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natsaffection · 2 months ago

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Not like the storys. pt 2 | N.R

BasketballPlayer!Natasha x Cheerleader!Reader

Warnings: Sexual jokes, harassment, bad/toxic parent’s behavior

Word count: 4,8k

A/n: second part is here! I’m honest with you, I don’t know where it’s going. Requests are appropriated..

Part 1

You woke up to the sound of your alarm and the faint golden blur of sunlight crawling through the edge of your curtains.

For a moment, you just lay there, half buried in your blanket, cheek pressed against your pillow, hair messy from sleep. Your body felt like it hadn’t fully arrived yet, still somewhere on the back of Natasha Romanoff’s motorcycle, warm wind rushing over your arms, adrenaline curled around your ribs.

And then it all rushed back. The fact that Natasha had not kissed you. Or touched you. Or even asked to come inside..The ride, the Ice..

You blinked up at the ceiling, letting that realization settle in again. She didn’t try anything.

You let out a long, confused sigh, grabbed your phone from your nightstand, and immediately winced.

8 missed messages. All from Lexie.

Y/n???

Are you home?

Do I have to kill her?

Please say she didn’t try anything weird.

If you’re lying dead in a field somewhere, I swear-

I will haunt Romanoff in her dreams.

I’m not joking.

HELLOOOO?

You let your head fall back onto the pillow. “Oh my god.” You didn’t even respond right away. You just tossed your phone onto the bed and dragged yourself to the bathroom, still half-asleep and fully unsure what the hell last night even meant.

By the time you stepped into the kitchen, the tension is already thick. Your mom stood by the sink, arms crossed, her jaw tight. Your dad leaned against the fridge, coffee mug in hand, shoulders hunched. The second they saw you, both of them turned.

“Well, look who decided to show up.” your dad said, voice sharp and low.

You blinked. “What?”

“You came home late.” your mom said, voice clipped. “You didn’t tell us where you were. Who you were with.”

“I was at the game.” you said. “Like I told you.”

“You didn’t say you’d be out half the night.”

“It wasn’t-” you started, but your dad cut in.

“Don’t get smart.”

Your mom scoffed. “Don’t start snapping at her just because you’re still pissed about last night.”

“You were the one who-”

“Don’t turn this around.”

“I’m not-”

Your stomach clenched as the volume started climbing..again. Same script. Same fight. They always found a way to drag you into it, even when it had nothing to do with you.

“I got a ride home.” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “That’s all.”

Your mom narrowed her eyes. “With who?”

“Someone from school.”

“You think that makes it better?”

“Better than being here..” you muttered, grabbing your bag. Your dad stepped forward. “Excuse me?”

But you were already backing toward the door. “I’m walking today.” you said, voice flat. “I don’t want a ride.”

“Y/n-“

“Just drop it.” You yanked the front door open and stepped out into the cold air, pulling your hoodie tighter around you. The door slammed shut behind you. And you didn’t look back.

You’d only made it to the end of your street when-

“YOU ACTUAL CRIMINAL, I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!”

You shrieked as Lexie body-checked you from behind.

“Jesus, Lex!” you gasped, nearly dropping your phone. “You scared the life out of me!”

Lexie looked wild. Hair still half-damp, hoodie askew, eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep and pure worry-fueled adrenaline.

“You didn’t text back! Not once! Not even an ‘I lived!’ message! I had to imagine you getting murdered in someone’s backyard while I was brushing my teeth!”

“I was fine-”

“‘Fine’?” Lexie echoed, narrowing her eyes. “You got on a bike with Natasha Romanoff and then dropped off the face of the planet! Do you know what that means?”

“I know, okay? But she didn’t-”

“Please don’t tell me she took you back to her place. If you tell me she lit candles and played soft jazz, I will scream.”

You groaned. “Lexie..!”

“Did she kiss you?”

“No!”

“Did she undress you with her eyes?”

“No.”

“Did she..oh my god, did she let you wear her jacket?”

You stopped walking and turned to face her.

“No. She didn’t do anything.”

Lexie blinked. “…what?”

Your voice dropped slightly. “She just drove me home. We stopped for ice cream. She asked me if I was comfortable. That’s it.”

Lexie stared at you for a beat. Then, slowly: “Okay. That’s actually…kind of suspicious.”

You threw your hands in the air. “Thank you! That’s what I said!”

You walked for a moment in silence. Lexie tilted her head, watching you out of the corner of her eye. “You’re serious?”

You nodded.

“You’re not just, like, lying to protect her?”

“No. I’m..” You hesitated. “I was ready to have to say no, Lex. I had a whole speech in my head. I was expecting her to ask to come inside. I even thought about pretending my parents were awake just to make it less awkward.”

Lexie’s mouth opened to make a joke, but then she saw something in your face- something hesitant. Conflicted. And she went quiet.

“She just said ‘good night,’” you continued softly. “And thanked me. And left.”

Lexie exhaled. “Okay…wow.”

“Yeah..”

You walked in silence for a few more blocks. Finally, Lexie nudged your shoulder gently. “So what does that mean?”

“I don’t know..” you said, voice small.

Then, after a pause: “But I can’t stop thinking about it..”

The morning passed in slow, sleepy fragments. You sat near the window in your second-period literature class, trying to focus on the passage in front of you while the teacher droned about metaphor and foreshadowing. Your notebook was open, pen idle in your fingers, but your mind kept drifting back- to headlights on the road, the hum of a motorcycle engine, and the steady warmth of Natasha’s voice in your helmet the night before.

You barely registered the bell until the students around you began packing up. In math, you managed to finish your homework without really thinking about it, mechanically solving equations like your brain was working on autopilot. Your stomach churned with nervous energy that you couldn’t quite place.

You’d replayed last night in your head a hundred times by now. The softness in Natasha’s voice. The way she hadn’t made a move. The way she had left. Not because she was uninterested- but because she cared.

You had tried to stop overanalyzing it. You had. But now it was the only thing you could feel. By the time the lunch bell rang, your nerves were stretched thin, like someone had wound a rubber band too tight inside your chest.

You walked to the cafeteria with Lexie and Emma, letting their chatter fill the space around you. You were quiet, distracted, only catching pieces of their conversation.

“…if I get one more surprise quiz I’m throwing myself out the second-floor window..” Lexie was saying. “There’s grass down there. It’ll be fine.”

“You still have your calculus packet due?” Emma asked.

“Nope. Burned it.”

You chuckled softly, grateful for their chaos. You grabbed your trays and found a spot near the back of the cafeteria. You took your usual seat near the edge of the table, back partially turned to the rest of the room. You picked at your food, not really hungry.

The voices around you melted into one large blur- until a shift in the air made you look up. Your eyes scanned the cafeteria, and found her. Across the room, leaned back in her seat at the basketball team’s table, laughing lightly at something Steve said.

But even as she laughed, her eyes drifted..and landed on you. It wasn’t obvious. Not dramatic. Just…quiet. A glance that lingered a few seconds too long. A softness that had no place in a room this loud. Your heart thudded. You looked down quickly, color rising to your cheeks.

“Again?” Lexie whispered, nudging you. “Did she just look at you again?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” you muttered, too fast. Lexie leaned back and followed your gaze.

“Oh, come on. It’s obvious. She’s got, like, heart eyes.”

You shook your head, but your hand trembled slightly on your fork. The cafeteria was suddenly too loud, too warm. Something was happening..And you didn’t know how to stop it, or if you even wanted to.

Natasha leaned back in her chair, one arm resting lazily on the table edge, trying to look cooler than she felt. Her heart was doing that annoying thing again- fluttering like it had no business being that soft.

She’d only let herself look at you once..Okay, maybe twic- Three times, tops. Steve sat across from her, watching her like he already knew.

“So.” he said, nudging her with his shoe under the table. “You made a move.”

Natasha looked at him sideways. “I didn’t make a move.”

“Offering her a ride? Ice cream? Emotional intimacy?” He raised a brow. “Sounds like a move.”

Natasha tried to shrug it off, but the smile that ghosted her lips gave her away. Steve leaned in, grinning. “You liked her.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

She didn’t answer, but she could feel the warmth in her chest she hadn’t had in a long time. The kind that made her feel human again. For once, it didn’t feel like she was pretending to be something she wasn’t. That’s when Matt sat down at the edge of the table with two of his guys, talking too loud already.

“Yo, Romanoff.” he said with a smirk, unwrapping a granola bar like it was part of his performance. “Nice exit last night.”

Natasha said nothing and steve stiffened.

“I mean..damn,” Matt continued, laughing. “Didn’t think little miss sunshine had it in her. You go soft or you take her hard?”

Natasha stared at her tray, jaw clenched. Matt leaned in a little. “Did she cry? Bet she cried.”

“Drop it.” Steve said under his breath.

Matt ignored him. “You always were good at the whole ‘choke-and-stroke’ game.”

A few of the guys snorted. Natasha didn’t speak, didn’t flinch or looked up. But her hand curled into a fist under the table.

“C’mon.” Matt smirked. “She got that innocent thing going, huh? Bet she begged for it.”

Steve kicked her gently under the table. Nat. Don’t.

The bell rang. Chairs scraped against the tile. Everyone started moving, except Matt, who leaned in close, smug. “You can at least say if she was good.”

Natasha stood in one smooth motion. And punched him clean in the face. A loud crack echoed through the cafeteria. Matt stumbled backward, grabbing his nose, blood already spilling over his lips.

The cafeteria froze.

Dozens of students turned at once. Trays half-raised, mouths hanging open. Matt looked up, smiling through the blood, sick and triumphant. “Knew I could get to you.”

She stared at him coldly. No regret. No satisfaction. Just quiet rage under her skin. Then her eyes flicked up, and landed on you. Standing at your table. Staring, shocked, pale.

Lexie grabbed your arm. Emma was whispering something. But you didn’t move. You just stared at Natasha. And Natasha saw it. The way your lips parted. The way your brows pulled together. The way your body went rigid.

Fear.

——

Natasha wasn’t someone who got distracted. She was the girl who moved fast, played harder, and didn’t look back. She didn’t lose focus, on the court or off. She had control.

But ever since she’d thrown that punch, ever since she’d seen the way you had looked at her afterward- something inside her had been…off.

She sat through two classes and didn’t hear a single word. Her leg bounced nonstop under the desk. Her fingers drummed against her notebook, open to a page she hadn’t touched. Her teammates whispered about her across the room, but she didn’t turn to look. She didn’t care.

She didn’t want to care. But her brain wouldn’t stop circling around one thing: you.

The way you had flinched. The way you’d left. The way you hadn’t even looked back. Natasha hated it.

She hated the way it made her chest feel tight and her thoughts feel scrambled. She hated that this one girl, this beautiful, stubborn, impossible girl, was the only thing on her mind when she should’ve been thinking about stats, or practice, or how she’d probably just gotten herself benched for the rest of the season.

But the second she spotted your hair in the hallway between third and fourth period, walking quietly with Lexie, head down, shoulders hunched, Natasha knew:

If I don’t talk to her now, I’ll lose her.

And for some reason, that scared her more than anything had in a long time. She didn’t plan what she was going to say. She just moved.

Weaving through the crowd. Cutting between lockers. Ignoring the eyes on her, the whispers, the subtle nudges. Everyone had seen the punch. Everyone was waiting for her next move.

“Hey.”

You both turned. Lexie immediately stepped forward, planting herself squarely in front of Natasha like a human shield.

“Nope.” she said, arms crossed. “Not happening.”

“Lexie-” you started, but Lexie didn’t take her eyes off Natasha.

“I don’t know what game you think you’re playing, but she’s not a toy.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?” Lexie snapped. “Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re still the same girl everyone warns people about.”

Natasha’s jaw tensed. She kept her voice low and calm. “I know you don’t like me.”

Lexie didn’t flinch. “I know you don’t trust me.” Natasha added. “And you’re probably right to feel that way. I’ve messed up.”

Still, Lexie stood firm. “But I’m not here to defend my reputation. I’m not here to prove anything to you.”

She finally met Lexie’s eyes.

“I just need two minutes to explain myself to her. That’s all. Please.”

Lexie hesitated. Not because she wanted to, but because something in Natasha’s voice wasn’t like before. There was no edge. No performance. Just genuine worry.

You gently touched her arm. “It’s okay, Lex.”

“Are you sure?” she whispered.

You nodded. “I just want to hear her out.”

Lexie gave Natasha a look that could’ve killed a grown man, then stepped back slowly, still hovering close as she turned the corner with a warning glare.

They didn’t speak as they walked outside, slipping through the side doors into the empty courtyard. It was cool and quiet. The leaves in the trees rustled gently in the breeze. The buzz of the school building faded behind them, and for a moment, all you could hear was your own heartbeat.

You sat on the edge of one of the planter walls, leaving a space between you. You didn’t say anything.

So Natasha did.

“I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

You looked at her. Her face was softer now, but still guarded.

“Then why let it happen?”

Natasha exhaled. “Because Matt said things he shouldn’t have. And I’ve let people say a lot of shit about me. But I wasn’t going to let him say it about you.”

You blinked. Your eyes didn’t leave Natasha’s.

“I meant what I said,” Natasha added. “That night? The ride? I didn’t want anything from you. I still don’t. I just… like being near you.”

You were quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “He’s texted me before.”

Natasha’s head turned. “What?”

“Matt. A couple months ago. He started DMing me on Insta. Said he liked my ‘cheer energy.’ Then he started sending pictures.”

Natasha’s blood chilled. “What kind of pictures?”

You looked away. “You know what kind.”

Natasha didn’t speak for a moment. Her fists clenched in her lap.

“I blocked him.” you said quickly. “But I didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t want to cause drama. Or be that girl.”

“You should’ve told me.”

You turned to her. “Why? So you could hit him again?”

Natasha winced.

“Sorry.” you said quickly. “That was…unfair.”

“No.” Natasha said quietly. “It’s fair.”

She looked down at her shoes. “I don’t like how I handled it. But I couldn’t stand the way he talked about you. Like you were something to win. Something to…use.”

Your stomach twisted at how softly she said it.

“I’ve been treated like that too.” Natasha continued. “Way too many times. I guess I just…snapped.”

A long silence followed. Then you said, “I hated the punch. But I didn’t hate why you threw it.”

Natasha looked up, startled.

“I don’t like violence.” you added. “I’ve had enough of that at home.”

Natasha’s expression changed instantly. Her voice dropped. “Are you…safe?”

You looked away. Your jaw tensed. “I’m not in danger.” you said. “But it’s not easy there. It’s loud. Mean. Sometimes I just want silence, you know? Just peace. One night where nobody is yelling.”

Natasha felt something tighten in her chest. A protective ache she didn’t know she was capable of. “I don’t want to add more chaos to your life.” she said, voice rough. “I’m trying so hard not to.”

You looked at her again. “Then don’t promise me you’re perfect. Just promise me you’ll try.”

“I will.” Natasha said without hesitation. “Even if I mess it up. I’ll still try.”

Another quiet moment. “Can I…ask you something kind of stupid?”

You looked over. “Sure.”

Natasha hesitated, almost like she was trying to decide if she deserved to ask at all. “Would you give me your number?”

You blinked, surprised. “My number?”

“Yeah. Not like for flirting.” Natasha added quickly, the words tumbling over each other. “Just so I know you’re okay. Like…after school. At night. Whenever. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but-”

You tilted your head. “You want it…so you can check on me?”

Natasha gave a small shrug, her gaze dropping for a second. “I know I’m not someone you trust yet. But that night you got on my bike? You trusted me enough to let me get you home safe.”

Your chest tightened.

“And I don’t want that to end here.” Natasha finished. “So if things ever get too loud, or you just want quiet, or if someone says something, or just..anything, I want you to know you can text me. Or call me. And I’ll be there. No drama. No games. Just me.”

You didn’t answer for a long second. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you felt something pull in your throat. That kind of raw emotion that doesn’t rise like a wave, it sinks.

“I don’t have many people who say stuff like that.” you said softly.

“I don’t say it often.” Natasha admitted. “But I mean it.”

You reached into your pocket and slowly pulled out your phone.

“You don’t have to prove anything to me.” you said, unlocking it and handing it over. “Just don’t vanish.”

Natasha took the phone like it was something fragile. “I won’t.” she said. “I promise.”

She added her number, typed in Natasha, with a little lightning bolt emoji at the end. When she handed the phone back, her fingers lingered for half a second longer than they needed to. You saved it, and smiled. A small, uncertain, hopeful smile.

Two days passed. Not quickly..but softly. Natasha and you didn’t speak much in person. Not out loud, anyway. At school, you passed in the hallways like magnets just out of reach, subtle glances, shared looks that carried more than words. Natasha would spot you coming around a corner and feel her pulse shift just slightly, like the rhythm of her heart had changed.

You would catch Natasha watching you across the courtyard and pretend not to smile, pretend you didn’t look for her in every room. You texted. Not constantly. Not performatively. Just…here and there.

Natasha: You make it home okay?

You: Yeah. Just finished homework.

Natasha: Nerd.

You: I’ll take that as a compliment.

Natasha: It was.

Sometimes you said nothing important. Sometimes it was just:

You: Sky looks good tonight.

Natasha: So do you.

You never talked about the punch again. You didn’t need to. Not yet. On a Thursday afternoon, Natasha was supposed to be focused on training. The court was loud, shoes squeaking, the echo of whistles and coaches shouting from the sidelines. Her team was running drills, and sweat was already sticking to the inside of her collar, her jersey clinging to her back.

But her attention drifted. Across the gym, the cheer squad was setting up..You were there. Black leggings, team shirt tied at your waist, hair up in a high ponytail. You were standing at the front of the line, demonstrating a clean arm formation for two newer girls, your voice calm and focused.

You looked confident. Completely in control. Natasha found herself standing still a second too long, the basketball resting on her hip. Steve nudged her as he passed. “Eyes on the game.”

Natasha smirked, shook herself off, and jogged back into play. But her gaze wandered every chance it got.

Later the gym lights faded behind Natasha as she stepped out into the crisp air. Her hoodie was pulled over her damp hair, the sleeves pushed up just enough to cool her arms as she pedaled home. She took the back route, quieter, darker, the one with more trees and fewer headlights. Her body was tired in the best way, her muscles aching in rhythm with the movement.

Home was quiet when she got there. The porch light was already on. Alexei was watering the plants in the dark for no reason, humming some weird Soviet folk song under his breath. Melina was in the kitchen, reading a book with one hand and eating slices of apple with the other.

“Natasha.” Melina called gently. “Food in the fridge. You hungry?”

“Later.” she called back, already heading up the stairs.

“Good practice?” Alexei yelled from the yard.

“Yeah.”

She didn’t stop. Just moved quietly, naturally, toward her room, like she always did. She shut the door gently behind her, peeled off her hoodie, and dropped onto her bed with a heavy exhale. The sky outside her window was deep navy, fading into black. The first stars were just beginning to show. She reached for her phone, thumb hovering over her messages, when it buzzed first.

You: They’re arguing again.

Natasha sat up slowly, her back pressed to the wall.

Natasha: What happened?

You: I don’t even know. It’s loud. They’re mad at each other. At me. At life. Whatever.

Natasha paused, staring at the screen.

Natasha: Are you okay?

You: I mean. Yeah.

Not really.

I’m just lying here with my headphones in. Trying not to exist.

She read that twice, and her chest ached. Natasha hesitated, but then typed slowly:

Want me to come get you?

The typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Then:

You: Lol

Yeah come break into my house and save me like a knight in shining armor

Natasha stared at that.

Natasha: I’m serious.

You: …wait really?

Natasha: Yeah. I don’t want to make things worse.

I just don’t like thinking of you there. Like that.

There was a longer silence this time. Two minutes. Maybe three.

You: She just yelled again.

I don’t even know what I did.

I just want out.

Natasha’s heart clenched.

Natasha: Drop me your location. I’ll be outside in 15.

You: Are you sure?

Natasha: Absolutely.

The dots blinked again. Then a little pin appeared.

Location Shared: Your House

A second later, another message came through:

You: I think I already regret that.

But also…

Thank you.❤️‍🩹

Natasha was already moving. She grabbed her hoodie, phone, wallet. Slipped her boots back on. Her parents didn’t ask questions when she walked out the door.

You stood just inside your bedroom door, phone in one hand, a backpack slung hastily over one shoulder. You hadn’t packed much. You weren’t even sure what you’d thrown in. A hoodie, maybe. A charger. Toothbrush. Nothing that said I’m running away, but enough to make you feel like you could.

Downstairs, the noise had died down. Your mother was probably sulking in the kitchen. Your father had stormed off to the garage again. The whole house felt like a pressure cooker, still hissing, still dangerous, just…silent for now.

You watched through your bedroom window, heart pounding. And then you saw it. The bike pulled up slow and quiet at the edge of the driveway. Natasha, in a dark hoodie and boots, cutting the engine and glancing up toward the house like she was assessing every angle.

Your breath caught. This was really happening. You slipped down the stairs carefully, wincing at every creak in the floorboards. You didn’t bother saying goodbye. The door shut softly behind you with a click.

Natasha was already walking toward you when you stepped into the cold air, one hand reaching into the side compartment of the bike.

“I didn’t know what kind of bag you’d bring..” she said softly, “but we’ll make it work.”

You just nodded. You didn’t trust your voice yet.

“You okay?” Natasha asked.

You hesitated. Then, quietly: “I am now.”

Natasha didn’t answer. She just held out the spare helmet. You took it carefully, fingers brushing Natasha’s. You adjusted the straps yourself this time, your hands steadier than you expected. Natasha watched the movement with something tender in her eyes but didn’t say a word.

Once the helmet clicked into place, Natasha swung onto the bike and offered you a hand.

“Here.” she murmured. “One foot at a time.”

You climbed on behind her, the movement slower now, familiar but still strange. When your legs settled and your arms wrapped around Natasha’s waist, you didn’t stop yourself this time. You rested your head gently against Natasha’s back.

The motor purred to life, low and steady. The ride was quiet. Not because there was nothing to say, but because neither of you wanted to break the calm. The wind whipped at your hair where it peeked out from the helmet, and the city blurred past in streaks of orange streetlight and shadow. But you barely noticed.

You were focused on the warmth in front of you. The steady rhythm of Natasha’s breathing. The way her hands never tightened too hard on the handlebars, always careful.

Natasha didn’t say anything through the radio. But she felt every shift behind her, every tremble, every breath against her back. She knew you were holding on a little tighter than you needed to. And she didn’t mind.

