Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

You jerk awake, suddenly sitting upright, your bare chest heaving in the dark room. Your head is pounding and throbbing violently, a painful consequence of the night of indulgence you can’t quite remember yet.

You look around in confusion, squinting as you scan the darkened room. Streaks of silver moonlight spill across the bed, giving just enough light for you to take in your surroundings. As your vision snaps into focus, you quickly realize you aren’t in your own bed, yet the bedroom is strangely familiar to you.

Your brain takes entirely too long to catch up to the present, until it finally registers that you are completely naked. You gasp quietly, clamping one hand over your mouth in shock.

You look over to your left to see Santiago rolled onto his stomach facing you. One arm rests above his head on the pillow as he sleeps peacefully, blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil. His dark, wavy hair is tousled, a stray curl brushing against his forehead. You stare at him for a few seconds, blinking rapidly, as you try to piece together the events of the night.

What in the fuck happened?

Then…reality crashes into you. Hard. Your heart roars in your ears, your breath seizing in your throat as reality suddenly snaps back into focus with a terrifying clarity.

Oh, my God….

Santiago.

You slept with Santiago.

The thought ricochets violently around your brain on repeat, an act of desperation as your mind struggles to make sense of something so unfathomable.

You carefully ease out of the bed, trying to avoid rousing him, as you swing your legs over the edge of the mattress and plant your unsteady feet on the floor. You stand up, eyes scanning the floor for your clothes, but it is still dark and your vision remains blurry. You walk slowly and unsteadily around to the opposite side of the bed, leaning over to look by Santiago’s side. There you find your black lace panties crumpled up next to his boxers.

“God…” you whisper softly to yourself, grabbing your underwear and quietly stepping into them, pulling them up your thighs and onto your hips.

Your search continues for the rest of your clothes. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot your black bra hanging haphazardly on the corner of the dresser across the room.

‘Jesus Christ,' you think to yourself, staring at it for a moment as if the lace itself somehow holds the answers as to how it ended up there, how you ended up here.

You quickly snatch it off and slide your arms through the straps, pulling it up and settling it onto your chest before deftly clasping it behind your back.

You continue your quiet search, bending over as you look for your t-shirt and jeans, when you hear Santiago suddenly clear his throat from behind you.

“Hey there, Starshine,” he says, his voice a deep, rumble laced with the remnants of sleep. His elbow is propped onto the pillow, his chin resting on his open palm as he watches you in soft amusement and flashes a bright smile at you.

“Fuck!” you exclaim loudly as your hand immediately flies to your chest to try to calm your sudden racing heart as it thuds a bruising rhythm against your ribs. “You scared the fuck out of me, Santi!”

“Sorry, sorry.” He lets out a breathy, amused chuckle. “Looking for your clothes?”

“Uh…yeah,” you say sheepishly, avoiding his gaze as your eyes dart around the room.

“Well,” he says with a slight grunt as he tosses the covers aside and stands up. “I think your shirt is behind the headboard.”

Your eyes widen as he stands in front of you, completely nude.

You feel the heat immediately rise up your neck and flush your face as your gaze inadvertently falls over him; his lean frame, warm, golden skin, the sculpted, defined planes of his chest and stomach, down to the defined v of his hips, and finally to his....

You clear your throat, eyes snapping back up to his face, as you swallow hard.

“O…oh…r…right…” you stammer, completely flustered. Glancing over, you finally spot your maroon t-shirt perilously dangling off the corner post of the headboard.

You nearly lunge for it as you quickly pull it off the bed and slip it over your head, roughly pulling the soft cotton down over your torso.

“So…uh…now I just need to solve the mystery of my missing pants,” you chuckle nervously, desperately trying to avoid looking directly at him as he stands fully naked in front of you. But even then, you still glance over and your gaze still drifts lower than it should.

Fuck, this is so awkward.

“I think we left those in the living room..?” Santiago offers up, sounding unsure himself as he turns and glances around the room.

You feel your eyebrows raise drastically as he turns around; your face now feels like it is fully on fire. When he turns back around to look at you, your eyes snap back up to his. You give him a quick nod and quickly head out to the living room, flipping the light switch on and bathing the room in a soft white light. You squint, blinking rapidly as your eyes adjust to the stark difference of lighting, before you spot your jeans lying inside-out at the foot of the couch.

As you pick them up, turning them right-side out and hastily shoving one leg at a time into the tight denim, Santiago appears behind you. He is now dressed in a pair of pajama pants, holding a pillow and blanket in one arm.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He leans a shoulder against the doorframe and watches you carefully for a moment before dropping the spare bedding onto the couch.

“Yes, of course,” you lie, forcing a smile with a false lilt in your voice. “I just need to head back home. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“You can stay here, you know…” he says tentatively, as if he is afraid of your reaction to the suggestion. “I think you should, actually. It’s late, we both drank a lot…”

“I can call an Uber,” you quickly interrupt, zipping up and buttoning your jeans before turning to face him. A look of worry briefly ripples like a wave across his face before quickly disappearing. He looks down and sighs.

“You know I would never pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do,” he responds carefully, clearly sensing your turmoil at this sudden and unexpected development between the two of you. “But you are safe here. You don’t need a stranger taking you home alone at this hour. Take my bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You stop short of grabbing your purse, your hand resting on the thick leather strap, as you weigh your options. Obviously, staying the rest of the night with Santiago is the better and safer option, even if it is painfully awkward. But the sheer, crushing weight of the night's emotional turmoil plagues you, and the urge to run far away is pulling at you with a magnetic force.

“Do you remember what happened tonight?” You ask suddenly, avoiding his gaze.

He clears his throat and shifts his weight slightly. “We met up with the rest of the guys at the bar as usual. Fish disappeared for a bit, was chatting up some blonde. Maybe he left with her?” Santiago pauses, his brows furrowed as he struggles to recollect the night’s events himself. “Molly called; Tom had to leave early. We got that third round of shots….that’s all I remember, honestly. I don’t even remember coming back here.”

You nod, swallowing hard as a lump forms in your throat. Frankie and the tall blonde..you do remember that part very well. How could you forget? The way she was giggling and touching his arm; the image is burned in your mind. Your heart thumps painfully against your ribs at the memory and you feel jealousy rising in your throat like bitter acid that you force yourself to swallow back down.

“That’s all I remember, too. Had too many shots...” you reason weakly to yourself.
Santiago gives you a look you can’t quite place as a muscle feathers in his jaw. For a moment it looks like he wants…needs…to say something but ultimately decides against it as he swallows the words instead.

“I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I should have been more responsible…”

You immediately hold up one hand, signaling for him to stop. “No, Santi. Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. We both got carried away, drank too much. It was a one-time thing. But this doesn’t change anything, right?”

“Uh. Yeah…yeah, of course not,” his dark gaze shifts to the floor, expression unreadable. “It was just a one-time thing. Our friendship won’t change.” His voice drops an octave, carrying the weight of words too heavy to speak, but your mind is so preoccupied you don’t even notice. You nod absent-mindedly.

“I’ll stay here. But I will take the couch,” you insist.

“Good,” Santiago nods. “I…um, will make sure you’re up early. Give you time to go home and shower.”

You smile weakly at him. “Thanks, Santi.”

“I’ll see you in a few hours,” he gives you a small smile as he pads down the hall back to his bedroom, the door quietly clicking shut behind him.

You grab the spare blanket and pillow and collapse into the couch, trying to settle in to sleep for a few more hours. Instead, you find yourself staring at the ceiling as your mind reels.

Fuck. Fuck. This was NOT supposed to happen.

For the next few hours you mostly stare up at the ceiling, your mind racing. You keep trying to piece together the fractured memories of the night, but the few pieces you have refuse to align in a way that makes sense. The fact that you ended up in Santiago's bed is unfathomable.

You know the night started like every other get-together; Friday nights are strictly reserved for catching up with the guys at the bar. That’s how it has always been for the seven years you’ve known them.

Normally you and Frankie are glued to each other's sides, sharing inside jokes and the banter you love so much. But last night was different. He was quiet. Reserved. Glued to his phone and mostly silent before he walked off to order more shots.

The blonde…

‘Maybe he left with her…’

Santiago’s words suddenly sit like a heavy weight on your chest; a real and tangible thing that feels as if it is crushing and drowning you all at once.

Did he go home with her?

You can't recall him coming back to the table. You had made a point to avoid looking at him at the bar, turning away to face Santiago, Will, Ben, and Tom, as you took shot after shot to drown out your feelings, to ease the undeniable yet unaddressed ache residing deep in your chest.

“Fuck…” you groan, a thick wave of nausea washing over you; a sickening cocktail composed of too much alcohol and the unbearable thought of Frankie hooking up with a stranger at the bar. Touching her, kissing her…

You close your eyes tight, the room suddenly spinning and making you incredibly dizzy. Your skin feels hot, and you roughly toss the blanket blindly to the bottom of the couch with a heavy groan.

“Hey, it's 8:30,” Santiago's soft voice suddenly startles you. Your eyes snap open, and you realize you must have finally fallen asleep at some point before the sun rose.

“Oh. Thanks,” you say hoarsely, your throat sore and mouth parched as you sit up slowly and rub your eyes. You let out a pained moan as you swallow what little saliva you have in your mouth, immediately struck with the intense sensation of razor blades slicing the inside of your throat raw. “God, I feel sick…”

You stop mid-sentence as you look up at Santiago. He is standing by the coffee table, holding a tray of eggs, toast, and hash browns, accompanied by a large white ceramic mug and a bottle of ibuprofen.

“I figured the hangover was going to be brutal,” he says, looking a bit pale himself with dark shadows under his tired eyes. “I thought this would help.”

He carefully places the tray on the opposite side of the couch before disappearing back into the kitchen. You notice the soothing aroma of peppermint immediately fills the air as you pick up the mug.

“Peppermint tea,” he calls out, as if he could see you inspecting the liquid in the mug from the other room. You take a tentative sip, sighing in relief as the tea coats the soothing ache in your throat. He returns a moment later with a cold bottle of water, placing it on the end table by the couch before sitting down on the loveseat across from you.

“You didn’t have to do all this for me… “

Santiago frowns slightly, leaning back. “I wanted to.”

“Thank you,” you say appreciatively, giving him a small smile. You carefully pull the tray onto your lap. The smell of food does not seem remotely appetizing, but it doesn’t turn your stomach either. You take a small bite of toast and chew it slowly and carefully.

The silence that sits between you is palpable. You take another bigger sip of tea, swallowing the warm liquid as it quells the nausea currently sitting like a brick in your stomach.

“I didn’t even hear you in the kitchen,” you chuckle, taking another bite.

“I tried to keep as quiet as possible. I was hoping you could get some rest.”

You nod, swallowing a bite of eggs. The taste is revolting, but you force yourself to eat more.

“Did you eat, too?”

“I did.”

The silence once again sits heavily in the air between you.

“Are we going to talk about what happened last night?” You suddenly blurt out, laying your fork back down on your plate and wincing. You know that now is probably not the time to discuss it, but you can’t stop yourself.

You see Santiago tense slightly, sitting up straight.

“We…probably should. But we don’t have to right now. Unless you want to.”

“I do,” you reply, suddenly feeling nervous.

“Okay,” he says quietly, resting his hands heavily on his upper thighs. “Okay. We can talk now.”

You pick up the water bottle, cracking the lid open, and take a few long gulps before grabbing the ibuprofen and shaking a few out. You quickly pop them into your mouth and swallow another gulp of water to wash them down. You take a deep, steadying breath before looking up at him.

“I don’t want our friendship to end up fucked up because of this.” you start, but he immediately holds up one finger to stop you.

“It won’t,” he promises, but you aren’t convinced.

“We fucked, Santiago,” you state bluntly. The words hang heavily in the air between you, still a shock you can’t quite absorb yet.

He inhales sharply between his teeth. “Yes, apparently…”

“And you think that won’t change things?” You quickly interject, your voice pitching higher than you mean for it to.

“We don’t have to let it change anything,” Santiago insists.

You let out a quiet scoff at that.

“You really think that things won’t be different after this, Santi? Our friendship won’t be different? And what about…” you pause mid-sentence and look down at your half-eaten tray of food.

Santiago studies you, leaning all the way back into his seat, but he remains silent. The look on his face is a silent coaxing to continue.

“I…just don’t want things to change,” you finally finish, your hands now resting on the tray and fidgeting uncomfortably.

“With us, or with Frankie?” Santiago asks, his dark eyes focusing on you with a sharp intensity that betrays his usual easy-going demeanor.

You nearly choke on your saliva as you look at him wide-eyed.

“What are you talking about?” You try, unconvincingly, to pretend you have no idea what he means. You can tell that he doesn’t believe your weak attempt to act confused by his question.

Before he can respond, Santiago’s phone vibrates loudly in his pocket.

“I’m sorry, hold on…” he grunts, leaning over as he pulls his phone out of his back pocket. He looks down at the bright screen and lets out a low, humorless chuckle.

“What a coincidence…” he murmurs, looking up at you as he answers the phone. “Hey, Fish. What’s up?”

Your body goes completely rigid as you sit up straight. You can faintly hear Frankie’s deep voice coming through the speaker and your heart starts to beat a bit faster.

“Yeah, I’ve heard from her today…” Santiago says, his dark gaze lifting to meet yours. “She’s fine.”

“Me?” You mouth silently, pointing to yourself.

He nods, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he leans his head over to hold it in place, standing up and heading into the kitchen.

“I don’t know. Yeah, I'm sure she's okay. Maybe she fell back asleep?” He presents the lie as a possible explanation as you hear the clinking of his breakfast dishes at the sink.

You continue to pick at the food on your tray, taking a few more measly bites and quickly swallowing them down. You tell yourself to not eavesdrop, but can’t help listening in on Santiago’s side of the conversation.

“I think so. Yeah, sure. Uh-huh. Okay. Talk to you later,” you hear him set his phone on the counter before coming back in the living room.

“You should text him,” Santiago says quietly. “He was worried about you last night.”

“You didn’t tell him.”

Santiago’s eyes narrow, his brows knitting together. “Of course not. Why would I do that?”

You shrug your shoulders haphazardly. “Why not?”

“Because it’s not anyone’s business,” he states matter-of-factly.

“The guys will find out, and everything will be weird.”

“I’m not telling anyone,” Santiago gently reminds you. “They won’t ever find out.”

“I just don’t want this to ruin our friendship, or my friendship with them. And this is the kind of thing that can and does ruin friendships,” you say quietly. Tears suddenly spring to life in your eyes, slipping over your lashes and falling down your face, trailing hot and fast without permission and without any forewarning.

“Hey, hey,” Santiago immediately closes the distance between you as he sits on the couch. He moves the tray from your lap and sets it down on the coffee table with a resounding thud, reaching for your hands.

“Stop,” he says gently, not unkind but firm. “That won’t happen. I swear to you. You know how much I care about you.”

“And you know how much I care about you, too.”

“I do,” he nods. His hands gently cover yours, his thumbs tracing soothing circles over your knuckles. “I’m sorry this happened. I never intended…”

“I told you last night; you do not need to apologize.”

“I do. I wasn’t responsible enough, I should have protected you better. I failed you.”

“No. We both drank too much. It was both of us.”

Santiago sighs in resignation; it is clear he knows the back-and-forth won’t go anywhere, but the guilt sits clearly on his face in a way that you can see.

“Let me take you home,” he says after a few moments of silence, giving your knuckles one last firm, soothing stroke as he stands up.

“Okay.”

You stand up, grabbing your purse as Santiago gets his keys. Once you slip your shoes on, you head outside into the blinding morning sunlight and climb into the passenger side of his car. He gets in and shuts the door, sliding the key into the ignition and turning it. The engine roars to life as he slips his seat belt on.

After clicking your own seat belt into place, you open your purse and pull out your phone. As you tap your screen, several notifications pop up on the illuminated screen.

3 missed calls.
4 text messages.

All of them from Frankie.

You tap to open your texts. The first one was at ten last night.

Cat🐱🐠: Heading home early. Have a good night and be careful.

You swallow hard as you read the next message, sent at midnight.

Cat🐱🐠: Can we talk?

Frankie wanted to talk….at midnight? Your thoughts immediately start spiraling.

‘Did he not go home with the woman from the bar? What did he want to talk about at midnight?’

Your thumb scrolls up on the text thread to read the next message, sent at six this morning.

Cat🐱🐠: Morning, Biscuit. ☀️☕️

You scroll once more to see the final text that he must have sent right before he called Santiago.

Cat🐱🐠: Did you get home okay? Let me know.

You stare at that last message for what feels like an eternity. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard and shift their position repeatedly as you try to figure out what to say. Finally, you start typing your reply.

Got home okay, thanks.

The word ‘sent’ disappears quickly, replaced a moment later by ‘read’. The three gray dots pop up and animate as Frankie starts typing a reply, but soon disappear. Then they pop up again. You watch intently as he types, holding your breath. After a few minutes his message finally appears.

Cat🐱🐠: Can we talk whenever you’re free?

You type a quick response back.

About what?

Frankie types much faster this time.

Cat🐱🐠: Last night. I was a dick, and I’m sorry.

Your brows raise slightly as you text him back.

It’s fine.

The three dots appear once more. He types for a bit, stops, and then starts typing again. This time takes longer, as if he’s struggling with what to say and how to say it. Finally, the text pops up.

Cat🐱🐠: No. I was in a bad mood. I wasn’t up for a night out. It’s why I left early. But I wanted to talk about it.

You can’t help yourself; you have to ask the question that has been torturing your thoughts all night and morning.

Did you go home alone?

The message is immediately marked as ‘read’. You wait for the three dots to appear again.

They don’t.

It looks like you have your answer.

After a few agonizing minutes of staring at the screen, waiting hopelessly for a response that clearly isn’t coming, you click your phone off and drop it back into your purse. You slump back into the passenger seat, suddenly feeling exhausted and hollowed out.

Santiago glances over at you briefly before his eyes return to the road. “What is it?”

“Just Frankie apologizing for being an asshole last night before apparently taking the woman from the bar home.”

“And that bothers you,” he says. It isn’t a question but stated as an obvious fact.

“No, of course not. He can do whatever he wants,” you respond quickly, but the bitterness you feel seeps into the tone of your voice.

“Hmm,” he responds, wholly unconvinced, but ultimately says nothing more about it.

The rest of the ride home is suffocatingly quiet. Once you’re back at your apartment, you reach over and give Santiago a hug and thank him. He tries apologizing again but you refuse to let him continue to shoulder the blame alone. You know he’s worried about you, and you promise to text him later.

Once you reach your front door, unlocking it and stepping inside your quiet apartment, you let yourself finally, fully fall apart. You lean back against the door, sliding down to the floor, and start to sob.

Suddenly your phone rings, muffled inside your purse. You quickly wipe the tears from your eyes before you pull your phone out. Through the blurry haze of your remaining tears, you see Frankie’s photo on your screen.

You take a deep, shuddering breath, and swipe to answer.

Chapter Text

You take a deep, steadying breath in desperation to clear the remnants of the gasps that came along with your heavy sobs. After composing yourself to the best of your ability, you bring the phone up to your ear and clear your throat.

“Hey, Biscuit,” Frankie's voice filters through the speaker, coming in lower and raspier than usual. Normally the sound of his voice is soothing and calming, but right now? It feels torturous, a painful reminder of the betrayal you have caused that he is completely unaware of.

“Hi, Frankie,” you say quietly and carefully, hoping he can't tell you've been crying. But in the seven years you have been best friends, he knows you better than anyone else ever has. Frankie is acutely aware of the slightest downward shift in your tone, the way your breathing pattern quickens, and the nervous speed at which you speak, all of which are indicators that something is wrong.

“What is going on? Are you okay?” He asks, the concern palpable in each syllable.

There it is- one of the worst feelings, when you are desperately trying to hold yourself together with the thinnest, frayed thread, and those three simple words instantly tear the stitching open like a wound. Hot tears suddenly spring back to life, pricking at the corners of your eyes. Once the dam fully breaks, you are completely powerless to stop it.

A raw sob tears painfully through your throat. You desperately try to hold it back and swallow it down, muffling the sound with your palm closed over your mouth, but you can’t. You thought the tears you had cried before answering the phone would have left you empty and unable to shed any more. You thought they were enough to keep you steady, at least through this call, but you were painfully wrong. That one question, born out of pure worry and concern, just broke you completely in a way you can no longer hide.

“I’m coming over, okay? Right now. Just breathe. Breathe for me. Everything is okay,” Frankie says, his voice shifting into a calm and soothing cadence. With a grunt of effort, you can hear his heavy boots thudding rapidly across the floor of his living room. “I’m staying right here on the phone until I get there.”

Soon the faint sound of keys jingling echoes through the receiver, immediately followed by the heavy creak of his truck door opening. He slides onto the worn leather seat and slams the door closed with a resounding thud.

“Did something happen last night?” Frankie asks worriedly as he roughly shoves the key into the ignition and turns it. The engine loudly roars to life and nearly drowns his voice out. “After I left, did someone bother you?”

