted all of it. Locked himself away in his parents’ house, only leaving when it was unavoidable. Grocery runs, doctor appointments, obligations he couldn’t talk his way out of. That was it.

That’s why Will had reacted the way he did when Frankie mentioned the Halloween party. It was disproportionate, like Frankie had announced something miraculous. He’d lit up, started peppering him with questions: Who was she? What did you talk about? Why didn’t you kiss her? Why didn’t you ask her name? Why did you do that? Why didn’t you do this? why? Why? Why?

Frankie answered them all, mostly because he needed to talk about it, needed to say the words out loud to someone who wouldn’t let him sit with it quietly and rot.

And when they got back to Will’s place later that afternoon, they sat outside on the patio. Will kept circling the story while offering Frankie cold cans of Coke and brought out his most creative side, mocking him while reciting ideas for posters.

“Lost: one vampire girl from Kairos party. If found, please return to lovesick idiot in Zorro costume.” He said once. And then: “Missing: vampire girl from Kairos party. Last seen disappearing into a crowd. Answers to nothing, because Frankie didn’t bother to ask her name.”

It was irritating, but also, it wasn’t. Frankie let him push.

When he finally stood to leave, it wasn’t even four yet.

“I’ll see you at Santi’s later, right?” Will asked,and Frankie heard the warning beneath it.

“Obviously, what kind of friend do you think I am?”

And he meant it. Whatever else he’d been avoiding, he wouldn’t miss Santiago’s birthday.

Thursday, October 29th, 2024. Now.

You were sitting beside Frankie on the sofa, knees barely an inch from his. You hadn’t looked away from him once, not since he started talking.

And he had told you everything. Every detail. Every small, awkward, uncomfortable truth.

Frankie couldn’t begin to guess what was happening inside your head but he forced himself not to overthink it, at least not yet. He had to get through the story. He owed you that much.

“I didn’t know what to do when I saw you at Santi’s,” he admitted finally, the last thread of explanation hanging there.

You exhaled then, finally, your eyes dropping to your hands where they rested tangled in your lap. Your breathing was uneven, shallow, your shoulders still locked with tension. He noticed that instantly; the way your whole body language screamed uncertainty. And the worst part? He couldn’t tell if it was directed at him. He couldn’t tell if you were angry.

“It was you,” you said, barely audible. “All this time… it was you.”

Your eyes lifted, meeting his. Frankie froze under the weight of your stare.

“All this time you were right there,” you whispered, “and I didn’t see it.”

Frankie shook his head softly, his throat tightening. The question slipped out before he could second-guess it: “Are you mad at me?”

A small, incredulous laugh escaped your lips. You shook your head once, then again.

“No—I… I’m just…” You broke off, shutting your eyes. “Francisco, this whole time you’ve been Zorro?”

Frankie nodded once.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” The question hit him like a quiet accusation, more hurt than angry. “Why didn’t you say something the first time you saw me after that night?”

Frankie sighed, dragging his hand across his face.

“That’s the thing, I…” His eyes found yours. “When I saw you that night… at Santi’s… I swear to God, my heart just stopped.” He shook his head, like the memory still disoriented him. “I couldn’t believe it. You were standing there, and it didn’t feel real. I’d literally been talking to Will that day—about the party, about you, about how ridiculous it all felt. And then there you were. And I just—” He paused, running his palm across his mouth, struggling to untangle the words. “I didn’t expect it. You being his sister. You being right there. It completely—I didn’t know what to do, or what to say. It felt like my brain short-circuited.”

You stayed quiet, watching him unravel.

“I thought you might recognize me,” he admitted, a faint, sheepish smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, but there was no humor in it. “I mean, yeah, I had the mask on at the party, but still… I thought maybe, somehow, you’d just know. But then I saw how you acted that night. You were… distant. Not even friendly, barely looking at me. And I panicked. I thought, Shit, she figured it out. She recognized me. She’s disappointed. I wasn’t what she expected.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “So I jumped to conclusions.”

You stared at him. “You seriously thought…that the way I acted toward you that night was because… you weren’t what I expected?”

Frankie’s eyes dropped to the floor for a moment, his posture folding slightly inward.

“What other explanation was there?” His gaze lifted again, searching your face. “You didn’t know me yet. That was supposed to be the first time we met, officially. It didn’t make sense any other way. I figured, you must’ve realized it was me, and you regretted it.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“I know, I know that now.”

“I told you, I told you weeks ago why I acted like that. You already know.”

Frankie exhaled. “Yeah, and that’s when I finally understood… you never realized it was me.”