They pulled up to a small, lived-in house with ivy crawling along one side and a slightly crooked mailbox. The porch light still flickered on as the engine died.

You slid off slowly, removing the helmet with shaking hands. Natasha steadied the bike, then took the helmet gently from you, storing it back in the compartment.

Natasha smiled, soft, reassuring, and led you up the front steps. “Just a heads-up.” she said as you reached the door. “My mom’s chill, but she’ll ask questions. My dad…he’s a lot. Not in a bad way. He just forgets what volume is.”

You gave a faint laugh. “Good to know.”

“I’ll keep them short.”

Natasha opened the door. Warmth hit you immediately, light, heat, and the scent of something herby from the kitchen. The TV buzzed faintly from the living room.

Natasha stepped inside first. “Hey, I’m back.”

Melina appeared from the hallway, wearing a cozy sweater and socks, her hair tied up messily like she’d been reading for hours.

“Hey-” she stopped in the doorway, her eyes landing on you behind Natasha. There was a moment of stillness. Her brows lifted, not judgmental, just…surprised.

Because her daughter didn’t bring girls home. Not like this. Melina’s eyes softened immediately. She glanced between you, reading more in five seconds than most people could in an hour.

“Hi.” she said gently.

You blinked. “Hi, I’m Y/n..”

“I’m Melina.” she said, stepping forward, offering a kind smile. “You’re welcome here. Always.”

You looked down shyly. “Thanks.”

Melina’s gaze flicked back to her daughter, amused. “Didn’t think I’d see the day.”

Natasha gave her a pointed look. “Not now, Mom.”

Melina just chuckled and squeezed her shoulder before disappearing back toward the kitchen. You followed Natasha down the hall with your backpack held tightly over one shoulder.

The house was cozy but lived-in. Books stacked in odd places, a plant or two hanging crookedly, and a faint hum of something classical playing from a speaker in another room. It felt warm. It felt safe..

Natasha stopped at the door at the end of the hall, pushed it open with one hand, and stepped aside. “Here it is.” she muttered, almost awkwardly. “It’s..not that exciting.”

You stepped in, looking around slowly. The room smelled like lavender and old gym t-shirts. The walls were covered in a mix of photos, torn posters, and little hand-written notes pinned near the mirror. There was a corkboard half-covered in ticket stubs and small Polaroids. The window was cracked just enough to let the cool air in.

It looked lived in. But more than that, it looked like her.

“You have…fairy lights?” you said, half-smiling.

Natasha shrugged, pulling her hoodie off. “Melina bought them for me. I pretended to hate them.”

You nodded, taking another slow glance around. “You didn’t take them down.”

“Noup..” Natasha said, quieter now. “I didn’t.”

Your gaze landed on the bed. It was slightly unmade. Simple grey sheets. A worn pillow with one corner permanently flipped up.

Natasha caught you looking. “I can bring in the mattress.” she offered quickly. “You can take the bed. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

You turned to her, blinking. “Wait, why?”

“Because I figured…I mean, I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“I wouldn’t be..”

There was a long pause. Your eyes held. You gave a soft, tired smile. “It’s fine. We can share, really.”

Natasha opened her mouth to protest, then stopped. “…Okay,” she said simply. And it was more than just okay.

Ten minutes later, you sat cross-legged on the bed, your hoodie folded neatly beside you, scrolling aimlessly on your phone while Natasha pulled out her laptop and connected it to the TV mounted above her desk.

That’s when a light knock tapped against the door. Natasha groaned. “Oh god.”

She swung it open an inch. “What.”

Melina peeked in with a tray. “Snack patrol.”

Natasha groaned louder. “Mom..”

“I brought cut fruit.. Popcorn. Also those little chocolate-covered pretzel bites you like.”

Melina stepped in fully, ignoring her daughter’s eye roll as she made a beeline for you.

“Hi, sweetheart.” she said warmly. “You need anything? Extra blanket? Phone charger? My daughter forgets to offer people actual things.”

You laughed softly. “I’m okay. Really.”

Melina sat on the edge of the bed for a moment. “You’re very polite. That’s rare in this house.”

“Mom!” Natasha growled from the door, rubbing her temple.

“I like her.” Melina whispered (loudly) to you, then kissed Natasha’s cheek on the way out.

“Be normal!” Natasha hissed after her.

Melina winked and shut the door behind her. Natasha stood frozen for a second, then turned to you, deadpan. “So that’s my mom.”

You were smiling fully now. Not teasing,just genuinely warm.

“She’s wonderful.”

Natasha raised a brow. “Wonderful is a stretch.”

You looked down at your hands. “I wish mine was like that.”

The room went quiet. Natasha sat down beside you again. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head. “You don’t have to be. Just..don’t take her for granted.”

“I try not to.” Natasha said. “But she’s a lot.”

“I like a lot.” you said quietly.

And that was the end of that. You slipped into the bathroom to change, leaving Natasha alone with her own spiraling thoughts.

She paced her room slowly, chewing the inside of her cheek. Adjusted the pillows. Then re-adjusted them. Changed the movie choice twice. Wondered if she should ask you again if you were sure about the bed. Wondered if she should pretend to fall asleep first. Wondered if her heart had always beat this loud.

The bathroom door opened, and you stepped out wearing leggings and an oversized sleep shirt with a faded logo across the front.

Natasha blinked. “That’s my shirt..”

You looked down. “It was on the top of your folded laundry pile. You said make myself at home..”

Natasha smiled, just slightly. “Looks better on you.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t stop smiling either. You crawled into bed carefully, both of you moving with quiet awareness, like the wrong shift might burst the moment. Natasha stayed on her side at first, arm behind her head, scrolling through Netflix. You settled beside her, tucking the blanket up to your chest.

“Is this okay?” Natasha asked.

“Yeah..” you said softly. “More than okay.”

A few minutes passed before the movie began. Soft sound filled the room. Then you spoke again, quieter this time.

“Thank you, Natasha.”

Natasha turned her head slightly. “For what?”

“For picking me up. For letting me stay. For not making it weird.”

Natasha reached down and brushed her pinky finger against yours under the blanket.

“It’s not weird.” she whispered. “It’s you.”

You let your head rest a little closer against Natasha’s shoulder. Not touching fully. Just near.

You didn’t talk for a while. The movie played. The lights twinkled faintly along the walls.

And somewhere in the middle of it, your breathing fell into sync. Not asleep..Just safe.

Part 3

#natasha x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanov x reader #dom!natasha x reader #nat x reader #natasha romonova #the avengers #natasha

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chilling-seavey · 3 months ago

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Baby Boy's Birth Story (gr63)

The Way It Goes Masterlist

↳ A/N Thank you to so many of my anons for helping bring this story to life! It's been so long since I've written a birth story and they are always so special to write...especially this one. It's a lengthy one, covering a whole week, and including baby boy's name reveal since you all voted that the kiddos should have names rather than being anonymous so I hope you enjoy!! Comments and asks always welcome <3

↳ Pairings: George Russell x Fem!Reader (NO use of y/n)

↳ Word Count: 20.7k

↳ Warnings: Descriptions of labour and delivery, including all the ungraceful medical and health related things that go along with it, your emotions will likely be all over the place.

Thursday

Your doctor had warned you that first pregnancies often went past the due date, so at forty-one weeks, they weren’t particularly concerned. You, on the other hand, were quite concerned. George had just returned home from a race weekend, and with only an eight-day gap before the next one, the timing felt painfully tight. If you didn’t go into labor soon, there was a real risk he wouldn’t make it back in time for the birth of your first child. Not to mention you were exhausted and heavy and just wanted to have your baby in your arms already. The waiting game was excruciating.

That Thursday, three days since George had returned home to your quaint Monaco apartment, there was still no sign of labour. You had experienced some minor contractions but they were minor and went away when you moved, a torturous indication that they were just Braxton Hicks contractions—your body getting ready for the real thing—but nothing of importance. Frankly, you were sick and tired of them…of this.

Sitting in the living room in the late afternoon, you were bouncing on your birthing ball while watching some show on TV, George lounged on the couch just behind you, his feet kicked up on the coffee table. For the prior two days, you had basically lived on that large birthing ball, bouncing, swaying, determined to put into motion the rumours that it would help the baby to descend into the pelvis in preparation for birth. You were desperate.

“So, it’s just about Friday,” you spoke aloud over the dialogue of the show that you were watching but, really, were not paying attention to, “So that means we only have maybe four days to get this kid out.”

“You’re making yourself so stressed, love,” George spoke gently from behind you, clicking down the volume on the television, “That’s probably not helping matters.”

You glanced at him with a frown, “Well there’s no way in hell I’m going into labour without you here. I’ve never done this before. I can’t do this alone.”

George removed his feet from the coffee table to lean forward towards you, resting a hand on your shoulder and giving it a squeeze in a feeble attempt to offer comfort, “You’re not alone and you won’t be alone.”

“I love you but your words feel so worthless,” you exhaled.

He didn’t take it personally when he knew you were speaking the truth; it was the harsh reality of his career. Sure, you lived in the upper echelon of society, a life of luxury, to want for nothing, but the high demand of a Formula 1 career was always the underlying strain in your blissful utopia. George was gone so often, flying around the world for days or weeks at a time to compete, with a schedule and contract so demanding that it didn’t offer much in the way of paternity leave—just because you were due soon didn’t mean he was allowed to wait it out with you. Only the definity of labour could allow him some time off. Some. It was entirely out of his control.

All Thursday you had been trying everything to naturally induce labour. You joined George at the gym for a light walk on the treadmill to try and raise your heart rate enough to kickstart it, ate sliced pineapple, ate a spicy lunch, and now, as evening rolled around, you were housing a raspberry leaf tea beside you. Such an odd mix of foods that seemed to do a whole lot of nothing. With a large full-term baby weighing down on your organs, you were desperate to just get it out.

“We have one last thing we could try,” George whispered as he rubbed your shoulders.

You sighed tiredly, “I know but, frankly, sex sounds like so much work right now.”

He chuckled and leaned in to kiss just under your ear, “Up to you, darling. We don’t have to go crazy with it.”

His thumbs pressed into the muscle around your shoulder blades and your eyes fluttered shut, the television playing softly in the background as you eased into the comfort of his strong hands working your stress and anxieties away. After a moment, he leaned forward and let his arms wrap around you, sliding his palms over the large swell of your belly that was poorly hidden beneath his sweatshirt you had snagged, the bottom still managing to ride up from how big you were. He tucked his hands under your belly and lifted a little to carry the weight for you for a moment, giving you some respite from the burden of pregnancy.

You swore under your breath at the sudden relief from your back, your hips, your body. Your head dropped back to rest against his shoulder, eyes still peacefully closed, enjoying the moment where you weren’t bearing twenty-five extra pounds across your middle. George kissed your neck innocently and the warmth of his breath against your neck had you sighing in content.

The two of you ended up in your bedroom later after preparing for bed, you on your hands and knees and him knelt behind you, giving you slow, gentle thrusts with his hands on your full hips. The soft buzz of your vibrator between your legs helped to build up that tension inside you, chasing the orgasm that would hopefully help to keep your uterus in the mindset of contracting some more. Your doctor had told you that sex was entirely safe at any point in your pregnancy and only when your body was ready for labour could it help trigger it. Otherwise, it might do a whole lot of nothing.

After, as you laid in bed together, you spooning your pregnancy pillow and George spooning you, you were silently waiting for a feeling of anything. His fingers traced ghostly shapes over the swell of your belly, blindly tracing the stretchmarks and contours that had appeared to help grow your baby. You could hear his breathing starting to even out from behind you, his fingers slowing down as sleep started to take him, as if he were entirely unbothered by the fact that you still didn’t feel a single contraction.

Friday

Much to the pleasure of your delusion, you woke up in the early hours of the morning to a small uncomfortable cramping feeling along your abdomen. The bedroom was still dark, the sun barely past the horizon behind the closed curtains, and George was still fast asleep on his side of the bed, faint snores muffled by his pillow. You winced slightly at the momentary discomfort that felt a lot like period cramps and you reached over to your bedside table to take a sip from your water bottle and then check the time on your phone. It was barely past 5am.

At first, you figured they were just yet another minor set of Braxton Hicks contractions and you settled back down on your side to try and get back to sleep. They faded in no time, but as you laid there, unable to fall back asleep, your mind racing, they soon started back up again a little bit later. Your eyes shot open again, laying still as the cramping radiated across your abdomen again. Once it faded, you checked your phone to see about twenty minutes had passed. Odd.

Not wanting to interrupt George’s sleep, you ungracefully sat up and got out of bed, waddling across the bedroom to the ensuite bathroom thanks to the joys of late-term pregnancy and the fact that you had a full brown baby pressing on your bladder 24/7. You closed the door and turned on the light, squinting at the brightness as you sat down on the toilet to go about your business. It was then that, in your underwear, you noticed a pale reddish discharge. From endless research in desperation of figuring out when you could anticipate this baby coming, you recalled that this could be the dislodging of your mucus plug: a sign that labour was imminent.

George was still fast asleep when you emerged from the bathroom, looking so peaceful with his hands tucked under his pillow and his hair falling across his forehead. You gently set a hand on his shoulder and gave him a small nudge while whispering his name to rouse him.

With another little nudge, his eyes fluttered open and he stirred, shifting onto his back and reaching a hand up to rub at his eye. As he came to his senses and noticed you perched on the side of the bed, he dropped his hand to rest against your back, his voice thick from sleep, “Everything alright?”

“I think I’m in labour,” you whispered, almost timidly, like you might be entirely incorrect and had just woken him up for nothing.

George, sure he was still half asleep with the amount of disbelief that your words poured through his veins, blinked up at you under furrowed brows with a muttered, “What?”

“Yeah…I was just using the toilet and there was some bloody show in my underwear…and I’ve been a little crampy…” you explained softly.

His expression melted into surprise and his hand rubbed the small of your back, “Oh, okay…constantly crampy or…?”

“Ebbs and flows, like every twenty minutes.”

“Okay,” George sat up a little, “we should start timing them then. Are you feeling okay?”

You smiled and nodded, “Yeah…relieved, mostly.”

He shared in your smile and brought a loving hand to your cheek, staring into your eyes, “Me too.”

At that moment, you reached out to grab onto his thigh through the duvet with a small groan as another tense pressure radiated across your abdomen and hips, pulling you into another contraction. They weren’t bad—nothing more than period cramps, really—but they still came on quite suddenly when they did.

“Okay,” George leaned forward to keep rubbing your back, “another one?”

You couldn’t find words, only offering him a nod and an affirmative hum.

“Alright,” he spoke softly with a voice laced in warmth and excitement, “Definitely the real deal now.”

It only took less than a minute for the contractions to pass and by then, George was getting out of bed. He helped you into the shower so you could freshen up—knowing that you had a long and exhausting journey ahead of you—and as you took your time under the warm water, George made sure everything was packed in your hospital bag and ready to go when you would need to head out. As you showered, you could feel another contraction rising surely across your abdomen and you let out a tight groan.

“You okay in there?” George called from the bedroom.

You could barely manage a, “uh huh” in reply.

With your hands pressed flat against the shower wall, you hung your head and tried to breathe through the pain. It was surprising how much it felt like period cramps and, naively, you were hoping that they wouldn’t get much worse as you progressed. At least the warm water from the shower offered some comfort to help get you through it.

Once you were dried off and dressed in lounge pants and a sports bra, you waddled your way down to the kitchen where George started to make breakfast. Between contractions, you felt perfectly normal, and so you sat with him at the table and ate together like it was just another Friday. George had pulled his notebook from his bag and as you ate, he clicked the end of his multi-coloured pen and flipped to the next empty page. At the top, he wrote ‘Contractions’ and then titled two columns: ‘Start-End Time’ ‘Duration’. You munched on your toast as you watched him fill out some rows already with the information from the prior few contractions.

It was still so early that there wasn’t too much of a pattern but it was good to keep track to eye your process. Of course, ever organized, George was right on it.

The morning progressed slowly but surely, your contractions and discomfort still lingering as the hours ticked by. Despite the fact that getting as much rest as you could was imperative before delivery, you were far too antsy to sit yet alone sleep. The two of you ended up putting on your spring jackets and going for a walk around the block, made agonizingly slow from your pregnant waddle and the fact that you kept having to stop to catch your breath through minor contractions, but neither of you were in any rush.

You shared lunch on the couch back home and George let you pick what show you watched. It really felt like any other day outside of the ever-present aches and tightness across your abdomen that ebbed and flowed every quarter-hour or so. As the afternoon dragged on, you were pacing the living room, back and forth in a languid waddle, one hand on your back and the other rubbing your belly, trying to breathe, while George sat on the couch, notebook open on his thigh, his eyes on his watch.

When you felt another contraction rise, you stopped beside the couch and set your hands on the arm to bend over it with a groan, instinctively swaying your hips side to side to try and ease the pressure. George noted the time in his meticulously organized table. He then reached out to set his hand over yours on the arm of the couch; a silent reminder that he was right there with you.

Somehow, George managed to convince you to try and get some rest around eight o’clock, just over twelve hours since you had first started to feel the cramping. You got yourself as comfortable as possible in bed, snuggled up with your pregnancy pillow, and George made sure you had everything you needed before he stepped out of the room to make a few calls to loved ones to update them.

You drifted in and out of a light sleep, unable to get much rest with the lingering cramping across your abdomen and the fact that your lower back was starting to ache too. It was hard to just lay still. Thankfully, George returned to your bedroom less than an hour later, moving quietly in case you were asleep but as you fluttered your eyes open at the sound of the door, you noticed his concerned expression.

“What is it?” you asked sleepily.

He startled slightly at your soft voice, not having anticipated you to be awake still. He shrugged and pulled a tight lipped smile as he set his phone on the bedside table and then sat himself on his side of the bed, “Nothing, everything’s okay. How are you holding up?”

“I’m okay. They’re getting a little stronger now so it’s hard to sleep.” you replied just enough to pacify him before turning the conversation back to him, “You had that pout on your face you get when you’re concerned. What’s up?”

George sighed, reaching out a hand to rub your hip and your lower back, knowing you weren’t going to give it up until he gave you an answer, “I just had a chat with Toto. He’s excited for us and everything…sent you well wishes but…he seems steadfast in wanting me to still fly out to Japan next weekend.”

There was a moment of silence between you as his words settled. You knew that was the reality of his career, that he couldn’t just take time off for the sake of it, and you were thankful that at least he was home on his weekend off when you went into labour so he could be there with you, but even thinking of him leaving felt like a punch in the stomach. Or, perhaps that was just another contraction. Your eyes fluttered closed and you turned your face into your pillow with a small groan.

George kept rubbing your back through it, watching you closely, his voice timid, “He said he could likely get me out of media duties so I could leave a day later but…I don’t want to leave you at all.”

“Mm,” you moaned meekly through the intense ache, reaching out a hand to grasp his free one, waiting a few more seconds to catch your bearings before speaking, “You’re not leaving me yet. Don’t think about that. Just be here with me.”

He leaned down across the bed, perpendicularly to you, holding himself up on his elbow as he leaned into your space so you were just about face to face. Your eyes met in your close proximity and you lifted a hand up to stroke your thumb across his cheek.

“Hi,” you whispered.

“Hi,” he echoed.

“I need you present,” you told him softly, seriously, “I don’t need you to be four…five days in the future. I just need you here, today, now.”

George nodded, knowing you read him all too well, “I know. I’m here. I promise.”

He leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth, sealing his agreement, and then moved his hand to rest against the large swell of your belly that was hidden by the duvet.

“For you and our little guy.”

You set your hand over his, holding the both of you in that moment for a little longer. The baby squirmed inside you, nudging against his hand pressed warmly over the curve of your belly, and a small smile came to George’s face, as if that movement alone helped to ease his anxieties. He leaned down closer to be eye level with it and he rubbed his hand in comforting circles.

“Gonna come meet us soon, little buddy?” he spoke quietly. “You’ve been taking your sweet time all day. Let’s move this process along, shall we?”

You groaned a little as you felt the baby move again inside you, pressing in all the right spots that felt extra sensitive as human nature helped guide him farther down towards the birth canal. As if you literally couldn’t lay still, you shifted away from George and pushed yourself into a sitting position, desperate to find a way to alleviate some of the consistent ache. His hand followed you as if magnetized, slipping under your shirt to rub soothing circles over your taut skin, his lips pressing a soothing kiss to your shoulder.

“It’s getting more uncomfortable,” you announced with a huff, shifting in place a little and trying to roll your shoulders and take some of the pressure off your lower back.

George sat up too and grabbed his notebook from his bedside table and flipped it open to the contractions page to note everything, the two columns now filled with scribbles in the margins of nearly everything you said you felt at any given time. Your eyes fluttered shut as he wrote down something else, trying to breathe deeply as you sat there in bed, one hand behind you holding you up against the mattress and the other rubbing your belly.

You could feel another contraction ramping up, what was once easy ebbs and flows of discomfort throughout the day now turning into proper waves of pain, and you didn’t hold back the low groan at its arrival. George glanced over at you and your pained expression and he checked his watch.

“Jesus, love,” he exhaled as he shifted closer to rub a hand over the small of your back while his other hand gently wrapped around your bicep, “they’re coming faster now, aren’t they?”

You couldn’t speak through the contraction—too focused on breathing through it instead—and your fingers curled around the sheets that were pooled around your waist. The contraction reached its peak, gripping you in an intensity that stole the air from your lungs, and your fingers twisted tighter into the sheets. Your breath hitched, shallow and uneven, as you tried to keep yourself calm and steady through it, trying to remember all the details from your lamaze classes.

George’s grip on your arm tightened just slightly as he watched you carefully, his body tense beside you. His other hand moved firmly against your lower back in a futile attempt to offer comfort but it almost felt insignificant against the growing pressure.

As the contraction finally eased, you sagged in place, chest rising and falling in deep, measured breaths, eyes still closed and cheeks flushed. But even in the momentary lull, there was no real relief, only the daunting knowledge that another contraction would soon come and they were only going to get harder.

George glanced at his watch and then flipped back to his notes, eyes darting between the numbers as he scribbled down the new time before glancing over at you again, “That was five minutes.”

Your stomach clenched—not with another contraction, but with the certainty that settled in your bones. You had been told what the five minute mark meant: the transition from early labour to active labour. The day had been long and drawling, full of slow, rolling aches and a patience you’d miraculously managed to maintain. But this? This was different. This made it all feel real.