“No, no,” you answer quickly- a little too quickly. “No one bothered me.”

“Good, that’s good,” Frankie lets out a sigh of relief, barely audible over the sound of the engine, as he puts you on speaker and snaps his phone into the dash mount with a small click. He throws the truck into reverse, resting his right hand on the back of the passenger seat headrest as he looks over his shoulder and quickly backs out of his driveway. He roughly puts the truck into drive as he makes his way to your apartment, driving faster than he should. "But something did happen…?”

You hesitate from your spot sitting cross-legged on the floor. Your fingertips trace nervous, frantic paths along the denim of your jeans as you remain silent.

“Biscuit?” Frankie presses gently as his eyes scan the road. His grip on the steering wheel tightens, the leather groaning underneath the tight grip of his thick fingers. “You can tell me anything, you know that.”

Can you? Can you really tell him anything?

What would Frankie think if you blurt out, right in this very moment, that you..his best friend…hooked up with Santiago, the man he considers his brother?

Would he be shocked? Left speechless? Would he be furious at the betrayal, knowing that the perfectly balanced dynamic between you and the rest of the guys will now surely tip the scales into an awkward, irreparable mess of things?

Would he be indifferent? Possibly laughing it off and saying it’s nothing? Or…could it lead to the one scenario you don’t dare to let yourself dream about…

Could Frankie maybe…just maybe…feel the same way you do?

Hope immediately blooms to life in your chest but you quickly extinguish it, refusing to let it grow and take root in your heart. You can’t let yourself have that hope, and even thinking about it makes you feel guilty after what you’ve done.

“I’m almost there. See you in a minute,” he interrupts your thoughts, his voice tight with tension. He takes the next curve slightly too fast and sharp, his tires squealing in protest.

“Okay, see you soon.”

He ends the call.

As you pull the phone away from your ear and hold it in your hand, you look down at his contact picture on the illuminating screen; the photo you took of him three years ago at Ben’s birthday, when the party had gotten too raucous and over-stimulating and you went inside and sat on the couch for a reprieve, with Frankie joining you. The photo soon disappears, and as your phone turns back to black you are met with your broken reflection staring back at you. The memory of that day suddenly replays vividly in your mind.

“You okay, Biscuit?” Frankie had asked as he sat next to you on the couch. He leaned back into the cushions as he rested one arm along the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

“Yeah. I just needed a break for a minute. Some quiet. It’s just so loud out there,” you exhaled, letting out a slight chuckle.

“It is a lot,” Frankie nodded in agreement as his dark eyes locked onto yours. “But I can keep you company, if you want.”

“Always,” you grinned as you pulled your legs underneath you and crossed them.

He smiled, that same easy-going smile that always made your stomach flip and your heart leap into your throat since the first day you met him.

Your phone suddenly chimed with a text notification. You pulled it out of your pocket, eyes quickly scanning the message.

“Sorry; it’s Mom updating me on Dad,” you explained as you opened the text to reply. Frankie instantly moved closer to you, his relaxed posture turning rigid.

“How is he, since coming back home?” He asked quietly. He dropped his head closer to yours as he studied you with a look of concern that you could see from your peripheral vision.

“Better, but he wants to get right back to work. He doesn’t want to just lay in bed while he recovers,” you sighed in frustration as your brows furrowed. Your fingers deftly tapped across the glass as you typed a message back.

“That sounds about right,” Frankie said with a chuckle. He removed his signature black hat and ran a hand through his tousled brown locks. “He’s never been the type to just relax.”

“Never,” you agreed as you turned your phone off and put it back in your pocket, then shifted to face him. “And he’s so stubborn.”

A wide grin broke across Frankie’s face. He placed his hat back on his head and his eyes sparkled with mischief. “That must be where you get it from.”

You had let out a scoff in mock offense as you pressed a hand against your chest. “Excuse me, Frankie?! What is that supposed to mean?!”

“That you inherited your dad’s stubbornness,” he stated simply as he bit the inside of his cheek in an attempt to hold back a stifled laugh and looked out the window.

“You think I’m stubborn??” you asked, eyebrows raised, before you crossed your arms defensively over your chest.

Frankie let out a snort as he looked back down at you in amusement. “You aren't serious, are you? I’ve never met a more stubborn person in my life.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but Frankie immediately held a finger up to stop you.

“You being stubborn isn’t a bad thing; it’s not a negative trait. In fact, it’s the complete opposite. You are one of the strongest people I have ever known. You don’t give up, you don’t back down. And most importantly…you don’t take shit from anyone.”

“Including you?”

“Especially not me,” he murmured as his voice turned uncharacteristically soft. He looked at you with something heavy, something unspoken, that simmered in his gaze. It was something you couldn’t quite identify but refused to think too deeply over. Wistfulness wouldn’t get you anywhere, after all.

The atmosphere suddenly shifted, growing heavy and thick. Frankie, in his usual style, had to crack a joke to ease the weight of it.

“And I know that isn’t easy to deal with….I’m not easy to deal with. But you keep me in line. No one could handle my shit, that’s for sure,” he laughed, that self-deprecation he used so often bled into his tone.

You looked at him, brows knitted tightly together. “Why would you say something like that?”

He answered with a simple shrug of his broad shoulders.

“Stop,” you said, a gentle reprimand. “I’m very particular with my best friends, you know. And you’re the best I’ve ever had.”

“God, your standards are low…” He teased with a tsk of his tongue as he shook his head.

“Cat!!” You smacked his chest playfully. He immediately grabbed the spot your hand touched as he sucked in a sharp gasp.

“You’ve wounded me,” he declared dramatically as he collapsed back and sank deep into the couch cushions. Frankie let his arms fall limply to his sides, eyes closed. You stared at him in disbelief for a moment.

“Jesus,” you laughed as you pulled your phone back out and opened the camera. You held it out in front of you as you framed him on the screen. “I’m taking a picture of this...”

“A picture of the moment you mortally wounded me??” he asked, his eyes remaining closed.

“It will be my contact photo forever,” you laughed so hard your hands shook. You tried to steady your phone to ensure the photo wouldn’t blur.

Frankie posed perfectly still as he let his head loll to the side. He dramatically slumped over more, but could only keep up the act for a moment before he lost it. A wide smile suddenly broke across his face as laughter poured out from between his lips like music right as you snapped the photo.

‘God, he was so beautiful that day…’ you think as you drag yourself back to the present, sniffling. You wipe fresh tears off your face with the back of your hand before you drop your phone back into your purse. You are so distracted, so entirely consumed by the memory of that day, that you don’t even hear his truck pull into the parking spot outside of your apartment.

Soon there is a knocking on the opposite side of your door- three soft, familiar raps right in the center of the wood.

You stand up, legs shaking, before turning around to grab the metal handle and twisting it open.

“Frankie…”

His name barely leaves your lips before he surges forward. He envelops you in a hug, one arm wrapping firmly around your back and the other cradling the back of your head as he holds you tight against the taut, muscled plane of his chest, steeping you in his warmth.

“Tell me you’re okay…” he whispers softly against your hair right above your ear. You can feel his body trembling. “I didn’t hear from you last night or this morning, and you always text me when you get home on Fridays. Then you were crying so hard when I called….”

Your arms instinctively wrap around his waist as you bury your face into his shoulder and breathe in the familiar and comforting scent of cedarwood and vetiver, as well as something else that is uniquely Frankie. You nod.

“I’m okay. Really. I don’t know why I’m so emotional. Just…it was a weird night. I drank too much, and don’t really remember what even happened…” you murmur into the soft cotton of his light gray henley shirt. He quickly pulls back. The abrupt loss of his warmth makes your chest ache in the worst way, but he keeps his large hands firmly anchored on your shoulders.

“That’s not like you,” he says as he looks down at you….not with judgment, but a deep concern. “You don’t remember last night? At all?”

“No. Well, nothing after seeing you at the bar with…”

You trail off, tensing slightly. An awkward and suffocating tension suddenly settles in the air and you swallow hard. It is clear, in the unspoken space between both of you, exactly what you’re thinking. You look up into his eyes, searching for an answer you hope to find without having to ask the question out loud.

Frankie shifts slightly. His hands drop from your shoulders down to his sides, his expression turning unreadable as you reluctantly let go of him.

“I guess your night got better,” you say quietly. You wince the moment the words leave your mouth-words that you fully meant to keep locked inside of your mind but instead let fall clumsily from behind your lips.

“What do you mean?” He asks, raising an eyebrow at you.

“You and the blonde. You took her home,” you state, a poor attempt to appear nonchalant before your gaze drops to the floor. You find yourself unable to endure the look in his eyes for another second.

“What…?” his tone morphs into one of genuine confusion as he shifts his weight again from one foot to the other.

“Come on, Frankie,” you scoff lightly as you wrap your arms around yourself like a shield. “You thought I didn’t see you flirting with the blonde at the bar right before you disappeared?”

He lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “I didn’t take her home, actually. But why would it matter if I did?”

You freeze.

“I…j-just don’t want you to get hurt,” you stutter, the lie pathetically transparent even to yourself. You look back up at him just in time to see Frankie’s eyes narrow fractionally.

“I’m a grown man. I can make my own decisions and take care of myself.”

“I know.”

“So it doesn’t matter if I decide to go home with someone from the bar.”

“That isn’t like you,” you point out, turning defensive.

“No, I don’t usually do that,” he agrees carefully. “But if I want to, I can.”

“Yes. You can,” you concede, the fight draining from you as your voice drops to a barely audible whisper.

Frankie lets out a heavy exhale as he looks down at you. His eyes search your face for a truth you refuse to speak.

“I’m more concerned about you drinking so much you don’t remember anything. How did you get home?”

“I took an Uber,” you blurt out, the lie tasting like a bitter acid resting on your tongue. You feel your stomach turn.

He simply nods, his unfocused gaze drifting off as if he is suddenly plunged deep into thought.

Before he can interrogate you any further, you turn and motion for him to follow you into the living room. You sit on one end of the couch and he follows suit, sitting on the opposite side from you.

“So what was going on with you last night? I mean…you apologized for being an asshole, but…do you want to talk about it…?” you ask carefully. You try to tread lightly on what feels like a delicate topic to introduce into an already fragile discussion.

“I was just in a bad mood. That’s all.” He sits rigidly, his posture stiff and guarded- a far cry from the usual relaxed stance he has when he comes over to your place, sinking into the couch cushions like he belongs there.

“Did something happen?”

“Not exactly.”

You watch him for a moment, waiting for his elaboration, before realizing he was being intentionally vague and keeping a wall up between you. He clearly does not want to go further into any details, and you don’t want to press it.

“But you’re okay now, right? Everything is okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Okay.”

Frankie's hands rest on his thick thighs, his fingers tapping over the khaki covering his knees in an anxious, unnerved rhythm.

“You can relax, you know. The couch doesn’t bite,” you say in the same teasing and playful tone you always use with him.

He doesn’t laugh or smile. He doesn’t even look over at you.

“Frankie…?”

“What?”

“Talk to me. Please,” you plead, your chest suddenly tight from the cold and clinical distance between you- something you’ve never experienced with him before.

Frankie finally snaps his attention back to you, and you immediately see the pure exhaustion filling his dark brown eyes before his gaze drops down to his hands.

“I just….have a lot on my mind.”

“You know you can talk to me about anything, too,” you remind him softly, echoing his words on the phone back to him. You scoot over, slightly closer to his side of the couch.

“I know,” he rasps. A strange energy you’ve never felt around Frankie clings in the air. He clears his throat roughly.

“Did you drink so much because of me?” he asks suddenly. His head snaps up as he looks at you with a sharp and piercing intensity that is entirely foreign, leaving you taken aback.

“W…what? No, of course not!” Another lie. Fuck, you hate lying to him. You feel sick, completely disgusted with yourself for your cowardice and poor choices, but you are far too afraid to tell him the truth.

“I only ask because I know last night was kind of…weird and I wasn’t myself. We’ve been doing these Friday night hang-outs for seven years, and you’ve always been careful to not drink too much. So hearing you say you drank so much you don’t remember last night scares me. And it makes me angry at myself.”

“Angry at yourself…?” You tilt your head in confusion as you see a look of guilt wash over his face.

“You’re my best friend. If I had just stayed last night, seen that you had drank too much…I could have driven you home….”

“That isn’t your responsibility….I’m not your responsibility. I’m a grown woman. I can make my own decisions and take care of myself.”

He lets out a short, humorless huff at that- the way you took his own defensive words and threw them right back at him.

“That’s different,” he says gruffly, his voice sharper with a frustration sitting right under the surface. “And you know it.”

“Not really,” you challenge, leaning all the way back into the cushions as you watch him.

He looks away again and stares intensely at the floor. He swallows hard, the sound audible in the tense stillness of the room.

“You really think me taking someone home from the bar is the same as you drinking so much you don’t even remember the night, or coming home?”

“It’s….comparable,” you argue, though you are unable to even convince yourself. And you must certainly don’t convince Frankie, either.

“No. It’s not. And I went home alone anyway. You always talk about being careful to not drink too much, but you drank way more than you usually do….”

“Nothing happened,” you quickly interrupt, causing Frankie to sigh deeply in irritation.

“But it could have,” he replies, his voice rising louder.

“But it didn’t,” you argue back.

“But it could have,” he repeats, turning his body to fully face you. “And something apparently did happen last night.”

You carefully school your features, forcing your face to remain neutral, as you know that Frankie can read even your smallest micro-expressions.

“No,” you lie yet again, letting the word slowly roll off your tongue smoothly even though it makes bile rise up into your throat. “Nothing happened, except for being extremely hungover.”

Frankie studies you for what feels like an agonizingly long time before exhaling heavily, the tension in his shoulders finally relaxing a bit. You hold back a sigh of relief as he buys the lie and you push the guilty feelings deep down to address them at a later time.

“Do you want me to stay? I could make you something to eat,” he offers as the last remaining tension and frustration bleeds out of him.

“Do you want to stay?”

“Yes, I do,” he answers instantly.

“Good...because I don’t want you to leave.”

Frankie pushes himself up, standing with a slight grunt. “Let me at least make you some tea to make up for how I acted last night. I figure coffee is probably not appetizing right now.”

“Sounds good, thank you.” You give him a small smile as he heads into the kitchen.

You listen as he fills the tea kettle with water, moving deftly through your apartment with that practiced ease stemming from years of comfortable stays. The domestic, blissful nature of it is physically painful and you forcefully swallow your thoughts down before they can shatter you further.

As you hear Frankie open the cabinet next to the sink to grab a mug- no doubt your favorite one, the speckled clay mug with the emerald glaze- you get up, grabbing the purse you left haphazardly on the floor, and pull your phone back out to text Santiago as you promised.

You open your text thread with Santiago and stare at the screen for a moment as you sit back down.

The last message was from yesterday morning, before everything permanently derailed in one single, blurred night of too many shots and decisions born from unspoken feelings.

Santi: Wanted to let you know we are going to meet up at 7 instead of 8 tonight. Can’t wait to see you!

A quiet hiss escapes from your parted lips as you read it again. A strange feeling of mourning overwhelms you as you sit in the knowledge that things will inevitably change forever. Your next texts are crafted with nervous, bated breath.

I’m doing okay. Thank you again for everything.

You stare blankly at the screen for a few moments until you see the ‘read’ receipt appear, soon followed by the typing text bubbles. You feel your stomach twist violently into knots.

Santi: Good. No need to thank me. What are friends for?

A second passes. Another text pops up.

Santi: Fish there?

Yeah.

Santi: I know he will help. Text me if you need anything. Always.

Here it comes. The knot in your stomach pulls agonizingly tight and your hands start to shake as you type your next message.

I still don’t remember last night…but I wanted to let you know I’m not on the pill.

You hit send.

Swallowing hard, you quickly lock your phone and set it down face-first on the end table just as Frankie comes back into the living room. In his hand is your tea, in the speckled mug with the emerald glaze, with steam curling up into the air from around the rim.

You reach out and take the mug, giving him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes, and hope he assumes it is just the hangover.

Chapter Text

You hold the mug tightly in your trembling hands, the warmth seeping directly into your cold palms, as you glance over at your phone. You didn’t hear it vibrate. Maybe Santiago is busy and didn’t get the message. It’s the weekend, after all. And he most certainly wasn’t expecting that text you sent.

“Biscuit?” Frankie eyes you carefully, one dark eyebrow raising. “You seem distracted. Are you okay?”

“No, no. I mean…y-yes. I'm fine. Everything is fine,” you stutter. You know it has to be painfully obvious that you are wound up so tight you could snap at any moment, but you force a small smile and he doesn’t call you out on it. You take a sip of tea and swallow carefully, pursing your lips together as you try to steady yourself.

“Feel like eating now? We could go out and grab something, maybe? My treat,” he offers, and the guilt painfully knots up your stomach even more.

“Yeah, I think we sh…”

You are interrupted mid-sentence by a knock on the door-heavy, urgent, and echoing loudly in the otherwise quiet room. You jerk upright, eyes widening, and you immediately start to get up. Before you can stand up, however, Frankie puts a firm but gentle hand on your shoulder.

“Stay here, I’ve got it,” he says, getting up from his spot on the couch and heading to the door.

You put your mug down with a soft clink on the end table as you watch Frankie unlock it. Your heart immediately drops into your stomach as he swings the door open to reveal Santiago standing on your porch, a small plastic bag gripped tightly in his hand.

“Pope..? What are you doing here…?” Frankie asks, the surprise in his voice quickly shifting into a more guarded and even tone. He leans one forearm up against the door, shifting his large frame in a subtle attempt to block you from Santiago’s direct line of sight.

“Hey, Fish,” Santiago says casually, his jaw clenching slightly as his gaze darts over Frankie’s broad shoulder and locks in on yours. Your gaze falls briefly to the bag, your blood running cold at the sight; you instantly know what’s inside. As Frankie's eyes dart back and forth between you in confusion, you have a silent and panicked conversation with Santiago, communicating solely with your eyes.

“I was in the neighborhood and wanted to check in,” Santiago tears his gaze away from yours and turns his attention back to Frankie.

“And what’s in the bag?” Frankie inquires, a sharp hint of suspicion bleeding through his tone. For a split second he glances over his shoulder, back at you, before leveling his attention once more onto Santiago.

Your heart pounds so hard it roars in your ears, nearly deafening you. You give Santiago a desperate, pleading look, a silent ‘Help’ that you can tell he immediately understands.

“Advil and peppermint tea,” he lies smoothly, keeping his face completely neutral. “I knew she wasn’t feeling well.”

Frankie’s eyes narrow, a deep crease forming between his brows. “I’m sure she has both here,” he leans off the doorframe and stands up rigidly as he stares Santiago down, who adamantly refuses to back down or break eye contact.

You feel like you are both suffocating and drowning under the weight of the tension and can’t take it another second. You practically jump off the couch and run up behind Frankie, placing a grounding hand on his shoulder. You can immediately feel the heat and tension radiating off of him, and see the corded muscles of his back wound tight underneath his fitted henley.

“I asked him to bring the tea and Advil,” you lie, reaching around his side to grab the bag out of Santiago’s outstretched hand. As you stand there, your fingers tightly gripping the bag, the tension in the air becomes so thick and palpable you can barely breathe. You stare down at the floor for a moment, heart racing even faster, before taking a glance up.

Santiago’s face remains unreadable. All of his years of military training and field ops, learning how to keep cool under pressure, have kicked in. To anyone else he would more than likely seem indifferent. But Frankie has had the exact same training and, more importantly, an uncanny ability to read people better than anyone else you know. Especially if those people are his best friend and the man he considers a brother. His expression hardens into a look you can’t quite decipher.

“Um….can we talk outside, Santi?” You ask quietly.

You know this will fuel Frankie’s suspicions, but you can’t let Santiago leave without speaking face-to-face to him. He gives a curt nod, stepping off the porch and walking out to his car.

“I’ll be right back,” you tell Frankie, your fingers lightly brushing his forearm in a silent plea for a few minutes of patience, before you slip past him and follow Santiago to his car.

Frankie reluctantly heads back inside, shutting the heavy door behind you. You let out a shaky breath of pure relief when you hear it click shut.

“I’m sorry. I should have realized Fish would still be here…but I got your text and panicked…” Santiago immediately starts, his voice a low and raspy whisper. He glances warily at the closed apartment door before looking back at you.

“No, don’t apologize. Thank you for bringing it.”

“The sooner, the better, right?” He shoves his hands deep into his pockets, leaning his weight against the car door.

“Definitely," you nod in agreement. You move closer next to him until your shoulders bump together.

“I….searched the house,” he says, letting out a ragged sigh. “No condom wrappers anywhere. It didn’t look like any were missing from the box, either,” he pauses, his gaze flicking down as he shifts uncomfortably.

“I was pretty sure we didn’t use one,” you add quietly.

“Do you still not remember anything?”