He could still remember that night —five years ago— with frustrating clarity.

Santi’s house had already been full of people by the time he arrived. The usual group. Drinks in hand. Of everyone there, it was only him and Tom who hadn’t met you yet.

And then he saw you.

It was immediate, the way his chest tightened, the way everything slowed down around him. But it wasn’t like before. This time, you were standing right there in front of him, just a few feet away, staring back at him with an expression he couldn’t decode. Your smile looked polite, but fake. Your eyes flicked across his face like you were trying to place him.

And Frankie’s heart sank. His first thought was: She recognized me, and she doesn’t like me. Not at all.

His throat tightened now just thinking about it.

“I was so nervous that night,” he admitted. “I couldn’t handle it, seeing you there. I completely lost my ability to function like a normal person. That’s why I acted the way I did. Weird, awkward, whatever you want to call it.”

You tilted your head slightly, your expression unreadable as you edged a little closer.

“I couldn’t look you in the eye,” he continued. “I couldn’t talk to you, couldn’t… be near you, really. I thought, if there’s even the smallest chance you didn’t recognize me, I had to hold onto that. It felt safer.”

“Safer?” you repeated softly. “Why do you say that? I would’ve liked to know it was you.”

Frankie exhaled, a dry, half-laugh escaping as he met your eyes. “Baby, after that first moment when Santi introduced us? It was obvious you didn’t like me. I could feel it.”

“Because you were weird with me!” you argued, amused. “You made it weird.”

And you weren’t wrong.

After that awkward introduction, Frankie had done everything he could to act normal, to seem indifferent. He tried not to stare when no one else was looking. Tried not to react when someone mentioned your name casually. Tried not to let his nerves chew through him every time you were nearby.

But of course, he failed.

Of course he acted weird.

Dinner was the worst part, everyone talking around the table like it wasn’t the most tense situation imaginable for him. And then Santi, completely oblivious, asked you how the Halloween party had gone the night before.

Frankie’s entire body locked up. He stared at his plate, willing himself to stay composed.

You started talking. About the party, about everything. You mentioned Emma. You mentioned Lizzy. Nothing remarkable in what you said, but your voice made his pulse trip all over again.

And when he finally looked up from his plate… Will was staring at him.

Frankie felt the heat rise to his cheeks, so he lifted his glass to his mouth mostly to avoid himself, to focus on something other than the awkward tightness sitting in his chest. He forced his attention toward your cousin Irene, who was sitting beside him, telling a terrible joke. He laughed anyway.

And then Will, perfectly timed as always, turned to you and asked, “So, what did you dress up as?”

But before you could answer, Frankie had jumped in, cutting across the conversation with something else entirely, some clumsy attempt at changing the subject. He couldn’t even remember what he’d said now, just that it had been rushed, probably dumb, and definitely transparent.

Sitting with you now, the memory hit differently.

“I thought you were being rude,” you said. “When you did that, interrupted me, I felt awful. I thought you were trying to make a point. Like, you couldn’t be less interested in what I was saying, or maybe you were bored, or… I don’t know. It just… sucked.”

Frankie shook his head. “No, no—it wasn’t that. Jesus, it’s such a disaster in my memory now.”

He paused, meeting your eyes, his expression uncertain.

“Do you remember what you overheard? From the bathroom? That night?”

You raised your eyebrows. “You mean the thing I’ve been asking you about for weeks? That?”

He laughed, the sound dry, self-conscious. “Yeah. That.”

You crossed your arms, waiting.

“Okay, so… Will was the only one who knew about the Halloween party. I told him everything because we drove to San Marcos that day, and I… I couldn’t keep it to myself. I had to say it out loud to someone.”

You nodded.

“He knew all of it,” Frankie continued. “What you looked like, what costume you wore, everything. So at dinner, when you started talking about the party… when you mentioned how your night went… Will clocked it instantly.”

He paused, watching your reaction carefully.

“If you had told him that night you went as a vampire, he would’ve known. Confirmed it right there.”

Your eyes narrowed, the corners of your mouth twitching like you were trying not to smile. “Okay… so?”

“So after dinner, he cornered me immediately. He didn’t even give me a chance to breathe.”

You tilted your head, eyes bright now, waiting for the next part.

And Frankie couldn’t help it, his chest tightened all over again, remembering exactly how badly he’d handled it all.

“You’re basically confirming everything for me right now, Fish,” Will said. “It’s her.”

Frankie shook his head immediately, too too quickly. “Of course not. You’re insane.”