You met George’s eyes, breath still uneven, and swallowed hard, the realization heavy but certain, “I think it’s time to go.”

He didn’t hesitate as he closed his notebook and leaned in to press a firm kiss to your temple, “Alright, my love. Let’s go meet our son.”

Sitting in the passenger seat of George’s Mercedes had arguably always been one of your favourite spots to be. But, now, well past nine months pregnant and in the trenches of what was teetering on active labour, the car was the absolute last place you wanted to be. It didn’t help that the streets of Monaco were ridiculously winding so it took twice as long to get anywhere as it would if the roads just went straight.

Your hand clutched onto the car door with a white knuckled grip as you breathed and groaned through another contraction, eyes screwed shut as you put your trust in your professional driver of a husband to get you to the hospital safely. No position was comfortable as you squirmed and shifted on the leather seat, trying to ease the pressure in your lower back and the fierce tight ache that was stretching across your abdomen. Tilting your head back against the headrest, you groaned to the canvas roof of the convertible, fingernails surely digging into the expensive leather seats beneath you as you tried to ground yourself. Everything felt hot from the pain.

“Fuck,” you choked out just as the contraction seemed to die down. Immediately, your hand flew to the dashboard controls and you cranked the internal temperature of the car down as far as it could go.

George didn’t dare complain from behind the wheel. His hand itched to reach over and touch you but once he had put his hand on your thigh when you got on the road, you had shoved it away. But, God, he hated seeing you in pain and not being able to do anything about it.

You set your hands on the dashboard in front of you and leaned forward the best you could despite your huge belly to try and feel some of the icy air from the AC on your clammy face. You kept breathing.

George reached over to set a hand on your back, right between your shoulder blades, “We’re almost there, my love. You’re doing amazing.”

“I hate this,” you whined, “I fucking hate this. I want him out already.”

“Not long now,” George tried to offer any semblance of comfort that fell upon deaf ears.

By the time he parked the car in the hospital parking garage, another five minutes had gone by and you were back to breathing through another contraction. George was standing in the open passenger door, bent down beside you, letting you grip his hand as you groaned through your teeth and the sharp pain, whispering soft reassurances to you in the quiet of the car park at almost eleven o’clock at night.

Once you had another moment of slight respite, resting back in the passenger seat with a hand over your belly, you took a second to catch your breath. While you did, George grabbed the hospital bag from the backseat and slung it over his shoulder so he had both hands free to help you. You turned toward him, fingers wrapping around his forearms, and he braced himself, planting his feet firmly as he helped lift you from the car. You had barely made it halfway upright when a strange, unmistakable sensation rippled through you—like the sudden pop of a water balloon deep inside.

And then came the rush; warm liquid flooding down your legs, soaking your pants, trickling onto the cement floor of the parking garage, and—of course—all over the upholstery of his car. It was almost comedic just how movie-like it happened, how intense and dramatic it felt in that moment.

Your gasp was immediate, “Shit.”

“Oh wow,” George gaped but didn’t falter his grasp on you, “It’s okay. You’re okay. Can you stand?”

You continued to your feet until you were stable, still holding his arm just in case. The two of you looked back into his car and the way the leather of his passenger seat was glistening with wetness.

“I’m so sorry,” you breathed.

George chuckled faintly and just shut the door behind you, “It’s okay. The car can be cleaned. Are you okay?”

You shifted your weight, your hand still tucked in the crook of his arm, “Extra uncomfortable now.”

“I bet; you’re soaked through.” George started to guide you away from the car, “Let’s get you inside.”

Thanks to your soaked pants, lingering aches, and huge belly, you weren’t moving very quickly but George was patient, keeping his arm where you could hold onto it while he carefully guided you step by step to the hospital doors. Once inside, the triage nurse took your name and information down and took you to an examination room to check how you were progressing to see if you were far enough along to stay at the hospital.

As you laid on the hospital bed and she got her equipment set up to check you out, you had another contraction and George lingered beside you, a firm hand resting comfortingly and protectively on your shoulder. He still had your duffle bag over his shoulder and, now, your clothes over his arm like a pack mule but his focus was far more directed on you than bothering about himself at all.

“That’s it…you’re doing so well, love. Deep breaths.” he encouraged, thumb rubbing your shoulder over your shirt.

As it eased out after about a minute, you fluttered your eyes open to look up at him standing beside you. He lifted his hand from your shoulder to stroke your flushed cheek with the back of his finger, a gentle smile on his handsome face.

The nurse eyed you both with a fond smile as she began to prod at your belly a little to figure out the positioning of the baby, distracting you from the discomfort with some conversation.

“Is this your first baby?”

“Yeah,” George exhaled with a grin, beaming pride.

“How exciting,” she complimented.

“And scary,” you added lightly.

The nurse assured you with a kind, “The anticipation always makes it feel much scarier than it is. Once your baby is in your arms, you will feel a bit more at peace.”

You glanced over at George again as her words helped ease your racing nerves just a little and he gave you shoulder another squeeze. Just then, she had placed a monitor just beneath the swell of your bump and almost right away, the room was filled with the familiar staticy rhythm of the baby’s heartbeat.

“What a strong sounding heart on the little one.” the nurse complimented, “Seems to be doing well in there which is what we like to hear. Sitting nice and low too, head down, ready to come out.”

She seemed nice enough and in your desperate, pained state, you confided in her with a pleading, “I really do not want to be sent back home.”

“We’ll just check how dilated you are and then make our decision,” she said kindly, drifting across the small examination room to find a pair of medical gloves.

She got your feet up on the stirrups to prepare you for the cervical assessment and you held your hand out for George to take so you had something to hold onto. He took your hand without question, watching as the nurse lifted up the bottom of your hospital gown to begin the check.

“She’s been feeling it all day and her waters broke in the car on the way here,” George said as if he were pleading your case, “Any time now, it’s got to be.”

As if having experienced many impatient and anxious new father’s in her line of work, the nurse just offered him a polite smile but focused on her task at hand. It was uncomfortable as she slipped two fingers into you to check your progress, but certainly not as unbearable as the contractions had started to be. You clenched your jaw and stared at the ceiling, trying to focus on the way George’s thumb stroked over yours in absentminded back and forth motions.

When the nurse sat back and started to remove her gloves, she told you both, “You’re up to almost seven centimeters and already fully effaced so it looks like you’ll be sent upstairs to the Birthing Unit.”

While George let out a small sigh of relief, you were right there with the surprise, “Seven already?”

“Yes! You’re well into active labour now, my dear.” the nurse said as she disposed of the gloves and made her way to the door, “I will find someone to take you up to your room in just a moment.”

The moment she slipped out of the examination room and closed the door behind her, you and George looked at each other. Both of you knew that, of course, your labour was going to be progressing as it had throughout the day, but the realization that you were already 70% of the way towards actually delivering your baby hit you both like a truck. Unfortunately, you didn’t have long to linger in that moment because yet another contraction was washing over you at full force.

Saturday

It had just passed midnight by the time you were settled in your birthing suite—the nicest one they had, George insisted with a flash of his credit card that made you roll your eyes—and you were thankful to finally be able to be settled in one space. It was a spacious room overlooking the harbour but given the late hour it was, there wasn’t much to see. George busied himself with closing the curtains as you relaxed for a moment on the hospital bed in the centre of the room, your eyes following him as he drifted over to your hospital bag resting on the chair in the corner and unzipped it, rifling through it for a phone charger that he then plugged into the wall beside your bed and set his phone aside.

“Getting a little real now, isn’t it?” you stated softly from the bed.

George glanced over at you with a fond smile and he reached out to stroke a hand over your hair, “Definitely is.”

“You nervous?” you asked him.

“Yeah,” he confessed with a soft laugh, “very.”

You reached up to set your hand on his arm and he shifted to let your fingers intertwine with his, the silent act of solidarity between the two of you. He had many family members give birth in his lifetime but he had never been present for every step of the process, never had to watch the woman he loved most in the world be in such pain with him unable to do anything about it. You could see his mind whirling, that sweet furrowed expression on his face as if he were deep in thought.

“I love you,” you offered.

George’s hand tightened in yours for a beat, his expression easing, “I love you too.”

He leaned down to give you a quick kiss before straightening up again.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked, “Water? A blanket?”

“Yeah, maybe some water,” you breathed.

He left you with one more kiss and then left the room to fetch you a cup of water from the water station down the hall and when he returned, you were contracting again. He rushed over and set the cup down on the table beside the bed so he could tend to you as you laid curled on your side, his hand finding the small of your back again to press the heel of his palm down in a firm pressure. You groaned tightly into the pillow, fingers curling around the bar beside the bed, trying to breathe through it.

“I can’t leave you alone for ten seconds, can I?” George offered lightheartedly but you were in no position to join into his banter, only replying with another pained groan. He kept his mouth shut until your contraction eased.

Then, he held out the cup of water to you and held the straw steady so you could take a sip without having to hold it. You sighed in relief as you finished the entire cup in one long drink and then settled back against the hospital bed.

“More?” he asked, now that the styrofoam cup was empty.

You shook your head, slightly breathless, “I’m okay for now.”

George set it aside. You squirmed again, hating to lay still and constantly unable to feel comfortable, hands grasping the bars on the side of the hospital bed as you shifted.

“Do you want to move around some more?” George offered gently, “Maybe a change in position will help.”

So you let him help you up out of the bed and you started to slowly pace the hospital suite just like you had in your living room a few hours earlier. George filled out more of his notebook as you progressed but always was right there beside you for the duration of each contraction. Now that your water had broken, contractions were coming far more intense than before and the five-minute intervals were closing in on four-minutes instead.

That pressure he would apply to your lower back or how he’d squeeze your hips during contractions was starting to do nothing at all anymore—or so it felt—and you were exhausted and starting to get more and more frustrated and impatient. After about two hours of labouring in the hospital suite, you had found a somewhat comfortable position with the bed raised up so you could lean forward on your forearms against the mattress, swaying your hips through the intense waves of another contraction.

George rubbed his hands over your hips and started to press inwards to offer counter pressure but you shooed him off with a wave of your hand. He stepped back.

“What can I do, love?” he asked softly, helplessly, not able to touch you and hold you and comfort you like he wanted.

Your fingers curled into the sheets, tight breaths trying to stay deep and cleansing, barely recognizing his words as your body worked to pass the pain of the contraction. When it decreased after about a minute, you exhaled strongly out of it but kept your position over the side of the bed.

“Can I get you more water? Do you want me to rub your feet?” George offered from beside you. “I can blow up your birthing ball if you want?”

You lifted your head to look at him, voice thick was exhaustion but tinged with curiosity, “You brought the birthing ball?”

He gestured towards the stuffed duffle bag on the chair in the corner, “I bought a spare and packed it, yeah.”

“Jesus,” you exhaled in disbelief and hung your head, “Yeah…please.”

Thrilled to finally be able to help in some way, George hurried across the room to unzip the large duffle bag and he took out the folded soft rubber ball that was tucked in the inside pocket. He made himself useful by blowing it up by mouth until he was half dizzy and even more exhausted than he already had been but he wouldn’t dare to complain. With a slightly flushed face from manually blowing up the large birthing ball, he brought it over to you and set it on the ground for you to sit on.

You bounced on it lazily and swayed side to side, trying to use it to help open your hips and get the process rolling. George took the initiative to brush your hair for you as you did and thankfully for him, you didn’t push him away. The hospital suite was filled with some of your favourite music playing from your phone across the room as you laboured and George relaxed you with the gentle pulls of your hairbrush along your scalp and through your hair. He then tried his hand at a braid and, despite how imperfect it was, it was a thankful relief to get your hair out of your face.

George checked his watch as you fell into another contraction, standing firmly behind you despite the exhaustion that stung his eyes. He was sure you were no better off, both of you almost going on twenty-four hours since you had last slept; but if nothing else, it was the adrenaline that fueled the pair of you to keep you going well past two o’clock in the morning.

“You’re doing so well, my darling,” he stroked his hands over your hair and across your shoulders, “You doing okay?”

“Shut up, love, please,” you groaned out of your contraction, voice tight from pain and exhaustion, “I can’t answer a million questions.”

“Sorry, sorry…” he muttered, pressing an apologetic kiss to the top of your head.

The nurse came in a little while later to check on you, letting you stay sitting on the birthing ball while she listened for the baby’s heartbeat and then checked your progression. Despite sitting on the ball, you leaned back against George’s front, using him as a way to rest, and he gladly allowed it.

“At eight centimeters now,” the nurse told you as she stood back up and took off her gloves, “You’ve been progressing slowly but it’s still moving along so we’re not concerned. Are you still thinking you want to pass on the epidural?”

You nodded meekly, “Yeah, no epidural.”

George leaned down to be closer to your head, whispering softly, “Love, maybe you should consider—”

“No,” you said firmly, “I want to do this myself. I can do this myself.”

“There’s nothing wrong with getting the epidural. Maybe you’d like the relief.”

“George.”

The seriousness in your tone was a dead giveaway that you weren’t going to be hearing anymore of it. He stood back up straight and sent a polite yet thin lipped smile to the nurse who had seen plenty of such interactions in her career in labour and delivery.

“Would you like to try a warm soak in the tub?” she offered to you, “Often that can help naturally ease some of the discomfort and pain.”

So at nearly three o’clock in the morning, you found yourself in the large tub in the corner of the birthing suite and wondering why the fuck you hadn’t gotten in sooner. The warm water seemed to work wonders through the contractions and although it didn’t get rid of them all together, that agonizing edge was certainly taken down a notch. George knelt beside the tub with your filled water bottle in hand, offering you little sips here and there as you waited out the time together.

He rested his cheek against his arm on the side of the tub while his other hand danced over the curve of your large belly, his eyes watching as he drew soft soothing patterns over your warm skin. A little footprint nudged against his hand and he smiled softly.

“Hi, baby boy,” George whispered, setting his down flat over that same spot, “How’s it going in there?”

“He’s still cozy,” you mumbled, resting your hands on either side of his over your abdomen, “Taking his sweet time.”

George hummed in acknowledgement, watching his hand atop your belly, already so filled with this fierce sense of protectiveness and your son wasn’t even here yet. His thumb brushed back and forth over your damp skin at the surface of the water.

“I’m so tired,” you confessed in a breath.

“I know you are, my love.” George cooed, eyes shifting to look at your face, “You’ve been such a trooper.”

“I want him out,” you whined, voice pitching at the end as another contraction washed over you.

George checked his watch to note the time before focusing all on you, shifting beside the tub to be in a better position to be right where you needed him at any given moment. You grabbed his hand and he let you hold onto him tightly as he joined you in those deep, precise labouring breaths so you didn’t feel quite alone. He watched you carefully, every flutter of an expression on your face, but you hardly noticed, your body and mind far too preoccupied with bringing life into the world.

“Nice deep breaths, darling. You’re doing amazing.” he praised softly.

Your head dropped back against the side of the large tub, eyes tightly closed, one hand clutching his and the other gripping the edge of the tub until your knuckles turned white, filling the room with your strained groans and laboured breaths. You barely noticed George brushing some of your wispy hair out of your face or the way the back of his finger stroked against your cheek before his hand settled on your shoulder, thumb caressing your damp skin.

“Keep breathing,” he reminded you, “Deep breaths with me.”

The two of you inhaled strongly together and found the rhythm that had been taught to you in your lamaze classes, just breathing together, being together. Together on this life changing journey.

By the time the bathwater was getting cooler and you were ready for another shift in position, George helped you out of the tub and dried you off. As he did, you held onto his shoulders for balance and tried to stand still, feeling aches and pressure all through you, itching, frustratingly never-ending sensations that you couldn’t get away from. It was coming up on twenty-four hours since your first hints of labour and you were getting sick of it, desperate for this process of waiting to be done.

George helped you back into your hospital gown and walked you back to the bed where you, once again, draped yourself forward over the edge of it with a grunt. His heart ached to see you in so much discomfort and pain and he leaned in beside you to kiss your temple as you stood there with another impending contraction. In that moment, the pain of the contractions was blending into a strange feeling of nausea that came on pretty quickly with the increase in pain.

“George…” you called meekly, setting a trembling hand against your forehead.

As if sensing the trepidation in your voice, he was leaning back down beside you, a hand on your back, right between your shoulder blades, “Yeah, love?”

“I really don’t feel well,” you muttered.

“You think you’re going to be sick?”

“Maybe.”

“Okay, hang on,” George hurried around the other side of the bed to the table in the corner of the room to grab the hospital provided sick bag and he returned to your side with it.

You took it from him and clutched it in both hands at the ready as you rested on your forearms on the side of the bed, head hung, eyes screwed shut. Without you even realizing, your body was letting out low, steady groans and moans, trying to use that as a way to express your pain in other ways. George stayed close at your side, brushing your hair out of your face as your poorly constructed braid was starting to come undone.

“Do you want a sip of water?” he asked softly.

“Fuck—” you hissed, tensing up as another intense contraction ramped up, a cry tearing from your chest as you fisted the sheets and crumpled the sick bag.

George’s eyes went wide at your loud exclamation, his hand hovering over your back as if he wasn’t sure if he should touch you or not. You were so much louder now, almost crying out as if in complete agony unlike anything he had heard before. George wasn’t scared of much in life but in that moment, he suddenly felt absolutely terrified.

“Sweetheart—” he started tentatively, gently resting a hand on your shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” you snapped.

Your sudden intensity had him yanking his hand away and taking a step back like he had been burned by hot coals. Eyes wide, he watched as you writhed over the side of the bed, head hung, almost looking like a person outside of yourself, another being, something natural and instinctual taking over.

“Okay, okay, okay…sorry,” he rushed out.

The notebook had long since been foregone for the sake of the hospital machinery that tracked your contractions and George glanced over to the screen that showed the squiggly line peaking sharply up on the chart, higher and higher; a visual of just how intense this one was. His attention was torn away from the screen by the sound of your retching as you threw up into the bag in your hands. You hadn’t eaten in a while so it was mostly just bile but the sight still made his stomach churn a little.

“Blimey,” George exhaled, pressing a fist to his mouth to try and keep himself from doing the same exact thing. That was the last thing you needed.

“Sorry,” you whimpered out once you were done, tears brimming in your eyes.

He took the bag from you to dispose of, stopping to kiss your head in the process, “Don’t apologize. I’m sorry you’re feeling so rotten.”

“Your fault anyway,” you muttered in some attempt at a joke despite the intensity of the moment.

Appreciating the slight break in tension, George chuckled faintly, “Yeah, I suppose that’s true.”

You swayed your hips side to side again to try and ease the pressure, head dropped towards the bed that you leaned on, trying to catch your breath in your nauseous and agonizing brief moment of reprieve from the back-to-back contractions. The feeling of a cold, damp cloth touching your face made you startle but you lifted your head a little so George could wipe your mouth for you. He then rested the reliving coolness against your cheeks and, a few seconds later, the back of your neck.

Your eyes stayed closed, a small pout of pain on your lips, voice meek, “I can’t do this. I want to go home.”

“I know, my love,” George breathed, “You’re almost there. You’ve come this far. Not long now and we’ll have our baby in our arms. And then we can go home, alright?”

“No, please,” you cried, agonizing tears in your eyes as if begging him for mercy, “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

“Do you want the epidural?” he asked softly, pressing the cool damp cloth to your flushed cheek.

Sighing in dramatic relief at his reminder, you replied with a pleading, “Yes, yes, I don’t care anymore. Please!”

“Okay, let me get the nurse,” George left you with a kiss to your forehead before hurrying out of the room and down the hall to the nurses’ station.

It felt like you had only blinked and he was returning, your nurse in tow. Time felt strange that night—perhaps it was the exhaustion, the early hour, the pain—everything feeling so hazy and dream-like and fragmented. You barely recalled George speaking to the nurse, updating her on how you were, that you had vomited, that you wanted the epidural. You didn’t have to move for her to check your progress, staying leaned over the side of the bed how you were most comfortable.

“I’m sorry, my dear,” the nurse finally spoke, “I can’t give you the epidural; you’re at a ten.”

“Fuck me,” you groaned through your teeth.

She explained to the both of you kindly, “Usually the vomiting is a clear sign the mother is in the transition stage and it’s only a matter of minutes before pushing is due to begin. I’m going to go page the doctor.”

In another blink, George was in front of you, leaning on the opposite side of the bed so you were face to face, and he set his hands over yours between you. You let his fingers intertwine with yours, giving you something to hold onto that wasn’t the thin hospital sheets as another contraction swelled and you cried out loudly.

“Hey,” he spoke softly, giving your hands a squeeze to bring your attention back to him, “Look at me. Right here.”

Despite the sheer pain radiating around your abdomen, back, and down between your legs and thighs, you forced your teary eyes to meet his gaze.

“I’m right here,” he reminded you. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You couldn’t reply verbally but he could see your appreciation in your eyes, in the firm grip of your hands in his.

His voice was a soothing blanket of warmth amidst the harshness of the situation, “Just keep looking at me, alright? Just breathe.”

Despite the way you tried to keep breathing, your inhales were jagged and uneven, almost panting, too focused on the way you were crying out with pain. But you kept looking at him, trying to find refuge in the comforting familiarity of his features, the love in his eyes, your safety.

“I’m so in awe of you,” he exhaled with nothing but raw honesty in his words, “You are incredible. You are a warrior…a goddess.”

You groaned through the contraction, trying to focus on him and his words. The contraction slowly ebbed, leaving you trembling and breathless, your fingers still locked around George’s. But the relief was short-lived and, instead, was taken over by a deep, primal pressure settling low in your belly, heavy and insistent, and you let out a shaky gasp.

“I need to get on the bed,” you managed, barely above a whisper, not even realizing it was you that was saying it.

George reacted instantly. He squeezed your hands once before letting go and then he came around the other side of the bed to help lower it for you before stabilizing you by the arm to guide you onto it. You barely registered the feeling of the unimpressive hospital mattress beneath you before another contraction bore down, sharp and all-consuming. Your fingers grasped blindly for George, and he was right there, hands steady, voice soothing.

“You’re doing amazing, love. You got this.” he murmured as he helped you settle.

With one hand holding his, your other clutched onto the bar on the side of the bed as you laid on your side and cried out loudly. George brushed your hair away from your face and started to fan you with his notebook that had been forgotten about on the side table.

Through clenched teeth, you announced, “I feel like I need to push. Really bad.”

“Can you wait until the doctor gets—”

But your body wasn't interested in waiting until the doctor arrived and, against your own will, it was forcing you to bear down with a loud cry.