“No, not a thing. I think it's safe to say we were so drunk we will never remember what happened.”

“I don’t either, and I think you're right,” Santiago’s dark gaze shifts back to your face. "I…uh…I’m careful, you know. This has never happened before. I’m clean, always test regularly to be safe….but I can go get tested again….” he stops, closing his eyes and grimacing with a look of self-hatred. “God. This is so uncomfortable, I know. I’m sorry.”

You turn to face him, shaking your head. “I know you, Santi. I’ve known you for seven years. I trust you. I wasn’t worried about that. I was only worried about getting pregnant. This was just…really bad timing.”

He nods, a heavy exhale escaping from his lips. His expression changes to one that is full of heavy, profound guilt, before you interrupt his thoughts.

“I’m clean, too. I haven’t even been with anyone in over a year…” You admit, suddenly feeling vulnerable and exposed. “But I can go get tested…”

“No. I trust you more than anyone else,” he states emphatically, dropping his head slightly. He pulls his hands roughly from his pockets, crossing his dark, muscular arms over his chest instead.

“Frankie knows something is up,” you blurt out.

Santiago nods. “He does. But I don’t think he suspects something like….this…happened.”

“He probably wouldn’t care anyway,” you suddenly offer up, entirely unprompted.

“You want him to.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Come on,” he says with a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “You think I don’t know after seven years?”

“Know what?” you feign ignorance-badly-as you look at a loose rock sitting near your foot and kick it across the driveway in a pathetic attempt to avoid looking at him.

“You’ve been pining for Frankie for years,” he answers with a soft scoff.

You feel your heart nearly stop. The terrifying truth is suddenly laid bare out into the open air, but you can’t acknowledge it. You refuse to. The thought alone is paralyzing.

“That’s ridiculous,” you retort in a calm voice that betrays how you truly feel inside.

“Oh, yeah?” Santiago challenges, leaning closer in to you. “Look me in the eyes and tell me I’m wrong, then.”

“You’re wrong,” you immediately counter, looking at him directly in the eyes and hoping he buys it. He matches your unwavering stare with his own as a long stretch of silence sits between both of you for what feels like hours.

“You’re a bad liar,” he finally breaks the silence and shakes his head, letting out a small huff of laughter.

You playfully elbow him in the ribs, the banter a welcome relief. “I know you did not just call me a liar, Santi!”

He laughs again, nudging your shoulder gently with his own, before mercifully letting the subject drop. “We will be okay,” he says softly, reassuringly, and you find yourself believing him. “Everything will be okay.”

You lean your head over on his shoulder and nod, closing your eyes for a moment to just relax and breathe.

“You better get going. Frankie is waiting,” he says after a few minutes of quiet reprieve.

You wrap your arms around him in a tight hug, both of you lingering a fraction longer than usual. The plastic bag crinkles audibly behind his back, serving as yet another reminder of last night’s transgression. You break away, giving him an apologetic look.

“Text me or call me if you need me,” Santiago reminds you as he opens the car door and climbs inside the driver’s seat.

“I will. I promise.”

He gives you a small smile before backing out and driving away. You stand in the parking lot, watching after him until his taillights disappear from sight, your thoughts a violent and chaotic whirlwind. You slowly turn around to head back inside.

You open the front door and find Frankie back on the couch, staring down at his phone. His brows are knitted tightly together and a subtle frown is etched on his face. He looks up when he hears the door click shut, his eyes instantly falling to the bag still clutched in your hand, before snapping back up to meet your gaze.

“Everything okay?” He slides his phone back into his pocket, his voice dropping to that soft, low register that never fails to make the breath hitch in your lungs.

“Yeah, everything is fine.” You set the bag down on the floor beside the end table before sitting back on the couch, trying to act casual, but you can immediately feel the tension from Santiago’s visit has only increased.

“Since when does Pope bring you tea and medicine?” Frankie asks. It isn’t overtly accusatory, but he says it slowly, methodically, as if he is trying to put together pieces of a puzzle that don’t quite fit.

“Since he knows I’m not feeling well,” you shrug, trying to project an image of indifference under the intense, burning scrutiny of his stare.

“Huh.”

Frankie doesn’t ask any other questions, but his rigid posture silently tells you that he doesn’t believe you.

“Still wanna go out to eat?” He finally asks, letting it go for the time being.

“Yeah, I feel like I could eat. Pizza? Chinese?”

“Whatever sounds the most appetizing to you,” Frankie stands up, grabbing his keys from off the coffee table.

“A cheesy pizza actually sounds pretty good,” you say, stretching your arms feignedly above your head. “I’ll just take this Advil and be right out.”

Frankie gives you a quick nod before heading out, shutting the door behind him.

The second you hear his truck start, the engine roaring loudly in the driveway, you snatch the plastic bag Santiago brought and rush straight into the kitchen. You quickly tear the bag open and pull out the box of plan B, your throat tightening as you look down at it. You quickly survey the door; it is still shut with the sound of Frankie’s truck idling outside. You turn back around and open the box. With trembling hands you rip the cardboard flap open and pull the blister package out, using your thumbnail to puncture the foil backing. You pop the small white pill out into your hand and immediately put it in your mouth, grabbing a glass off the counter and filling it with cold water before you take a big swig, tilting your head back slightly as you forcefully swallow it.

You place the box back into the bag, wrapping it carefully, and throw it in the trash before heading out. Frankie gives you a small smile as he watches you climb into the passenger side of his truck.

“So maybe pizza wasn’t such a good idea…” Frankie says as his large and warm hands rub soothing, rhythmic circles onto your back as you sit slumped over on the cold tile floor of your bathroom a few hours later.

“Maybe not…” You concede, resting your cheek on the cool porcelain lid of the toilet. Your eyelids grow heavy and flutter shut from pure exhaustion between the stress, the excessive drinking, and now a flood of hormones overwhelming your body.

“I can make some of that peppermint tea Pope brought?” He offers gingerly.

Your eyes suddenly snap open in pure, blinding panic.

“N..no. No. No tea,” you respond, a little too loud, a little too frantic.

Frankie stares down at you in confusion, his hand suddenly stilling on the middle of your back. “Why not? It would probably help settle your stomach a bit.”

You struggle to come up with a valid excuse on the spot as the nausea churning your stomach makes it nearly impossible to think straight.

“I don’t think I can even keep tea down right now,” you finally manage to weakly croak out, your eyes drifting shut again.

“Okay. That does it. I’m not leaving,” Frankie declares, his tone final and leaving no room for any argument. “Wrap your arms around me, Biscuit.”

You’re far too weak to protest, so you comply. He bends down, sliding one arm firmly behind the back of your knees and the other around your shoulders as he lifts you effortlessly in his arms, cradling you tightly to the solid wall of his chest as he carries you out of the bathroom and down the hall to your bedroom.

He lays you gently onto the mattress, pulling your soft, purple comforter up to your shoulders to cover you up.

“Be right back,” he whispers, leaving the room. You close your eyes and take a deep breath, your body instantly relaxing.

A few minutes later, you hear Frankie’s heavy tread thudding across the floorboards, followed by the rustling sound of plastic. You open your eyes just in time to see him place a plastic-lined trash can beside the bed. He sits down gently on the edge of the bed, the springs of the mattress bowing slightly under his weight.

“You don’t have to do this, Cat,” you say quietly, your voice thick with emotion.

“I want to,” he insists. He reaches out, his fingertips gently tucking a few loose strands of hair back behind your ear. His hand pauses, his palm cupping your jaw, as his thumb traces a gentle, sweeping pattern across your cheekbone.

You look up at him, your gaze softening, and you feel it. The shift.

It isn’t subtle. It isn’t gradual. The energy change is so intensely charged that you can feel it deep in your bones. Looking into the unguarded depths of his deep brown eyes is enough to deplete all of the oxygen from your lungs. He has never, in seven years, looked at you quite this way before.

It has to mean something….right?

Frankie slowly, agonizingly, lets his hand fall away from you, much to your silent and utter devastation. He clears his throat, looking over at the opposite side of the room.

“I can read a book to you, or we can watch something together. What would you prefer?”

“Read to me,” you answer, a faint grin passing over your lips.

“ I thought you would say that,” he chuckles. He stands up, walking over to your tall bookcase with every space crammed full, his fingers reverently tracing over the spines of the books assigned to the third shelf.

“ I didn’t even tell you want I wanted to hear yet,” you tease, leaning carefully to prop yourself up on your elbows.

“You don’t have to,” he says as his hand stops on a familiar and well-worn spine, carefully pulling the book out.

As he brings it over, settling on to the mattress once more, you lay back down into the pillows. You catch a glimpse of the book cover before looking back at him with a wider smile.

The Poetry of Pablo Neruda.

Your favorite.

Frankie clears his throat, opening to a seemingly random page, as his dark eyes begin scanning the printed text. He begins to read 'Tonight I Can Write (the Saddest Lines).'

His rich, gravelly voice vibrates through his chest before penetrating the quiet air of your bedroom. It soothes you and makes your heart race wildly at the same time. His index finger gingerly presses into the book, gliding slowly along the words as he reads them out loud, bringing them to life.

“Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

Write, for example, ‘The night is starry

And the stars are blue and shiver in the distance.’

The night wind revolves in the sky and sings.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

Through nights like this one I held her in my arms.

I kissed her again and again under the endless sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her too.

How could one not have loved her great still eyes.

Tonight I can write the saddest lines.

To think that I do not have her. To feel that I have lost her.”

He pauses there. His eyes flick up from the page, locking onto yours in a fleeting second of vulnerability, before he drops his gaze back down to the ink and continues reading.

“To hear the immense night, still more immense without her.

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

What does it matter that my love could not keep her.

The night is starry and she is not with me.

This is all. In the distance someone is singing. In the distance.

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

My sight tries to find her as though to bring her closer.

My heart looks for her, and she is not with me.

The same night whitening the same trees.

We, of that time, are no longer the same.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but how I loved her.

My voice tried to find the wind to touch her hearing.

Another’s. She will be another’s. As she was before my kisses.

Her voice, her bright body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, that’s certain, but maybe I love her.

Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

Because through nights like this one I held her in my arms

My soul is not satisfied that it has lost her.

Though this be the last pain that she makes me suffer

And these the last verses that I write for her.”

Frankie’s voice catches and cracks ever so slightly on the last line. He falls completely silent, staring at the page blankly as the words of the poem now live in the space surrounding you,

“Cat?”

“Yeah?” He says softly, still not yet looking up from the book as it rests carefully in his hands.

“Did you like that one?”

“Yes. And also…no,” he flips casually to another page, but you can see the raw emotion building steadily in his gaze. “Loving that deeply and losing it. It must be a living hell.”

You study his profile, rolling onto your side. You pull the comforter higher, up under your chin, as you rest your cheek on your hand.

“It must be. Maybe it is cliché, but it is better to have love and lost, then never to have loved at all, right?”

“Is it, though?”

“I think so,” you answer quietly, thoughtfully. “I think I’d take comfort in knowing I risked it all and tried my best to make it work. To make love work. But not ever trying? How do you live with that? The ‘what ifs’?”

“How do you go on? After being in love, giving it your all, just to lose it in the end?” He counters, his voice suddenly thick. “Could you imagine trying to live with that hurt for the rest of your life? Knowing you lost the only person you ever loved…ever could love?”

“It sounds like you’ve thought about this a lot,” you observe, your heart suddenly beating a frantic rhythm.

“Maybe I have.” He flips to another page, pretending to peruse the next poem, but his eyes don’t drift across the page and instead remain steadily locked in place.

“About anyone in particular…?” You ask, your voice dropping to a faint whisper as you anticipate an answer that could easily shatter your heart in a mere second.

“Possibly. But it doesn’t matter.”

“Why not?” You press delicately.

“Because….theoretically….I know I’d end up in that exact same scenario if I ever tried. That poem would be my nightmare come true.”

“That isn’t true, Frankie. You’re too hard on yourself.”

He clears his throat and suddenly shuts the book. “Rest. I’m right here, and I’m not going anywhere.”

The finality of his voice tells you this conversation has come to a conclusion whether you like it or not. You watch him for a few more moments until your eyelids grow too heavy and exhaustion pulls you under.

Six months.

In just a mere six months, you had gone from total strangers, to casual acquaintances, to best friends.

You had plenty of friends in your life-some casual, some close-but it was rare to find someone you instantly and effortlessly ‘clicked’ with. Someone you felt at ease with, sliding into the deepest of conversations from the very beginning. As if you were long-lost friends catching up after what felt like a lifetime apart, instead of politely learning each other’s likes and dislikes, quirks, and personality differences.

Frankie was that one you just clicked with.

You stood together in the crowded coffee shop, shifting your weight from one foot to the other, as you adjusted the heavy purse strap on your left shoulder.

Frankie tilted his head down to look at you, catching the slight wince that crossed your face. “Purse too heavy?” He asked before taking a quick peek at the menu board.

“Yeah, it’s killing my shoulder,” you groaned, leaning your head back and rolling it to the side to try and ease the tension in your neck. Before you could adjust your purse again, Frankie slid the strap down your arm and up his own, letting it rest on his broad shoulder.

“Frankie, you don’t have to do that,” you protested, reaching for it. But he shook his head, turning just out of your reach.

“I can give your shoulder a break. Plus, I think I look good with it,” he leaned over, playfully admiring the black leather purse as it rested against his hip.

“You are rocking it,” you agreed with a nod as a wide smile broke out across your face.

“Maybe I’ll get one, start a new trend,” he joked as he adjusted the strap. “But I will definitely keep it lighter. What do you have in here, anyway?”

“Books,” you answered.

The skeptical look on Frankie’s face made it clear that he didn’t believe you. “Are you sure it’s not a bowling ball?” He asked, completely serious, causing you to burst out laughing.

“I’m sure. I went to the library first thing this morning.”

“Find anything good?”

“Yes!” You exclaimed excitedly. “You can take a peek, if you want.”

Frankie unzipped the purse and peered inside, thumbing over the books.

“The Poetry of Pablo Neruda,” he read out loud, his eyebrows raising slightly. “That’s a good one.”

“You’ve read his works?” you asked, genuine surprise in your voice.

“You think just because I’m a pilot, I don’t enjoy reading some good poetry once in a while?” He looked at you as he feigned offense. “That’s hurtful.”

“I’ll admit I misjudged,” you throw your hands up in defeat, giggling.

Frankie grinned. He let out a chuckle-a deep, reverberating sound that made your heart race in a way it never had before. “I’ll take that as an apology, then. But this one is good, you need to actually own a copy instead of just borrowing it.”

“I’ll probably buy it at some point,” you replied as the line moved forward.

As you reached the counter and placed your coffee order-Frankie’s plain black, yours an iced mocha with extra chocolate drizzle- he scrunched his nose in disgust.

“I don’t know how you drink those. Way too much sugar,” he teased with a sparkle in his gaze.

“Hey, I only drink them on special occasions!” you replied defensively, swatting at the air in his direction.

“So morning coffee with me is a special occasion?” He gave you a smug grin of victory.

“Don’t get cocky, Morales,” you playfully rolled your eyes. “The coffee shop itself is the special occasion.”

You’re so distracted laughing with Frankie that you didn’t even realize the barista forgot the extra drizzle on top until you both sat down at what was now your usual table by the window.

“No extra chocolate drizzle?” You sigh in quiet disappointment before taking a small sip through your straw.

“That’s not enough chocolate for you??” Frankie exclaimed in total and exaggerated disbelief with a hint of amusement dancing under the surface.

“There’s no such thing as too much chocolate,” you declared firmly as you took your purse back and laid the poetry book on the table in front of him.

As you settled into your chair, he flipped carefully through the book, picking up his mug of coffee with his free hand. He paused, his hand stilling on the page with ‘Tonight I Can Write (the Saddest Lines)’.

Unbeknownst to you, he briefly glanced up at you with something unspoken in his eyes before continuing to browse through the poems in silence.

Chapter Text

Life goes on, right?

Frankie briefly went home to get some clothes and toiletries before coming back to stay with you for the rest of the weekend, fully embracing his newfound role of caretaker with ease. The tension that had lingered between you finally evaporated as neither of you mentioned Friday night anymore and fell seamlessly back into the normalcy of your friendship. But that didn’t stop the lingering guilt, especially every time you were texting with Santiago while Frankie was there.

By the time Monday rolled around you felt back to normal, but he insisted on staying a few more days…just to be sure.

He makes you your favorite tea, steeping it an extra minute so it's extra strong, and adds in a splash of unsweetened vanilla almond milk. Just the way you love.

He brings you breakfast in bed-fluffy, golden scrambled eggs topped with cheese, extra crispy bacon-and he even runs to the store when he sees you’re out of potatoes to make you hash browns.

All of it makes something in your chest tighten and twist as it eats away at you, silently torturing you. You come close to blurting out the truth on more than one occasion just to selfishly finally feel some much-needed relief from keeping this secret locked inside.

Would Frankie still be doing all of this if he knew you and Santiago had fucked?

Your agonizing thoughts consume and occupy every space of your mind. You hate to admit that part of you hopes he would care, because maybe it would mean your feelings are reciprocated. That maybe Frankie saw you as more than just a friend. But at the same time, conflicting and warring together, is the thought that if Frankie did actually feel the same way, he would be hurt. The thought of hurting him was enough to destroy you in a way you could never be put back together again.

Yet if Frankie was truly indifferent, and your feelings all of this time had been unrequited? You can’t even stomach the thought without feeling a fresh wave of nausea grip your stomach in a painful vice.

You find yourself constantly replaying the moment he cupped your face, the way he brushed your hair behind your ear, and how it felt like he wanted to kiss you. The way he read that poem and spoke about it afterward like it meant something, the implication sitting underneath the surface…it felt real in a way that couldn’t be written off as wishful thinking. And you want to finally tell him the truth that has lived in your heart and soul for every day for almost seven years-that you are hopelessly in love with him.

You sat on the couch together Monday night, less space than usual between you, after putting a DVD on.

“You know, I haven’t seen Airplane! since I was a kid,” Frankie said as he put a bowl of popcorn in his lap, grabbing a few pieces and popping them in his mouth.

“What? Surely you can’t be serious?” You grinned as you held the remote out, flipping through the DVD menu until you reached ‘play’.

“I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley,” He quoted back without missing a beat as he grabbed another handful of popcorn and tossed it in his mouth, a brilliant smile illuminating his face as the crinkles by his eyes deepened.

You both burst out in a fit of laughter as the movie started to play. Frankie’s hand flew up to his mouth as he nearly spit his popcorn back out, leaning over the bowl as his shoulders shook from the force of his laugh. As your giggle faded, you watched him with soft eyes, struggling to even look at the TV. You subconsciously moved closer, your knee barely grazing his.

For a brief, fleeting moment, you almost told him.

On Tuesday morning, you woke up early. You brewed a pot of coffee and poured a cup for him. You carefully walked into the living room and put the mug down on the coffee table.

You found Frankie still sound asleep on the couch, a hand tucked securely under his pillow. His lips were slightly parted with a light snore slipping out between each soft breath. One dark curl, in particular, was rebelliously flipped outward and rested just above his eyebrow. He must have sensed your presence because soon he started to stir, one eye squinting up at you.

“Morning, Biscuit,” he said in a husky, deep voice laced with the remnants of sleep as he saw the coffee and smiled tenderly up at you. Your stomach flipped and your heart leapt into your throat as you smiled back. The thought of waking up to that voice and that face every single day for the rest of your life immediately flooded your mind.

You almost told him then.

On Tuesday afternoon, you and Frankie went out to eat, sitting at an outdoor patio table at your favorite fast-food restaurant to enjoy the exceptionally warm and sunny day.

“The burgers here are so fucking good it’s actually stupid,” Frankie groans happily as he leans forward in his chair and takes another huge bite, ketchup dripping down his chin and sticking to the thick, wiry hairs of his patchy beard.

“Right?!” you mumbled, your mouth full, as you dug through the bag of fries on your tray. You swallowed the bite of burger and immediately let out a sudden, loud fit of laughter as you pulled a fry out from the bottom of your bag.

“Holy shit, look how big this fry is!” You exclaimed, holding it out and turning it around in front of him in amused wonderment.

“Damn, you hit the jackpot!” Frankie grabbed the fry to examine it for a moment. “It’s almost twice as wide as your face!” He leaned forward and held the fry out in front of you, jokingly measuring the length of it in comparison to your face, and his fingers brushed slightly against the corner of your lips.

You almost told him then.

On Tuesday night you stood at the bathroom sink as you brushed your teeth, freshly showered with your hair still dripping wet, leaving droplets of water on your thick cotton robe.

Frankie knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the walls.

“Come in,” you mumbled, spitting out the excess toothpaste that filled your mouth into the sink right as the door creaked open.

He walked in, wearing dark blue, plaid patterned pj pants and that faded Fleetwood Mac shirt he’s had for years. The one that’s so well-worn it has a small hole on the seam of one shoulder and another at the bottom of the hem, but he refuses to get rid of it. It’s his favorite and yours, too.