“She was at the same party last night,” Will pointed out, like the evidence spoke for itself. “And now you’re acting weird as hell. I know you. You’re not subtle.”

Frankie shook his head. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”

Will didn’t flinch. “Nothing’s wrong with you around everyone else. But around her? You’re completely—” He paused, narrowing his eyes, the grin creeping onto his face. “You’re being weird. Why? Is it because she’s the vampire girl? You’re spiraling, aren’t you?”

“Dude, stop. Stop making shit up. Santi’s sister isn’t the vampire girl.”

Will raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching.

“She’s just… I don’t know. She’s weird,” he blurted finally, immediately regretting it.

Will tilted his head. His expression practically screamed really?

“Weird?” Will repeated, crossing his arms tighter. “What does that even mean?”

“You saw it,” he said, grasping for footing. “When Santi introduced us? She gave me weird vibes. I’m not even sure she likes me.”

“That makes way more sense than her being weird. You probably made her uncomfortable.”

Frankie snorted, his mouth twisting into something like a defensive grin. “Or maybe there’s something you’re not seeing.”

Will shook his head. “Nah. I’ve known her longer than you. She’s nice. She’s funny. Usually.”

Frankie’s heart kicked uncomfortably in his chest, but he kept his expression flat.

“Well,” he muttered, avoiding Will’s eyes, “not to me.”

“You know what I think? You’re full of shit. She’s the vampire.”

Frankie brought the cigarette to his lips, inhaled, then exhaled a cloud of smoke into the cool night air. His eyes flicked toward Will but his expression stayed carefully blank.

“She’s not,” he replied simply. “I’d recognize her.”

“What you’re telling me isn’t enough, man. I don’t buy it.”

Frankie shrugged. “Then don’t believe me. I’m not here to convince you.”

“But what’s wrong with her, then? You’re being weird and cagey, and I know you, something’s off. What is it?”

Frankie hesitated, dragging the cigarette to his lips again, stalling for time. His head tilted back, eyes tracing the outlines of tree branches above them as he exhaled.

“I just... I mean I don’t know,” he began. He shook his head. “I can’t explain it to you. There's just something weird about her.”

“That doesn't mean anything. You'll have to give me more than that.”

Frankie exhaled. “Yeah, no. I don't think so.”

Will let out a frustrated noise, shifting his weight. “Talk to her. She’s nice. Kind. Cool. Unlike you right now.” He lifted his beer to his mouth, then seemed to think better of it. “I get it, whatever, you have your weird feelings about people. But she’s Santi’s sister. Just make the effort.”

Guilt tugged at Frankie’s chest. Will probably wasn’t wrong.

So instead, he smiled. That detached, defensive kind of smile he knew annoyed Will more than anything.

“I don't want to be dramatic,” he said, taking another drag on his cigarette, “but I'd rather sacrifice myself in another way.”

Will huffed. “God, you're ridiculous.”

“Maybe.”

Will smirked faintly, shaking his head. “I still don’t believe you. She’s the vampire.”

Frankie took another drag, saying nothing.

“When I asked what you’d heard… back then,” Frankie said now, “I wasn’t trying to avoid it. I just… needed to know how much you already knew, so I could explain myself properly.”

He watched you, the glassiness in your eyes making something sharp twist in his chest. His throat tightened, and for a second, it was hard to keep talking.

“All these years,” you said quietly. “All this time, it was you. And it was just—” You paused, your jaw tightening. “It was a misunderstanding. A stupid misunderstanding that… maybe could’ve been avoided?”

“I’m sorry,” Frankie said, stepping closer. His hands found your face, warm against your skin. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t tell you because I... I couldn’t. I wasn’t ready.”

“Do you know how excited I was to see you? At the café… that Monday?”

Frankie’s stomach dropped. His breath hitched slightly.

“You… you actually went?”

You nodded, looking at him like you couldn’t believe he’d even question it.

“Of course I did. But you didn’t show.”

“No,” he said quickly.“No, No, I did go. I swear I went.” His hand dropped to yours, fingers curling around your wrist. “I went to both.”

Your brow furrowed. “Me too.”

A small silence stretched between you as the realization began to untangle itself.

“What time did you go?” Frankie asked.

“Five o'clock. Like we agreed.”

“Me too. Which one did you go to first?”

You paused, considering. Frankie watched the small movement of your hands brushing against your own skin.

“The one in Central Austin,” you said eventually.

Frankie let out a breath, shoulders sinking. “I went to the one downtown first.”

Your expression softened. A small, exhausted smile curved on your lips.