“Fucking hell,” George muttered, panicked eyes flicking towards the door as if hoping the doctor would saunter in right at that moment. Of course, this wasn’t a movie and life was not that ideal, leaving him clueless and frightened as your body gave another push through a crying groan. He pried his hand out of yours and set it on your head as he leaned down, “Just hang on, love, please, just one second.”

And then he was rushing across the room to the door, yanking it open and sticking his head out into the hallway,

“The baby is coming now! We need help!”

It was hard to believe how instinctive it all felt to you, like you didn’t even have to think about it or worry about it, like your body just knew what to do against your inexperienced judgement. You clung onto the bar beside the bed, curled in on yourself in nearly the fetal position, tensing right up into another agonizing push. A strangled cry tore from your throat just as a flurry of nurses and the doctor came rushing in to get set up and in an instant, George was back at your side.

“Alright, take some deep breaths for me, dear,” your nurse said, her voice calm but efficient as she helped to adjust you on the bed so you weren’t quite curled up, “Let’s get you comfortable.”

Comfortable felt like an impossible concept—nothing had been comfortable for what felt like hours, maybe even days—but you obeyed without protest, shifting against the mattress with what little energy you had left. Every movement sent another ripple of pressure through your lower back, tightening like a vice, but you forced yourself to breathe through it.

“Find whatever position feels best,” the nurse continued, adjusting the pillows behind you, “As long as it opens you up nicely, you do what works for you.”

You exhaled shakily, struggling to think through the haze of exhaustion and pain, trying to sit up more with a mumbled, “Higher.”

As if automatically knowing what you meant, George moved to the bed controls, adjusting the incline until you were more upright, almost sitting, “Like this, love?”

You nodded, and that was assurance enough for him. At the same time, the nurse worked quickly, securing the birthing bar in place over the bed so you had something solid to hold onto, helping you to balance in a bit more of a squat than just laying flat on your back. As soon as your fingers wrapped around it, the doctor had gotten set up at the foot of the bed with accommodation for your chosen positioning, already checking how far along you were.

Your breath hitched as the feeling of another wave built fast within you and you gasped, tears welling up again, “I-I can’t! I can’t do this!”

“Yes, you can,” George murmured, his forehead nearly touching yours as he leaned in closer, a hand smoothing over your hair, his voice low and soothing, “You are, sweetheart. Just breathe, love. You’re doing this, you’re doing so well. I’m right here.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting his voice steady you before your body instinctively pushed against the impending contraction before you could think. Red, hot, pain ripped through you, forcing a shrieking cry from your throat as you bore down.

“Amazing! Just like that,” the doctor encouraged, fingers helping themselves inside you to help guide the baby’s head around the pubic bone, “His head is already in a great position. Keep pushing, right from your gut.”

You heaved in another breath only to hold it into another fierce push as the nurses fluttered around you in a hazy blur in the background. Your entire focus was on your baby at that moment, the world narrowed down to that single hospital bed. George’s hand was on your back as he stood close at your side, his other hand on your knee to help keep your legs open but his thumb stroked over your skin comfortingly as you gave another push.

“Good girl,” George praised loudly over your cries, eyes flitting between your face and the delivery zone, “Oh, you’re incredible!”

After another push, the doctor told you, “Okay, take it easy for a second until the next contraction…take a breath. You’re doing so well.”

You folded your arms on the birthing bar and you rested your cheek atop your arms, eyelashes heavy. The straw of your water bottle grazed your lips as George offered it out to you and you took it in your mouth for a small sip before letting him take it away again. Then, he was right back again, this time with another cool damp cloth—that must have been given to him by one of the nurses—that he gently patted over your sweaty forehead.

“Can I go again?” you asked the room.

“If you feel the need, go right ahead,” the doctor permitted, “Just listen to your body.”

With your arms still folded on the birthing bar, you turned your forehead to rest against them as you bore down again with a tight groan before quickly following it up with another. It was agonizing and exhausting and as you pushed again, a sob broke from your lips, “I just want him out!”

“I know, love, I know,” George murmured from beside you with the cool cloth against the back of your neck, and he pressed a kiss to your temple. His voice, so gentle and reverent, nearly broke with emotion as he whispered right to you, “You’re almost there. You’re so strong, you hear me? So fucking strong.”

“Give us another push, hon,” one of the nurses reminded you kindly, “Give it all your power and we’re going to hold for a count of ten, alright?”

You nodded and steeled yourself and when you bore down with all your might, the nurse counted you through it in the longest count of ten you had ever sat through. When she reached ten, you relaxed for a second and heaved a breath.

“There you go!” the doctor encouraged, nodding approvingly, “You’re making progress. He’s moving lower.”

But it didn’t feel like progress; it felt endless…impossible. Your arms trembled as you gripped the bar, your legs shaking with the strain of holding yourself up even in the supported squat. You pushed for another count of ten…and then another, and then the doctor had to rest for a moment again as your contraction died out. Your whole body trembled with effort as you collapsed against the pillows of the propped up hospital bed, panting through the briefest moment of respite before the next contraction threatened to take hold. The pain wasn’t just sharp anymore—it was bone-deep, an unbearable pressure that made every fiber of your being scream for relief. Your body felt wrecked, drained, as though you had already given everything you had.

“Why isn’t he out yet?” you sobbed between gasping breaths.

“Hey,” George leaned over you to get your eyes on his, “He’s almost here. You’ve got this.”

Breathing heavily, you reached a trembling hand up to grasp the back of his neck and pulled his forehead down against yours as if wanting to take any and all strength from him.

“It often takes some extra time for first time mothers, sweetheart,” the nurse added soothingly, “Your body is doing all the right things. He just needs a little more work to make his way down.”

George kissed the top of your head, his voice low but filled with admiration. “You’re incredible, darling, you can do this. Just a little longer.”

You weren’t sure how much longer you could endure this, but as the next contraction started to build, you knew one thing—you had to.

Your feet lifted to press against the birthing bar in an attempt for counter pressure as you adjusted yourself on the hospital bed and bore down again. Immediately, your hand reached for George’s and his fingers grasped yours firmly, giving you something to hold onto as the nurse counted you into another lengthy ten seconds.

The grip you had on his hand was bone crushing but he barely flinched, standing firmly at your side with his free arm around the top of the bed to get as close to you as possible without invading your space. He whispered loving praises to you as you delivered, being your strength and your encouragement. It felt like a dream, this whole situation, some never ending surrealness.

The minutes ticked by as you followed the guidance of the doctor and the nurses and your body, all working towards the same goal: to deliver your son. When he was crowning, you turned your head against George’s arm as you clutched his hand, crying out as you pushed with everything left in you, and your husband set his free hand on your head to help to ground you, reminding you that he was present and with you. Your strength.

“Gentle push now,” the doctor instructed, “Not too hard, let’s ease him out.”

With your eyes still scrunched shut, face pressed against George’s arm as you clutched his hand, you pushed down again, a little lighter this time, just enough to help the doctor shift the baby’s shoulders.

“Open your eyes, love,” George whispered into your hair, “Open your eyes, he’s right here.”

“One more push,” the doctor told you.

“One more,” George echoed. “Come on, my love.”

You heaved your head up and forced your tired eyes open, staring down your body between your spread legs as the doctor’s hands worked between them. As you bore down again, gently but surely, you watched first-hand as the baby was delivered into the doctor’s hands at 5:16am.

Instant relief. Instant.

And then the sharp shrill cry from the newborn filled the room and you barely had a second to process what had happened before the doctor was standing up and placing the goopy, screaming baby on your chest.

Your arms went around him instinctively as he was handed to you, your voice a quiver of emotions and exhaustion as you greeted your son with a whimpering, “Oh, hi!”

George pressed a wet kiss to your forehead before he was leaning in closer, setting a hand over yours around the newborn, tears already streaming down his cheeks at only the first glance of your son, as if the relief of it all hit him just as strongly. He crooned over the baby himself, helping you keep hold of him, “Oh my goodness, hi, buddy. There you are.”

You held the wrinkly, pasty baby to your chest, uncaring of the fluids and blood that stained your hospital gown and smeared over your skin; all that mattered was holding him, looking at him. Despite being fresh from birth, you swore he was the most beautiful thing you had seen with a head of light brown hair smattered wetly over his head and his supple skin flushed a light purple from the trauma of the delivery. You could hardly see him through the tears that blurred your vision, sobbing with relief, with elation, with love.

You finally turned your gaze to George beside you, who was leaning in close, his arm around yours to help hold the baby together, tears of his own streaking his cheeks and shimmering in his eyes. But the wonder in his gaze was apparent, unlike any other expression you had seen on him before. A look of love so unlike anything else in the world.

When he sensed your staring, George’s eyes found yours and in that moment, you both shared wet smiles and he leaned in to give you a salty kiss or two.

“He’s here,” you exhaled dreamily with a proud yet exhausted smile.

“He’s here,” George echoed with a breath of relief, reaching up with his other hand to brush your hair out of your face, “You were a fucking warrior, my love. Incredible. So, so incredible.”

You sniffled through your teary eyed smile, ignorant to the way the hospital room bustled around you as the doctors and nurses worked. Your husband gave you another kiss.

“I love you. I love you so much.” George then whispered, pressing another kiss to your clammy forehead.

“I love you,” you replied earnestly.

The doctor called your name gently, and when you looked towards him, he told you, “You’ll feel some more contractions in a second, just need some light pushes from you to deliver the placenta.”

The swirl of emotions that filled you after the intensity of labour and delivery had you far too focused on your new baby to even think of the discomfort of delivering the placenta. You kept your baby in your arms with George holding you both from beside the bed, both of you absolutely swooning over him, barely paying any mind to your tame pushes that helped the doctor finish the job.

Once you had plenty of skin to skin with the newborn and George had done the honours of cutting the umbilical cord, the nurses took the baby across the room to be weighed and checked on. As if already far too attached to let your son be taken from you, George left you with a kiss and, as per your silent instruction, followed the nurses to the station across the hospital suite to where they had the newborn in the bassinet under a warming lamp. He stood out of the way but still protectively close as they did their jobs, cleaning up the screaming baby and taking his vitals and jotting down information.

As you laid there in the hospital bed, the doctor finishing cleaning you up from the birth, all you could focus on was George. He stood there in the artificial light of the hospital room, in his Adidas lounge pants and a plain coloured t-shirt that was stained slightly with blood and afterbirth, hair messy and sticking up in all directions from the tension of the last twenty-four hours, and hands held behind his back as if he were admiring a priceless artifact in a museum. His first born. His son.

“How’s he doing?” you asked from across the room.

George glanced over to you, face breaking out in a calm smile, before looking back to the flailing baby under the nurses’ hands, “He’s good. Feisty little fella.”

“3.8 kilos, 54 centimetres,” one of the nurses announced, “He’s a pretty big boy…very impressive to deliver all natural.”

George looked at you again with nothing but pride in his eyes.

Despite the way the baby cried and squirmed, the nurses worked efficiently to get him cleaned up and diapered and made sure his hospital band was nicely secure around his ankle, labelling him, officially, as Baby Boy Russell with both George’s and your names alongside it for identification's sake. Once he was swaddled and donning a sweet little white cloth hat, one of the nurses picked him up from the bassinet and offered him out to George.

George had held many babies in his lifetime, mostly his nieces and nephews, from newborns to toddlers. He knew how to hold them and he felt comfortable doing just that but this? With the nurse holding out his very own baby to him to hold for the very first time? There was just an ounce of hesitation…so much weighing on this moment.

He took the swaddled newborn in his arms with practiced ease, bringing him close to his chest in the crook of his arm, his other hand protectively supporting his tiny body from beneath. Almost immediately, the baby quieted down, as if sensing the safety of his father’s arms.

George, wide eyed, let out a shuddering exhale, “Blimey.”

George barely registered the quiet sounds of the hospital room around him as the nurses finished up, his entire world now reduced to the weight of his son in his arms. He swayed slightly on instinct, cradling the newborn close as his thumb brushed lightly over the soft fabric of the swaddle, unable to tear his eyes away from the mesmerizing sight.

Then he heard your voice—warm, exhausted, full of love, “He knows his daddy.”

His head then lifted, meeting your gaze across the room, and for a moment, all he could do was take you in. You looked spent and exhausted, still propped up against the pillows of the hospital bed, the thin sheets around your waist, but in that moment, he swore you had never looked more beautiful. His heart clenched.

Wordlessly, drawn to you like a force he couldn’t resist, George took slow, careful steps toward the bed, carrying something so fragile and precious. As he reached your bedside, he lowered himself gently onto the mattress beside you, mindful of your tired form, and you shifted just a little to give him some room to join you. Your hand rested against his shoulder as you shared in the view of the swaddled newborn in his arms and Goerge titled his hold just enough to let you take in the tiny face you had waited so long to meet.

“Hi there,” George murmured down to the baby, his voice thick with wonder, “Hi, buddy. Yeah, I’m your daddy.”

“Oh, he’s so perfect,” you breathed, finally getting a proper look at the baby without all the goop from birth on him. You reached out a gentle hand and stroked the back of your finger over his little cheeks.

“Absolutely perfect,” George agreed. He then turned his head to look at you in your close proximity and you turned your face to meet his gaze. The rawness in his eyes was strong, the emotion behind his words undeniable, as he spoke in a tearful whisper, “Thank you.”

The next moments passed in a soft blur—checks, warm blankets, whispered reassurances. The nurses moved efficiently around you both, their voices gentle, their hands practiced as they made sure everything was as it should be as the chaos of the delivery faded out.

Before long, one of them approached with a kind smile, “Would you like to try feeding him now?”

A hint of trepidation swelled inside you, daunting in the face of the unfamiliar but intertwined with a tinge of instinctual excitement, and you nodded. Shifting carefully on the bed, you let the nurse guide you into a comfortable position and remove your hospital gown as George stood to give you room with the baby still in his arms. When you were ready, you held your arms out and he carefully passed over the swaddled newborn, making sure you had a good hold on him before he stepped back.

You adjusted slightly, your body still aching from the lingering effects of birth but already attuned to the tiny weight against you and the comfort of George’s presence right at your side. Your husband set a hand on your shoulder as the nurse helped you position the baby and explained what to do and the best methods to help the baby latch. Guiding him towards your breast, you kept his head supported while brushing the nipple across his lips and he opened up his little mouth to instinctively take it in.

A sharp, unfamiliar sensation rippled through you as he started to suckle, a mix of discomfort and awe filling you, and you inhaled sharply, cradling him close to your chest.

“There you go,” the nurse encouraged, reaching in to make sure all was well, “That’s it. He’s got a good latch.”

“That was quick,” you chuckled tiredly.

“Whatta little champion,” George swooned.

“Definitely a strong little guy,” the nurse agreed. She checked a few more things before taking her leave to give your new little family some privacy, reminding you to page her if you needed anything.

Then, all at once, the three of you were left alone for the first time. In your arms, the newborn fed soundly, cheeks suckling as he nursed from your breast and long lashes closed peacefully, natural instinct taking over in finding his nourishment. It was hard to believe he was still inside you not even an hour earlier, this whole living, breathing, eating little human. Sure, you were still uncomfortable and exhausted from the whole ordeal, but the love that swelled in your heart was undeniable, filling your veins with adoring adrenaline.

George shifted closer to the bedside, his free hand brushing over the baby’s swaddled back in slow, reverent strokes, his voice thick with emotion, “I still can’t believe he’s ours. He’s so… tiny.”

You let out a soft, tired laugh, “Yeah, well, he didn’t feel tiny a few minutes ago.”

George wrapped a free arm around your shoulders and he pressed a smiling kiss to your temple, “How are you feeling? Hanging in there?”

You looked up at him with a faint smile, “I’m okay. Happy.”

He just stared at you for a moment, eyes flickering all over your face as if taking in every single atom. His thumb caressed your shoulder. You knew you likely looked an absolute wreck, exhausted and completely worn out, makeup free, hair frazzled, and everything in between, but the way he looked at you made your stomach fill with butterflies.

“What?” you chuckled nervously, tearing your eyes away from his intense stare to check on your nursing newborn, adjusting your hold on him.

“Nothing,” George exhaled, “You are just so beautiful.”

You felt your throat tighten at his words, the sincerity in his voice making your already-overwhelmed emotions bubble even closer to the surface. Those damn hormone fluctuations were no joke.

A wobbly smile tugged at your lips, “You’re just saying that because I gave you a son.”

George huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he stared into your eyes, “No. I mean, yes, that’s incredible, but you…” His fingers gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear and stroked your cheek, “You are breathtaking. I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more than I do right now. Didn’t even think that was possible.”

Your heart squeezed, warmth filling your chest, breathing a shaky, “I love you so much.”

He leaned in again to kiss your lips gently before then leaning down to press a kiss to your son’s head. The baby let out a tiny, contented sigh, his hands wriggling beneath the swaddle as his suckling slowed as he finished his first feed. He pulled away from your breast and smacked his lips, eyelashes fluttering.

“Milk drunk, are we?” George smiled, brushing a knuckle lightly over the baby’s cheek.

You sighed tiredly, gently patting the baby’s back, “He needs to be burped.”

George’s fingers carded through your hair and he offered, “I can take him; let you get some rest.”

Easing your head back against the pillows, you blinked tiredly up at him, “You sure?”

“Yeah, we should get acquainted anyway.”

As exhaustion started to take you with the promise of rest from your husband, you carefully passed the baby into George’s waiting arms. He cradled the tiny bundle expertly against his chest with practiced ease, one large hand supporting the newborn’s delicate head as he brought him close. He shushed the mewling newborn softly as he started to gently pat the baby’s back to coax out a soft, sleepy burp from his tiny body.

The last thing you felt before fading into a well needed sleep was George’s hand smoothing over your hair, a quiet promise of love and protection in his touch.

An hour had passed and before long, the hospital room was bathed in the soft, golden glow of sunrise. George was resting in the chair by the window, his bare chest exposed to the morning warmth through the half opened curtains, streaking light across his body. He rocked slowly in the glider, cradling your son against his chest, skin to skin, the rhythmic motion barely more than a whisper.

The baby, snug in nothing but his diaper, looked impossibly small against George’s broad frame, his tiny body nestled beneath the protective weight of his father’s large hand and the light weight of his blanket, shielding him from the chill of the hospital room. George’s eyes were closed but he wasn’t quite asleep, eyelids fluttering open with every faint movement of the newborn under his hand as if he were unable to sleep without knowing he was perfectly safe, always having to check on him.

When the baby let out a little whine, George patted his back gently with a few breathy shushes. He shifted slightly, adjusting his hold so the baby rested more securely against him, his voice barely above a whisper as he soothed, “I’ve got you, buddy. Daddy’s got you. You’re alright.”

The newborn let out another sleepy whimper, his tiny fists clenching against George’s chest before slowly relaxing again, his little muscles tensing and relaxing in little involuntary movements as he got used to his body. George huffed a quiet chuckle, rubbing a warm hand up and down his son’s back.

“You’re a right little wiggle worm, aren’t you?” he murmured, watching as the baby’s tiny features scrunched up in protest before settling once more, “Just like your mum when she’s trying to get comfy in bed.”

George glanced over toward the bed, his heart squeezing at the sight of you, still deep in sleep, your chest rising and falling in soft, steady breaths, face still screwed up in lingering pain from the delivery and exertion. But even like that, in every way possible, George loved you, from deep in his soul.

Turning his attention back to his son, he smiled faintly against the baby’s downy head, inhaling the delicious newborn scent of his very own. His hand rubbed gently along the baby’s back, voice low with adoration as he spoke to him with raw honesty, “I don’t know how I got so lucky, mate. You and your mum…my whole world right here in this room. You’re going to love her so much; she’s the best person in the whole world. Strongest person I’ve ever met—carried you all this time, brought you into the world like an absolute champion—braver than I’ll ever be.”

The baby made a tiny sound, a sleepy little coo, curling in closer to the warmth of his father’s body, as if he understood, and George let out a breathy laugh as if upholding a conversation, “Yeah, I know. I think so too.”

George exhaled, resting his cheek lightly against the baby’s head and letting his eyes slip shut for a moment, his hand still resting securely over his son’s tiny back, “I don’t know how I got so lucky, but I swear to you, I’m never taking it for granted. I will always be here for you and your mum, will always protect you and love you no matter what.”

The newborn let out a little mewl, starting to gum at his fist against his father’s chest. George gently brushed his hand over the tiny baby’s downy hair and then guided his hand away from his mouth, offering, instead, his finger. Five little fingers curled around his pinky in a firm grip, strong for not even two hours old, and George pressed a soft kiss to the top of his head.

“There’s my boy,” he breathed, “Daddy’s got you.”

Sunday

It didn’t take long for your hospital room to be filled with flowers and balloons from close family members and friends who came to visit throughout baby boy’s first full day earthside. Even as people came and went and the baby was passed around, George didn’t leave your side all day, fluttering between tending to you and following the newborn from person to person, already a little helicopter parent from the start. He was excited, nervous, proud…it was endearing to watch, exhausted but content, from the hospital bed.

Even some of George’s fellow Formula 1 drivers who lived in Monaco and were considered your friends came by to meet the baby and give well-wishes. Alex would make sure it was known that he definitely didn’t get teary-eyed when he first held the baby, thank you very much…and Lando would hold onto the fact that his bouquet of flowers was the largest out of their friends’, the few dozen orange tulips sitting in a nearly-bursting vase on the window ledge.

By the end of the day, once your visitors were gone and the baby was changed and fed and burped and fast asleep in your arms, the silence of the hotel room felt euphoric. George was by the window, adjusting and organizing your plethora of flowers and balloons and cards to make it look less like an entire gift shop had thrown up in the suite. You sat in silence, staring down at the sleeping and swaddled baby in your arms, his little lips set in a pout and long lashes resting over his full cheeks. You had always heard that once you have a baby, just looking at them would be enough to entertain you for hours but you didn’t realize just how true it would be.

A soft knock at the door had you and George glancing over just as the nurse stepped in, a legal-size brown envelope in one hand and a small cup with your pain medication in the other. She greeted you with a kind, “Busy day, you three had. Visitors coming and going since the morning.”

George smiled as he instinctively moved to your bedside, “Yeah, little guy is already immensely popular, it seems.”

The nurse chuckled, “Hopefully, you can get some rest tonight. I know last night was a long one with it being his first.”