His hair was slicked back, still slightly damp from his own shower, and he set a small, square container of floss on the edge of the sink. “You ran out,” he explained as you turned the sink on to rinse your mouth.

“Fuck, I forgot to grab it…” You picked up a hand towel folded haphazardly on the sink and wiped your face. “Thanks, Cat.”

“Anything for my Biscuit,” he gave you a lopsided grin as he left, closing the door behind him with a faint click.

Before he shut the door, you almost told him.

You woke up Wednesday morning lying flat on your stomach, groaning slightly as you blindly reached for your phone on the nightstand. Once you made contact with the cool glass you wrapped your fingers around it and picked it up, blinking rapidly as your eyes adjusted to the light to check the time- 7:43 a.m.

You see a text notification and unlocked your phone with a click, opening up the texting app and expecting the message to be from Santiago, or maybe even a few messages in the group chat you have with the guys.

Your eyebrows instinctively rose when you saw it was Frankie.

You clicked on his name, opening the long texting thread between you.

Cat🐱🐠: Look what I just found! 😂

Underneath the text, sent a mere twenty minutes prior, was a meme.

It was a still image from Airplane!, of Dr. Rumack, with a thought bubble to the side of his head that read ‘Who am I kidding? Deep down inside, I’ve always been a Shirley.”

You let out a loud snort as you rolled over onto your back and started typing.

Are you really texting me from my living room?

He immediately starts typing back.

Cat🐱🐠: Yes. Yes, I am.

You dork.

Cat🐱🐠: It seemed imperative to share it as soon as possible. What better way than to have it there and ready when you woke up?

Cat🐱🐠: Are you hungry?

Starving.

You waited a minute for Frankie to start typing, but then your bedroom door creaked open.

“Want pancakes?” He stood there against the doorframe looking at you with those soft brown eyes.

You looked up, a wide smile on your face.

“Yes, with…”

“Blueberries,” he interjected, smirking with a gleam in his eyes.

You simply nodded, watching him turn to leave.

As you heard the sound of a pan being placed on the stove and bowls being pulled down from the kitchen cabinets and set on the counter in preparation of breakfast, you look down at your text thread, still open.

You looked at the meme, chuckling again, before you glanced up at his contact photo; that picture of him leaned over laughing on the couch during Ben’s birthday party.

I love you, Frankie.

You typed the words that have sat uselessly behind your lips for nearly seven years, the ones you’ve been too afraid to say out loud…just to see them. To let yourself imagine for just a fleeting second…

You erased the message, leaving your phone by the pillow as you left to make breakfast with Frankie.

By Wednesday evening, Frankie starts to leave. He stands on your porch in front of the door’s threshold with his duffel bag hanging loosely at his side.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I can stay longer….” He offers, rubbing the back of his neck.

You want to tell him yes, that you want him to stay, but you don’t. “I’m feeling much better, honestly. Plus, I gotta get back to work tomorrow.”

“Right, right.” He straightens upright and runs a hand through his messy curls.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Cat,” you say sincerely, reaching out and gingerly placing your hand on his arm. His gaze meets yours, and you feel that same shift you felt when he read you the poem.

There have been so many moments in the last seven years where you wanted to tell Frankie that you were in love with him. Hell, there have been so many moments in the last few days you wanted to tell him. But you'll never know what things could be like if you don’t say it, if you don’t try. And maybe every day can be like this past week has been if you do.

This is it. This is the time.

You swallow hard, your heart thudding so rapidly in your chest you can see each beat around the border of your vision.

“Frankie, I have to tell you something,” you begin, your voice audibly trembling. “I’m in…”

His eyes widen as he rapidly searches yours, and a look of panic floods his features as he seems to realize what you’re about to confess to.

He interrupts you.

“I really should get going. And no need to thank me for taking care of you; it’s no problem. I’d be a shitty friend if I didn’t. I mean, you’re practically my sister, after all.”

The second those words leave his lips you pull your hand back, a bit too abruptly, as if that simple touch, that connection, burns your skin.

Sister.

Your breathing shifts, fracturing into quick, sharp inhalations and shaky exhales. You stare at him, wide-eyed and completely frozen in place, as your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

Never, in seven years, has Frankie referred to you as his sister. Not even once.

“S-sister…?” you finally blurt out, your voice pitching so high it cracks. You search his eyes in desperation, hoping to see something…anything…that tells you it isn’t true. It can’t be. But Frankie’s expression is neutral, entirely devoid of any signs of conflicting emotions.

 “Are you feeling sick again? You look pale,” Frankie frowns, reaching his hand out to touch your forehead but you take a rough step backward, moving just out of his reach before he can get too close, to put as much distance between you as physically possible. His hand hovers awkwardly in the empty space between you for a moment before slowly dropping back to his side.

“I’m fine, Francisco. You can go.” The words come out rough, calloused, as you cross your arms over your chest and bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the tears that threaten to fill your eyes.

You see the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the shadowing over his gaze. It looks like he wants to say something, a muscle tightening in his jaw, but he simply nods instead.

Frankie steps off your porch and walks to his truck, opening the door and falling into the seat. As he starts his truck, you watch him, your hand gripping the front door so tight your knuckles blanch pure white. He backs out of the driveway and drives off without a single glance at you.

You slam the door with an echoing thud, and the tears that immediately follow threaten to pull you under and drown you. At this point, you think you would welcome such a fate.

You show up at the office the next morning looking perfectly composed. On the outside, you look polished and professional; a façade that no one else would be able to see through.

On the inside?

You feel dead. Completely dead.

You stop by the break room to get a cup of coffee, grabbing a mug from inside the top cabinet and absent-mindedly pouring from the carafe. You hope to muster enough energy to get through the day because you are sure you didn’t sleep a single minute all night. You tossed and turned from side to side, struggling to find a comfortable position, but it was useless anyway when your mind was in so much turmoil.

You ended up spending most of the night looking through photos of you and Frankie together, as well as texts you’ve shared, all the while silently chastising yourself for doing so.

'I mean, you’re practically my sister, after all.'

His words have not stopped echoing through your mind since the moment he spoke them into existence, cruelly mocking you and shattering every hope and dream you have held for the last seven years. No, not just shattered…dead.

You spent seven years longing after Frankie, wistful and hopeful, but ultimately too afraid to put yourself out there. What if you had misinterpreted his friendship? What if it was unrequited? What if you just lost his friendship and subsequently all of him afterward?

After the past week, and the moment that really emboldened you-when he looked at you in that way like he wanted to kiss you and talked about that poem…you were finally brave enough to tell him. But you couldn’t even get the words out before he put up a wall between you. One that confirmed your biggest fear; it was all in your head this whole time.

And then today was the first day he didn’t text you good morning.

“Hey, good to have you back!” A loud, booming voice coming up from behind you startles you, causing you to near tip your mug over. “Feeling better?”

Before you can even turn around, Alex appears at your side with a bright smile, leaning casually against the counter.

“Hey,” you manage a small, cordial smile as you reach past him and grab the creamer sitting out, pouring a splash into your mug and grabbing a stirrer, swirling it through your coffee. “I am better, thanks for asking.”

Alex, who sits across from you and is five years your junior, is the ideal co-worker-friendly, enthusiastic, competent, and eternally cheerful. At over six feet tall, with a warm olive complexion, light hazel eyes, and side-swept, jet-black hair, he is traditionally handsome. To most, he would be eye-catching. But to you? He isn’t Frankie Morales.

Normally you enjoy the casual morning chats at work in the break room, but the exuberant energy he exhibits is far too much for your nervous system this morning. Truthfully the last thing you feel like doing right now is socializing in any capacity.

“Glad to hear it,” he responds, taking a sip of his own coffee. “We have been struggling without you. Did you have one of those bugs going around, or something?”

“Yeah, something like that,” you mutter, tossing the coffee stirrer into the trash can.

“Well, hey…tomorrow is Friday. Got any weekend plans?”

Your hand stills, mug halfway to your lips, at the question.

You have never, in seven years, missed out on a Friday night with the guys. Even once you were no longer active duty, instead taking on a new position as an OSINT Analyst, the camaraderie and strong bond you had forged with the men you’ve always considered your brothers was sacred.

Until you fucked up, and fucked Santiago.

And stupidly fell in love with Frankie, who doesn’t even love you back.

How can you possibly go back to the bar and sit there at that same table, drinking beer and shooting the breeze with them after you drunkenly fucked Santiago? And Frankie didn’t take the blonde from last week home…but what if he takes someone home tomorrow night? He’s a grown man who can make his own decisions, and if he wants to take someone home he can, as he painfully pointed out to you.

You can’t handle that thought anymore.

“No, no plans,” you reply as you turned around, your hip resting against the corner of the counter. “I think I'll stay home and rest. How about you?”

“No plans here, either. But, hey…if you decide you want to do something, maybe I could take you out for coffee?” Alex propositions, and your eyebrows raise slightly in surprise.

“Oh..um. Maybe. It depends on how I’m feeling, honestly. I’ll let you know,” you say measuredly. “But I better get back to work. I have so much to catch up on, you know.”

He gives you a nod and a bright smile as you walk out and head back to your desk, gripping your mug tightly. You sit down in your chair with a heartbroken and exhausted sigh. Before you even look at your computer you grab your phone and see no new notifications. Still no text from Frankie.

You open up your text thread with Santiago and type a quick message.

I’m not gonna be able to make it tomorrow night. I hope you guys have fun.

You click your phone off and force yourself to work.

Data evaluation. Intelligence reports. Briefings. Zero focus.

You are on autopilot for the duration of the day, unable to fully concentrate. Your vision blurs at the edges and the words on the papers in front of you bleed together. The rest of the day is slow and torturous, and the ambient noise of the office- the clacking of keys on keyboards, the hum of constant chattering, and phones ringing-is nothing short of irritating.

Once it hits 5, you can’t leave fast enough. You head out to your car, grabbing your phone before even touching your keys.

No text from Frankie.

Your heart sinks as you sigh, opening up your latest notification.

Santi: Are you okay? Is something wrong? Is it lingering side effects from the plan B?

You debate on what to write back, eventually settling on a safe excuse.

I feel like I’m coming down with something. But I’m okay. Thank you for asking.

You head home, exhausted and emotionally spent.

Friday morning finds you no better: in fact, you feel even worse. You think you managed to sleep an hour or two, at least.

Your heart sinks a little further when you see there’s still no text from Frankie. You briefly consider texting him, but you change your mind, deciding against it. What would you even say?

Sister.

You keep hearing the word over and over and it feels more poisonous each time. It sits like a dead weight in the center of your chest, sharp yet aching at the same time.

You open up your contact list and click on Sarah’s page, dialing her number. You turn on your left side in bed, holding the phone to your ear. After two rings, she picks up.

“My God! You’re alive?!” She exclaims jokingly. “I haven’t heard from you in over a week!”

You let out a faint chuckle. “I know, I know. I’ve been the worst at communicating lately. But things have been…crazy. How are you?”

“Good, just busy. Work has been crazy. Apparently everyone in town needed their dogs groomed during the same week,” she laughs, and you can hear a cabinet door shutting. “But you said things have been crazy. What happened?”

“Frankie came over last weekend and stayed for half of the week,” you say carefully, rolling over onto your back and looking up at the ceiling as you debate on what to divulge. Sarah has been one of your closest friends since Kindergarten and you know she can keep a secret, but telling her what happened with Santiago feels wrong.

“Seriously??” She asks, a hint of excitement shifting her voice to a higher pitch. “Tell me everything!”

“I drank too much last weekend and things got kinda weird. He was worried and came over to check on me. When I got sick, he decided to stay and take care of me. He even made me breakfast in bed, brewed my tea the way I love, read me poetry…”

“Shut up, that’s so fucking sweet!” Sarah interjects, the sound of coffee pouring into a mug faintly filtering through the receiver.

“I finally decided to tell him how I feel.”

“What?!?” She practically screams into your ear, causing you to instinctively pull the phone away for a moment. “Wait, what did he say?!”

“Before I could even say it, he interrupted me and said I was practically his sister.”

The line suddenly goes so silent that you pull your phone back for a second again, this time to make sure the call didn’t disconnect.

“He. Did. Not.” She snarls, huffing into the phone.

“He did. And he hasn’t talked to me since he left Wednesday.” Your voice cracks a bit as you struggle to keep yourself together.

“That fucking dick! He is such a liar!” Sarah rants, abandoning her coffee as she paces back and forth in the kitchen.

“I don’t think he was lying. He knew what I was going to say. If he felt the same way, why would he say that?”

“Because he is a fucking COWARD!!” She shouts as she continues to pace. “I don’t know what his dumbass reasoning for lying is, but I’ve been around the two of you enough to see it. If that’s how he looks at his sister? That’s fucking illegal.”

You can’t help but laugh at that.

“I don’t know, maybe we're both wrong.”

Sarah snorts. “Please. If, somehow, we were wrong and Frankie isn’t in love with you I’ll eat my fucking shoes.”

You laugh harder.

“I love you.”

“And I love you. I gotta go, but if Frankie needs his ass kicked you know I’ll happily oblige.”

You hang up, still laughing to yourself, now feeling better prepared to handle the day. Thankfully it's almost the weekend. 

The bar on Friday night is busier than normal; the music is more shrill and the people are louder.

The usual table that you always sit at with the guys is filled...with the exception of your empty seat. Will, Ben, and Tom are chatting away, obliviously laughing at a joke Ben told that neither Santiago or Frankie hear.

“So she really isn’t coming tonight?” Will asks, glancing across the table at Santiago.

“No. She said she thought she was getting sick,” Santiago replies so quietly his voice is barely audible over the loud chatter and laughter surrounding them. “I’m texting her now to check on her. Might stop by her place after this.”

Frankie hadn’t said a single word all night as he sat slumped over his beer and staring off at nothing in particular. When Santiago grabs his phone and starts texting you, however, Frankie suddenly snaps into focus. A scowl appears on his face as he watches him.

“You two are getting really close,” Frankie utters with a roll of his eyes, taking another swig of beer.

Santiago’s eyes drift up to him, one eyebrow cocked. “I don’t know what you mean, man.”

“Yeah, you do,” Frankie asserts sharply, the tension radiating off of him in waves. “You show up to her place to bring her medicine and tea, and now you’re suddenly texting her all the fucking time.”

“What are you trying to say, Fish?” Santiago leans back in his chair nonchalantly. "I can't text a friend? Or help her when she's sick?"

“You know exactly what I am saying,” Frankie grits out, his voice suddenly lower and less controlled.

The two of them glare at each other in a silent challenge.

“Whatever the fuck you guys are doing, you can stop.” Tom barks out, sensing the growing hostility between them starting to escalate. “Right now.”

Santiago looks back at his phone and continues to text you, a small smile on his face.

Frankie straightens upright, his shoulders and back tensing as he watches intently, his gaze shifting from Santiago to his phone. “What are you saying to her?” He demands, his ire clearly rising.

“None of your business,” Santiago retorts without looking up as his phone chimes with a text notification.

Frankie’s brows furrow and his nostrils flare as he grips his beer bottle so tight it nearly shatters in his hand. He can't take another second.

“Fuck this. I’m out.” He stands up abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over, as he reaches in the pocket of his jeans and tosses a set of crumpled bills onto the table. Santiago watches him with a hardened stare. 

Without another word Frankie grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and walks out of the bar, slamming the door open as he goes.

Will, Ben, and Tom look at each other in quiet bewilderment as Santiago stares ahead, a muscle feathering violently in his jaw as he grips his phone tighter.

Chapter Text

Life without Frankie feels strange.

And completely, utterly empty.

It’s been a few weeks and you haven’t heard from him. He doesn’t text you ‘Morning, Biscuit. ☀️☕️’ anymore. That’s what you miss the most, you think. Truthfully, you loved those morning texts so much you’d often think about them before falling asleep.

He doesn’t call anymore, nor does he come by.

You notice his absence in these sudden, jarring moments as you walk through your apartment sometimes- memories triggered by something innocent and innocuous. Like when you were vacuuming two days ago, moving the coffee table out of the way, and your thumb rested against the corner where the marble swirl pattern had a defect. Frankie always joked that it looked like a smiley face etched into the tabletop. And when you saw your thumb resting over that exact spot, the corner of the table slipped from your grip and you couldn’t breathe.

And sometimes those moments are a direct assault on your senses. Like when you did laundry a few days after he left and you grabbed the towels he had used, still hanging over the shower curtain, and smelled him. Cedarwood and vetiver, as well as something else that was uniquely Frankie. It was the scent that enveloped you in comfort in every embrace for seven years, but in that moment it made an ugly sob tear painfully from your throat.

He has been a staple in your life for all of these years and now he is suddenly…gone. No explanation, no reason. The grief comes in waves, but it lives in every corner of every room waiting.

You force yourself to live in survival mode because you don't know how to give more of yourself right now.

You hadn’t gone to the bar the past few weeks, but as another Friday approaches, dread and anxiety settle heavily into the pit of your stomach with a deep ache. You start to feel sick at the mere thought of going-in equal measure of seeing and not seeing Frankie in his usual spot.

On Thursday night you sit propped up in bed, The Poetry of Pablo Neruda resting in your lap. Your hands rest on a page you have read at least a dozen times by now without seeing a single word, when your phone suddenly vibrates beside you.

You don’t get hopeful that it’s Frankie, not like you did those first few days apart. It’s never him anymore.

You look over at the glowing screen and see that it’s Santiago. You quickly answer.

“Hey, Santi,” you greet him casually, even though you feel anything but. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to check on you, Starshine.” He sounds guarded. “None of us have heard from you in a few days…”

“I’m okay. I’ve just been busy with work.” It’s not a lie, technically; work has been busier than usual. But, truthfully, you haven't been in the right head space to talk to anyone.

“Good, that’s a relief, I’ve been worried,” he pauses, clearing his throat. “Will you be coming tomorrow night?”

“Will Frankie be there?” The words slip out of your mouth unintentionally, almost as if it’s a reflex that you can’t control.

Santiago is quiet for several seconds. You can hear the slight change in his voice immediately. Lower, almost cold. “Probably not.”

“Have you talked to him, Santi?” You can't stop yourself. You have to ask. You have to know.

“No.”

“No…?” You echo back, your brows knitting tightly together as you shut the book and place it carefully on the nightstand.

“No,” he repeats. His tone is clipped, offering absolutely no further commentary or explanation, and is completely devoid of his usual easy-going nature.

You know you should probably let it go. But you can’t. Because it’s Frankie. “Did something happen?” you ask gingerly, your fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of your comforter.

“Just Frankie being Frankie,” he says, a subtle shift in his voice that borders on sarcasm. You can hear a short, frustrated huff of breath through the receiver.

You continue your interrogation as a wave of fear nearly paralyzes you. “What about Ben? Has he talked to him recently? I know he had a fight last weekend…”

“No.”

“Santi…”

A heavy silence stretches between the two of you for an agonizingly long time before you finally break it.

“He stopped talking to me,” you admit, your voice trembling ever so slightly as you fight a losing battle to keep yourself together.

Santiago softens slightly at that. “Since when?” he asks gently.

“Since he left after staying and taking care of me when I was sick from…the plan B. I haven’t heard from him at all.”

“I see,” Santiago pauses for a moment, the faint static of the line filtering through the phone. “Well, he didn’t show up last Friday and none of us have heard from him.”

You sit up straighter, your grip on the phone tightening. “No one has heard from him…?”

“No. You know how he gets sometimes, though. All broody and shit.” He says it so calmly and nonchalantly, but your stomach suddenly feels sicker. Frankie not talking to you was one thing…but not talking to the men he has considered his brothers for nearly two decades was another matter entirely.

“I caused this,” you whisper in a fractured voice. “It’s my fault.”

“Your fault…?” he asks, concern and confusion lacing into his words. “What do you mean? What's your fault?”

“When he left my apartment, I tried telling him,” the confession starts pouring from you and you are utterly helpless to stop it. “I tried telling him I’m in love with him, Santi. I couldn't even get the words out before he stopped me. He told me that he'd be a shitty friend if he didn't take care of me, because I was practically his sister.”

“What…?” He suddenly shifts from concern to a stunned anger that radiates through the phone. “He said what?”

“He disappeared right after that. I ruined everything.” A few tears fall down your face and you quickly wipe them away with the back of your hand. “I was such an idiot for thinking he felt the same way.”

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.” Santiago murmurs. “But don’t you fucking dare say that about yourself. If he doesn’t feel the same way, then he is the idiot. His loss.”

“That’s sweet of you to say,” you say with a sad smile. “Thank you, Santi. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Good.” He hesitates for a moment. “Can’t wait to see you,” he adds quietly, almost as if he is afraid to say it.

“I can’t wait to see you, either. I’ve missed you guys.”

His voice comes through much quieter. “Yeah…” He lets out a small sigh. “We have missed you too. See you tomorrow. Text me if you need me.”

“Always.”