“We didn’t coordinate, right?”

Frankie’s eyes dropped to the floor. “Apparently not.”

You slipped your hands from his, your palms ran over the sides of your neck.

Frankie studied you. Your face, your hands, the visible tension still clinging to your shoulders, trying to read you the way he always tried to. But today, he couldn’t. Not entirely.

“All this time… you knew,” you said. “You let me hate you.”

“I didn’t let you,” he replied, blinking. “It wasn’t some grand plan. I didn’t think it would get that far, but… it did. It just… happened.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “At first, I kept my distance because I honestly thought you might recognize me. I kept waiting for it, convinced it was going to click for you at some point. And then…” His mouth twisted, self-deprecating. “Then we started actually not getting along. And I thought, shit, maybe this isn’t what I imagined at all. Maybe you weren’t who I thought you were.”

You smiled softly.

“I started to really dislike you,” Frankie admitted, his voice almost apologetic but laced with amusement. “Which was… weird for me. But you rejected me so, so bad. You made it seem so easy to dislike me. It just became—natural, I guess.”

You tilted your head. “Did you hate me that much?”

“No,” he said quickly. “No, I didn’t hate you. Hate feels dramatic. I really, really disliked you, sweetheart.” His mouth curved into a grin. “You were unbearable. You’ve got to admit that.”

A laugh escaped from your lips despite yourself, and Frankie smiled instantly.

“Oh, me?” you challenged. “You’re unbelievable. What about you?”

“I wasn’t that bad.”

“Francisco,” you snapped playfully through gritted teeth, reaching over to pinch his arm, gently. “You were unbearable. I remember it real good. It wasn’t even that long ago, like, what, three months? The memory’s still fresh.”

Frankie laughed. He leaned in, tapping your shoulder with his index finger.

“You threw a dart at me,” he reminded you. “You literally scarred me.”

“That’s fair.”

Frankie’s heart pressed up against his ribs as he watched your face. You could’ve confessed to anything in that moment, and he would’ve forgiven you for all of it.

“I’m sorry,” you said lightly. “It won’t happen again.”

“Oh, I hope not.”

You tilted your head, eyes tracing his face. Then your hand lifted, fingers brushing his cheek with hesitant tenderness.

“It’s you,” you whispered. Your eyes were shining in that way that made Frankie’s chest ache. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

A crooked smile pulled at his lips. “Disappointed?”

You shook your head. “No, I’m glad it’s you. Because I have this ridiculous, hopeless crush on you. In case you somehow missed that.”

Frankie let out a soft laugh.“You’re going to have to be a lot more obvious than that.”

You rolled your eyes, tapping his shoulder lightly, and before he could answer, your arms were around his neck, your mouth pressed to his, and the world tilted, just for a second.

The kiss was messy, deep. Frankie’s hands settled on your waist as you leaned into him, and for the first time in weeks —maybe longer—he felt weightless. The knot of anxiety in his chest unwound quietly as your lips moved against his, the unspoken things between you burning off into nothing.

It was simple. You knew now. Everything was laid out, and you were still here.

When you finally pulled back, your breath uneven, your eyes scanned his.

“Are you staying the night, Zorro?”

Frankie raised his eyebrows. “I'd want to, baby, but I’ve got my new roomate at home.”

“Oh… right,” you nodded, considering. “What if you bring him?”

His hand drifted along your back. “You sure?”

Instead of answering directly, your lips found the side of his neck. “Yes.”

He smiled, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck.

“What about Darcy?”

“Mr. Darcy gets along with other cats.”

Frankie didn’t need more than that.

The truth was circling in your mind over and over again as you lay flat on your bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, barely blinking.

It had been him.

All along, it had been him.

And somehow, it clicked into place now. That strange sensation you'd had around him, the way he always seemed to be nearby, like an annoying shadow that knew more than you did. And he did.

You felt the disbelief settle in your chest like static. It wasn’t unpleasant. Just... strange.

You’d thought about that night more times than you’d admit. The party. Zorro. The weightless blur of it all. The way you’d felt when you locked eyes with him, something flickering inside you that you hadn’t understood then, and maybe still didn’t now. But Frankie had those same eyes. They had always been his. How could you not have seen it?

The answer was easy and humiliating: you’d been too consumed by your own resentment to really look. Anger had narrowed your vision.

Now Santi’s birthday replayed in your mind: Frankie hadn’t been cold, he’d been anxious. And that conversation with Will—God, if you’d just stayed a few seconds longer. If you’d paused before walking away. You might have known then.