“He’s good so far,” you replied, glancing back down at the snoozing baby in your arms, “Hopefully he keeps it up.”

The nurse passed you your medication and once you popped the few pills in your mouth, George passed you your water bottle to wash them down with. As you took the pain killers, the nurse explained the envelope in her hand as she slipped out the paper from inside it, “Since you're going home tomorrow, it's protocol to complete the birth certificate before discharge—just to make sure baby boy is all accounted for.”

She set the form on the overbed table so you and George could look it over. At the top, the Coat of Arms of Monaco was prominently displayed, followed by the title Principality of Monaco — Birth Certificate. Below, the rest of the form was filled with blank spaces, waiting to be completed.

“Should be straightforward,” she continued, pointing to different sections on the form, “We've already filled in the hospital details, birth location, sex, and date of birth. All that's left is your names as the parents, your birthdates, and baby boy’s full name—first, middle, and last. Then, both of you just need to sign at the bottom.”

The nurse then left you to it, returning the three of you to the quiet serenity of the hospital suite. You shuffled over a little on the single bed so George could sit with you, the two of you squished together with the highly important form in front of you. He clicked his pen.

“Don’t spell your name wrong,” you teased.

Your husband shot you a playful glare. You watched as he spelled out your full name on the line labeled ‘mother’ in careful penmanship, followed by your birthdate on the line below. Then, in the same way, he wrote out his own name on the line beside it labeled ‘father’, followed by his own birthdate on the line below.

“Right,” George sat back, “that’s the easy part done, that.”

“Now we have to make a decision,” you hummed, glancing down at the sleeping newborn in your arms.

George followed your gaze and then reached out his free hand to gently graze his fingertips over the crown of the baby’s head, feeling the wispy strands of light brown hair, almost as if hoping the answer would come to him through osmosis. Both of you just stared at the sleeping baby for a few moments, processing, thinking, and utterly entranced by him.

You finally spoke, “I think our first choice still stands.”

“Yeah?” George breathed, “I think you’re right. Feels like it suits him.

The baby stirred in his sleep under his father’s gentle caresses, letting out a tiny sigh and he wriggled in your arms.

“He agrees,” you chuckled softly, making sure he was still secure.

George flipped open his notebook again and at the bottom of the page that was filled with the timings of your early contractions, he wrote a test trial of your son’s name, just to make sure the spelling was correct. He turned the page to you, read it out, then spelt it out. You nodded.

“That’s it,” you smiled.

“That’s it?” George shared in your contentment as he met your gaze as if to make sure there was no lingering doubt in your mind.

You nodded and looked back down to the sleeping newborn in your arms, “It’s perfect for him.”

And then, in precise, careful handwriting, George spelt out your son’s name onto the allotted line, formally declaring him an identity,

Lawrence William Russell

Monday

It had never been in George Russell’s nature to drive slowly but, that Monday, driving home from the hospital, he was barely hitting thirty kph on the Monte Carlo streets. He had both hands holding a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel, taking every tight, winding turn at what could almost pass as a full stop. Every now and then, he would glance into the rearview mirror to check on the sleeping newborn buckled in his carseat in the back seat of his Mercedes.

“You can probably drive a little faster, you know.” you said lightly, voice tinged with playfulness as you eyed the speedometer on the dashboard, “We’re very much under the speed limit, Mister Formula 1 Driver.”

George looked away from the road for a moment, shooting you a sheepish grin, “I’m just trying to be extra careful with our precious cargo we have on board.”

You reached over to set your hand on his thigh as he drove, smoothing your thumb over the fabric of his slacks as you glanced into the backseat, “He’s just fine.”

At a stop light, George reached down to take your hand in his and he pulled it up to his lips to kiss your knuckles. When he settled your joint hands in your lap, leaving him driving with just one, he replied softly, “I know, I just can’t help but worry. It’s my first time with this dad stuff, you know? It’s kind of my job to fuss over him.”

“We’re going to be fussing over him for the rest of our lives, aren’t we?”

“Probably,” George chuckled.

You looked out the window as George drove towards your apartment, a calm silence filling the car. It was hard to wrap your head around the concept that you were bringing home a baby…your baby…that you made together, that you grew. What were you supposed to do with him when you got home? There were so many unknowns, everything so unfamiliar, but there was a pleasant feeling inside you that despite all that, this was exactly where you needed to be.

In a dreamy exhale, you spoke, “I can’t believe he’s ours.”

George replied in gentle agreement without taking his eyes away from the road, “I’ve never been so excited and terrified in my whole life.”

“We’ll be fine,” you sighed contentedly.

“He's so quiet back there.” George breathed with another glance into the mirror before looking back to the road ahead, coasting to a stop far earlier than he needed to, “Just sleeping like a little angel.”

From your spot in the passenger seat, you turned to look over your shoulder to check on the baby, peeking into his car seat just to make sure he was still okay. As expected, he was still fast asleep, doughy cheeks smushed up by the straps of his car seat and that endearing little pout still on his lips, his tiny body rocking only a little with the movement of the car, just enough to keep him happily lulled.

You smiled and eased back into your seat, “He’s been so good, I hope he stays this quiet.”

Once home and parked in the underground garage, the baby started to stir as George unbuckled the baby carrier from the car seat base. All six-plus feet of George was scrunched into the backseat, a knee on the seat, trying to gracefully figure out how to unclip the carrier, but his inexperienced movements were jostling the baby more than what was relaxing.

“You sure you don’t want me to try?” you asked from the front seat, where he had insisted you stay sitting to wait.

“You can’t move like this right now, love, you’re healing,” George muttered in reply, basically hanging upside down over the baby seat with his hands fiddling uselessly with the fasteners beneath it.

The baby let out a displeased little cry.

“Shh, it’s okay, Laurie,” George hushed him softly, definitely getting the fabric of his open light-weight cardigan in the poor baby’s face as he leaned over him. You stayed quiet, knowing your adoringly stubborn husband would want to figure it out himself.

Finally, there was a click and George moved back and grabbed the handle of the carrier, allowing it to be lifted from the base. He sighed in relief.

“Clearly choosing the most expensive car seat on the market doesn’t mean it’s the best,” George grumbled as he clamoured out of the car while somehow managing to keep the carrier somewhat steady.

“Do I say ‘I told you so’ now or later?” you said teasingly.

He shut the back door with a pointed glare in your direction and a sarcastic, “Very funny.”

Your little family headed slowly towards the elevator bay of your apartment building, George with the baby carrier in one hand, the hospital bag over his shoulder, and his arm steady for you to hold onto as you took step by cautious step. You were healing well after a thankfully not-traumatic labour and delivery experience but it was still quite uncomfortable to do anything strenuous. George somehow kept all of you balanced as you made your way upstairs to your apartment, baby still minorly fussing in his carrier.

The moment you were inside, George helped you get settled on the couch and he set the baby carrier on the coffee table when he sat down beside you. You both sighed, feeling right at ease in the familiarity of your home with the unfamiliar yet long awaited addition right alongside you. Two-day-old Lawrence fussed on, squirming in the coziness of his carrier, tiny body straining against the buckle and hands bunched up in little fists by his scrunched up face.

You leaned forward a little to reach a hand out to stroke his little cheek, cooing to him, “Welcome home, sweetheart.”

“Fussy boy,” George tutted softly, leaning forward alongside you to start to unbuckle the baby, “Let’s get you out of this.”

He moved carefully as if scared of hurting the newborn, sliding his large hands under the baby and making sure his head was supported before lifting him up and into his arms. Shushing him quietly, George rested back against the couch beside you and you shifted a little closer to rest your head on his shoulder. Lawrence laid on George’s chest, tiny fingers flailing against the material of his shirt as he settled and you reached a hand out to gently rub over the baby’s back, helping to soothe him.

“Can’t believe he’s home,” you exhaled.

“I know,” George sighed, pausing just long enough to leave a kiss to the top of your son’s head, “Hard to believe.”

Lawrence let out a shrill cry—as if the kiss from his father offended him greatly—and you and George cooed over him, still finding everything he did immensely endearing and swoon-worthy no matter how noisy. Since you hadn’t fed him since well before you left the hospital, you made yourself comfortable on the couch and George passed the fussy baby into your arms. It was all still a little ungraceful, you needing your husband to lift up your shirt for you and help unclip your nursing bra since you were too nervous to jostle the baby too much. The comfort would come with time.

While you nursed in the living room, George took the initiative to start to unpack your hospital bag and he made another trip back down to the car to bring up some of the flowers that had been meticulously packed into the trunk. You directed him around on where to put things, finding your flow as new parents and what all your new accoutrements were for and where they were best placed. It all felt so easy as you settled back into your home.

Once Lawrence was sufficiently fed, George had unpacked your bag entirely and tidied up a bit and he took the baby to burp him for you. With a burp cloth over his shoulder and the tiny newborn snuggled against it, it was a sight that made your eyes turn into hearts and, as George sat on the couch beside you, you stroked your hand through your husband’s soft hair and then did the same over your son’s little head.

“Think we should show him around?” you suggested, “Give him a tour of his new home?”

Giving Lawrence a soothing few pats to his back to keep burping him, George agreed, “Yeah, reckon that’s a good idea. He might like a little walk-around.”

Despite how your painkillers were wearing off, you knew you wouldn’t want to miss your son’s first moments home, so you meandered around the apartment with George as he carried Lawrence tucked up against his chest and his shoulder. He spoke softly to him as he walked around the living room and into the dining room and the kitchen, pointing out different things in the room from appliances to pictures on the walls and the furniture. He kept his voice low and soothing, hoping that the sound of his voice would help to calm him down.

Finally, you followed him into the nursery, which had been painted a soft blue and housed warm wood furniture and cream upholstery. With the newborn secure against his chest, George walked him around his brand new room, showing him all the different things that were there waiting for him.

“And this is Laurie’s room,” George introduced in a tender voice as he continued to walk around the room with a gentle bounce in his step to help soothe the baby, “This is where you’re going to sleep and play and grow up. Mommy and Daddy designed it nice and pretty for you.”

You leaned against the doorframe and just watched them for a moment; your two favourite boys. Your heart could have burst. It wasn’t long until Lawrence had quieted and fallen asleep against George’s chest and under his protective hand, lulled by his walking and his voice and the sound of his heartbeat. George continued to hold him close to his chest, feeling a sense of relief and tenderness as he watched his son fall asleep against him.

“Nothing like the comfort of his daddy’s voice to calm him down,” you smiled.

George looked over at you, a proud smile tugging at the corners of his lips in return. With kind concern in his voice, George then said, “Should you lay down, love?”

You knew you didn’t want to overdo it after having only given birth two days earlier but there was one thing you wanted more than anything now that you were home.

The warm bath water felt like heaven as you settled back against the porcelain with a dreamy sigh. The baby was safely asleep in his bassinet and George had helped you get a bath ready so he could help you wash up for the first time since you had gone into labour. Lukewarm, clean water was filled up to your chest and eased all of your sore muscles and tender spots from delivery and the first bouts of breastfeeding and pumping.

George knelt beside the tub in only his pants, helping you to wash your hair and rinse it with the handheld shower head. He carefully cascaded the water over your scalp, being cautious not to get any soap or water in your eyes, tending to you like you were made of glass. Both of you still wore your hospital bracelets, connecting you to each other and your son by name and room number, a reminder of all that the weekend had changed. It was a relaxing moment to share just the two of you, no words spoken as you basked in the comfortable silence and the connection that the moment of intimacy brought you.

Of course, as you were starting to learn by that point, moments of silence and calm were fleeting, because just as George finished rinsing your hair, the baby started to cry. You fluttered your eyes open at the interruption, meeting George’s wide-eyed gaze as if he were now torn on what to do.

“You can get him,” you assured him softly, “I’m okay just sitting here for a bit. The water feels nice.”

He left you with a kiss to your temple and then got up from the floor to tend to your newborn.

Lawrence was, of course, right where he was left in his bassinet in the primary bedroom and as George emerged from the ensuite, wiping his damn hands on his pants, he hurried over to him. The baby was crying steadily, little limbs flailing and face scrunched up in distress.

“Oh my goodness,” George cooed to him as he bent down to carefully pick him up and snuggle him against his bare chest, “What’s all the racket about, mate?”

It didn’t take long for him to smell the issue and without hesitation, George grabbed the changing pad, wipes, and a clean diaper from your pre-made changing station—in which all nighttime feeding and changing accessories were neatly packed into a cart on wheels at your bedside—and laid it out on the foot of the mattress. He then bent over to lay the baby down on top of the pad.

“I know, I know, it’s so uncomfy, isn’t it?” George spoke softly to him as he started to unbutton his onesie despite the way the newborn squirmed. Thankfully, he had plenty of practice with diapers thanks to his numerous nieces and nephews that he was likely able to even do it with his eyes closed. Even still, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the crying baby in front of him. His baby.

“We’ll get you all cleaned up in no time, won’t we?” George continued, starting to unfasten the diaper to take it off him. Despite the way Lawrence cried, George talked to him as he worked, softly narrating what he was doing in a gentle voice like he was reading an instruction manual, allowing the familiarity of his voice to help sooth his son through the uncomfortable process of getting his diaper changed.

Finally, with the new diaper on and his onesie buttoned up again, George lifted the baby up from the bed and into his arms, “There ya go, a clean nappy for you. Much better, eh?”

Lawrence wriggled against him, fussing on.

George laid him lengthways in his arms and gave him a little rock, patting his bum to try and soothe him as he walked the soiled diaper to the waste bin and then returned to the ensuite where you were still relaxing in the tub. You glanced up when he stepped in, smiling tiredly at the sight of the two of them despite the way the baby cried.

“Someone’s not a happy camper,” you stated softly.

“He is not,” George agreed, glancing down at the baby in his arms as he bounced him gently and patted his bum, “He’s been fed, changed, napped…”

“Is he cold?”

“Doesn’t feel cold,” George shrugged.

“Maybe he wants a snuggle,” you smiled.

“I’m snuggling!” George protested meekly, lifting up his one arm a bit to angle the baby towards you as if to remind you.

You giggled and started to rise up from the tub, “I know, but I want a turn.”

“Careful,” George instinctively reached out a hand towards you to help you balance as you stepped out of the bath.

To the sounds of Lawrence fussing and crying, you got dried off and into another flattering pair of post-birth underwear that was lined with an aloe soaked pad to help ease the pains from delivery, topping it with a comfortable oversized shirt, and then climbed into bed. The feeling of being in your own bed after the few nights in the hospital was glorious and you couldn’t keep the smile off your face, especially as George passed the baby over to you.

“There he is,” you cooed, drawing the newborn close and you pressed a kiss to his forehead, “Hi, my little love.”

Almost right away, he was relaxing into your arms and quieting right down, soothed by your familiar scent and touch and heartbeat that he had been so used to over the last nine months. You were all he had ever known up to that point. What an honour it was to be someone’s safe space, someone’s home.

The day progressed into night and an on-going routine of feed, burp, change, rock, sleep. As night fell and you and George tried to sleep, your attempts at rest were constantly interrupted by Lawrence’s cries. You knew it was going to be difficult with a new baby but between the exhaustion from birth and lack of sleep that both of you had for the twenty-four hours of labour, you didn’t realize how hard it was going to be…and it was only the first night.

It was easy to assign tasks and think of goals for nighttime feedings before the baby came but, now, with an unsettled newborn in your arms as you paced your bedroom at some time past 11:00, everything seemed to have gone out the window. It was hard to take turns tending to the baby when his cries were making it impossible for anyone to sleep anyway, both of you having tried to get him back to sleep after his last diaper change but to no avail.

George was slumped back against the headboard, legs half off the side of the bed, staring into space with his fingers pressing into his temples as the baby’s screams echoed through the apartment. You could hear the faint pulse of his frustration in the way he sat—slumped, defeated. The baby’s cries sliced through the air like a constant reminder of how little control you had over the situation.

“We’re going to get a noise complaint,” George muttered, his voice flat, like he wasn’t sure if he was talking to you or to himself.

You eyed him as you paced, rocking the baby in your arms, exhaustion-stemmed frustration bubbling up inside you before you snapped under your breath, “Well then maybe you should help me instead of just laying there.”

His eyes flicked over to you and he frowned, voice tinged with exhaustion and defensiveness, “What do you want me to do then?”

“I don’t know! Something!” you shot back, voice rising over the cries. “I’m losing my mind here.”

“I can’t read your mind!”

You huffed and shook your head with a roll of your eyes, turning away from him to pace the length of your modest bedroom once again, your arms feeling like lead from the constant rocking of the baby’s weight.

“We’ve literally tried everything. I don’t know what you expect me to do.”

“I don’t know,” you grumbled tearfully, words muffled behind the cries of the baby in your arms.

George sighed and stood up from the bed and didn’t say a word as he walked across the room and crouched down beside the changing cart to find something. When he stood and moved back over to you, he offered the pacifier to the baby, letting him feel it against his lips before he took it in his mouth. Right away, silence fell.

You sighed, staring down at the newborn in your arms as he suckled on the pacifier and it bumped lightly against his button nose, as you muttered, “I don’t want him to be reliant on those.”

“Yeah, well, what other choice do we have, love?” George mumbled, “He’s quiet now. We need our rest too.”

He had a point—you could tell you were both well past the point of exhaustion after not having had a proper night's sleep since before you had gone into labour almost four days prior—and so you didn’t argue. Instead, the baby was swaddled and placed back in the bassinet beside your bed with his pacifier and you and George settled into the silence of your bedroom and the comfort of your bed.

Tuesday

It felt like you had only just shut your eyes and Lawrence was crying again, his loud pitchy wails filling the bedroom. You exhaled weakly.

“I got him,” George grumbled tiredly, already tossing the duvet off so he could get out of bed.

“I gotta feed him,” you added, starting to move too.

“No, no,” George waved a tired hand in your general direction to get you to stay put, “You pumped at the hospital so there’s some milk in the freezer. I’ll just warm him a bottle.”

You hesitated, not having given your son a bottle yet as he had been perfectly content and reliant on breastfeeding…not to mention the bottle warmer was still in its box on the kitchen counter, untouched. But George was already lifting the crying baby from the bassinet with a soothing hush and so you put your trust in him; the promise of more sleep being far too enticing. You were still healing, after all.

George, ever so full of confidence, cradled the newborn in one arm as he left your bedroom and closed the door halfway behind him as he ventured to the kitchen to prepare the bottle. You watched him go, the sound of Lawrence’s crying fading slightly as he got farther away but even being just on the opposite end of the apartment had your heart aching, like you were already facing separation anxiety. Nevertheless, you forced yourself to close your eyes and to instill your trust in your perfectly capable husband.

Muted cries from across the apartment kept you hovering on the edge of sleep, maternal instincts prickling with every second that passed without Lawrence being fed. You knew it was probably just exhaustion and hormones making it feel like George was taking forever to prepare the bottle—but, in reality, it was taking longer than expected.

Then, suddenly, a loud crash echoed through the apartment, the sharp sound of plastic shattering against the floor, followed immediately by Lawrence’s escalating wails and George’s frustrated exclamation, “Fucking—!”

You shot up in bed, already halfway to the bedroom door, before your red-faced husband was meeting you there, the baby perfectly fine but nearly inconsolable in his arms.

“What the fuck happened?!” you asked, immense concern and worry more than apparent in your voice.

“Bottle warmer is a piece of shit,” George grumbled, passing the baby to you, “Thought it was going to be easy—there’s one fucking button on the damn thing, for God sake. Couldn’t even get the top to close properly…ended up pushing at it too much it flew across the fucking room and shattered…breastmilk all over the floor.”

“Did you read the instruction manual?” you asked as you instinctively lifted your shirt to bring the baby to your chest and help him to latch, quieting him down right away.

“No, I didn’t think I needed to. The thing has one button.” George grumbled, setting his hands on his hips like he had just ran a mile. He was still shirtless but the front of his pyjama bottoms had a small wet splatter across the shins, likely from where the breastmilk had hit the floor and exploded, and his hair was sticking up in all directions with the dark circles under his eyes looking all the more prevalent.

You sighed, adjusting Lawrence in your arms as he suckled contentedly, already having forgotten about the incident in the kitchen now that he was being fed. With a defeated tone of your own, you said casually to your husband, “Well, guess you’ll be cleaning that up.”

George let out a dry, humorless laugh, “Oh, of course. Because nothing tops off an already perfect night like mopping up wasted breastmilk from all over the kitchen at—” he glanced at the clock on the nightstand and groaned, “—one-thirty in the goddamn morning.”

Your lips twitched, “Maybe next time you’ll read the manual.”

George shot you a look, deadpan, “Or maybe next time, you can do the bottle.”

You pointed to the baby peacefully nursing in your arms, “Love, I am the bottle.”

George didn’t reply, merely let out a tight exhale through his nose and dropped his head back to look towards the ceiling in dramatic defeat before he turned and headed back down the hallway to the kitchen. You took Lawrence back to bed with you, keeping him comfortably nestled against your breast as you rested back against the pillows and headboard and draped the duvet over your legs. As he nursed, you listened to the distant sounds of cabinets opening and closing and George’s muttering to himself as he moped up the mess and put away the broken pieces of the bottle warmer. Despite the chaos, despite the lack of sleep and the short tempers that it caused, there was something almost comical about it all—your once perfectly composed husband, defeated by a measly plastic bottle warmer.

A few minutes later, George returned, rubbing his hands over his face before collapsing onto the bed beside you with a sigh. He turned his head, eyes flicking to Lawrence, who had fallen into a milk-drunk slumber against your chest, your hand patting his back to burp him as he snoozed, unbothered.

“I don’t know how you do it,” George murmured, voice quieter now, less sharp around the edges, as if his annoyance with the bottle warmer had since dissipated thanks to only a glance at the adorableness of your son.

You glanced at him in the dim lighting of your shared bedroom, “Do what?”

“Keep your shit together,” He ran a hand through his frazzled hair, then raised his tired eyes from the baby against your chest to meet your gaze, “I just want to help you and I feel like I’m doing everything wrong. Like I’m losing my mind already.”

You let out a small laugh and offered a faint shake of your head, “Trust me, I am losing my mind. I’m in so much pain and I’m exhausted…but it’s different for me, I guess. I had nine months to get used to the idea of him needing me every second of the day…I’ve felt him grow, I’ve felt my body provide for him…he’s familiar with me. You’re kind of getting thrown into it all at once…trying to deal with the reality of fatherhood and trying to get this brand new human to trust you from scratch.”