You quickly hang up and hold your phone with trembling hands. After a moment, you click on Frankie’s contact listing and your thumb hovers over the ‘call’ button. You debate on tapping it. But when you think of how no one has heard from him and he didn’t go to the bar last week, you have to make sure he is okay. If he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings, fine. But you have to know if he is okay. You have to. You click to dial his number and bring the phone to your ear. The shaking in your hands becomes violent as you hear the line trilling through the speaker.

After several rings, the call goes to voicemail.

You hang up and immediately dial again.

This time, it goes to voicemail after only two rings.

He declined the call.

Friday is off to a terrible start.

You wake up to a horrifying wave of nausea the moment your feet touch the floor, your stomach churning violently as a cold sweat breaks out across your forehead.

“Oh, God…” you groan, one hand flying up to cover your mouth as you run to the bathroom. You drop to your knees and throw the toilet lid up just in time to fully empty your stomach contents through waves of violent heaving and gagging that leave you gasping for air afterward. You flush the toilet and close the lid, resting your burning face on the cool porcelain surface. You have a terrible sense of déjà vu from a few weeks ago, except this time you’re alone.

You stand up on weak and shaky legs that can barely support your weight as you carefully walk back into your bedroom. You force yourself to get dressed for work, ignoring the date on the calendar.

Sarah texts you right as you arrive at the office.

Sarah💜: Want to have lunch together? Miss your face.

A genuine smile breaks out over your face as you text back.

Fuck yes. Noon okay?

Sarah💜: Yes! Thai work for you?

You scrunch your nose in disgust at the thought, excess saliva immediately filling your mouth.

Sounds good. Meet you there!

The morning goes by at a torturously slow pace. Once it is a quarter to twelve, you head out to your car to drive to the Thai restaurant just down the road from the office. Once you pull into a parking spot and kill your car’s engine, waiting for Sarah, your phone buzzes loudly from its spot in the cup holder. You see it’s a text from Santiago.

Santi: Will called Fish last night and talked to him. Said he was fine and should be there tonight. Thought you’d want to know.

You stare blankly at the text for what feels like hours, the words blurring together as your thoughts race as wildly as your thudding heart.

Last night. Will talked to him last night. For a moment you feel a profound rush of relief knowing Frankie is okay before it twists into an ugly knot of anger deep in your chest. He purposefully ignored your call and sent you to voicemail, yet he happily talked to Will on the phone?

What the fuck is his problem?

The sudden honking of a horn shatters you from your spiraling thoughts and you jump in your seat. You look over to see Sarah parked next to you, waving with a puzzled expression on her face.

“So you looked more than a little upset when I pulled in,” Sarah observes a few minutes later, sliding into the vinyl booth by the front window inside the restaurant.

“I was,” you sigh, sitting across from her and slumping forward on the table.

“You still haven’t heard from that dickhead?” Her dark blue eyes narrow sharply and she purses her lips in restrained anger.

You shake your head. “Not even once. I actually tried calling him last night…he declined it. But apparently he talked to Will.”

The waitress comes by and drops off two laminated menus with a smile. You give her a stiff, acknowledging nod in return.

“What the actual fuck??” Sarah responds furiously, her light blonde hair spilling from behind her shoulders and falling around her face as she leans in closer to you. “I can’t believe the way he’s acting! Who does that to their best friend?”

Before you can formulate a response, the waitress walks in quick strides past your table carrying a tray with Tom Yum Goong. The heavy, fragrant scent of lemongrass and seafood is so overwhelming that you immediately cover your mouth as your stomach starts to churn.

“Hey, are you okay…? You look really pale…” she stops mid-rant, leaning further back in the booth as she studies you with a look of concern.

“Yeah. Sorry,” you say measuredly, taking short, shallow breaths through your nose. “Just…the stress of all of this, I guess. You know how sick I get when I’m stressed.”

Sarah nods in understanding. “I don’t need to tell you I have the obvious urge to kick Frankie’s ass for all of this.” She pauses as the waitress comes by and you both order- you hope the Pad Thai and Cha Yen will settle well on your sensitive stomach-and Sarah orders a Café Yen and Khao Pad.

Once the waitress leaves, Sarah leans back in. “None of this makes any sense. You’re going to confess your feelings, he panics, and hits you with the sister line?”

“I think the obvious conclusion is he doesn’t feel the same way.”

“That’s absolute bullshit,” she insists. “I told you before how obvious it is that he is in love with you, too. There’s gotta be more to this.”

You sit in quiet contemplation for a few moments, your fingers tracing over the grain of the wooden table. “Santiago and I have been closer lately,” you mention casually, neglecting to explain exactly why that is.

She raises an eyebrow at you. “Aren’t they really close...? Maybe Frankie is jealous, thinks you’re into Santiago?”

“They are, but I doubt Frankie would think that, or even care. Not when I’m basically his sister, apparently.”

“I don’t know, it’s a very real possibility…” She watches as the waitress sets your drinks on the table. Once you’re alone again, she smirks. “And what’s the deal with Santiago, anyway?”

“He is just a friend,” you answer as you drop the straw into your glass and take a sip of tea.

“A friend like me, or a friend like Frankie…?”

“Sarah, come on,” you groan, leaning back into the booth and shaking your head.

“It’s a valid question! I mean, I’ve seen him before. He’s nice, respectful, and he is hot as fuck. If Frankie is going to act like an immature asshole and ignore you, maybe you should just move on.”

“You aren’t really suggesting I date Santiago, are you…? The man Frankie considers his brother?”

“Why not? Since you’re his sister,” she says sarcastically, using air quotes, “he should be perfectly normal about it.”

You look down at the table, rolling the paper wrapper from your straw into a tight ball between your fingers. The sudden, awkward memory of waking up in Santiago’s bed flashes in your mind, as well as the image of him standing naked in front of you. You feel your face grow hot and you clear your throat.

“Santiago is a friend…and I mean a friend,” you state firmly, refusing to meet her gaze as you look at your glass of tea. “But enough about all of my drama. How are things with you?”

“Well, I do have great news,” Sarah takes a swig of her coffee and rests her arms on the table. “Aaron and I are about to start IVF!”

“Are you serious?!” Your eyes widen in excitement. “Oh, my God! That is incredible!”

“I know it’ll probably be a long and difficult road, but I have faith!”

“Sarah!” You reach out and hold her hand. “I am so happy for you. And I’ll be there for you every step of the way; anything you need. You will be such an amazing mother, and no one deserves this as much as you do.”

“Stop. You’re going to make me cry,” she laughs, her eyes tearing up as she squeezes your hand. “And for the record, you will be an amazing aunt.”

“It would be an absolute honor,” you say with a slight hitch in your voice as you try to hold your own tears back. “I need constant updates. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I’m going to tell you everything!” she grins. The waitress stops by the table to drop your food off and you pull your hand back as she sets the bowls down.

Once she leaves, you let out a laugh. “I promise that I will teach him or her how to ride a bike since you never learned. I don’t want my future niece or nephew crashing into a mailbox, after all.”

Sarah laughs even harder. “You won’t ever let that go, will you?” She grabs her fork and takes a bite.

“Never,” you respond with a solemn nod before laughing again, secretly hoping you can keep your food down.

By the time Friday evening rolls around, you get ready to leave for the bar. Normally you feel excited to catch up with the guys and...of course...to see Frankie, but tonight you have a storm of emotions at war with each other, the turmoil nearly unbearable as it weighs down every muscle in your body.

You’re nervous. You’re hurt. You’re confused. And, most of all…you’re angry. He abandoned you after you were finally brave enough to tell him how you feel, to take that emotional leap after seven years. And in your most vulnerable moment, he completely crushed you and seemingly ended your friendship without a single conversation. He refused to answer your call when you were worried about him. But he answered Will’s call.

You take a deep breath, swallowing down a wave of nervous nausea, as you head out.

The bar is the same as always; raucous, stuffy, and filled with the smell of cheap beer and cigarettes. The booming bass from the jukebox vibrates the scuffed floor underneath your feet as you weave your way to the same booth in the back you always sit at.

You immediately spot Will, Ben, and Tom, already halfway through their first round of drinks and laughing. Santiago is on the outer edge of the seat across from them, silently sipping his drink.

Frankie’s spot in the middle is empty.

“Hey, look who’s here!” Will calls out to you as you approach them, causing Ben and Tom to turn around and Santiago to look up. “We were starting to think you abandoned us,” he chuckles light-heartedly.

“No, never,” you manage a small smile as Santiago scoots over and you sit down. “Things have just been crazy busy. It’s so good to see you guys, I’ve missed this.”

“It’s not been the same without you,” Tom says as he takes another swig of beer and slides one your way. “You keep these assholes in line.”

“Definitely not the same,” Ben agrees, his blue eyes sparkling even under the dim neon lights. “Missed you, beautiful.”

You smile before your gaze falls on Frankie’s empty seat. Your chest immediately aches, and you’re angry at yourself for it.

Santiago is watching you carefully, his demeanor completely different after your confession last night. He shifts his weight, his arm resting heavily on the back of the booth behind your shoulder.

“It’s okay, Starshine,” he murmurs, looking down at you with a reassuring smile. You nod, leaning your head over on his shoulder as you take a deep breath in and let yourself relax.

"You got here just in time," Tom chuckles, gesturing over at Ben. "Benny here is telling us about the absolute freakshow at his gym today."

“I swear to God, you can’t make this shit up,” Ben grins, leaning forward over the scuffed wood of the table, fully engrossing himself into the picture he weaves. “Coach brings in this new dude for me to spar with. The guy is built like a fuckin’ tank, right? Has this thick ass neck but a tiny little goatee.”

Will lets out a snort in his beer as he shakes his head. “How quick did you get knocked out?”

“That’s the thing!” Ben laughs animatedly. “He wanted to get a few rounds in with the heavy bag. He hypes himself up, goes for a roundhouse kick, but hits too low. He slips and falls face first on the gym floor. Out cold.”

Tom bursts into a booming laugh, nearly spilling his beer. Will howls, leaning over and slapping his hand on the table.

“You’re kidding?!” You ask with a snort, the mental image Ben just painted giving you a welcome distraction as you hold the beer without drinking it. Santiago chuckles lightly as he scoots closer in to you.

The bar door suddenly swings open, and when you look up all of the oxygen leaves your lungs in an instant.

Frankie.

He walks in, scanning the room, before his gaze falls at the table.

And then on you.

He stares at you with a burning intensity as you continue leaning on Santiago, the hard clenching of his jaw apparent even from a distance. He walks over, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his khaki pants. The residual laughter at the table suddenly dies in the surrounding air as everyone stops and stares up at him.

Frankie looks completely, utterly wrecked. His face is pale, completely devoid of its usual color. His signature cap is pulled down low but does nothing to hide the dark, bruising purple under his eyes, a clear indicator of his lack of sleep. His patchy beard is uncharacteristically unkempt, and his entire body goes rigid as his gaze drops to Santiago’s arm around you.

Up close, you see a look on his face you have never seen before. The easy-going smile he usually wears around you is gone, along with the soft look in his dark eyes when he calls you Biscuit. This is a raw and visceral anger, one masking a pain so deep it sharpens his features into something harsh and unrecognizable.

Will, Ben, and Tom scoot down and Frankie sits on the opposite side of the booth, on the very edge as if he isn’t committed to staying long.

“Sorry I’m late,” he sneers as he glares at Santiago. “But I see everyone is already comfortably settled in.”

You feel Santiago tense underneath you and you move your head off his shoulder, sitting upright in a poor attempt to diffuse the situation.

“Um…all good, man,” Will says, his gaze shifting back and forth between them. “You okay..?”

“I’m great, thanks for asking,” Frankie leans back, his eyes still locked on Santiago.

The heavy silence and tension in the air is suffocating, and you start to shake as a rush of adrenaline floods your veins.

“I’ve got you, Starshine,” Santiago whispers under his breath, leaning closer in to your ear. Frankie watches, his hand on the table balling into a tight fist.

“What’s the big secret?” He asks sarcastically. “Why don’t you share with the rest of us, Pope?”

“Shut up, Fish,” Santiago warns. “You need to relax.”

“Relax? Nah, I’m good. I was curious, though, when you were going to tell the rest of us about the two of you.”

Your eyes widen fractionally and you look over at Santiago. Will, Ben, and Tom exchange uneasy glances as they look at all three of you.

“What, that we are friends? Sorry you haven’t figured that out in the last seven years,” Santiago laughs derisively, and Frankie quickly stands up.

“Oh, no, this isn’t friendship…is it Pope? It goes beyond that,” Frankie’s voice becomes louder and more aggressive and you shrink down in the booth, paralyzed.

“Why the fuck would you care if it was?! She is just your sister after all, right?!” Santiago shouts back, slamming his hands on the table. The chaotic noise of the bar seems to fade as the outburst at the table catches the attention of everyone nearby.

Frankie stills, his eyes wide, as he looks directly at you with too many emotions to name.

“You told him that…?” He whispers, his voice cracking.

For a split second you soften..before your anger comes back and you can't hold it back anymore.

“Yeah, I did! You fucking abandoned me! I even called you last night because I was so worried when I found out no one had heard from you…I thought you were fucking hurt, or even dead! But you ignored my call. You declined my call!” You don’t even recognize your voice as every emotion you have felt and held back since the moment he walked off your porch comes out at once. "Seven years of friendship didn't mean a fucking thing to you if you could throw it away so easily!"

Frankie just stares at you, a look of raw agony in his dark brown eyes, and you see tears fill the waterline of his eyes. Without another word, completely depleted of all of the anger he held just moments ago, he walks out of the bar.

Santiago doesn’t move, while Will, Tom, and Ben are rendered speechless.

You watch Frankie leave as your own tears burn at the back of your eyes, wishing you could go after him...but you have nothing left to give. 

Chapter Text

“This is a very serious question…” Frankie whispered as he leaned in closer to you in the aisle of the library. He glanced around as if what he was about to ask was a scandalous, secretive question. “What is the best breakfast sandwich option?”

“Croissant, hands down,” you answered with a scoff, not looking up from the books you were thumbing through, as if he just asked the most ridiculous question in the world.

“Croissant…?” He blinked at you. “I’m sorry, but that’s incorrect.”

You scoffed again as you finally looked up at him in amusement. “Oh, yeah? What is the correct answer, then?” you asked with a challenging grin.

“Biscuit,” he said simply as he looked over your head at the book titles on the shelf in front of you.

“Biscuit? That’s a bit basic, don’t you think?”

His big, brown eyes went wide. “Basic…?? No. A buttery, flaky biscuit is perfect by itself, but it is also the ideal base to accompany any and all breakfast proteins, toppings, sauces, and cheeses without losing its structural integrity.” He rested an elbow on the bookshelf as he leaned in closer to you. “You can have a folded egg or egg white, sausage or ham, a classic cheddar…maybe brie, or if you’re feeling a little fancy, some gruyère. Oh, and add some spinach in there, too. Make it healthier. Finish it off with a nice sauce…I’m thinking a sriracha mayo for a kick, or a dijonnaise for that classic, tangy taste. But that biscuit is dependable and will keep it all together for you without falling apart.”

You let out a snort, followed by a burst of laughter so loud the librarian shushed you in annoyance.

“Sorry!” you called out quietly as you looked over at her. She glared at you all the same from behind her cat-eye glasses and a tight frown that pulled at her lips.

“Wow, you have thought A LOT about this, Frankie…” you said in amusement, looking back at him, “to the point that I think you could write a dissertation about it.”

“What can I say? I’m a breakfast connoisseur,” he shrugged as he inched closer to you. He glanced at the librarian before he looked back at you and grinned as the crinkles by his eyes deepened.

“Nah,” you shook your head. “Because croissants are way better.”

“No way. Biscuits are the best. I have always loved them the most. My mom used to make biscuits for us every Saturday morning; it was my favorite memory of her. Believe me, I know what I’m talking about when it comes to breakfast sandwich options.”

“Okay…on a scale of one to ten, how hungry are you right now?”

“Hmm.” He scratched the patchy hairs on his chin as he looked off in deep thought. “An eleven.”

You chuckled, quieter this time. “Wanna go check out that new breakfast place that opened last week? Their biscuits must be good…biscuit is in the name, after all.”

He sighed dramatically. “I thought you’d never ask!”

“Let me check this new book out, and we’ll go,” you grinned. Frankie gave you a nod before he disappeared around a corner.

You checked out ‘The Complete Works of Shakespeare’ with a sheepish smile as the librarian scowled at you the whole time.

When you scanned over the library and didn’t see the top of his Standard Heating Oil cap anywhere, you walked outside.

Frankie stood against the glass window, an iced mocha in his hand that he immediately held out to you with a warm smile on his face and a soft look in his eyes. “Ready for breakfast…Biscuit?”

“Not as ready as you are,” you laughed as you took the cup. You looked down, immediately noticing the extra chocolate drizzle, and smiled up at him.

Your hands tremble as you stand over the bathroom sink, holding the unopened pregnancy test that you bought a week ago but couldn't bring yourself to take before.

“Fuck….” you mutter to yourself, tilting your head back with a heavy exhale as you squeeze your eyes shut.

You can’t ignore the calendar any more. No more pretending the nausea and vomiting is just stress and anxiety, especially when it continues to linger.

You also can’t ignore the fact that your period is late.

Very late now.

You had refused to acknowledge it for far too long at this point, unable to admit the possibility to yourself.

As you open the box and pull the foil packet out, your stomach lurches violently and you swallow down a wave of bile threatening to make its way out of your throat. The result has a distinct possibility to change everything—your life, Santiago’s, and Frankie’s—and who knows what will happen with your friendship with the guys.

You sink down onto the lid of the toilet, staring down at the foil packet. Suddenly your head spins, your vision dims at the edges, and you feel faint. Your breaths come in rapid gasps, along with an unbearable and crushing pressure inside your chest. 

''Gonna die....I'm going to die...' The overwhelming thought takes over your brain. 

Your hand immediately flies up to your heart, resting there with a firm pressure as you take in a deep inhale through your nose. You hold it as long as you can, your heart hammering a frantic and uneven rhythm against your palm, before you slowly exhale through your mouth and deplete all of the oxygen from your lungs.

A few more deep breaths...in and out...and your heart rate begins to slow, beating normally once more.

You cautiously stand up, putting the unopened foil packet on the bathroom counter in resignation as you decide to wait and take it tonight when you get home from work. Just in case you need the time to fall apart.

You throw yourself into work as a distraction, desperate to keep your mind off the test waiting back home. But it doesn't matter how hard you try; your thoughts and focus never stray far from the heavy weight of uncertainty looming over you. Alex stands at your desk and talks to you at one point during the early morning haze. You give him a smile and a few nods, along with the occasional 'Uh huh...', not hearing a single word he says. 

It’s already been two weeks since the bar incident, and your biggest fear you had the moment you woke up in Santiago’s bed had come true.

Everything has changed.

No one even knew that you and Santiago had a drunken one night stand, but it all fell apart anyway…and you aren’t sure how or why. You still haven’t heard from Frankie, but that was a given. No one had. He didn’t show up to Ben’s last fight and had cut himself off from everyone.

The Friday nights at the bar have suddenly stopped. The easy-going laughs, the music that's far too loud, sharing stories over the sticky, scratched wooden top of your favorite table in the back—all of it's gone. Will reassured you on the phone that they would resume eventually 'once everything smooths back out’ with Frankie and Santiago, but you aren’t sure. You hold a different outlook, remaining pessimistic over the future, and you can’t stop blaming yourself.

Will, Ben, and Tom are still confused about what happened, but the conversations from that last night at the bar told them enough so they know there’s clearly a lot going on with the three of you that they are unaware of. They don’t get involved, but obviously feel awkward over it.

You and Santiago have grown closer, which you didn't expect but feel relieved about. At least you hadn't lost him, too.

You steep yourself in rumination. The possibility of being pregnant with Santiago’s child is a thought that settles roughly into the corners of your mind; uncomfortable and wrong in every sense because it isn't the life you have always imagined for yourself. You had truthfully never given much thought to having children, but you couldn’t lie to yourself, either; if you were to ever have kids of your own, you could only envision that kind of life with Frankie. You always could see a clear future with him—not just the big life events like getting married or buying a house together—but the mundane, everyday moments, too. Like going on road trips together and arguing over the best Fleetwood Mac song as you curate your playlist. Or going for a walk together and feeling Frankie slide his hand into yours, intertwining your fingers together without a single thought, as if it was pure instinct to do so. Or sharing one of your many inside jokes, and when you’re breathless from all that giggling, finally getting to fall into his arms and crash your lips into his. And all of the many nights you have dreamed of sleeping next to him, his arm wrapped around your waist as he pulls your back flush against his chest.

If Frankie somehow did feel the same way after all, would any part of the life you’ve dreamt of for seven years still be possible if you had Santiago’s baby?

You let out a sharp exhale, staring blankly at the opened email on your computer when your phone suddenly vibrates loudly on your desk, startling you and causing you to jump slightly in your chair.