That Monday, you’d gone to the café like you said you would. Expectant. Maybe even a little too hopeful.

But he wasn’t there. Or at least no one who looked like the version of him you were imagining. He would’ve recognized you, you were sure of that. He’d seen your face.

So you tried the other one.

Nothing. No trace of him.

And you felt a little foolish. He hadn’t shown up. Of course not.

If only you’d known you'd already seen him two days earlier, standing in your brother’s living room, laughing too tightly, his shoulders tense.

You told yourself to stop thinking about it, to let it go. But you didn’t. Not fully. Not deep down.

Because there was something inside you, swelling, shifting, growing. A current of excitement that buzzed just under your skin, tangled with shock and with something else entirely. Something you couldn't name yet. Because giving it a name would make it real. And real was scary.

But still, it sat on the tip of your tongue.

Frankie showed up about twenty minutes later, hair damp, wearing clean clothes and carrying a backpack slung over one shoulder. In his other hand, he held a medium-sized pet carrier that shifted slightly with movement inside.

It was already late. The apartment was quiet, dipped in a soft stillness that only came after midnight. You were tired but your smile didn’t carry any of it when you opened the door and stepped aside to let him in.

Upstairs, he set the carrier down and unlatched the door. The tiny kitten crept out, inch by inch, his paws tentative against the hardwood floor. He blinked up at the unfamiliar room, wide-eyed and twitchy, like every sound was urgent.

“Come on, buddy,” Frankie said, kneeling beside the crate and tapping two fingers lightly on the floor.

Mr. Darcy had been sitting a cautious distance away, his fur puffed out with theatrical indignation. The hiss came out sharp and instinctive. But the little one didn’t seem fazed. In fact, he looked more intrigued. He blinked once and padded toward the older cat, wobbling slightly as he walked.

You crouched next to Frankie, knees bent, arms resting loosely on your thighs.

“He needs a name,” you said, watching as the kitten inched closer to Mr. Darcy, whose tail flicked like a metronome behind him. “He can’t just be the kitten. He’s earned a real name.”

Frankie chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, I know. I’ve been trying to think of one.”

You both stayed like that, watching them circle each other. Darcy sniffed once, eyes narrowed. The kitten copied him, clumsy andcurious. There was a cautious sort of respect between them.

Then, just like that, it shifted. The kitten darted across the rug, then turned back and pounced on nothing in particular, tail flicking in excitement. Something in Darcy's posture relaxed, though he wouldn’t admit it.

Frankie got up and walked into the kitchen to set down a small bowl of food. You remained where you were, eyes still on the cats.

When he came back, you tilted your head slightly and said, “What about Bingley?”

Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Bingley?”

“He’s Mr. Darcy’s close friend in Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Bingley. It fits, doesn’t it?”

He repeated the name under his breath, trying it out. “Bingley. Bing. Mr. Bingley.”

“Bing like Chandler,” you added. “Bingley like Mr. Bingley.”

He grinned, looking over at the kitten, who was now sniffing the base of the coffee table.

“I kind of love it. Sounds distinguished. And look at him—look, those spots. It’s like he’s wearing a little dress shirt. He's really formal.”

Right on cue, Mr. Darcy extended a paw and gave the kitten a light smack on the back. Not hard, more like an announcement of dominance.

“Exactly,” you said. “A shirt. A formal little gentleman.”

Mr. Darcy leapt onto the coffee table, casting a glance down at the newcomer below. He looked vaguely pleased with himself, like he’d reclaimed his throne.

You watched him carefully. For a second, it looked like he might knock something over; the notebook you’d left there, maybe a pen. He hovered beside it, his paw lifted just slightly. But then he changed his mind, curled into himself, and lay down instead.

From his vantage point, he kept his gaze locked on Bingley, who wandered the room in tiny zigzags, absorbing every smell.

When you finally made your way to bed, Darcy and Bingley remained curled up on the couch. The kitten had parked himself a few inches from Darcy, close enough to signal friendly intentions, but still cautious, unsure if the proximity would be tolerated.

Darcy didn’t seem to care. His eyes had already drifted shut, body slack with sleep, unbothered by the new presence at his feet.

In the bedroom, you slipped beneath the covers. The sheets were cool against your skin, the pillow already shaped to your head. You turned onto your side and watched as Frankie moved around the room.

He peeled off his t-shirt, then his jeans. He draped them over the back of the chair in the corner; his version of neat.

“Don’t look at me, I’m shy,” he said over his shoulder, and you could hear the teasing in his voice, the smile.