George was quiet for a moment, letting your words settle. Then, finally, he exhaled, expression defeated, “Yeah, well…I still feel like an idiot.”

You reached over and squeezed his hand, “You’re not an idiot. You’ve already been such a tremendous help to me and to Laurie. You’re just a sleep-deprived new dad who needs some grace too.”

He leaned in to rest his cheek against your shoulder in silent appreciation of your words, “I love you.”

You turned your head to kiss his forehead, “I love you too. We love you.”

George smiled faintly and reached out with his hand that wasn’t holding yours to gently stroke Lawrence’s tiny head. The baby cooed under his touch and snuggled against you some more. It was a content momentary silence and you both basked in the unfamiliar quiet that settled over the apartment, snuggled up together. Until the newborn let out a little grunt.

“He’s pooping,” you and George said at the same time before breaking into soft laughter.

You rubbed your hand over Lawrence’s back as he did his business and then George got up to change him. From your spot against the headboard, you watched as he set up the changing pad at the foot of the bed and laid your squirmy son down. It had come to your knowledge over the last few days that Lawrence did not like getting his diaper changed, always sending him into a little bit of a fit throughout the process, no matter how gentle you were. It was understandable, and likely not comfortable in the slightest, but at nearly two o’clock in the morning, his shrieking wails were not necessarily appreciated.

“Shh, shh, shh,” George spoke to him soothingly as he wiped him up, “I know, buddy, I know. It’s chilly, isn’t it?”

He barely reached for another wipe before the fussy baby was peeing; the stream shooting right up to George’s chest and the front of his pyjama bottoms and a bit of splash on the sheets before George managed to hurriedly pull the clean diaper up and over to shield him.

“Jesus Christ,” George muttered in disbelief, eyes wide as saucers as he stared down at the unaware baby still crying away on the changing pad. He then looked at you and the look on his face was absolutely priceless and you had to turn your head away so he couldn’t see the amused grin threatening to spread across your face. Despite himself, George couldn’t help but let out a small, exhausted chuckle and he looked back down at the baby, “That’s not very nice, mate.”

“I feel delusional,” you stated through your laughter, covering your mouth with your hand, “Oh, God, I’m too exhausted for this to be real life.”

George laughed along with you, running his hand over his face with a heavy sigh, “This is ridiculous.”

Lawrence cried on.

You managed to take over changing the baby while George went to the ensuite to clean himself up and change his pants that had also been hit by the spray. The soiled clothes were tossed in the ever-growing laundry hamper as he returned to your bedroom, finding you trying to calm the fussy baby in your arms. Even the pacifier you offered him was doing little to nothing to help, Lawrence just spitting it out over and over.

So it was back to square one, the two of you taking turns trying to calm the baby; pacing the length of the apartment, bouncing him, rocking him, patting his bum, rubbing his back, sitting still to try and let your breathing soothe him. Nothing was working. Another hour passed and Lawrence still wasn’t settling, only quieting down long enough for another feed before he was back at it again.

“You know,” George thought aloud as he patted the baby’s back with the little one tucked up against his shoulder, “he didn’t seem to mind the car.”

With exhausted tears in your eyes, you tried to process the point of him saying that, “Yeah?”

“Why don’t I take him for a drive?”

“It’s almost three am, love,” you sighed.

“It’s okay, if it’ll give you time to rest and help him to calm down…I’m willing to try anything.” George suggested, “And you know I never mind a drive.”

“If you’re sure…and if you feel awake enough to drive,” you said softly.

George nodded, already moving to grab a warmer onesie for Lawrence, “Yeah, and I’ll pick up a coffee when I’m out.”

You just watched him for a moment, feeling so many overwhelming feelings over the prior few days but, in that moment, nothing but love burned through your heart. Your voice was a little shaky as you said, “I love you so much. You’re so amazing.”

George glanced up at you from where he was changing the baby into a warmer sleeper at the foot of the bed and he offered a smile, “Just want to be the best for you, my love. You gave me a son, the least I can do is help you rest and heal after that.”

And so he kissed you goodbye and lowered Lawrence down so you could kiss him goodbye too and then he headed out, leaving you in the eerily silent apartment all alone. For the first few moments, your maternal anxieties welled up in your chest, but the comfort of your bed and the exhaustion in your body and mind had you falling asleep in no time.

George buckled Lawrence’s carrier into the car seat base in the back of his Mercedes once again, talking to him softly as he got him settled and secure. Despite it being some ungodly hour of the morning, George felt right at home behind the wheel, guiding the car through the nearly barren streets of Monte Carlo. He picked up a coffee for himself and then ventured through the Principality and out into the outskirts of France for a nice long country drive. Lawrence cried for a while longer but soon quieted down, lulled by the sounds and motions of the car and the warmth and comfort of the heater and his father’s presence.

George returned home at sunrise with a sleeping baby, to a sleeping wife.

Wednesday

George’s parents had flown in Wednesday morning to be your extra pair of hands for that weekend. That dreaded weekend. George was due to leave for Japan and he wouldn’t be home until Monday. You had avoided thinking about it at all costs, knowing it was likely going to be the hardest goodbye of your relationship. Sure, he wasn’t going to be gone long, but after having had a baby not even a week prior, the concept of him straying even just an arms length away felt like the end of the world.

All day Wednesday, you avoided it. You visited with his parents in the living room and they gushed over their newest grandson and you and George shared a million stories about him already and all you had been up to over only the four days he had been alive. You helped his mum make dinner that evening—or, it was more you sat and fed the baby in the kitchen while she puttered around, insisting just as strongly as her son did that you don't overdo it—while George packed his bag in your room. You didn’t think about it, focusing on the nice conversation with his mother instead.

Throughout dinner, George held the baby, snuggling him in one arm while he wielded his fork with the other, as if he needed to soak up all the baby cuddles before he had to leave. No one spoke about his impending departure.

After a day full of being out of bed and about, you returned to bed after dinner to rest, Lawrence in your arms. Leaving his parents to generously take care of the laundry and the kitchen, George came to the bedroom with you to make sure you were comfortable, knowing that it was just about time to say goodbye. He snuggled beside you on the bed as you fed the baby, head on your shoulder, fingers tenderly touching Lawrence’s tiny feet and hands and squirmy legs as if trying to memorize him.

When the baby was done nursing, George took him to burp him, holding him against his shoulder as he gently patted his back. The two of you sat in silence together, soaking in the moment, until a few minutes passed and George let out a small sob.

“Don’t,” you croaked out, voice catching, knowing that if he started to cry that you’d be a lost cause too.

“Sorry,” he rasped, lifting his hand from Lawrence’s back to press thumb and forefinger against his eyes to try and calm down, “Sorry…”

You leaned in closer to him and wrapped your arm around him, holding your boys close as you scrunched your eyes closed and tried to hold it all together.

George set a hand on your arm, confessing softly, “I don’t want to go.”

“I know,” you exhaled simply.

What else was there to say? You couldn’t make him stay. He knew he couldn’t stay.

So you stayed there together for as long as you could, until his father knocked and poked his head in and gave a five minute warning until he would have to take George to the airport. You could see the pity on the man’s face; having a wife and kids of his own, it was clear he could understand the pain of having to be torn apart so soon after birth. Unfortunately, not even he could do anything.

George helped you change into one of his hoodies and another pair of post-birth underwear, making sure you were comfortable and settled in bed, Lawrence asleep in your arms. Already in his jacket and ready to leave, George sat on the side of the bed beside you with a protective hand on your thigh, eyes flickering between the sleeping baby and your solemn face. He reached up to stroke your cheek and then leaned in to kiss the corner of your mouth. You turned your face to kiss his lips, the connection timid, sad.

When your kiss broke, he rested his forehead against yours with a warm hand on the back of your neck as if desperate to keep you close. He sighed.

“I love you so much,” he whispered.

“I love you,” you echoed.

“I’m so sorry,” his voice broke, “I’m so, so sorry that it has to be like this.”

You shook your head faintly, “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“I know,” you whimpered.

George’s thumb brushed across your cheek, swiping away a stray tear, “Only four days…four and a half days. Not long at all, right?”

You nodded faintly in agreement, even if your heart felt like it was the end of the world.

“Just gonna do my job, do what I have to do, and come home to you.”

“Be safe please,” you whispered.

He nodded, looking into your eyes as he swiped another tear away from your cheek, “You know I always am. Now I have even more of a reason to be.

You both looked down at the swaddled baby asleep in your arms. George leaned down and pressed a lingering kiss to Lawrence’s forehead as if trying to pour every ounce of love in his heart into his little body. Then, he stood up.

“Call me when you land,” you asked softly.

“Of course, I will,” George nodded, leaving a kiss to your forehead too.

“I love you.”

He then leaned down to kiss your lips once, twice, a third time.

“I’m sorry for being such a bitch sometimes these last few days, I—”

George cut you off with a shake of his head, “You’re not a bitch. We’re exhausted and stressed and you’re healing and,” his voice broke and he bowed his head with a whispered, “Fuck, I don’t want to leave you.”

“You have to go,” you breathed with a gentle touch to his face.

He leaned down to kiss you again in silent acknowledgement and then his eyes flickered down to Lawrence, still sound asleep in your arms, oblivious to his father’s departure. George exhaled a shaky breath, brushing one last fingertip over his son’s tiny hand before straightening up.

“Okay,” he said, more firmly this time, as if steeling himself. “Okay.”

He took one last look at you, gave you one more kiss, and then headed out of the room to meet his dad in the foyer. The sight of him slipping out of the bedroom door had you aching, as if a part of your heart had just left, and a small sob choked its way past your lips as you slouched farther down on the bed and pulled your sleeping son closer to your chest. You kissed his cheeks and surrounded the two of you in the scent of George’s hoodie.

In a strong whisper, you told your son, “We’re gonna be just fine.”

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capuccinodoll · 5 months ago

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The boyfriend act, part 1: "The one with the proposal" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: The journey from Dallas to Austin is tense but tolerable, as you and Frankie do your best to ignore the mutual disdain simmering between you. But everything derails when a chance encounter with Harry—your ex—and his fiancée pushes you to tell a spur-of-the-moment lie. Frankie’s reaction makes it clear he’s not on board. WC: 14.3k

A/N: Okay, here's my new baby! And I fucking love it! I hope you enjoy this story as much as I've been enjoying writing it. Also, just a heads-up: I’ve taken some creative liberties with the characters. While this story is inspired by the ones in Triple Frontier, it barely follows the events of the movie, and the characters themselves aren’t portrayed exactly as they are in the film. PS: I’d love to hear your thoughts—your feedback means so much to me! Knowing what you think truly motivates me to keep going. So don't hesitate and let me know <3 Also, if you want to be on the tag list, let me know. And don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifs :)

When Santiago’s message arrived, you read it three times, as if repetition might change the words or soften their impact.

[Santi]: Hey bubs, mornin. I’m really sorry but I won’t be able to come get you. I’ll meet you at home later tho. Frankie will pick you up, same time as planned, don’t worry:)

The words seemed to pulse faintly on the screen, a quiet disruption of the neat plan you’d constructed in your head.

Frankie. He wasn’t your first choice—or your second, or third. If you were honest, he didn’t even make the list.

That morning had started with a sense of calm, a kind of orderly anticipation. The steady hum of the fan in the corner of Emma’s room, the cool sting of the shower water, the first sip of coffee, sweet and bitter all at once—it all felt like the clean slate of a well-prepared day. You’d zipped your suitcase shut, placed your carry-on by the door. Nothing left to chance.

You’d take the bus. Predictable, unremarkable. But Santiago had insisted earlier that week, his voice crackling through the phone with a kind of rare, unguarded enthusiasm.

“We can stop for lunch, you know? Like we used to do with dad. Maybe even take a detour if we find somethin' cool,” he’d said.

You’d been leaning against Emma’s kitchen counter at the time, a glass of wine in one hand, a cube of cheese in the other, and your phone between your cheek and your shoulder. Emma raised an eyebrow from across the room, silently prompting you to explain.

“Everything okay with Yovanna?” you teased, your voice carrying just enough edge to feel like a joke, even though it wasn’t entirely one. “Or is this an excuse to run away for the day?”

“Fuck you,” he laughed. “I just want to spend time with you. It’s been ages since we really caught up. I miss you like hell.”

That stopped you. He wasn’t wrong.

“Okay,” you’d said, your voice softer than before. “I miss you too. I’ll wait for you then.”

And now, this. No Santiago, no shared lunch or detours. Just... Frankie.

You sat back against the bed frame, rereading the message one last time. Frankie will pick you up. Frankie will pick you up. Frankie. Frankie. Fucking Frankie. The disappointment felt sharper than you wanted to admit.

You let the phone fall to the bed beside you, the screen dimming as it landed.

Emma lay stretched out next to you, her head tilted toward the TV, where an episode of Friends played on low volume. It was one of those episodes you both knew by heart. The one where everybody finds out.

The blue light from the screen washed over her face, softening her features, making her eyes look brighter than they really were. Without looking away, she reached out and hooked her arm around yours. She’d done the same thing when you were teenagers, sharing the lumpy couch in your parents’ living room, giggling over something trivial while your mom cooked dinner in the next room.

“What happened?” she murmured, as if she could already sense the shift in your mood. The laugh track bubbled in the background, filling the space between her words.

“Santi’s not coming. He sent Frankie.”

“That Frankie?”

“I doubt he knows any others.”

“How convenient,” she said, her voice low with mockery, though her arm squeezed yours gently. “Well, call me when you get there. And try to be nice to him, if you can manage it.”

Emma turned her head slightly, just enough to glance at you out of the corner of her eye. “And don’t take too long to come back and visit me, okay?”

“You could always visit Austin, you know."

“It’s more fun if you come here. You get to be a tourist,” she said, with that breezy logic she always used to disarm you. “I already know Austin. That’s not so exciting.”

You snorted, more out of habit than disagreement. She wasn’t wrong. Emma rarely was.

The rest of the evening passed in near silence, broken only by the low murmur of the television. Another episode of Friends, then one of The Nanny.

At some point, Emma shifted closer, resting her head on your shoulder. Her breathing slowed, deepened, a steady rise and fall that seemed to sync with your own. She didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. There was something about her presence, her weight against you, that felt like a reminder—you were understood here, even when you didn’t have the words to explain yourself. She wasn't just your best friend, she was your sister.

The sharp blare of a car horn shattered the calm. You flinched, your body instinctively tensing, the warm cocoon of the moment dissolving in an instant. Emma didn’t stir much, her eyes still closed, her arm still draped over yours. You nudged her gently, tapping her arm until she groaned softly and sat up, squinting against the glow of the TV.

“I think he’s here,” you said.

Emma stretched in one graceful motion, her arms arching overhead before she bent down to grab the bright lavender Crocs she kept by the bed.

“Come on, I’ll walk you out,” she said, her tone casual, but there was a softness to it, an unspoken understanding that made the impending goodbye feel heavier.

Outside, the heat clung to you immediately, the air thick and sticky, humming with the faint buzz of cicadas. Your gaze landed on the car parked in front of Emma’s house, and something in you tensed. It wasn’t Santi’s car, of course, and it wasn’t Santi standing there waiting.

Frankie was leaning against the hood, arms crossed, his whole posture radiating impatience. He looked as though he’d been sculpted there, his bored expression so exaggerated it almost felt theatrical. The heat shimmered in waves around him, but he didn’t seem to notice—or care. He wore a rumpled gray shirt that looked like it hadn’t been ironed in weeks and a pair of dark sunglasses, their reflective lenses hiding whatever was going on behind them. The cap was familiar, too; plain, worn, the same style you’d seen him wear before, though this time in a faded gray that matched his shirt.

For a fleeting, irrational moment, you thought maybe this was all a mistake. That Santi might suddenly appear, stepping out from behind the car or walking up the driveway with that easy laugh of his, telling you it had all been a joke. But the driveway remained empty, and Frankie, noticing you, straightened up.

He started walking toward you as if he were pacing himself for an obligation he didn’t particularly want to fulfill. His movements had the casual indifference of someone who would rather be anywhere else, but was too resigned to argue. What a dick.

“Where’s Santi?” you asked as you approached, the question coming out sharper than you’d intended.

Frankie didn’t answer immediately. He simply closed the distance between you with unhurried steps. Then, without a word, he grabbed the suitcase from your hand. The gesture caught you off guard—not because he took it, but because of how mechanical it felt. He didn’t look at you, didn’t acknowledge you in any meaningful way. It was as though you were just an extension of the bag he was moving, an obstacle to be dealt with as quickly as possible.

“He couldn’t make it,” he said at last, his voice flat, almost dismissive.

He hauled the suitcase toward the trunk and tossed it in with a thud that seemed louder than it should’ve been. The sound echoed briefly, underscoring his lack of finesse. He slammed the trunk shut with a single decisive motion and turned back toward the driver’s seat, his body language broadcasting that he considered the interaction over.

“But he didn’t tell me anything about it.”

Frankie paused, his hand on the car door.

“It was a last-minute thing.”

Before you could respond—before you could even begin to untangle your frustration into something coherent—he opened the door, slid into the driver’s seat, and pulled it shut behind him with a force that made the air shudder.

You turned back toward the house. Emma was watching from the porch, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her expression hovered somewhere between curiosity and bewilderment, her head tilting slightly as you approached.

She hugged you tightly, holding on a beat longer than usual. When you pulled away, her eyes searched yours.

“I’ll call you when I get there,” you said, though you weren’t sure what the call would entail—whether you’d laugh about all this, or vent.

Her lips twitched into a faint smile.

“I love you so so much,” you added. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I always do. I love you too. Take care and call me as soon as you can."

She stepped back as you turned toward the car, your feet dragging slightly with each step.

Now, an hour and a half later, the car sped steadily toward Austin, the scenery blurring into a series of indistinct shapes. Frankie hadn’t said a word since you’d left Emma’s house, and the silence had settled in the car like a heavy fog, pressing down on you with every passing mile.

You’d considered speaking—several times, in fact—but every potential conversation starter you thought of seemed pointless.

What was there to say to him? You barely knew each other, and what little you did know felt more like a series of grudges than shared history. The only things you had in common were your mutual love for Santi and, apparently, your mutual irritation with each other. Neither felt like enough to bridge the yawning gap between you.

You stared out the window, the dry, flat landscape sliding by in endless monotony, like a movie stripped of plot and color. Pale beige fields stretched into the horizon, broken only by the occasional cluster of power lines. The sameness of it all seemed to lull the world into a kind of dull, static hum.

The only relief came from the music spilling softly from the car’s speakers. The sound was tethered to Frankie’s phone, resting in the cupholder beside him, the screen glowing faintly every so often with an incoming notification he didn’t bother to check. A Fleetwood Mac song began again, its familiar opening chords filling the silence for the third time since you’d left.

You shifted in your seat, glancing at him from the corner of your eye before turning your attention back to the road ahead.

“Do you like this song?”

“I think so.”

“It’s played three times already.”

“It’s a good song,” he said softly, his voice low enough to be mistaken for an afterthought.

You turned back to the window.

He hadn’t said it to be defensive—just matter-of-fact, like the song itself was reason enough. You folded your arms across your chest, the seatbelt digging slightly into your side.

Then, your mind wandered back to Santi, to the message that had upended your day. What had he been thinking? Of all his friends, why send Frankie?

The question rolled over in your head, each repetition more insistent than the last. Was it an oversight? A logistical decision made in haste, without considering how you’d feel about it? Or was it intentional?

That idea sat uneasily with you, gnawing at the edge of your thoughts. He knew how strange things felt between you and Frankie. Hell, everyone knew. They’d all been there, witnessed it firsthand—the arguments, the uncomfortable silences, the way your personalities seemed to clash as naturally as oil and water.

The possibility that Santi might’ve chosen Frankie on purpose—maybe even as some misguided attempt to force you into tolerating each other—bothered you more than you wanted to admit.

You shifted again, suddenly restless, as the car hummed along the empty stretch of highway, the silence between you growing heavier despite the steady background of Fleetwood Mac.

Over the last few years, Frankie had been a fixture in your life, the way someone else’s shadow might be—not yours, but unavoidable. Being your brother’s best friend meant your paths crossed often enough, though you both seemed to approach these encounters with mutual disdain. You didn’t like him, and he didn’t bother pretending to like you. Disgust was the word that came to mind when you thought about how he looked at you. Not exaggerated or theatrical, just a cool, unflinching disgust, as though he found something about you fundamentally wrong.

The last time you’d spoken more than a handful of clipped, perfunctory words to each other was in Santi’s kitchen a few years ago. That was the breaking point. The fight. It wasn’t dramatic, not really—no yelling, no slammed doors—but it was the kind of exchange that changed things irreversibly. After that, you decided you didn’t want to think about him, let alone look at him, ever again.

And that was the end of it. You stopped trying to explain. You'd come to accept that to Santi, Frankie was probably nothing like how you saw him. You weren't sure what it was about him that rubbed you the wrong way, but you knew that with your brother, Frankie surely couldn't be as unpleasant as he was with you.

So, you ignored him. Every time you saw him, you made sure your gaze passed over him like he was just another fixture in the room. And he did the same. It was as though you were two people occupying the same space, but never truly sharing it.

Why on earth, then, had he agreed to come and pick you up?

Finally, he broke the silence.

“We'll stop for lunch.” His gaze flickered to you for a brief second, enough to make sure you had heard, before returning to the road. “I haven’t eaten anything all day. Do you mind?”

You were starting to feel the pangs of hunger yourself, but you didn’t let that soften your response. You couldn’t.

“No.”

Frankie nodded. He turned his attention back to the road.

His calmness was maddening.

Fifteen minutes later, the engine turned off and you looked over at the driver's side, half-expecting Frankie to say something—anything—but he was already in motion.

Before you could open your mouth, the door swung open, and he was out of the car, his body moving with an urgency that seemed to come from some invisible force, as though he were escaping the confines of the vehicle. For a moment, the empty passenger seat seemed to expand, making the car feel smaller, quieter.

You stayed there a second longer, watching as Frankie made his way across the parking lot. His steps were steady, almost too casual, as if walking away from you might somehow erase you from the moment entirely.

He didn’t look back, didn’t pause to see if you were following. And honestly, you weren’t in any rush to do so. There was no reason to catch up with him. He clearly didn’t want you there, and you didn’t want to be near him either. This trip wasn’t about you; it was about doing your brother a favor.