You glance at the screen and see Santiago’s name.

Santi: Did you test yet?

No, not yet. I was going to test tonight.

You see Santiago start and stop typing a few times before his next text comes through.

Santi: I can come over tonight. I don’t want you doing this alone.

Yeah, I’d like for you to be there.

Santi: I'll be there by 7.

Right as you start to turn your phone off, it vibrates again.

Santi: No matter what the result is…you aren’t alone and you won’t ever be alone. I promise you.

Thank you. I couldn’t get through this without you.

Santi: I’ve got you. Always.

The rest of the afternoon goes by in a blur, and once seven o’clock rolls around, Santiago pulls in to your apartment.

“So the Plan B may not have worked…” Santiago says, his voice low as he paces back and forth in your living room.

“Yeah.” You sit on the couch watching him, fidgeting nervously and bouncing your leg up and down. “I threw up after I took it. It was pretty close to the two hour window, so I assumed I got enough of the medication that I didn’t need to take another dose.”

“Okay.” He sits up straight next to you and exhales through his nose. “So it is a possibility that it didn’t work.”

“If it didn’t…I don’t know what to do, Santi,” you admit, resting your elbows on your knees and dropping your face into your hands.

“First things first…” He reaches out and rests his hand on your back, his palm rubbing soothing patterns up and down the length of your spine. “We don’t panic or spiral. Take the test first so we know for sure, then we will go from there. One step at a time.”

“But what if I am pregnant? What will we do?”

“Listen to me.” He leans in closer, gently bumping your shoulder so you look at him. “If you are….this is your choice, and I will respect whatever you decide to do. If you want to have the baby, I will be there every step of the way and take care of both of you. If you don’t want to go through with the pregnancy, I will drive you to the clinic and I will take care of you afterward. Whatever you need, I’m here, Starshine.”

You lean your head against his and let out a trembling sigh. “I’m so sorry for all of this. I can’t believe how fucking stupid I was. I’ve fucked up everything, just like I knew I would. And no one even knows about us. Not getting together on Fridays and Frankie just fucking...up and disappearing is bad enough, but now? This is so much worse. Now I’ve possibly ruined your life, too.”

Santiago’s hand stills on your back. He leans away, his dark gaze suddenly intense. “No. Don’t ever think that. Under no circumstance would you ever ruin my life, regardless of the result. If you are pregnant and want to keep the baby, I will love him or her with every piece of me.”

He reaches out to wrap his hands around yours, his voice dropping to a comforting whisper. “But we have to know for sure. I know you’re afraid, and I know why you’re afraid. But I promise everything will be okay. And I’m right here.”

You give him a solemn nod. “I’ll take it now.” You stand up carefully and make your way down the hall to the bathroom, walking slowly on legs that feel as heavy as lead.

“I’m right here,” he repeats, giving you a small and encouraging smile.

You close the door behind you and take a few deep breaths, staring at your reflection in the mirror. You barely recognize the woman staring back at you anymore. Your fingers shake as you tear open the foil packet and pull the test out.

​“Santi?” you call out, your voice cracking ever so slightly.

“Yeah?” His voice echoes back from the living room.

“Will...you wait with me?”

He doesn’t hesitate for even a moment. You hear the immediate sound of his footsteps trodding down the hall before stopping on the other side of the bathroom door. “I’m right here. Do you want me to come in?”

“Yeah. Give me just a second…”

After you finish peeing, you pull the test out from between your legs and cap it, reaching over and placing it on the corner of the sink. Once you stand up and flush the toilet, you can see the dye already running through the test window. You quickly flip it face down in a panic before washing your hands, your heart roaring so loudly in your ears it drowns out the sound of the running water.

“You can come in,” you murmur quietly, the tremor in your hands now back with a paralyzing fear of the impending truth you have no choice but to face now.

Santiago turns the doorknob slowly and walks in carefully.

You look over at him, your chest agonizingly tight. “Three minutes.”

He glances at the clock with a nod and moves to stand beside you at the sink. The immediate silence is crushing, stretching out for what feels like hours.

“Three minutes is so long,” you mutter, more to yourself than to him.

“It is. But soon we will know for sure and we will take it one step at a time.” Santiago reaches out, intertwining his fingers with yours. “I’ve got you. Always.”

“Everything will be okay,” you whisper the words as if they are a sacred mantra, closing your eyes and tightly squeezing his hand.

“It will be, Starshine. We have each other and we will get through this, no matter what.” He squeezes back, his grip a firm and comforting anchor.

You look back at the clock. One minute left.

“In a minute we will know for sure,” you turn slightly to look up at him.

“It’ll be okay,” he reassures you once more, leaning down to rest his forehead against yours. “I swear to you.”

Sixty seconds seems like a lifetime, but once it passes, you find yourself desperately wishing you had just sixty more.

“Ready?” he asks you quietly.

You nod reluctantly. Your shaking fingers pick up the plastic casing and you take one last deep and steadying breath.

In the bedroom just across the hall, you don’t hear the muffled sound of your phone ringing. Nor do you see Frankie’s contact photo from Ben’s birthday party light up your screen in the dark and empty room.

You flip the test over, your gaze immediately falling onto the result window.

Your eyes widen as you look back up at Santiago.

Chapter Text

Santiago stares at the test for a few moments, processing, before looking back at you, his shoulders slumping forward ever so slightly. 

“Negative.” You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. “It’s negative.”

You look at the test for the longest time, the stark white test window giving you the answer you truthfully didn’t expect. Weeks of worry, stress, and uncertainty dissolve in an instant and relief floods your body. Your knees suddenly give out without any warning, but Santiago immediately catches you before you can fall.

“Whoa….hold on, Starshine. I’ve got you,” he wraps one arm firmly around your waist as he helps lower you slowly to the floor. He follows you down until you’re both sitting and rests his hand on yours—warm, steady, and sure.

“I'm not pregnant,” you state aloud, a ragged sigh of relief falling from between your lips as your head hangs low. The heavy weight sitting on your chest for days is completely gone and now you feel like you can breathe again. 

“No. You aren’t,” Santiago confirms with a faint hint of something resting just under the surface that you can’t quite identify—something that disappears as quickly as it appeared. 

“Are you okay?” You ask with hesitation as you study him, the question somehow feeling too heavy, but your concern overrides the thought. “This was a lot. All of it.”

“The more important question is are you?”

“I feel relieved,” you confess. “I think this is the best outcome. But, honestly, tell me…how are you?”

“I just…I really thought you were pregnant,” he says carefully, as if he is treading on emotional ground he has no right to. “I was shocked and, honestly, afraid at first. Then I had really started preparing for the possibility of it, but now you aren’t and…” he trails off with a hitch in his throat that he swallows down, and suddenly he can’t look you in the eyes anymore. “It’s a lot to process.”

You nod. “I get it. I thought I was too. It has been so much added stress and worry, an emotional roller-coaster, and…”  

“No, you don’t,” he gently interrupts; in the dim light of the bathroom you can see a faint sheen of tears coating his hollowed brown eyes as his hand tightens slightly over yours. “Because this is more complicated than you know. It goes way beyond all of this.”

Your heart starts to thrum wildly in your chest. He doesn’t mean what you are thinking. He can’t. 

“What…do you mean, Santi?” You pull back slightly, a chill running up the length of your spine as you ask the question you dread the answer to.

“All of this…the drunken hookup, everything that has happened since, the pregnancy scare….we have gotten closer during all of this. And all it has done is reinforce the fact that I’m in love with you,” he confesses, strained and exhausted, as he closes his eyes tightly. “Meanwhile, you’re in love with my brother.”

All of the air is instantly depleted from your lungs. You stare at him in shock, unable to form a single word. 

Santiago is in love with you.

Every other thought in your mind immediately vanishes as you try—and fail— to process it.

“Fuck…I shouldn’t have said that. Why am I even saying this?” he quickly admonishes himself, running a hand through his hair and sighing heavily. He opens his eyes again but purposely avoids your gaze once more. “I know you don’t feel the same way, and it’s okay. I mean that. I don’t want to lose our friendship.” 

“H-how long…?” you ask, voice trembling.

“Since the very beginning. Probably for as long as you’ve loved Frankie.”

“Y…you never told me…”

He crosses his legs on the tile floor and tilts his head back with a soft exhale. “I honestly didn’t plan to. I knew years ago…I’ve seen the way you look at Frankie. I knew that could never be me.”

That is what breaks you.

You let out a raw, guttural sob. It tears painfully through your throat, your heart aching. His words break something unexpected inside of you. They hurt. 

God, they hurt. 

“I’m sorry,” you offer up pathetically, a platitude you hate yourself for, but you can’t find any other words. Truthfully, there simply aren’t any. “I’m so fucking sorry, Santi.” 

“You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing. You hear me?” He cups your face and rests his forehead against yours. “I’ll never stop loving you. But I will never stop being your friend, either. At the end of the day, I just want you to be happy.”

You can only nod, gazing into his eyes with raw torment. 

“You love Frankie. Tell him.” He quickly blinks his tears away. “Don’t hold back anymore.”

After Santiago leaves, you take a much needed shower, scrubbing your bare skin harder than necessary. Your tears, mixing with the water, rain down your face as you struggle to process a night that was even harder than you thought it would be.

You stand slumped over at the bathroom sink afterward as you brush your teeth, glancing at the negative pregnancy test resting on the top of the trash, and you feel a sharp pain settle behind your ribs. You’re too emotionally exhausted to think about it and why it has made its presence known.

You collapse into bed, the springs protesting loudly underneath you as you cover yourself up. You glance over at your phone resting on the nightstand and reluctantly pick it up. You tap the screen and see a missed call.

“Fuck,” you mutter as you enter your passcode to unlock it, assuming your mom or maybe Sarah had called you. You open up your call log and your phone nearly slips out of your hand.

Frankie. 

Frankie called you after weeks of silence, at the same time you were in the bathroom with the man he considers his brother, waiting to find out if your one drunken night together had gotten you pregnant.

You stare at his name for far too long, frozen in place, as you try to wrap your mind around his call—what was once the most common and routine thing between you now feels entirely foreign, lost in a sea of pain and confusion. 

Should you call back? It’s almost midnight now, and he called you four hours ago.

After a few moments of hesitation, you dial his number. With your heart racing, you put the phone to your ear as it rings.

And rings.

And rings. 

You pull the phone from your ear with a sigh before his voicemail can kick in, only to hear a soft, sleepy “Hello?” come through the receiver as you start to hang up. 

Fuck, you have missed him.

“Frankie…hi. Sorry, did I wake you?” You ask with a tremble in your voice, holding your phone tightly in one hand as you stare up at the ceiling.

“Hey. Oh, hey. Hi,” you can hear faint rustling through the phone as he jerks up in bed and roughly clears his throat before turning his lamp on with a loud click. 

“Um. You called me earlier…?”

There is a long stretch of silence, with the only sound existing between the lines being his barely audible breathing. 

“Yeah, I…I was hoping we could talk.” He is fully alert now, but sounds quieter than he ever has before.

You swallow hard. Hearing his voice in your ear again feels like a beautiful torture; you want more, yet at the same time it is so painful you nearly hang up. It takes you a moment to find the words you’ve needed to say for weeks.

“Why now? After weeks of silence? Outside of that night at the bar, of course.” 

“I fucked up. I know I did.” 

You wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t. 

“Is that all you’re going to say, Francisco?” You say coldly, an edge around your tone you make sure he hears. You hear a sharp intake of breath through the receiver when you use his full name. 

“No. It’s not. But I…have a lot to say. And it’s a conversation that shouldn’t be over the phone. I was hoping I could come over tomorrow morning so we could talk…if you’re not busy…?”

God, the way he says it nearly unravels you for a moment. His voice is so gentle and hesitant.

“I’m not. How about ten?” 

“I’ll be there,” he says eagerly, and you’re angry that your heart does a traitorous beat. You want to stay angry, but you can’t. 

“Goodnight.” You can’t help the way your voice softens, the same way it always would with him.

“Night.”

You quickly hang up and, as you close your eyes, wonder what he will say…and what you will say.

It’s far too early on Saturday morning when you’re startled awake by the sound of knocking on your door. 

You sit up, blinking through the disorientation and haze, as your brain tries to process the transition from deep sleep to waking.

Three soft, familiar raps right in the center of the wood break through the confusion clouding your mind with sharp clarity.

Frankie.

You look over at the clock and see it is only eight. He’s two hours early.

You throw your legs over the side of your bed and quickly stand up, wrapping a robe around you, before padding down the hall to the front door and unlocking the deadbolt. You stop, pausing for a moment, as you grab the handle. You take a deep, steadying breath in before you turn it to open the door.

But your breath hitches and your heart nearly stops when your eyes meet his.

“Hi, Biscuit,” Frankie’s exhaustion is clear in his voice and face. “I know I’m early…but I couldn’t wait any longer. Is it okay if I come in?” He holds an iced mocha in one hand, with extra chocolate drizzle, as if it’s a peace offering to make up for weeks of silence.

You nod, swallowing hard, as you step aside and he walks inside. He sits down on the couch in his usual spot—a sight that, after his long absence, leaves your chest feeling too tight. You watch him tentatively set the mocha on the end table before shutting the door and following behind him, sitting on the opposite side of him and keeping your distance.

“We need to talk,” he says measuredly, gesturing with an open palm between the two of you. “About…everything.”

“Yes, we do,” you agree, crossing your arms over your chest. “Let’s start with you leaving that Wednesday and seemingly cutting me out of your life.”

Frankie looks at you, his deep brown eyes filled with remorse and hurt. The bags under his eyes are a darker, more bruised purple than the last time you saw him and you are positive he has barely slept since that night. He is disheveled, his clothes are baggier, and he carries a look of devastation written in every fine line on his face.

“I knew….you were going to tell me about you and Santiago. And I just…couldn’t handle it. I couldn’t stand to hear the words. I panicked,” Frankie sinks into the couch, fully depleted and despondent. 

“Me and Santi…?” Your brows furrow as you give him a look of confusion. “Frankie…”

“He is my brother, and you’re my best friend. Knowing you were in love with him, dating him..it was too fucking much,” he swallows hard, his voice choking up. “But I was wrong, Biscuit. Santiago is a great guy, and I can’t be selfish. He will treat you right…give you what you need and deserve. Better than anyone else could….”

You stare at him in utter disbelief. He didn’t call you his sister to reject the confession of your feelings as you had assumed. Instead, this entire time, he thought you were going to confess that you were in love with Santiago. The revelation leaves you light-headed.

“Wait…Frankie, stop.” You reach out and grab his hands, holding them gently in yours as your thumbs stroke over his knuckles to ground him. “There is nothing going on with Santiago and I. We aren’t together.”

Frankie stares at you, a mixture of shock and relief warring for dominance on his face.

“You….you guys aren’t together…?” He shakes his head, as if trying to make sense of it all. “But…I thought…? Wait…then what were you going to tell me when I was leaving?”

You look down at your hands as they hold onto his and your movements still. You were brave that day as he stood on your porch, finally ready to tell him the truth. You had thought this entire time that Frankie didn’t love you back and you had been grieving that in your mind. You had thought you had gotten pregnant with Santiago’s baby and that there was a real possibility that the future you had dreamed of with Frankie was gone forever. But now? There is hope again, for the first time in weeks. You could confess your feelings and Frankie might reciprocate. Maybe the future you had been grieving wasn’t gone after all.

You could tell him. Right now, as he looks at you, waiting.

So why are you hesitating? 

‘You love Frankie. Tell him.’

‘Don’t hold back anymore.’

Santiago’s words of encouragement ring in your ears, but you can’t do it. And you don’t know why.

“I….don’t remember,” the lie rolls pathetically off your tongue and you pull your hands back from his. “But it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Frankie’s jaw clenches and he swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. He doesn’t push for the real answer, even though he obviously knows that isn’t the truth. He lets you have the lie.

You watch him, your stomach flipping uncomfortably as you close your hands into tight fists, so tight your nails dig into your palms.

“This feels…awkward,” you whisper, your heart breaking.

Things had never been awkward with Frankie before. But right now? It all is. Every bit of it. You don’t know how to talk to him. You don’t know how to sit next to him. Hell, you don’t even know how to breathe around him. You had imagined this exact scenario these past few weeks, naively thinking things could fall back into their old, familiar rhythm. You realize immediately that it can’t. Right now you are holding onto so many things Frankie is unaware of. He has no idea of the absolute torment you have been through, the secret you are carrying that gives you more and more guilt with every passing day.

“A little bit, yeah,” Frankie admits, sitting upright. “But this was all just a misunderstanding.”

“Why did it bother you?” You blurt out. “You said all of this was because you thought Santiago and I were together….but why would it matter if we were?”

“I…don’t know. You’re my best friend. He is my brother. You guys getting together….” He shifts uncomfortably. “It…felt too weird. For all of us, not just me.”

“That’s really it…?”

He nods.

“Why did you say I was your sister? You have never said that to me before.”

“I figured the two of you dating would change our friendship. Those few days I stayed here, I realized that wasn’t an appropriate thing to do with you guys being together. I was being too intrusive, especially that day Santiago came by, and not respecting your relationship. I handled the whole thing like a fucking idiot, I know.”

“What about that night at the bar?”

“When I saw you and Santiago together, I felt…replaced.”

“Replaced…?”

“Yeah. Like I was already losing my place in your life, and seeing you two so close felt like I had completely lost it.”

“That is so fucking stupid. You know that, right?”

Frankie laughs, that same husky laugh that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and your heart skips a beat.

“You’re right. Still always calling me out on my shit,” he grins. “I hope you can forgive me.”

“Of course I can. So we can go back to being friends now, right?” The words are frail and small, carrying a silent weight from weeks of emotions that Frankie is unaware of. 

“Of course. I’m sorry for…everything.” He rubs a calloused hand over the lower half of his face before dropping it onto his lap. “I’m not going to make excuses. I was fucking stupid and an asshole. But it’s been hell without you. You have no idea how much I’ve missed you, Biscuit.”

You give him a sad smile. “I’ve missed you too, Frankie.”

Sunday afternoon is exceptionally warm, more so than usual as you sit on a bench at the park with Sarah.

“So how is everything going on the IVF front?” 

“Well,” Sarah lets out a grunt as she pulls her legs up and underneath her, sitting cross-legged. “We had our in-depth consultation on Thursday.”

“I’m not really familiar with the process,” you admit, watching someone throw a Frisbee for their dog on the grassy hill across from the sidewalk in front of you. “What does that entail?”

“Mostly the mundane, routine stuff. Medical history, a thorough consultation, blood work, and an ultrasound. In a few weeks, I should be starting hormone injections.”

Your eyes light up. “That’s so exciting!” 

“And a little nerve-wracking. But there’s a chance, this time next year, I could actually be pregnant.”

“That’s so amazing to think about,” you smile, the thought of your best friend finally realizing her dream of motherhood giving you the most joy you have felt in weeks. “You know I will be here for you, every step of the way.”

“I know. You always have been,” she says warmly. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“You’ll never have to find out.”

“Okay,” Sarah gives your hand a pat. “Give me an update on Frankie, your best friend who is definitely not in love with you. You said he came by yesterday. I gotta know everything.”

“Well, he stopped by to apologize,” you begin.

“Good,” she pipes up. “Because he was acting like an idiot.”

You chuckle, shaking your head. “He said he thought I was in love with Santiago, and that we were dating. That’s why he called me his sister, too. He said he thought our friendship would change, and he wasn’t being respectful of my ‘relationship’ with Santiago.”

“Okay…okay, wait…” Sarah turns on the park bench to fully face you, her blue eyes wide in surprise. “Frankie comes by and tells you the reason he dicked off like the asswipe he is, is all because he thought you and Santiago were dating and in love?! THAT is what he thought you were going to confess to? I fucking knew it!”

“Yeah,” you lean back, sliding the straw up and down in your iced tea, and nod absent-mindedly. “Apparently so.”

“That’s quite a leap he jumped to, there,” she snorts. “Plus, you know what they say about when you assume…”

You give her a faint grin as you run a hand through your hair. 

“Well…wow…” She lets out a huff of disbelieving laughter, before quickly trailing off as she notices how distant you look. Her posture turns rigid. “Wait…so did you tell Frankie the truth?”

“No. I didn’t.”

Sarah’s brows furrow and her nose crinkles. “Why not? Everything is fine now, the misunderstanding is over…”

“Because there’s more…” you hesitate for a moment, glancing around you. “Santiago was at my place the night before.”

Sarah’s eyes narrow as she studies you. “Why…?”

“Um…I kind of left out an important detail about all of this.” Your voice drops to a whisper as you realize you can’t hold it back anymore. “The crazy night at the bar, when I drank too much and Frankie stayed after? Santiago and I…hooked up.”

“What?!” she hisses. “Are you serious??”

“Yes. We were both crazy drunk and don’t remember it. I woke up naked in his bed.”

“Are you sure? If you were both that drunk…?”