You rolled your eyes without replying, stretching your arms above your head as a yawn pulled at your mouth.

“Okay, fine. Good night,” you mumbled, already halfway turned away from him.

You flicked off the lamp on your nightstand, and the room dipped into a softer darkness, quiet except for the shifting of blankets and the occasional creak of the wooden floor beneath his feet. You exhaled slowly through your nose, eyes fluttering shut.

You felt the mattress dip behind you.

And then, he was there. His body pressed against your back, warm, his hand slipping beneath the hem of your T-shirt. His fingers moved across your ribs.

“I’m not that shy,” he murmured just behind your ear, and you could feel it more than hear it.

You smiled, one hand reaching behind you, your fingers sliding up the back of his neck. He dipped his head to kiss you, his mouth finding yours without hesitation, while his other hand roamed higher.

His palm brushed over your stomach, then your chest. His fingers found your nipple, thumb and forefinger moving against it in a way that made your breath catch and something unspool inside you.

A sound escaped your lips, a quiet moan. You pulled back just enough to breathe, tilting your hips toward him. You could feel him against you, already half-hard, his breath hot against your skin.

He wasn’t panting, not exactly, but there was a rhythm to it, something restrained, like he was holding himself back from giving in too fast.

His hand moved downward, tracing a path over the curve of your ribs, then your stomach. His fingers made small patterns there.Then, without pausing too long, he slid his hand beneath the waistband of your underwear.

His touch met you exactly where you were aching for it, and the contact made your breath catch in your throat, your body instinctively curling toward him. You moaned softly, your hips pressing back against him, searching.

He wrapped his other arm around your shoulders, pulling you close, anchoring you to his chest. One hand still between your legs, the other finding its way back to your breast. Your whole body felt overheated and starved.

Your hips started moving, just barely; grinding gently against his hand, against his body behind you. Your breath grew ragged and you felt the tension building.

And then, all at once, he stopped.

“Turn on the light,” he whispered, voice hoarse.

You blinked, dazed, and reached toward the lamp on the nightstand. The warm, amber light filled the room. And when you turned back, Frankie was already moving, pulling your shirt higher, then off, exposing your bare chest to the air. Your skin prickled instantly, your nipples tightening from the shift, from the way his eyes locked onto you.

The glow from the lamp caught the flush in his face, the light bouncing off his skin, peach and rose and gold. He looked untouchable. You reached for him without thinking, your fingertips brushing down his arm, across his chest. Because you could. Because right then, he looked like he was yours.

You slid back into the center of the bed, his gaze never breaking from yours. He leaned down and began kissing your neck, his mouth tracing the outline of your collarbone, then lower, across your chest, until his lips found your breast. He sucked gently at first, then bit just enough.

His hands moved to your hips, then lower, fingers curling around the fabric of your panties. You raised your hips for him without needing to be asked. He dragged them down your legs, his mouth still on your skin, still moving, devouring, worshipping, taking his time.

You looked down at him as he began to kiss his way lower. And something inside you broke open. Your stomach flipped, your chest burned, your skin came alive under his mouth.

You tipped your head back, eyes fluttering shut, and let out a trembling sigh, like you were letting go of everything you’d been trying to hold in.

Just drop it.

Frankie moved between your legs, his hands warm against the inside of your thighs as he eased them open. His mouth followed, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses to your skin, first near your knees, then higher.

You reached for him, fingers threading through his hair. And your stomach tensed with anticipation. It was hard to think clearly. You watched him, watched the way he looked at you.

He kissed you, right there, with a tenderness that made you gasp. One kiss. Then another. Each one dragging something deeper out of you. When his tongue finally moved against you, you flinched from the intensity of it. It wasn’t even pressure, not really. Just sensation. His mouth coaxing you open, tasting you like he couldn’t get enough.

Everything about you felt raw; your skin, your breath, your thoughts. Even the brush of the sheets along your back felt overstimulating. You rolled your hips instinctively, searching for more of him. His tongue moved with intention now, his lips wet against you, a moan vibrating up from his throat and into you.

Then came the rhythm. Flat, circular strokes on your clit that made your thighs tremble. The build was fast and intense, something white-hot and total. It tore through you before you could hold onto it, a kind of release that caught you off guard.

You came quickly, too damn quickly, your fingers curling in his hair, your thighs tightening around his head. For a second, you felt embarrassed by how fast it had happened. But how could you not? Look at him. He was him. And he was there. Between your legs. Like that.