The parking lot was modest, just enough space for the few cars scattered about. It wasn’t anything remarkable, just a typical lot for a small, unassuming restaurant. The faded lines barely marked the spots, and you counted five cars parked across the patch of asphalt. The windows of the restaurant were perfectly clean, and you could see people inside. A couple of families were chatting animatedly at their tables, and a few solitary diners were hunched over their food, their focus far from the simple meal in front of them.

With a sigh, you walked toward the entrance. Above the door, the sign Jimmy’s buzzed softly in red neon, its glow a little too bright for the evening light. Next to it, a yellow arrow with tiny, flickering bulbs pointed inside, inviting anyone who passed by to come in. "Eat here!"

You pushed open the door, the bell chiming brightly above your head as you stepped inside. The rush of cool air from the air conditioning met you instantly, a welcome contrast to the heat that still clung to your skin from the car. The coolness was almost too sharp, sending a slight shiver down your spine as you paused just inside the doorway.

Your eyes took a moment to adjust to the softer light inside. The diner was small, but it had a cozy, familiar feel, with colorful walls and a few tables scattered around. The noise inside was a comfortable hum, punctuated by the occasional clink of silverware, low conversation and the music in the background.

It didn’t take long to spot him. Frankie was seated at the bar, absorbed in the menu in front of him. His posture was casual, but there was something about the way he held himself, his shoulders slightly hunched, that made it feel like he was a little too withdrawn.

You walked toward him slowly, the sound of your footsteps softened by the tiles beneath you. And you were just about to sit next to him when he looked up, his gaze meeting yours briefly before returning to the menu.

His voice was flat, almost bored as he spoke.

“Go find a table.”

You frowned, taking the menu from his hand without a word.

His gaze didn’t follow you as he stood up, stretching slightly as he rose from the bar stool. There was something about his movements that made you feel like you weren’t really a part of whatever was going on.

His shirt clung slightly to his back from the heat of the car, the evidence of sweat still visible on his skin, and you couldn't help but notice the fine hairs on his arms standing on end, a subtle sign of the sharp contrast between the stifling heat outside and the chill of the air-conditioned room.

“I’m goin' to the bathroom. Be back in a sec,” he added casually before disappearing down the narrow hallway to the right.

No expectation of a response. No glance to see if you were still standing there, just a simple statement. Okay. He was gone before you could offer anything in reply.

You were left standing there, the laminated menu in your hands, a slight weariness creeping in.

With a sigh, you turned on your heels and began scanning the room for a table. There was still at least an hour and a half of travel left, plus however long you'd spend eating.

Why hadn’t Santi given you a heads-up? You could’ve taken the bus or the train, something that didn’t involve sitting in a car with anyone but him. But no, that wasn’t even an option, apparently.

You spotted an empty table near the back, next to the window, and as you walked toward it, the decor around you caught your eye.

The place had a playful, nostalgic vibe. Framed posters of Grease, Fame, Footloose, and Saturday Night Fever hung on the walls. It was all very upbeat, almost theatrical, like a movie set. The tables were red and white, and a jukebox stood in the corner.

Suddenly, a voice cut through the quiet murmur of the restaurant, and your name echoed in the air.

You froze, the sound ricocheting in your chest, followed by a rush of emotions you didn’t want to acknowledge, let alone feel.

Slowly, you turned to face him, every step feeling like it took an eternity.

“Harry,” you said, the name falling from your lips like it belonged to someone else. Your lips tightened, a familiar mask of politeness slipping over your expression, one you wished you didn’t have to wear. “What... what are you doing here?”

His smile was instant and disarming, his surprise clear, and his happiness so genuine it made your chest tighten.

The last time you saw him, three months ago, it felt like a lifetime ago—a goodbye steeped in heartbreak. You’d clung to him, tears soaking his crisp white shirt as he whispered reassurances: “It’s okay. You’ll be okay. I care about you.” But the words he didn’t say cut deeper: he cared for you, but he loved her.

It had been a casual fling, no strings attached—or so you told yourself. Then came the day he confessed: he was in love with Lisa, a friend you’d never met. They were getting married. His words felt like a gut punch, but his excitement betrayed him. He was happy. You weren’t.

You tried to be strong, to tell him you were fine, even as you broke down. Because you loved him, and you couldn’t bear the thought of him with her.

And now, here he was, smiling like nothing had happened, curiosity in his eyes—oblivious to the wreckage he’d left behind.

In front of him, Lisa was sitting with a big bright smile.

You’d seen her face before, her perfectly curated Instagram photos, her flawless smile that could have been lifted straight from a movie. But in person? She was even more striking, the kind of beauty that didn’t need filters or captions. The kind of beauty that made everything around her seem insignificant, that made you feel small just standing next to her. Her presence was magnetic, the sort of thing that pulled your gaze despite every instinct telling you to look away.

Suddenly, the air conditioning hit you like a blast of cold, sharp enough to make you flinch. But then again, maybe it wasn’t the air conditioning. Maybe it was just your body freezing in place, rigid with surprise and something much harder to define.

“What are you doing around here?” he asked, pulling you back from the tangle of thoughts you were trying so hard to keep at bay.

You blinked, trying to center yourself, but it was like you had forgotten how to breathe properly.

“We’re... I’m just passing through, heading back to Austin,” you said, your voice sounding too steady, too rehearsed, even to your own ears. “I went to visit Emma.”

“Ah, Emma. How is she? Is she still in Dallas?”

“Yep.”

The silence hung between you, thick and uncomfortable. You could feel it stretching, wrapping itself around your words, making them heavier than they needed to be.

Finally, you exhaled, the air coming out in a slow, resigned sigh.

“What about you guys? What are you doing around here?”

You didn’t really want to know, not at all.

“Lisa’s grandparents live in Waco,” Harry said with that wide smile of his, the one that always made you feel like you were watching the world tilt on its axis. “We went to take the invitation to them personally and I met the rest of the family while we were at it.”

You didn’t smile. You couldn’t.

“Right, right. How cool. You must be so excited—a summer wedding, then?”

You’d known for weeks—September 13th. The invitation, with its sparkling gold lettering, had made your stomach churn. You buried it under junk mail, unable to face seeing him so happy, so certain of what he had.

But you couldn’t say that, could you? You couldn’t tell him that the mere thought of them together, of their future, felt like a knife to your chest. So you forced a smile, a tight, lifeless thing, and let the conversation carry on.

"That's right," Harry said, laughing as his gaze flickered to Lisa, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Even though we wanted to enjoy the early days of fall, Lisa wanted to get married around summer, mostly because of her parents. They got married during summer too."

Lisa laughed softly, the sound like a note held too long, then spoke:

"It's not just that," she said, her hand resting lightly on Harry's. You found yourself looking away. "Everything looks more beautiful during this season, doesn't it? Even the days last longer."

Her voice was thick with something you couldn't quite place—familiarity, maybe. Or maybe it was love.

Harry’s eyes shifted to you, seeking something. Approval, maybe. He didn’t say it, but it was clear. His look said: Don’t disagree.

"That's true. Summer is beautiful," you replied, feeling the words slip out too easily, forced through your teeth.

"We look forward to seeing you there," Harry said. "We haven't received your confirmation—you’re going, aren't you?"

How could he ask that, not see how unnatural this felt? But Harry wasn’t cruel, just unaware. You’d never told him you loved him, never made your feelings clear. To him, this was normal. He thought you’d be fine.

“I... um—”

“Don’t worry about going alone,” he said. "You always meet people at weddings."

Heat flooded your face, burning like a slap. The words stung, but his obliviousness made it worse. You wished the ground would swallow you whole, or anything to escape.

Instead, you laughed.

"Ah, no, that’s not it," you lied. "That's covered."

“Oh, is it?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow, his interest piqued. He leaned forward, a relieved smile crossing his face.

"Sure," you said, forcing a confidence into your tone that you didn’t feel. "I’ll... I’ll go with my boyfriend."

Harry's eyes widened a little, and then the smile appeared again—this one more genuine, more curious. He tapped the table, an excited gesture that made your stomach twist.

“You don’t say?” he said, his voice rising in pitch. “And who’s the lucky guy?”

You wanted to crumble. You wanted to say nothing.

As if by some celestial miracle, you saw Frankie emerge from the hallway, his attention absorbed by the screen of his phone, scrolling, unaware of anything around him. His timing was perfect, and relief washed over you, as if fate had sent him. He wasn’t supposed to be here, yet there he was—a lifeline in the chaos.

For a moment, he seemed to glow, his familiar, worn cap catching the harsh lights like a crown. You’d never been so glad to see someone. Then his eyes met yours, and his expression shifted—confusion flickering as he took in your frantic stance, the mess of emotions written on your face.

Before you could stop it, before you could make any sense of what was happening, a smile stretched across your face—too wide, too fast, like a reflex you hadn’t been prepared for. It was probably a little too sharp to be anything but forced, but you couldn’t help it. You couldn’t help anything.

"Frankie," you said, the words tumbling out with more enthusiasm than you intended. "This is Frankie... Frankie, my boyfriend.”

You weren’t sure what you were doing, but it didn’t matter—you needed to make something clear.

Frankie tensed beside you, glancing your way, trying to read the situation. His eyes met yours, and you silently begged him: Help. Please.

For a moment, he studied you, his gaze flicking between you and the couple. Then, as if something clicked, his expression shifted to understanding. He realized what he had to do and adjusted instantly.

"Right," he finally said. "I’m Frankie."

Harry extended his hand with a practiced smile, warm but a touch too bright. Frankie hesitated, his gaze shifting from Harry’s hand to your face, brow slightly furrowed as he tried to assess the situation—or his role in it.

You stepped closer, tapping his waist lightly, a subtle signal to act. He blinked, refocusing, and finally took Harry’s hand. But in his eyes, there was a flicker of discomfort, one only you noticed.

“Frankie,” Harry said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, I'm Harry.” Then, he nodded enthusiastically, dropping his hand back to the table. “And this is Lisa."

Lisa smiled, her gaze bright and almost blinding.

“Nice to meet ya, Frankie,” she said, her voice the epitome of warmth, her charm effortless, her presence just... perfect. Oh my God, just stop it!

Frankie finally turned his attention back to you, though it wasn’t immediately clear if he was still processing the social niceties or deciding how best to carry this conversation forward.

His voice shifted slightly as he spoke again.

“Same here,” he said, his tone unfamiliar to you.

He moved closer, just a bit too close, slipping his arm around your waist with ease, sending a flutter through your stomach. His hand rested lightly against your side, his palm warm at your back. You froze, unable to focus on anything but the pulse of his touch, the way he effortlessly played the boyfriend role.

It felt wrong, uncomfortable.

Confusion and relief mixed inside you, unsure if the relief came from the act itself or the distraction it provided from the situation.

"Well," Frankie broke the silence. "Sorry to interrupt, but we need to leave soon. I want to make sure this beautiful woman gets some food before we go—otherwise, she goes bad."

You blinked, momentarily taken aback.

Harry chuckled. “Yeah, I believe you. That’s the main reason we stopped. Though I’ll admit,” he added, glancing down at the table with a mock grimace, “I was the one really starving.”

The awkwardness of the moment barely registered for Harry. He seemed to think everything was going smoothly, unaware of the small cracks in the facade that were threatening to show. Frankie, however, was more aware than anyone, and you could see it in his eyes.

Frankie gave a short, almost amused laugh, pulling his arm back from your waist with a light tap.

“Yeah, I’m sure you can relate,” he said. “Keeping your lady happy, that's what it's all about, isn't it?”

You tried to smile, but it came out thin, tight. Your legs became weak.

Harry’s laugh was light. He buyed it.

Frankie straightened up slightly, offering his hand to Harry in that careful way that now seemed practiced, even though it hadn’t been moments ago. The way he was acting felt like an entirely unfamiliar version of him. Thank God.

“Okay, thanks for the chat, but we bett—”

"Yeah, of course," Harry interrupted, still upbeat and completely oblivious to the tension. "It was nice meeting you, Frankie. Take care of her, alright? She's... well, you know. A special one."

Frankie’s smile stiffened, the edges barely moving as he gave a short nod. His eyes flicked to you for a fleeting second.

"I will," he replied. "I’ve got her covered. Don’t worry. She’s in good hands."

“Bye, Harry,” you said, turning to him with a friendly but somewhat distant smile, your hand lifting in a wave. “And you too, Lisa. Good luck with the wedding!”

Lisa smiled warmly. “Thank you,” she replied, her voice smooth. “Let us know if you're coming."

“Yeah. Hope to see you at the wedding. You too, Frankie,” Harry said, just before you thought about starting to walk to the table at the back of the place.

Frankie looked confused, and looked at you for an answer, or for you to say something.

"Sure," you said, taking him by the arm, ready to leave. "We'll definitely be there!"

You moved in silence toward the booth, Frankie's hand resting at the small of your back, guiding you like an automatic reflex.

The low hum of conversation in the restaurant seemed to fade as you both reached the table, and you were strangely relieved that the high backs of the seats shielded you from Harry’s view.

He dropped into the seat across from you, his presence as loud and brash as ever.

When you looked at him, it struck you how quickly he'd reverted to the expression he always wore around you: furrowed brows, lips pressed into a thin, almost unnatural line. It wasn’t clear if it was annoyance, confusion, or just him being him.

“I’m so hungry,” you said, flipping through the laminated menu. “I really want a burger, and some fries.”

He didn’t reply immediately, his stare heavy on you. Then:

“What the fuck was that?”

You sighed, closing the menu and flattening your hands on the table as if bracing yourself. His face was a familiar mix of wide eyes, creased forehead, and that particular grimace that always made you feel like you’d said something wrong.

You shrugged. “My ex.”

“Okay? And?”

“And that’s it. Nothing else.”

Frankie leaned back with a dramatic exhale, the leather of the booth creaking under him. He shook his head in disbelief, his jaw tightening.

“Since when am I your boyfriend? Last time I checked, I was doing your brother a favor.”

“Don’t worry about it,” you said quickly, cheeks warming. You picked up the menu again, trying to will your face back to neutrality. “Thanks for playing along, anyway.”

He sighed. You glanced up, and sure enough, he was staring at you, his fingers drumming a steady rhythm on the table. Not impatient, exactly. Calculated.

“You’re not going to tell me what the fuck that was?”

You ignored him, letting the embarrassment swirl hot in your stomach as you fixed your eyes on the menu. Burgers. Burgers. Burgers. Burgers. Fries. Onion rings, maybe.

“Hey,” he said sharply, snapping his fingers in front of your face.

You blinked, snapping your head up to look at him.

“Oh, are you talking to me?”

Frankie gave you a look so exaggerated you almost laughed, except you knew he wasn’t joking.

“Who else would I be talking to? You think I’m out here monologuing? Who are you, fucking De Niro?”

“Hey!” you snapped, slamming the menu down on the table. The sound echoed between you, a sharp punctuation that sent a ripple of air across his forehead, lifting the dark strands just slightly. “Don’t talk to me like that, Francisco. Who do you think you’re talking to? We’re not friends.”

He snorted, the sound sharp but oddly soft at the same time, pulling off his cap and placing it on the seat beside him.

With a low groan, he ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching briefly in the strands. His gaze found yours again, his posture seemingly relaxed but betraying a subtle tension. You could see it in the way his shoulders didn’t quite settle, in the way his eyes didn’t blink as he studied you.

“I know, we’re not friends. But I just lied for you. Why? Who was that? And why are you acting so weird?”

Before you could answer, he straightened in his seat, leaning forward slightly. “No, wait. The real question is: why are you acting weirder than usual?”

You folded your arms, leaning back until you felt the booth press into your shoulders. Your gaze flicked to the front door, the thought of walking out taking root in your mind. Leaving felt easier—safer. Honestly, you’d rather trudge all the way back to Austin on foot, the heat and endless asphalt blistering your skin, than sit here and explain yourself to Frankie. He wouldn’t care. Worse, he might care just enough to make you regret opening your mouth.

When your eyes returned to him, though, his expression surprised you. Serious, yes. But not angry.

You sighed, the sound shaky as it escaped your chest.

“It’s my ex.”

“Yes. Your ex. I got that part. And?”

“And his fiancée.”

“Aha,” he nodded slowly. “Why did you lie to them?”

You swallowed hard, the pulse in your neck thudding too loudly in your ears.

“Because...” Your voice wavered, and you hated it. “Because... Um, he told me I might meet someone at the wedding.”

Frankie blinked, his confusion shifting into something closer to disbelief.

“What?”

“God,” you muttered, rolling your eyes as heat crept up your neck. Your hands dropped to your thighs, fingers curling into the fabric of your jeans. “We dated for four months, and he broke up with me to get engaged to her. Then he invited me to their wedding. When I said I’d go, he told me not to worry about showing up alone, because I’d probably meet someone there.”

Frankie’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out, so you pressed on, a flush of anger sparking under your skin.

“So, I panicked,” you admitted, your voice sharpening. “I told him not to worry, that I’d bring my boyfriend. And then you showed up, and it just—it made sense in the moment, okay? That’s it.”

“It made sense to you to say I was your boyfriend?” he asked, his tone incredulous. “You couldn’t have said I was someone else? Made up something better?”

“No, it didn’t occur to me! I panicked, okay? I’m sorry! What was I supposed to do?”

He stared at you for a moment, his face a mix of annoyance and bafflement, before leaning back again. You could see the wheels turning in his head, though whatever he was thinking, he wasn’t about to share it with you.

You sank deeper into your seat, glaring at the table like it might offer some kind of solace. But all you could feel was the mortifying heat of his gaze, still fixed firmly on you.

Frankie scratched his forehead, his fingers dragging slowly down to his chin, where they rested briefly before falling to the table.

“Okay,” he started. “So, you dated this guy for three months—”

“Four months.”

“Right. Four months. And then he left you to get engaged?”

“Yeah.”

Frankie leaned back, his posture deceptively relaxed.

“You’re telling me he cheated on you, and you’re still planning to go to his fucking wedding? Are you out of your mind?”

He propped his chin on his left hand, elbow planted firmly on the table, and his gaze locked onto you. There was something in his expression that made your stomach twist—a combination of pity and incredulity that made you feel stupid.

“No, he didn’t cheat on me,” you replied, lowering your voice as you leaned forward slightly, not wanting anyone else to overhear. “We weren’t in a serious relationship. We were just... casually dating. He was always in love with her, but they couldn’t figure things out. I knew that. He told me.”

Frankie’s eyebrows lifted, his disbelief evident.

“He told you he was in love with another woman, and you still kept dating him?”

“No,” you shot back, frowning. “He told me after a while, around the time we broke up. I would never date someone who was in love with someone else.”

“But you were in love with him, weren’t you?”

There it was. That tone. The one that suggested Frankie thought he had you all figured out, as if your life and feelings were nothing more than a series of obvious moves on a chessboard he could read from across the room. He was so infuriatingly arrogant, so sure of himself.

You narrowed your eyes, but the involuntary twitch of your eyebrows betrayed you.

“I had feelings for him,” you admitted.

Frankie tilted his head slightly, his lips quirking into a half-smile that made you want to smack him.

“Okay, let me make sure I’ve got this straight: this guy you casually dated for four months left you for another woman, got engaged, invited you to the wedding, and you, still hung up on him, agreed to go but invented an imaginary boyfriend so you wouldn’t have to show up alone. That about right?”

“I’m not in love with him,” you snapped, crossing your arms defensively and shaking your head.

“I don’t believe you."

“I don’t care what you believe."

“You want to know what I think?”

“Are you deaf? I just told you I don’t care.”

“I think you’re crazy for going to that wedding. Do you want to torture yourself or something? Are you a masochist?”

The word slipped out like a dagger, his eyes narrowing as he studied your reaction, his face drawing closer, his voice almost a whisper.

You exhaled sharply, a mix of frustration and disbelief, biting your lower lip as you turned to look out the window. The distant hum of cars on the road outside felt like the only thing grounding you in the moment.

When you looked back at him, your voice was steadier, quieter.

“We’re friends. Things between us ended well. Why wouldn’t I go to his wedding?”

“So he broke your heart, and you’re still going to his wedding. Got it.” Frankie leaned back slightly as he said it.

You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, anger mixing with a deep, familiar embarrassment.

“Why the fuck do you care anyway? I already told you everything. Make fun of me all you want, but stop interrogating me and leave me alone.”

Frankie’s eyebrows lifted and a slow, sarcastic smile spread across his face.

“You got me involved in this, remember?”

“It was just a little lie, that’s all.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“Well, you didn’t think it through,” he said flatly, reaching across the table to grab the menu you’d abandoned. He straightened it out in front of him, his fingers smoothing the creases, and his eyes scanned the options with an air of exaggerated focus.

For a moment, you thought he might actually drop it. But of course, he didn’t.

“I wonder what he’ll think,” Frankie said suddenly, “when he sees you show up to the wedding alone.” His eyes stayed on the menu. “You should’ve come up with something else. Be more witty next time. Or, I don’t know, just don’t go to the wedding. That works too.”

Oh.

Your stomach churned at the thought, the weight of it pressing down on you as your mind raced through the possibilities.

He was right, of course. What were you going to do? There was no way you could actually show up to the wedding now. You’d have to turn down the invitation at the last minute, make up some absurd excuse about why you couldn’t make it. Or maybe you wouldn’t say anything at all. Harry didn’t deserve an explanation. He wasn’t entitled to one.

The silence stretched between you. You didn’t answer him. What could you say? You felt silly, even ridiculous, sitting there, replaying the moment over and over in your mind.

Of all the places in the world, did you really have to run into Harry here, in the middle of the road, with Frankie of all people?

None of this would’ve happened if Santiago had come to pick you up like he was supposed to. If he’d warned you he couldn’t make it, you would’ve saved yourself the humiliation. You wouldn’t have had to deal with Frankie’s smirking face or his infuriating commentary.

You stared at the table, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of it. God, why did everything have to turn into a mess? Why couldn’t things just go smoothly for once?

Frankie didn’t seem to notice—or care—that you hadn’t responded. He flipped a page of the menu, his expression unreadable now, as if he’d already moved on.

With your appetite nearly nonexistent, you ordered a burger. It sat heavy in front of you, unappealing and far too big. You nibbled at it slowly, methodically, as if chewing it down might somehow help you swallow the rest of your humiliation.

Across the table, Frankie made quick work of his own meal. He ate like someone who hadn’t seen food in days, the kind of eating that could make anyone watching feel small.

When he finished—barely ten minutes in—he leaned back in his chair and fixed you with a look. Not an outright stare, but enough of one that you could feel the weight of his impatience.