You wince. “There was…physical evidence.” 

“Oh, fuck,” Sarah slides over on the bench to get closer. “So, you definitely had sex. Why was Santiago at your place Friday night..?”

A sudden look of realization washes over her face and she gasps.

“O..oh…my God. Are you pregnant?! You have been sick lately…”

“No, no,” you interrupt. “I thought I was. But I’m not. He stayed with me when I took the test.”

“That’s good, right? That would have made things a lot more complicated.”

“It actually already got more complicated. Santiago told me he is in love with me.”

The revelation strikes Sarah like a bombshell; her mouth falls open, parting in shock as she stares at you in utter disbelief. 

“Whoa…” Her voice drops, uncharacteristically quiet. “Whoa….”

You nod as you lean forward and look at the dirt underneath your feet. You grind a small rock back and forth underneath the tip of your shoe, swallowing your emotions down before they have a chance to suffocate you. 

Sarah studies you intently. “Do you have feelings for him, too?”

You don’t answer.

Monday is fight night.

You arrive later than planned, having stayed over at work an hour longer than you meant to.

As you turn your car off, there is a sudden knocking on your window, startling you. You look over to see Frankie grinning and waving.

“Frankie!” You laugh as you get out of the car. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“Sorry!” He says sheepishly, backing up to give you space. “I was excited we got here at the same time, and that I wasn’t the only one running late.”

“I’m glad we can walk in together. You know how crazy it gets in there.”

Frankie nods as he steps in line and walks with you through the parking lot. The awkwardness you had worried about lingering has vanished, but the guilt and conflicting feelings sit steadily under your ribs.

“I got you,” he says, hesitantly reaching out with his hand hovering over your lower back before pausing. “Is…this okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

He rests his large palm over your lower back, the heat radiating through your shirt. A slight shudder runs up the length of your spine at the contact.

“Are you cold, Biscuit?” He asks, looking down at you with concern. “I keep one of my flight jackets in the truck, I can go get it…”

“No, no,” you shake your head. “I’m good. But thank you, Cat.”

Frankie’s eyes light up and a wide smile breaks across his face. “I missed that more than you know. More than you could ever know.”

“I did too,” you admit softly, pressing your shoulder into his in desperation for more physical contact that isn’t complicated.

As you walk into the arena, the thick, acrid haze of cigarette smoke clouding the air, combined with the overwhelming smell of beer mixed with sweat, causes your throat to turn dry. 

“God, it smells worse than usual,” you groan, covering your mouth and coughing. 

“It does,” he agrees with a chuckle as he looks around, adjusting the cap of his hat.

The referee climbs into the ring, and anticipatory cheers from the drunken crowd immediately fill the air.

“There they are!” Frankie says loudly as he leans in closer to your ear so you can hear him, his voice barely above drowning under all of the noise.

He points to a row of chairs over on the opposite side of the ring, up against the concrete wall, as you start walking over. His hand never leaves your back.

Tom and Will are engrossed in conversation, Will pointing animatedly at the ring as Tom takes a swig of his beer.

Santiago glances over, and your eyes meet his.

You suddenly stop dead in your tracks, your heart pounding so loudly in your ears that it drowns out the crowd and everything else around you. 

“Biscuit? What’s wrong?”

Frankie’s words snap you out of your daze.

“Uh…n-nothing. It’s just really hot in here,” you murmur as you stop at the empty seat next to Santiago and he looks over at Frankie.

“Hey, Fish,” he says casually, before his voice drops an octave and his gaze meets yours again. “Hey, Starshine.”

Frankie’s hand involuntarily tightens on your back, and you can see Santiago’s eyes drift down. He sees it, but pretends not to.

“Hi, Pope. Good to see you,” he says light-heartedly, but you can hear the slight strain woven under the surface of his tone he is trying to hide.

You give him an acknowledging nod as you sit down next to him, and Frankie takes the seat next to you.

“We thought you guys weren’t coming!” Will calls out, leaning over.

“Are you kidding? Like I’d miss one of Benny’s fights,” you shout over the roar of the crowd as the referee announces Ben’s opponent before he comes out and climbs into the ring.

“Yeah, we wouldn’t miss it!” Frankie leans over you and takes a beer from Tom’s outstretched hand. 

“Want one?” Tom asks, squinting as he leans in closer to hear you.

“No, thanks. I'm good.” 

With a nod he turns his attention back to the ring.

You sit back in the chair, your posture rigid, as one shoulder presses against Santiago’s and the other against Frankie’s. 

This isn’t remotely uncomfortable. Not at all.

“You hanging in there? Everything getting back to normal?” Santiago asks quietly as he leans over and glances from Frankie to you.

“I…think so, yeah. Are you good?” You are careful to not rouse suspicion as you look over at Santiago. 

“I’m okay. No worries,” he says, wholly unconvincing as he glances between you and Frankie.

You feel like you should say something else. You want to. But you can’t bring yourself to. 

Frankie gives a sideways glance as Santiago talks quietly to you but ultimately says nothing. You know he is remembering your conversation from Saturday morning and using it for security, a comforting reminder that he was wrong about you and Santiago. 

You try to swallow down the sickening guilt that threatens to claw its way out of your throat. It is stuck in your chest, instead, in what you think is now a permanent home. 

“From Red Feather Lakes, Colorado, standing six foot three and weighing in at 195 pounds, I bring you Ben Miller!”

At the announcement of Ben’s arrival, another loud and chaotic eruption of cheers drowns out the thoughts in your head for a few moments of respite. 

“Let’s go, Benny!” Tom cheers over the red solo cup in his hand as he takes another swig.

“Benny, take it easy! Nice and slow!” Will instructs his younger brother as he stands up and approaches the corner of the cage, his fingers slipping between the iron slats and wrapping around them.

“Yeah, Benny!!” Frankie hollers, cupping one hand over the side of his mouth as Ben and his opponent touch gloves.

“Go get him, Benny!!” Santiago shouts encouragingly as they move to opposite sides of the arena, holding their hands up.

“You got this, Benny!” You lean forward, calling out before another wave of cheers rumbles through.

“And here we go!”

The bell rings to start the match, and as you lean back in your seat, you can feel both Frankie and Santiago’s eyes on you.

The usual Friday nights at the bar have finally resumed, much to your relief.

The chatter is relaxed and easy-going as you celebrate Ben’s victory from Monday with another round, with everyone but Frankie drinking. Santiago’s eyes meet yours across the table, and you feel your stomach immediately knot with feelings you still don’t understand. This should be getting less complicated, but it isn’t. You talk, smile, and laugh, but you are too distracted to be fully present and engaged tonight.

You grab another beer and take a swig. Frankie, sitting next to you, abruptly stops laughing at a joke Will just shared that you didn’t hear. He looks over at you.

“You okay, Biscuit?” He lowers his voice so no one else can hear, resting a hand over yours.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you respond too quickly before taking another drink, giving him a smile.

“I’ll take you home tonight, okay?” 

“Thanks, Cat.”

You feel a bit of relief as you watch Frankie and Santiago talk and laugh, but the guilt continues to gnaw at you, unrelenting and unbearable.

What if they all knew?

The thought runs on a loop that you can’t break, taunting you.

The ride to your apartment is completely silent.

Frankie doesn’t turn on the radio like he usually does, looking lost in thought, and you start to spiral. 

He doesn’t know. He can’t know. So why is he so quiet all of a sudden? Things were getting better. What changed?

“Can we talk?” Frankie asks as he pulls into the parking spot in front of your apartment, killing the engine as he unbuckles his seat belt to turn and look at you. 

“Of course,” you unbuckle yours and turn to face him.

“I’m glad…” he pauses for a moment, taking a deep breath, “that we talked things out last weekend.”

“Me too,” you agree, but Frankie shakes his head slightly. 

“There’s something I didn’t tell you…”

He’s nervous, you can tell. His hands tremble slightly in his lap and he runs his hand through his tousled curls.

“Cat, you can tell me anything. You know that,” you reassure him, reaching out to place a hand on his.

“I can’t…do this,” he says quietly through a heavy exhale. 

You search his eyes worriedly. “Do what, Frankie?”

“This…us…” He gestures his free hand to both of you. “I can’t be your friend anymore.”

Your heart feels like it instantly shatters in your chest and you can’t take in a breath. 

“Y-you don’t want to be friends anymore..? Why?” You say in quiet shock, your voice suddenly thin and barely audible.

“Because for seven years, I’ve been your best friend, always at your side. I’ve sat in silence…in agony…every day, slowly dying inside because I’m in love with you. And I can’t pretend anymore that I’m not,” he confesses, the words he has been desperate to say to you finally spilling out from behind the lips you have always dreamed of kissing.

“I love the way your eyes light up like the sun when you excitedly tell me about a new book you’re reading, and you get distracted halfway through. I love the way you let out that high-pitched hum when your coffee is just right. I love the way your hair falls down over your shoulder when you tilt your head as you read out loud. I love the way you see the best in everyone. You’re the smartest, kindest, and funniest person I have ever known. Through everything…every laugh, every tear. Every movie, every party, every bar night. It’s always been you. You’re on my mind the minute I wake up, and you are what I see when I close my eyes to sleep every night. You are every dream I have ever had. Whenever we aren’t together, I feel empty. Every time I look at you, I see a future I never thought a man like me could have, one I never thought I’d deserve. But, God…I want all of it with you.”

You stare at him wide-eyed, lips parted, completely speechless. Your heart hammers against your ribs in an unsteady rhythm of panic and happiness in tandem. You have dreamed of this moment all of this time; now it is really happening. He loves you.

Frankie loves you.

Tears fall like rain down your face and you choke back a sob.

“I love you too, Frankie. God, I've always loved you. I’ve wanted to tell you for so long…”

A wave of pure relief washes over him and he lets out a shaky laugh, his gaze soft as he gently cups your face with both hands, leaning in closer before you can finish.

It is the moment you have always dreamed of, but it is all wrong.

The guilt. Oh, God, the guilt. 

You can’t take it.

“Frankie,” you whisper hoarsely, his lips mere inches from yours, his breath warm on your face as your tears slip between the webbing of his thumb and index finger. “Santiago and I had sex.”

Frankie freezes, his eyes widening as he stares at you.

“W….what…?”

Chapter Text

The silence is completely and utterly suffocating. It wraps around your ribs, tight and crushing, as you stay frozen in the moment that was meant to be a dream but is now the nightmare you have feared for weeks, coming to life right before your eyes. Bile rises up in your throat as you see Frankie's features contort with too many emotions hitting him at once. You see the confusion and hurt—what you have been worrying about since the moment you woke up in Santiago’s bed.

Frankie's hands don’t leave your face, the heat from his palms burning your skin like a brand. He searches your eyes in desperation for answers to explain the five words you just spoke in the sacred space between you, the ones that don’t make any sense.

“Y…you…” Frankie trails off, shaking his head. He lets out a small, disbelieving laugh. “You’re joking….right?” The question is clearly rhetorical—Frankie knows you wouldn’t joke about something like that. But he looks at you in a kind of desperation that is soul-crushing. 

“Frankie….wait, listen…”

“When?” He interrupts, his hands pulling away from your face as he leans away from you. The loss of his touch makes your heart instantly ache.

“Weeks ago,” you admit quietly, eyes brimming with tears. “It was just a one-time thing, that one Friday night…”

His face pales as he studies you, the realization washing over him in a sickening wave. “The….Friday night I left early…?”

You nod, hands in your lap, as the first fresh tear runs a trail down your left cheek and drips off your chin.

“The night you were so drunk you didn’t remember anything,” Frankie’s hands clench into tight fists. “How the fuck could he take advantage of you like that?! I’m going to fucking kill him!” 

“No…no, Frankie…it wasn’t like that,” you insist in a panic as you furiously shake your head. “Santi was drunk, too. We didn’t mean to. It was an accident…”

“An accident??” His head falls back against the headrest as he lets out a bitter scoff. “Yeah. An accident. You and my brother both accidentally got so drunk that you slept together….”

Frankie stops, his eyes widening as all of the pieces finally click into place…all of the moments that seemed strange and suspicious between you and Santiago since that night come together with a sickening clarity. “You didn’t take an Uber home that night, did you?”

“No. I didn’t.”

“When I called the next morning, panicked because I hadn’t heard from you….you were actually at his house. Weren’t you?”

You nod, the weight of his realization of every one of your lies all at once rendering you unable to say a single word. The self-loathing and hatred is too much, like a physical weight sitting on your heart. You have never felt anything so unbearable in your entire life than what you feel in this moment.

“And Saturday…when he came by. He wasn’t really bringing you tea and pain meds….was he?”

Oh, God. 

You swallow hard as you shake your head. “No, he wasn’t…” 

“What was it?” Frankie asks—not demanding…almost pleading, as if he already knows the answer but has to hear it from your mouth. The pain and betrayal are clearly written on his face, but he has some sort of masochistic need to know everything, even if it does nothing but hurt him more in the end.

“It was…plan B.” You can barely even force the words out as you look down at your hands, digging your nails into your palms so hard you think you may bleed. You welcome the pain, and think you deserve it.

Frankie looks like he is going to vomit, and with the way his eyes rapidly dart back and forth as he looks out the windshield, you can tell he is imagining it—picturing you and Santiago together, torturing himself with the thought of the raw, drunken fucking that neither of you even remember.

“Don’t do that, please,” you beg him, finally reaching out and gingerly touching his arm. “Don’t think about it. Neither of us remember a single thing about that night, after you left…”

Frankie roughly pulls his arm from you. “Stop. Just stop,” he growls, quickly wiping a few tears off his face. He suddenly turns the keys left hanging in the ignition, the engine roaring to life, as he puts his seat belt back on and throws the truck in reverse.

“W…what are you doing?” You ask quietly, putting your seat belt back on.

“The guys are still at the bar, I’m sure. Pope and I are going to have a chat,” he responds in a voice that is suddenly far too calm, and your stomach churns in response.

“Frankie…no, please! Think about what you’re doing!” You grasp his arm, but he immediately shrugs you off. 

“Stop.” He warns you again, glancing over at you with a fury burning in his eyes. One you have never seen before, entirely unlike the Frankie you have always known. 

You lean back against the passenger door, breaths turning heavy and ragged.

This is a nightmare. Wake up. Please, please wake up….

Frankie’s gaze focuses on the road as he drives back to the bar—faster than usual, taking turns far too sharply. You quickly get your phone out of your purse to text Santiago with trembling hands. 

Are you still at the bar?

You stare at the screen, silently begging him to immediately answer.  

“Are you texting him?” Frankie asks, his voice still too eerily calm and quiet.

“Yes. I was seeing if he is still there. He probably has left already…” 

You stop when you see a new text come through. 

Santi: Yeah, we are still here. Why?

“Is he there?” he asks, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles blanch white as his eyes dart back and forth across the road.

For a moment, rooted in pure panic, you consider lying—telling him that Santiago and the guys all went home so maybe Frankie could calm down and think this through, to avoid acting on emotions much too raw, ones he hasn't even had a chance to process yet. But you have lied enough about this, and he probably won’t believe you anyway.

“Yes.” You whisper hoarsely, completely and utterly defeated. 

The cab of the truck is suddenly so suffocatingly quiet you can’t stand it. Soon, he pulls into the parking lot of the bar and kills the engine, slumping back into the seat in utter despondence.

“The plan B. Did you take it?” He turns to look at you, and even with the anger in his gaze, you see so much pain and utter heartbreak. 

“I did,” you say quietly, not bothering to wipe your tears away. “I’m sorry, Frankie. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It was an accident, and I don’t want to ruin your friendship with Santi…”

A distant look washes over Frankie’s eyes as he stares out the windshield. “You told me you guys weren’t in love with each other, that you weren’t together.”

“We never were!” You insist, even though deep down you know it’s meaningless and hollow to him right now. “It was just a stupid, drunken one night stand.”

“This is why you guys have been so close lately….” he swallows hard, his hands trembling as he grips the steering wheel tighter, the leather creaking underneath his fingers. “Did it not work? Are….are you pregnant?”

“I thought I was. But I took a test, and I’m not. I’m not pregnant, Frankie.”

He lets out a shaky exhale, rubbing his hands over his face. You can see the tremors tearing through his body; in all of the years you have known Frankie, you have never seen him this way. It terrifies you and destroys your soul at the same time.

“You lied to me.” His voice fractures and falters, so hoarse he can barely even speak those four small, devastating words.

“I know, Frankie. I know. I am so sorry. I was terrified of telling you the truth, because I didn’t want to hurt you…”

“Well, you did!” He shouts suddenly, another wave of rage flowing through his blood like poison. “You fucking did! Every day since then you have lied to me. Both of you have. You lied about that night, about why Santiago came over the next day…you were the person I trusted the most in this entire fucking world. But you had sex with my brother and kept it from me. How can I ever trust you again?? If you had just told me then…”

You can’t do anything but look at him as your heart breaks inside your chest. 

“I can’t believe this….I just can’t fucking believe it…” he mutters to himself, looking out the window at the neon lights flickering above the bar door. “How could this happen? You’re smarter than this.”

Your brows furrow. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you are too smart to put yourself in a position like this. You could have gotten hurt, or worse.”

“It was a one-time thing,” you huff. “And I can take care of myself.”

“Clearly not,” he retorts as the anger seeps into his words, steeped in a deep bitterness that twists his voice into one you don’t recognize anymore. “You just got lucky this time.”

“I know this is a lot to take in…”

Frankie interrupts you, letting out a rueful laugh.

“But…” you continue, trying to remain calm, “you need to take some time to digest this, think about it before reacting. I know it’s a shock, it’s unexpected. Don't do something you will regret later.”

“Too late.” Frankie abruptly opens the car door and steps out into the parking lot, his wrath radiating off of him in waves as he approaches the bar’s doors.

You practically leap out of the car, following behind him with blood roaring in your ears.

“Frankie, please! Please don’t do this!” You beg as you wrap both hands around his upper arm and tug at him in desperation. “Can’t you just take a minute and think about this, think about what you’re doing?”

“No,” he says matter-of-factly, easily pulling himself out of your grasp as he slams his palms into the bar’s doors, knocking them open with a loud thud.

Inside, the bar is still buzzing with the celebratory excitement of Ben’s victory. The guys haven’t moved from their spots since you left, talking and laughing with an ease that you know is about to implode as everything is bordering on changing in the way you have feared all along.

Frankie doesn’t hesitate for even a moment. He walks with a heavy tread born from raw ire, his boots rhythmically slamming against the floor. You trail behind him, peeking over his right shoulder. Your chest is so tight it feels as though your lungs have completely lost the ability to take in any air.

You see Tom is mid-laugh, gesturing to Will with his drink, while Ben leans back grinning. Santiago sits back with a small grin, his arm resting across the back of the booth as he takes a swig from his beer bottle. Your heart is pounding so hard it feels like your ribs are bruising—it is your worst nightmare coming to life right before your eyes, and there is nothing you can do to stop it.

The moment Frankie stops, standing at the edge of the table, the energy violently shifts and everyone feels it.

Will looks up first, his grin widening for a fraction of a second when he sees the two of you. “Hey! Look who made it back. Tom was just telling us—”

The words suddenly die in Will’s throat as he takes in Frankie’s posture and the look on his face, his smile immediately fading. Frankie’s gaze is locked on Santiago, dark and unblinking; his jaw is clenched so tightly you can see the muscles there violently twitching.

Santiago’s smile slowly vanishes. His eyes dart past Frankie’s shoulder, fixating immediately on you. He sees the color has drained from your face, and paired with your red-rimmed eyes, tear-stained cheeks, and the sheer terror written plainly in your expression, it is obvious he knows. 

“Fish?” Ben’s brows furrow as he looks between his brothers. “What’s going on, man?”

Frankie ignores him entirely, leaning down slightly and resting his hands on the edge of the wooden table.

“Get up, Pope,” Frankie rasps, his voice trembling with a raw, shattered edge as you are forced to watch, helpless. You want to intervene, to step in and try to diffuse this, but you are frozen in fear.

Santiago sits rigidly, squaring his shoulders back to put on a cool front but you see right through it. His fingers tighten visibly around the neck of his beer bottle. “Fish, let’s go outside. We don’t need to do this here.”

“No. We’re doing it right here, right now,” Frankie interrupts, his voice cracking slightly with a toxic cocktail of hurt and anger bleeding through every syllable. He looks at his brother with a sheen of tears in his eyes. “You knew. This whole time. You knew I was in love with her, and you still took her home and fucked her.”

The table goes completely silent the second he spits out the truth. Will, Ben, and Tom all freeze, looking equally shocked and horrified as their gazes dart between the three of you, trying to comprehend what they just heard. You shrink back behind Frankie in embarrassment. 

"Fuck...." Tom whispers under his breath. Will roughly clears his throat and looks at Ben, who shakes his head slightly in bewilderment. 

“It was an accident, man. We were both drunk….”