You blinked down at him, chest rising and falling hard, your skin flushed all over. Frankie looked up at you, smug and pink-cheeked, his mouth shining. There was something devilish in the way he grinned—proud and utterly unfair.

You touched his cheek, brushing your thumb just below his eye as he climbed up your body, lifting his face to meet yours.

“What am I going to do with you, Dante?” you whispered, voice shaky.

He furrowed his brow, smiling lopsidedly. Then he leaned in and kissed the corner of your mouth.

“At this point? Whatever you want.”

You rolled your eyes. “So you're up for anything, then?”

Frankie gave a soft snort. “Sweetheart, I’m not up for anything—I give myself away.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “So that’s your thing? You just give yourself away too easily?”

He narrowed his eyes at you. “Yeah, I’m not falling for that.”

You laughed. “Smart man.”

Frankie smiled against your mouth and kissed you again, his hand cradling your jaw. You wrapped your arms around his neck and pulled him closer, your body melting into his.

It should’ve been a given by now, after everything, how much you liked the way he kissed you. But somehow, each time felt new. You found yourself thinking about it again in real time—not as a memory, not as a fact, but as a feeling that struck you fully in the moment: the way his lips moved with yours, the weight of his hand on your waist, the familiar taste of him, the way his tongue brushed yours.

You could’ve stayed there for hours, just kissing. Letting time pass around you like water. But it was late, and the night was quiet. The only sounds in the room were your mingled breaths and the wet, rhythmic hum of his mouth against yours.

Eventually, he moved lower, trailing kisses along your jaw, then down your neck. Your eyes fluttered open, head tilting back to give him more access, a soft sigh slipping from your mouth. You brought your hand to his chest, your fingertips tracing over his skin, following the subtle lines of his torso until they met the waistband of his boxers.

You let your hand rest there for a beat before pushing gently against his chest, just enough for him to understand.

He pulled back slightly.

“Lie back,” you told him.

Frankie obeyed, settling onto his back, arms at his sides.

You shifted onto your knees beside him, your gaze flicking down, drawn, unavoidably, to the shape pressing against his boxers. The sight of it, so obvious and unashamed, sent a rush of heat to your face, your chest, your thighs.

You moved between his legs, and your fingers curled under the waistband and tugged, inch by inch, your eyes locked on his as you pulled them down. His smile widened into something cocky.

He sat up just enough to push his boxers down the rest of the way, discarding them with one swift motion before reclining again.

And when your eyes dropped back to him, your breath caught. Your mouth actually watered, and not in some dramatic metaphor, you felt it.

Frankie was already watching you, that knowing look still etched into his features. Like he could read your thoughts before you even had the chance to say them out loud, or show him.

You kissed the line of his stomach, the subtle ridges of muscle, trailing downward in measured steps. And when you reached his cock, you paused, just for a second. It was hard, warm, flushed, and heavy against his abdomen. Your hand wrapped around him, your fingers barely able to meet. You leaned in and gave him a long, teasing lick from base to tip, tasting salt and skin and heat. Then you closed your mouth over the head, your tongue pressing against the underside as your lips formed a seal.

Frankie exhaled sharply, eyes fluttering shut. He murmured something under his breath, but the words were blurred and indistinct.

You began to take him in, gradually adjusting to the weight of him on your tongue. Your hand moved at the same time, up and down from the base to where your mouth met it, hungry. At first, you tried to keep yourself in check, to pace it, but your heart was pounding, your breath already uneven, and you could feel the change in him too.

His hands moved instinctively, one brushing through your hair, the other cupping your cheek. His touch wasn’t rushed, but there was tension behind it. He sighed against the ceiling, trembling, and the sound made you want more.

So you took him deeper, inch by inch, until your mouth was full and your throat tightened around him. He groaned, a low, broken sound, and you clenched in response. You moved again, up, then down, your lips tight around the slick heat of him, spit slipping down your chin in thin threads.

The sound was indecent and it filled the room in the absence of anything else. But the image of Frankie beneath you was even filthier. His jaw clenched, his eyes half-lidded, his chest rising unevenly. He looked undone. And you loved that you were the one doing that to him.

You kept going, licking and sucking, adjusting your angle, letting him slip in and out of your mouth. Every few moments, you’d pull back slightly, just enough to let him breathe, to keep him from falling apart too soon. But even then, he was close, you could tell by the way his hand tightened in your hair, the way his hips shifted toward you, just a little, like his body couldn’t help it.

When you began to suck harder, his response was immediate. He moaned from deep in his chest, his hand fisting in your hair, commanding, pulling you back with a soft pop, your lips swollen, your hand still stroking him.

Frankie tipped his head back against the pillow and let out a breathless curse.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he said, voice hoarse.

You let him go and placed your palms on his sides, fingers spread wide, lifting yourself up and shifting forward, settling on top of him, your knees bracketing his hips. The look on his face, half awe, half hunger, was enough to make your pulse stutter all over again.

His hands flew to your waist like instinct and you placed your palms flat on his chest, shifting your hips back just enough. But before you could reach for him, Frankie was already there, guiding himself with one hand, dragging the head of his cock through your slick, the pressure teasing, dragging across your clit, then slipping through your folds again. You inhaled sharply, hips twitching against the sensation.

Then, with barely a sound, he lined himself up.

You leaned back, thighs flexing around him as you began to lower yourself onto him. Inch by inch, he filled you, the stretch so intense it bordered on unbearable, but you craved it. Needed all of it.

Your moan echoed in the space between you, met by his; low and ragged, almost disbelieving. You stayed still for a beat, seated fully, your body adjusting to the fullness, your fingers curling against his chest. His hands tightened at your hips, like if he let go, he’d lose control entirely.

And then you started to move.

Up, then down. Gradual at first. And Frankie’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment, his lips parting in a breathless sigh, a soft smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It lit something in you. You wanted to ruin the calm on his face.

So you moved faster. Harder. The sound of skin on skin filling the room, your hips bouncing against his, the force of your movements creating a desperate rhythm. The headboard tapped against the wall, again and again and again, in time with the pace you set.

“Shit,” Frankie groaned, strained, teeth clenched as he lifted his head to look down at the place your bodies met. His hands clamped tighter around your hips, guiding you, grounding you, lost in the sight of you taking him.

The sound of it all; his moans, your wetness, the sharp breaths and quiet curses, was almost too much. You threw your head back, chasing friction, chasing the building tension as his pelvis ground up against your clit with each thrust.

And then Frankie rose slightly, propping himself on one elbow. His other hand was still gripping you.

“Yes, baby,” he whispered, wrecked and shaking. “Fuck me just like you need it. Don’t stop until you get what you came for.”

Your hands were still on his shoulders, one of them drifting upward, fingers brushing his neck. You squeezed there, just enough for him to feel it. And your mouth found his.

It was close now. You could feel it coiling in your belly, all-consuming. You pulled away from his mouth, lips parted like you were trying to speak but couldn’t find the words in time.

Your heart beat so fast it felt like it might escape your chest. Your entire body vibrated with it. Little sounds left your mouth; half gasps, broken syllables, soft whimpers you couldn’t have controlled even if you’d tried.

“Oh my—Fran—”

Your head tipped back, mouth opening on a soundless cry as your orgasm hit, sharp and blinding, splitting you open from the inside. It was too much, all at once. It left no space for thought, only feeling. You shut your eyes and saw stars behind your lids, fragments of light flickering against darkness.

Your rhythm stuttered as the sensation tore through you, and Frankie caught you with both hands, grabbing your hips hard as he took over. He thrust up into you, hard, the angle deeper, sharper. The slap of your bodies meeting filled the room, louder than your moans, louder than anything else.

“Fuck—fuck—” he gritted through clenched teeth.

His chest was flushed, blooming pink down to his stomach. You were still shaking, the aftershocks of your climax rolling through you in unpredictable waves, and all you could do was hold onto him; eyes glassy, mouth open, whispering yes, yes, yes as he moved inside you, every thrust dragging up and down again and again.

You could tell when he got close. His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering. You felt him thicken inside you, the tension rolling through his entire body. Then a sound escaped his throat, and his head tipped back, eyes squeezed shut as his release overtook him.

His stomach clenched, his jaw locked. He looked completely wrecked.

You moved again, instinctively, chasing the end of it. Frankie groaned like it hurt in the best way, and his grip on your hips turned punishing, fingers pressing so firmly into your skin you knew you’d see the marks in the morning.

“Shit—baby,” he rasped, ragged and almost too quiet to hear. “Easy… easy.”

You softened your movement, easing your hips down until he dropped his hands to the mattress, spent and trembling.

You stayed like that, straddling him, his body still buried inside yours. He was warm everywhere. His breath came in shallow waves, and his eyes stayed closed for a few seconds longer.

You looked down at him, memorizing the mess of him beneath you: messy hair, lips parted, chest rising and falling like he’d just run for miles.

And it hit you so, so clearly.

You loved him.

You loved him so much it terrified you.

But you kept the words where they were; tucked inside your mouth like a secret.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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