“No!” Frankie shouts, slamming his fists on the table. “I don’t fucking believe you! You have been lying to me for fucking WEEKS!! You knew how I felt about her! You should have told me!”

“You know what?!” Santiago stands up, staring at Frankie with an intensity that you have never seen before. “Neither of us owed you an explanation! It was a private….”

“NO!” Frankie roars, leaning closer in to Santiago as tears slip down his face. “You did not just ruin our friendship! You failed her!! You should have protected her! Not get so drunk you FUCK HER!”

The ambient noise around you comes to a sudden halt. The chatter and laughter from the surrounding patrons ceases as several people turn their attention to your table, and you feel your face grow hot in complete humiliation.

The escalating tension causes Will to jump out of his seat so quickly his chair falls back onto the floor with a thud. He puts an arm in front of Frankie to hold him back, balling his hand into a fist at his shoulder.

“She is a grown woman, and can make her own choices! I would never let anything happen to her! I love her!” Santiago blurts out.

Frankie’s eyes widen, his gaze darkening in an even deeper fury. He lunges toward Santiago, but Will quickly wraps his other arm tightly around the back of his shoulders, clasping his hand over his fist. Ben quickly rises from his chair, helping his older brother hold Frankie back as he fights against Will’s grasp.

“WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY?!” Frankie bellows, trying to push Ben and Will off of him.

"I said I love her!" Santiago repeats, not backing down from the rage barely contained from Frankie. 

“Fucking stop this shit!” Tom commands, quickly stepping in and putting a hand out to both Frankie and Santiago. “Now! Both of you!”

You step back, sobs tearing at your throat as your body starts to tremble violently. Both Frankie and Santiago look at you—Santiago with a desperate need to comfort you, and Frankie with heartbreak and anguish.

All of the tension bleeds out of Frankie and he goes silent for an unbearably long time. Will, Ben, and Tom watch him carefully, the anxiety sitting thick between all of them. 

“I’m fucking done,” Frankie mutters, roughly pulling away from Will and Ben. “I’m done.” He storms out of the bar, past you without another look, and you chase after him.

“Frankie! Wait, please!” You cry out, your shoes slamming heavily on the pavement as you follow behind him. “Please! I love you!!”

For a split second he freezes, the streetlight casting a heavy light on him, and you see the way he slumps forward.

But he doesn’t turn around. He gets in his truck and pulls his phone out. He dials a number before speeding out of the parking lot, leaving you sobbing, alone, and completely broken.

“Christmas isn’t for another week, Cat!” You laughed as you sat outside at the café, the one you always went to together. You wrapped your winter coat tighter around yourself to ward off the biting breeze that had been blowing around you as the sun began to fade and bright stars lit up the sky above.

“I know, I know…but I couldn’t wait seven more days,” he let out a rough chuckle that vibrated deep in his throat as he smiled at you. He put the wrapped gift sitting in his lap on the bistro table in front of your hot chocolate, a barely contained grin spreading across his face.

“Wow,” you huffed in quiet wonder as you admired the beautiful red and gold wrapping paper, complete with a bright silver, glittery bow placed on the right hand corner. You touched the textured gift wrap with awe.

“I didn’t wrap it,” he admitted as he looked from the gift to you. “I had the girl at the store wrap it. I knew I wouldn’t do it justice.” He let out one of his usual laughs of self-deprecation.

“Stop,” you scoffed with a dismissive shake of your head. “I don’t care if you wrapped it up in a plastic bag. It’s a thoughtful gift, that's all that matters.”

“You don’t even know what it is yet.” He crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back into the chair and cocked an eyebrow at you in amusement.

“Well, let’s fix that,” you smiled at him before you began carefully tearing at the corners of the wrapping paper, almost hesitant to ruin the beautiful packaging. 

Frankie suddenly leaned forward and watched you intently as a mixture of excitement and nervousness sank into every line on his face.

“It’s so pretty I hate to even open it,” you joked as you pulled the rest of the wrapping paper off and stuck the silver bow right on the center of his forehead.

Frankie let out a huff in surprise that quickly melted into a deep, husky laugh as the crinkles by his eyes deepened.

“I know it will be great, no matter what it is,” you pulled the top of the plain brown box off and set it aside. As you pulled the tissue paper out, you gave him a quick glance.

“I think you know that…” you looked back down and immediately trailed off, eyes wide, before you met his gaze again.

“I know it isn’t much…” He quickly interjected as he nervously tapped the tips of his fingers on the metal tabletop. “But I thought….”

“Are you kidding?!” you pulled out a book, The Poetry of Pablo Neruda. “Frankie!! You bought it??”

“I told you that you needed a copy,” he let out a small sigh of relief at the delighted expression on your face. The way you had instantly lit up softened every corner of nervous tension in his broad frame as he relaxed.

You held the book in both hands, your fingers tracing over the intricate leaf detailing on the border and the gold cursive engraved in the leather bound cover.

“This isn’t like the copy the library has…” you managed to say quietly, reveling in the beautiful design.

“I had it custom made and personalized.” He noticed the puzzled look on your face and he reached out, gently turning the book around. 

Tears immediately filled your eyes to the brim as you saw, on the back cover, your name engraved in elegant and smooth cursive loops on the bottom. And underneath your name, in the same font, Biscuit.

“Frankie…oh, my God…” The book slipped out of your hand and fell back onto the tissue paper in the box as you immediately covered your mouth with both hands and let out a half-laugh, half-sob. 

“You like it?” He asked, his voice soft as he searched your gaze.

“No, I don’t,” you answered, your voice wavering. “I love it. It is the best gift I have ever received in my entire life.”

A few scattered snowflakes had begun to fall from the sky, dancing on the wind as they made their way down to the Earth.

You looked up at him, and everything in that moment—the gift, the soft way he had spoken, the way he gazed at you, those dark brown curls, wisped up around his ear that sparkled with snow clinging to the ends, and his shimmering eyes that shone like rich amber steeped in a depth of kindness you had never found anywhere else—told you with absolute certainty one undeniable truth:

You had fallen in love with your best friend. 

Chapter Text

“So? How did the date go last night?” You inquired casually, watching Frankie as he collapsed onto his usual spot on the sofa next to you.

“Ugh…” He scrunched his face up as his nose crinkled in disgust and shook his head. “Don’t ask. Please.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, surprised to hear his reaction, but kept your face neutral. Deep down, though? You were secretly relieved. “That bad…?”

He immediately let out a small huff of laughter as he leaned over to grab the TV remote from the corner of the end table. “Yeah. That bad.” He ran a hand over his face and down his jaw.

“Really? Benny said he thought Maria was perfect for you.”

“Perfect, for me?” Frankie groaned as he rolled his eyes and looked over at you. “No. She was nice, sure. But we have nothing in common and the conversation was just a little too…shallow.”

“I think your standards may be too high, Frankie,” you laid back on your side on the couch as you gave him a lopsided grin. But he didn’t laugh. He looked entirely, uncharacteristically serious. 

“Or maybe I’m meant to be alone. I don’t know,” he said with a quiet heaviness, turning the remote over in his hands as he absent-mindedly rubbed his thumbs over the smooth surface on the back. 

You looked down, watching the anxious movements of his fingers, before you looked up at him. 

“Cat…” You began, your voice softening. “Why would you think that? You are the sweetest and funniest person I’ve ever known, not to mention charming and handsome. You are incredibly smart and capable, and the best friend anyone could ever ask for…”

He let out a scoff, his head falling back as he looked over at you, his expression one that spoke with an agonizing silence.

“I’d never be good enough for the right one.”

“If she’s the right one, then you would be more than enough. Besides, I don’t know how anyone could ever think you, of all people, aren’t good enough.”

Frankie’s gaze softened into something far too sweet and deep. When he looked at you, it made your stomach flip in a way it shouldn’t within the confines of the friendship that you were locked into. 

“Think so?”

“I know so.”

Frankie’s easy-going grin returned, and the sight of his dimples caused a rush of warmth to creep up the back of your neck as you smiled back at him. 

“Thanks, Biscuit. What would I do without my best friend?”

“You’ll never have to worry about that, because I will always be right here,” you let out a giggle as you reached over and snatched the remote out of his hands. “But just so you know…I’m picking the movie tonight. Fair warning…I’m in the mood for a cheesy comedy.”

He nudged your knee with his elbow, a rumbling chuckle vibrating through his chest. “I’m good with that.” 

As you scrolled through the list of movies, distracted and trying to find one to fit your mood, you didn’t even see that Frankie’s eyes never left your face as he studied you with a silent reverence.

And just like that….

Everything changed. Exactly like you had feared. 

Now the truth was no longer hidden, locked away in the vault of your soul—and the fallout was even worse than you had imagined. 

You had woken up the morning after with eyes so swollen from crying into your pillow for most of the night before that you could hardly open them. A dull and throbbing ache at the base of your skull, in tandem with every beat of your heart, pounded relentlessly in your head and caused waves of nausea to lurch through your stomach. The first thing you had seen when you finally dragged yourself out of bed and checked your phone was a text from Frankie.

Your heart stopped and all of the breath left your lungs in a rush. Your hands trembled as you tapped to open it with a sense of dread at what awaited you.

You must have read the message at least a dozen times, and you felt yourself shatter a little more each time. 

Cat🐱🐠: I need some time and space to think. 

It was short and informal and all you could think about was how it sounded so…final. You almost didn’t text back at first, but you did that night.

Okay. I understand. I’m here when you are ready to talk.

The message was eventually marked read with no response, which caused alarms of panic to corner you in every single one of your thoughts. You wanted to spill your devotions, the overwhelming love you have held for all of these years, that you had forcefully buried day after day in longing. All of the words you wanted to say the night before, but you couldn’t. Not when he didn’t know about Santiago, and the guilt had consumed you so fully that you couldn’t hold the truth back anymore. Not even for a single second.

You wanted to plead with him to hear you out.

But you didn’t. 

You knew he needed to process everything, and you respected it. So instead, you sat alone drowning in your grief, in your self-imposed exile. The pain settled at the bottom of your ribs, deep and unwavering. The moment you had dreamed of for seven years was destroyed in a single night. All of the times you wistfully imagined the two of you confessing your feelings, it had always ended the same way—tears of happiness, finally kissing, and starting a new chapter of your lives together, your forever.

It was never supposed to be this way. 

This is the kind of thing that can and does ruin friendships.

Your words to Santiago the morning after you woke up in his bed never stop echoing in the back of your mind, taunting you at every given opportunity. You hear them when you first wake up in the morning. When you try to lose yourself in work, they linger like a faint whisper filling your ears. Nights are especially torturous as you try to sleep, but your thoughts mock you endlessly until the deep, quiet indigo blues of twilight bleed into the golden, soft pinks of morning’s dawn awakening.

Hours turn into days, and days quickly fall into weeks. Time has become completely meaningless, and you find that nothing really matters anymore.

Your usual hobbies no longer bring you joy. At night, you turn the television on, unaware of what flickers in the dark. It ends up as background noise, a poor attempt to drown out the endless loneliness and silence your thoughts.

Your phone goes off constantly. Text messages and calls from Sarah and Santiago, mostly. Occasionally texts from Will, Ben, and Tom to check on you, yet even through text it feels awkward and informal. Calls from your mom and dad go unanswered. You don’t mean to ignore them, but you simply don’t have the energy to try and make casual conversations. 

You know they sometimes ask if you’re okay. 

You’re not.

But you won’t tell them that.

On a random and mundane Thursday afternoon, you drag yourself out for your weekly grocery store trip. You don’t plan meals anymore, instead just grabbing random items off the shelves in the most basic bid for survival. Food doesn’t matter. It is purely for sustenance. 

As you are finishing up, you turn into the last aisle and nearly collide with another cart.

“Hey!” You say in sharp annoyance as you look up, pulling your cart back. You immediately stop, your eyes going wide and your breath hitching as your lips part in shock.

“F-Frankie…” His name feels so unfamiliar on your tongue as you speak—your voice a strangely hoarse whisper that is barely audible and completely unrecognizable. As you look into his eyes, your heart breaks at a sickening realization: For the first time since you have known each other, Frankie isn’t happy to see you. At all. Even worse? He looks positively filled with dread.

His brows knit together and his lips turn down into a deep frown as he sighs in resignation. His body goes rigid and it is painfully clear he doesn’t want to be in your presence.

“Hey,” his tone is cold and indifferent as he stands before you, looking down at his cart as his hands twitch slightly. Underneath the glare of the harsh, fluorescent lights, you can see his golden tan has faded into a starkly pale color. His usual cap is gone, hair falling in shaggy, messy curls across his forehead. In the pocket of his navy button-up shirt is a crumpled pack of cigarettes. You feel your eyebrows raise at the sight. Frankie had stopped smoking years ago. When did he start smoking again?

You glance down at his cart. It’s full of energy drinks, and nothing else. When you look back up at him, his eyes are downcast, as if he is doing everything he can to avoid accidentally meeting yours.

“It’s good to see you,” you blurt out, gripping the shopping cart handle so tight your knuckles blanch stark white. Your nerves rapidly spike, unsettling and sickening you at how wrong everything feels now. How can it feel like this with Frankie? 

“Yeah, you too,” he mumbles without an ounce of the warmth and sincerity that has always held a home for you in his words. “I gotta get going. I’ll see you later.”

He pushes his cart around yours, staring straight ahead as he passes. You turn on your heel to face his retreating back. 

“Frankie.” Your voice is trembling as you call out to him. “Are….we just never going to talk about what happened? Or about what we both said?”

You see his muscles instantly tense in his neck and the way his shoulders stiffen. 

“I told you I needed time!” he snaps, glancing over his shoulder at you with a heavy glare. “Or did you forget?”

He quickly walks out of the aisle, sharply turning a corner, as you are left standing there frozen in shock and dismay.

You stand on the familiar porch you have spent so many nights on, your knuckles tapping a few small raps on the door. As you stand back and wait, you wrap your arms around yourself, your entire body shaking from the swirl of emotions that have settled deep into the pit of your stomach.

The door opens, and Sarah looks at you in surprise. Her eyes are immediately filled with worry as she searches yours.

“Hey,” she greets you gently, holding the screen door open with one hand. “Are you okay?”

That simple question is all that it takes to break the emotional dam that you have been slowly building since your confession. Your bottom lip starts to quiver as tears fill your eyes and slip over your lashlines, leaving behind a hot trail of devastation and heartbreak. You shake your head no, unsure if you can speak. A sharp, ragged cry escapes from deep inside your throat, painfully scraping at the sides.

Sarah wastes no time. She immediately steps out on the porch and into your space, her arms wrapping tightly around your back as she holds you. You go limp, your muffled cries soaking the shoulder of her shirt, and she only holds you tighter in response.

“It’s okay,” she whispers. “You don’t have to say anything. Just come in.”

She ushers you inside. You walk over to the couch, collapsing down into the cushions as your tears keep falling. Sarah sits next to you, putting her hand on yours. 

“I'm here,” she murmurs soothingly. “I’m here.”

It takes far too long for you to put your heartbreak into an explanation. You sit and sob for what feels like hours. 

“I saw him,” you somehow manage to blurt out in the midst of your weeping, tears burning your eyes and trailing down your cheeks. “I saw Frankie.”

Sarah looks surprised but stays quiet, squeezing your hand to steady you.

“I was at the store and ran into him. God, Sarah…he couldn’t get away fast enough. He was practically disgusted with seeing me, and still refuses to talk to me.”

She sighs, her head dropping down for a moment, before looking back up at you.

“You know I am always the first to call Frankie out on his shit,” she says, choosing her words carefully. “And while I disagree completely with how he is handling all of this and it truthfully makes me angry…I also know how much he cares about you. How much he loves you. But he is hurting a lot. And of course you want to fix this, but you can’t rush it. Everyone has their own timeline when it comes to pain, and it isn’t linear or logical. Frankie will talk to you when he is ready. It’s hard as fuck, I know. But he will. You just have to wait this out. I think he will come to his senses soon.”

You give an absent-minded nod, but there’s a part of you that can’t help but worry Frankie won’t ever get over this. That maybe everything you always wanted for the two of you is impossible now, the damage too irrevocable. 

“What about Santiago?” She presses gently, as if the very question itself is dangerous to speak into existence.

“What about him?”

She raises her eyebrows as she clears her throat. “Well…you haven’t even mentioned him these last few months. He is in love with you. And when I asked if you had feelings for him, you didn’t answer.”

“We...haven’t talked much. He has been calling me, texting me. But I haven’t been really responding. To him..or, well, anyone.”

You feel a sudden wash of guilt and shame rush over you and you wince slightly. You think of how many times Sarah alone has called and texted, just for you to mostly ignore them because it was all too heavy. Truthfully, you didn’t trust yourself to be able to talk about Frankie without crying when it was such a raw wound and discussing him in any capacity would just make you bleed again, over and over, on repeat. 

“Hey, no. Don’t do that,” she says firmly, giving your hand another grounding squeeze. “You don’t need to ever feel obligated to respond back to people when you are overwhelmed and going through hell. I worry about you, you know that. But I understand how difficult it can be to talk with so much weighing in on you. Just…text me to tell me you’re alive so I can worry a little less.”

You chuckle lightly and nod, wiping tears away with your free hand. 

“I didn’t answer then because I was confused,” you admit. “With everything that happened, and the pregnancy scare, we had gotten so close. Maybe it was bonding over this secret we shared, or the guilt of knowing he loved me, combined with the abandonment from Frankie. I found myself wondering if my feelings went deeper. But at the end of the day…as much as I care about him, my thoughts always come back to Frankie. I just want him. But, God…I care about Santi so much, and I don’t want to hurt him.”

“I think you need time to yourself, away from both of them. Hell, away from the rest of the guys, too. Your emotions are still all over the place, understandably so, and you can’t work through all of this if you’re still entangled in the middle of it. You won’t process everything if you keep submerging yourself in that environment over and over again.”

“You’re right, I won’t. Especially with the rest of them knowing. It’s still too new, and probably all they will think about for a while whenever they see the three of us.” 

You let out a heavy sigh. “Fuck, I’m such a shitty friend right now. I haven’t even asked about how things are going with you. How are things going?”

“No, you’re a friend who is going through a lot of shit and is putting herself first as she navigates a difficult situation. You can’t pour from an empty cup, and overextending yourself hurts you more in the end. I would much rather know you are taking care of yourself right now. I’m never going anywhere, you know that.”

You let go of her hands and lean forward, enveloping her in a hug.

“There isn’t much to report on yet, anyway. Our first egg retrieval is next week.”

“Really?? Wow! Which means after around a week, you’ll have some embryos!”

She looks at you in surprise. “I thought you didn’t know anything about IVF..?”

“I’ve been studying.”

She laughs at that, giving you a wide grin.

"Keep me updated?"

"Always."

“I can’t thank you enough,” you say with a sad chuckle of self-deprecation, “for putting up with my drama of all of this.”

Sarah hugs you again before pulling back, her voice softening around the edges.

“No need to thank me. Hell, we have had each other's backs since we were kids. I want you to be happy, and I know Frankie makes you happy. I just want to see the two of you stop acting like fucking idiots and get together already,” she teases, and you can’t help but laugh, the first genuine one you have had in months.

You tell yourself that it won’t stay this way. You know that you have to put your faith in time, even if it is the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do. 

Until Frankie is ready to talk, you’ll be waiting.

As you are leaving work on Monday, your phone rings.

“Fuck,” you murmur, quickly unlocking your car as you slide into the driver’s side and toss your purse on the passenger seat.

You pull your phone from your pocket, and see it’s Santiago. For a moment you contemplate sending it to voicemail, but you suddenly get a gut feeling you can't shake. You swipe to answer.

“Hey, Santi,” you greet him, tilting your head to the side to rest your phone on your shoulder as you slide the key into the ignition and start the car.

“Are you still at work?” He immediately asks, his voice low and strained. It should be a casual question, but you can tell it’s not. You feel a sense of dread, and your heart starts to race. Something is wrong. You can feel it.

“I’m leaving now. Why? What’s going on?” 

The other side of the line is dead silent for what feels like an eternity.

“I’m sorry to have to call you about this. I'm so fucking sorry," you can hear him holding back tears, fighting it with every word he speaks. "But you needed to know.”

Something is wrong. Really wrong. 

“K-know what, Santi? What do I need to know? You’re scaring the fuck out of me,” your voice trembles and your entire body starts to shake. 

“It’s Frankie. I…fuck. Fuck. I don’t even know how to tell you this.”

Oh, God. Oh, fuck.

“What about him, Santi?” Your voice cracks. "What??" You can tell whatever he is about to say is bad...very bad, and you’re trying to brace yourself for every possibility, only to be completely blindsided by the one thing you had never expected to hear.

“He…relapsed. OD’d this past weekend. Just found out.”

The phone immediately slips from your shoulder and onto your lap as you fall back into the seat, stunned.

“Starshine?” You can faintly hear Santiago’s muffled voice call out to you, crackling from the receiver, as your eyes stay fixed ahead. “Starshine, are you there?”