You didn’t care.

Instead, you turned your attention to the fries on your plate. Picking up each one with deliberate slowness, you savored them, your gaze drifting toward the window.

Outside, the road stretched on endlessly, shimmering in the summer heat. Frankie sighed, low and exasperated, every few minutes, but to your surprise, he didn’t rush you.

When you finally stood to leave, Harry and Lisa were nowhere to be seen. Relief swept over you like cool water. If you’d had to exchange goodbyes with them, you were sure you’d lose every bite of food you’d managed to stomach.

You followed Frankie out to the car. And once inside, the tight, enclosed space of the vehicle made your skin crawl.

You clicked your seatbelt into place, but the snugness of the strap across your chest only added to your discomfort.

For a fleeting moment, you considered bolting. What if you just opened the door and threw yourself onto the hot, sticky asphalt? You’d roll a little, maybe scrape a knee, but at least you wouldn’t be here.

The car started with a low rumble, and Frankie turned up the music without a word. The sound wasn’t loud enough to drown out your thoughts, but it added a layer of noise.

Your gaze shifted to the scenery blurring past the window. You rested your forehead against the cool glass, welcoming the breeze coming in through the lowered window. The air smelled faintly of gasoline and sun-warmed earth.

Frankie drove in silence, his hands steady on the wheel. His thumbs tapped along to the rhythm of the song playing faintly in the background—Rebel Yell by Billy Idol.

You stared at the horizon, but your mind kept circling back to him.

He probably thought this whole situation was hilarious. You could see it in the way his eyebrows had lifted earlier, the way his lips twitched with incredulity every time he asked about Harry. He didn’t need to say it—he thought you were foolish, and maybe you were. You felt it, deep in your chest, that heavy, sinking shame that told you he was right to think so.

What the hell were you going to do?

Not going to the wedding wasn’t an option, not unless you wanted Harry to think you were still upset—or worse, that you still cared. But going? Going alone? That wasn’t an option either. You could bring someone else, maybe. But who?

Harry knew all your friends, and you didn’t have many male ones left who weren’t married, taken, or entirely inappropriate. Your brother’s friends? Sure, because that would work out great. Another one of Santiago’s buddies, strolling in on your arm. You ran through the list in your head. Will? No. Ben? No.

It was hopeless. Every scenario felt more humiliating than the last.

God, you wished you could disappear. Or better yet, transform into something simple and unbothered. A worm, maybe. Worms didn’t have exes. They didn’t have weddings to dread.

You were spiraling, and it must have shown on your face because Frankie spoke up, his voice breaking through your chaotic thoughts.

“We’ll make a stop to fill up the tank, okay?” His tone was casual, distracted, as he turned left into the gas station lot.

“Sure,” you mumbled, barely lifting your head.

The car slowed to a stop, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. For a moment, the world outside felt steadier than the one inside your head.

You followed Frankie out of the car, your steps slower and more hesitant than his easy stride. The heat pressed down on you, thick and relentless, but he didn’t seem to notice.

You lingered by the passenger side, arms folded across your chest. Your gaze flitted to the gas station shop, where shelves of snacks and cold drinks promised brief relief from the sweltering air. For a fleeting moment, you considered going inside, maybe grabbing a soda, or even just standing under the blast of an air conditioner. But then you thought about how much longer that would draw out this journey. The idea of extending your time in Frankie’s company, even by a minute, was enough to keep you rooted in place.

So you waited, watching him in silence. He moved with the kind of efficiency you’d expect from someone used to things like this—mundane tasks, long drives, solitude. He didn’t rush, but he didn’t dawdle either. He glanced at you once as he replaced the nozzle, his expression unreadable, and then he climbed back into the car without a word.

You followed suit, settling into your seat and pulling the door shut with a soft click.

The miles ahead stretched out endlessly, yet the closer you got to Austin, the more your thoughts swirled. You cycled through possibilities, none of them good. Each option felt like another layer of embarrassment, a new way to showcase just how deeply you’d tangled yourself in this ridiculous situation.

Eventually, your mind settled on one solution—a compromise of sorts, though it was far from ideal. You turned it over and over, weighing the risk against your pride. It felt heavy in your chest, but the closer you got to the city, the harder it became to ignore.

Finally, as the familiar outline of Austin came into view, you forced yourself to speak.

“Frankie.” You turned to look at him, your hands fidgeting nervously in your lap.

He didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What?”

“You know,” you began, cautiously, “Santi loves you a lot. You’re one of his best friends.”

“I know.”

“And you must love Santi too, right? I mean, you’d do anything for him.”

At that, he glanced at you, his brows knitting together in confusion. The kindness in your voice must have thrown him off.

“Of course I love him,” he said slowly. “What do you want?”

You smiledr, tilting your head. “Why do you think I want something?”

“Because you’re smiling at me like that,” he shot back, returning his focus to the road. “And it’s creepy. Stop it. You’re scaring me.”

“I just think that it was really nice of you to go all the way to Dallas to pick me up. You didn’t have to, you know. I could’ve taken a bus or figured something out. But you did it anyway. You did me a favor today, and I just—”

He cut you off with a dry laugh, wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. A bead of sweat had formed there, glistening in the harsh afternoon light.

“If you want to call it that.”

“I mean it,” you insisted, leaning slightly toward him. “You didn’t have to do this. You could’ve said no, and I wouldn’t have blamed you. But you didn’t. Why?”

His grip tightened on the wheel, and he shot you another quick, sidelong glance. His expression was guarded.

“I dunno. Because Santi asked me to. Because I had nothing else to do. Does it matter?”

You pursed your lips, staring straight ahead as your thoughts spiraled. Why were you nervous? It wasn’t fear—definitely not fear of him. But still, there was something about Frankie that unsettled you, something sharp-edged and unyielding in the way he looked at you, like he could see more than you intended to show.

“I think you should come to the wedding with me,” you blurted, the words tumbling out before you had the chance to second-guess them. As soon as they were out, you snapped your gaze away, focusing intently on a crack in the dashboard as though it held the secrets of the universe.

“What?”

Frankie’s tone wasn’t as surprised as you’d expected—it was more amused, like he thought you’d just said something profoundly ridiculous.

“You should come to the wedding with me,” you repeated, forcing yourself to look at him this time.

He turned his head briefly, his eyes scanning your face, trying to decide whether you were joking or if you’d completely lost your mind. Finally, he clicked his tongue and shook his head.

“No,” he said flatly.

“Frankie.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“What’s the matter with you? Did you hit your head or something? Have you completely lost it?”

“No, just hear me out,” you said, raising a hand in what you hoped was a calming gesture. He shot you a wary glance but didn’t interrupt. “It’ll just be a favor—a small favor. I swear, if you do this for me, I’ll give you whatever you want. Wathever. Um, well—not whatever you want,” you corrected quickly. “Something reasonable. Something human. Please.”

Frankie snorted, a small, incredulous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You’re asking me to pretend to be your boyfriend at the wedding of a guy who dumped you? And you’re the sister of one of my best friends?” He shook his head, laughing quietly.

You sighed, the weight of your desperation pressing down on you.

“Santi will understand. He will. And it’s not like I’m asking for much—just come with me for a little while. We don’t even have to stay all night. Just long enough to…” You trailed off, realizing how pathetic you sounded. “Just long enough to make it believable.”

“Sorry, no,” Frankie said firmly, cutting you off. “I’m not getting dragged into your drama. And honestly? I think it’s stupid for you to go to that wedding in the first place. What are you trying to prove? My answer is no. Invite someone else.”

Frustration burned in your chest, rising up to your cheeks as his words landed. You could feel your face heating, both from embarrassment and anger.

“I can’t invite someone else. You’re my boyfriend, remember? That’s what Harry thinks. He saw you. They saw you. And you did a pretty good job pretending to be nice to me today—can’t you do it one more time? Just this once?”

“No—”

“I’ll do anything you want. I mean it. Any favor you can think of. Just name it.”

Frankie tilted his head, giving you a skeptical look.

“I’m not interested in any favors from you,” he said bluntly. “I don’t need anything.”

“Then do it for Santi,” you said, desperate now.

Frankie laughed at that, a low, disbelieving sound that only irritated you further.

“What does your brother have to do with any of this?”

“He’s your best friend,” you said, leaning toward him slightly, like you could will him to understand. “And you love him. And I’m his sister.”

“Uh-huh,” Frankie said, still smirking. “So?”

“So, doesn’t that mean you should help me?”

Frankie’s laugh grew louder, his shoulders shaking slightly as he glanced at you.

“You’re really reaching now, aren’t you?”

He turned to look at you then, his eyes narrowing slightly as they met yours. There was no malice there, but the firm set of his jaw told you all you needed to know—there was no convincing him. He understood the weight of your request, the quiet urgency stitched into each word, but it didn’t sway him.

“I’ve never asked you for help before,” you said, your voice softer now, almost brittle. “In fact, I’ve refused your help plenty of times. You said I was childish, remember? Well, fine. Maybe I’m being childish. But now I’m asking. Just this once.”

He shook his head slowly.

“It’s not the same thing. And you are being childish. Like I told you—no. The answer’s fucking no.”

You blinked hard, swallowing against the sting of rejection that settled heavy in your throat.

“Okay, fine,” you replied, the word clipped, your voice devoid of emotion. You turned your face away from him, angling it toward the window, not wanting him to see the look on your face—humiliation, maybe, or something closer to defeat. “Thank you.”

Frankie sighed, long and low, his hands flexing around the steering wheel as though he were squeezing the last ounce of patience from himself.

The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the low hum of the car and the faint thrum of your pulse in your ears.

The rest of the drive passed without a single word exchanged. You stared out the window while Frankie focused intently on the road, his grip on the wheel tight and unyielding.

When the car finally pulled up in front of your house, the relief that washed over you was immediate and overwhelming.

You reached for the door handle, your fingers trembling slightly, and stepped out into the humid air.

Frankie followed, moving around to the back of the car with the same mechanical precision he’d had all day. He popped the trunk and pulled out your suitcase, the effort seemingly as uninspired as when he’d loaded it hours ago.

He carried it to the door and set it down, his movements brisk, almost dismissive. You stood there, arms crossed, your body angled away from him, unwilling to meet his gaze.

“That’ll be all,” he said finally, his tone flat, his sunglasses obscuring his eyes on your face.

“Thank you,” you murmured, barely audible. “I’ll let Santi know I’m home.”

“Good.”

You didn’t look up as he turned back toward the car. You didn’t watch him leave, but you heard the sound of his door slamming shut, the low rumble of the engine as he drove off.

As the noise of his departure faded into the distance, you stayed rooted to the spot for a moment longer, the weight of the day pressing heavy on your shoulders. The heat prickled against your skin, and your head ached faintly, a dull reminder of how much you wanted this day to end.

You grabbed the handle of your suitcase, pulling it inside as the silence of the house enveloped you. You needed a shower—cold water to wash away the heat, the frustration, the embarrassment of it all. You needed to be alone, to let the day dissolve into nothingness behind a locked door.

Nearly two weeks slipped by, lost in the haze of your routines and the background hum of self-destructive thoughts.

What were you going to do? Probably nothing.

You wouldn’t go. That was the easiest answer, and maybe the only one that made sense. What choice did you really have?

Still, Frankie’s words stuck in your head, gnawing at the edges of your resolve. What are you trying to prove? he’d asked. And after a few restless nights, staring at the ceiling and replaying the conversation, you realized he was right. You did want to prove something—to Harry, to yourself. You wanted him to see you happy, radiantly happy, at his wedding, as though it didn’t touch you at all. You wanted to seem light and unbothered, the kind of woman who could be at her ex’s wedding without flinching.

Except you did care. Of course, you cared. You hated that you cared. And you hated Harry for putting you in this position.

How could you not be upset? The man had left you only a few months ago, and now he was marrying someone else. It wasn’t normal—none of it was. But you couldn’t shake the question gnawing at the back of your mind: why did you have to be the one left hurt?

And Frankie. You’d hated the way he’d looked at you when he said it; What are you trying to prove? What the hell were you trying to prove? like he couldn’t believe how foolish you were. If you hadn’t wanted to see him before, you definitely didn’t want to now. You resolved to talk to Santi, to tell him how uncomfortable the trip had been—without blaming Frankie, exactly—and to ask, kindly but firmly, that he warn you if Frankie would be around in the future.

It was humiliating, this whole situation. But you were sure about one thing: you never wanted to see Francisco Morales again.

The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving your kitchen in soft shadows as you stirred sugar into your coffee. Your gaze stayed fixed on your laptop, on Harry’s wedding invitation glowing on the screen. You’d read it so many times it felt permanently etched into your mind. But now, you’d decided. You weren’t going.

Your finger hovered over the trackpad, guiding the cursor to the “RSVP not attending” option. You paused, just for a second, your chest tightening. Then, before you could click, the doorbell rang, sharp and sudden, making you flinch.

Setting the mug down, you crossed to the window, peering out at the sidewalk. The sight below made your brows knit together.

That couldn’t be right. Surely, you were imagining things.

You slipped on a pair of shoes and headed downstairs, opening the door without much thought.

“Francisco,” you said flatly, his name sitting awkwardly on your tongue. “What are you doing here? Did something happen with Santi?”

He dragged a hand over his mouth and shook his head.

“Can we talk?”

“About what?”

He looked different somehow. Neater, you thought, though you hated yourself for noticing. His hair was slightly shorter, his beard more trimmed than usual.

He sighed, long and heavy, like he’d been forced into something he didn’t want to do. The sound made you laugh, a sharp, derisive snort. As if he had the right to be irritated. He’d shown up unannounced, at night, on your doorstep. If anyone should feel fed up, it was you.

“I’m going to help you,” he said finally.

“With what?”

“With your ex.”

“What?” The confusion on your face deepened. “Harry?”

Frankie glanced to the side, as if checking for onlookers, before returning his gaze to you and nodding.

“Are there other exes you need help with?”

His question was thick with sarcasm, and you rolled your eyes in response.

“Well, I don’t need your help anymore. But thanks,” you said quickly, your voice tight, as you began to push the door shut, inch by inch.

Then his hand was on it, stopping you.

“Wait,” he said, and this time his voice was different—tinged with something almost like desperation. “I’m serious.”

You paused, narrowing your eyes at him through the gap.

“Why would you help me? You were very clear the other day. There’s no point in me going to the wedding.”

“True, there’s no point,” he said, his gaze steady on yours. “But I know you well enough to know you’d love to go anyway. To show Harry how great you’re doing. Am I wrong?”

“You’re wrong,” you shot back instantly, too quickly.

Frankie sighed, the sound dragging out like he was trying to buy himself time. He glanced away for a second, then back at you, his expression suddenly resolute.

“I’ll do whatever you want,” he said.

You blinked at him, stunned into silence for a moment.

Then, with a raised brow, you asked, “Are you sick? Do you have a fever, Francisco?”

You brought your hand up toward his forehead, but he flinched back dramatically before you could touch him.

“What are you up to?” you asked, pulling the door open wider, suspicion laced in your tone.

“May I come in?” he asked finally, his brown eyes soft and glinting, almost boyish.

You hesitated, studying him for a few beats, letting the curiosity outweigh your disdain. Then you stepped back and opened the door fully, sealing the moment with the soft click of the latch behind him.

Frankie climbed the stairs ahead of you, pausing at the top to wait as you opened the door to your apartment. He stepped inside, scanning the space.

Your living room was warm, cozy but cluttered—books and mugs scattered across the coffee table and nearly every other available surface, interspersed with pens, pencils, and random odds and ends. Behind the sofa, the kitchen was visible, small but functional.

You stood back, watching him take it all in. His expression was unreadable, but you imagined him silently judging the chaos. You almost wanted him to—let him think it was messy, or that your style was lacking. You didn’t care.

He didn’t belong there, in your space. Everything about him seemed incongruous with the world you’d built for yourself—his presence like a mismatched puzzle piece, forcibly shoved into place where it clearly didn’t fit. He was out of tune with your reality, standing in the warmth of your living room like he’d wandered in from an entirely different life.

You crossed to the kitchen island, where your half-drunk coffee sat waiting. Sliding onto the stool, you gestured at the one across from you.

“Have a seat.”

Frankie hesitated but eventually sat down, his movements stiff and reluctant, like he’d rather be anywhere else. His expression was tight, uncomfortable, like a vampire catching the faintest whiff of garlic in the air. His eyes landed immediately on your laptop, still glowing with Harry’s wedding invitation.

“I see you’re taking the wedding well,” he said.

You sighed audibly, refusing to take the bait.

“What do you want?”

As you waited for him to answer, you lifted your coffee to your lips. It had already cooled, the bitterness more pronounced now that it was lukewarm.

Another thing he ruined for you, you thought bitterly. Your fucking coffee.

“I’ve been thinking—”

“Congratulations,” you cut in, deadpan.

Frankie’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, dark and unamused. He didn’t even blink, just stared at you like he was waiting for you to get it out of your system.

You shrugged, feigning indifference, though the weight of his gaze made your skin prickle.

“I’ve decided I’m going to the wedding with you,” he said finally.

You raised an eyebrow, lowering your mug to the counter.

“You decided? I thought you didn’t want to go with me.”

“I don’t,” he said. His fingers brushed the edge of your laptop, tracing a line along it.

“But you’re still here.”

Frankie exhaled slowly, leaning back slightly.

“I’ll help you… if you help me.”

“If I help you? With what? Don’t tell me you’re finally going to therapy,” you blurted out, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

Frankie straightened in his seat, his back stiffening like you’d just landed a verbal jab. For a moment, it looked like he might get up and leave—walk out and never look back. But instead, he stayed. He clenched his jaw, his eyes locking on yours with a determined, almost defiant look.

“I had dinner with my family tonight,” he began, his voice measured but tense. “With my mom and two of my sisters—”

“Is that why you look like that?” you interrupted, tilting your head.

“What?”

“Like you finally took a bath,” you said, your smirk widening.

Frankie exhaled sharply. “Can you shut up and listen to me for a second? I’ll be brief.”

You held up a hand as if to say, Fine, go on.

“They’re nice, my family, but they won’t leave me alone,” he said, his tone growing more frustrated. “All through dinner, they kept asking me these awkward questions, trying to convince me to go on these dates they’ve been setting up with their friends’ daughters or coworkers or whoever.”

Your smile widened, thoroughly amused. “Why? Why don’t you just go? Come to think of it—”

“No,” he cut you off, his voice sharp. “I already agreed once, and it was a disaster. I’m not doing it again. And I’m not about to get into that with you.”

“Good,” you said, leaning back slightly. “Because I’m not interested.”

Frankie sighed deeply, running a hand through his hair.

“Every time I see them, for over a year now, it’s the same thing. They won’t leave me alone. And look, I get it. They’re trying to be helpful. But I’ve had enough.”

Your curiosity piqued at that. “What happened a year ago? Why?”

Frankie’s face tightened. “That doesn’t matter.”

The dodge only made you more curious, but you let it go, watching as he leaned forward slightly, his hands gripping the edge of the counter.

“The point is,” he continued, “I got fed up. So tonight, when they started in on me again, I told them to back off. That I didn’t need them setting me up on dates because… because I already have a girlfriend.”

His words hung in the air for a moment, their weight sinking in.

Oh.

“Oh,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. Your eyebrows lifted just enough to show your surprise, though you tried to mask it.

Frankie shifted in his seat, his gaze falling to his hand resting on his knee. He shook his head slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible motion, as though he was trying to block out whatever he feared you might say next.

“Funny,” you said, your voice light with mockery. “And your mom believed you?”

When he looked up at you, his expression darkened.

“Hardly,” he admitted, his tone sharp. “I don’t even think I convinced her. That’s why I need your help.”

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back slightly, as though creating space from whatever absurdity was about to come out of his mouth.

“You want me to pretend to be your girlfriend?”

Frankie nodded once, curtly. “My mom’s birthday is in a few days. She’s turning sixty. She’s having this big nice party, and she told me she wants to meet my girlfriend then.”

You crossed your arms, still trying to gauge whether or not this was some elaborate joke.

“When’s the party?”

“Next Saturday.”

Your eyebrows shot up, and your lips parted in disbelief.

“Francisco,” you grumbled, the word low and heavy. “That’s in three days.”

“I know,” he muttered, matching your tone. His jaw tightened like he was already regretting the entire conversation.

“And what did you tell her?” you demanded. “What did you say when she asked?”

Frankie’s hand moved to the counter, his fingers drumming once before he let them still.

He hesitated, and then, in a resigned voice, said, “I told her yes. That I’d bring my girlfriend to her birthday.” He paused, meeting your gaze. “So she’d finally leave me alone.”

You pushed back from the stool, standing in one swift, exasperated motion. Your hands flew to your hips, your whole body radiating irritation as you glared at him.

“Oh, so you just assumed I’d help you, didn’t you?” you snapped, your voice loud in the otherwise quiet apartment. “What if I said no?”

“I knew you wouldn’t say no.”

You let out an incredulous laugh.

“My God, what’s wrong with you? You don’t know what I’m thinking.”

He didn’t flinch, though you could see his patience thinning in the slight twitch of his brow.

“I know you well enough to know you’ll say yes.”

The sheer audacity of it made you want to scream.

Frankie rose from his spot, his movements deliberate and quick. His footsteps echoed as he crossed the room, closing the space between you with purposeful strides.

He stopped in front of you, standing taller, looking down at you with an intensity that was hard to ignore.

“I know you want to go to the wedding,” he said, his voice firm. “I know you asked me to go with you, and you were persistent. And anyway, I think you owe me.”

You blinked, incredulous, a small laugh escaping your lips despite yourself.

“I owe you?”

Frankie’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he took a small step closer.

“Don’t forget that the only reason you didn’t make a complete fool of yourself in front of Harry was because I decided to help you. I played along. If I’d wanted to, I could’ve exposed you in front of him and his fiancée. I could’ve made it worse.”

“Thank you so much, Francisco, you're a fucking angel,” you spat, your tone thick with sarcasm, though the incredulous smile on your face betrayed how absurd it all felt. “What do you want me to do? Give you a hero of the century award?”

Frankie’s expression didn’t waver; he was dead serious. “No. Come with me to my mom’s birthday and we’re even.”

You froze for a moment, processing his words, the sheer audacity of them making your heart skip a beat. This was beyond ridiculous.

"You're fucking crazy! Are you serious?" you demanded, unable to hide the disbelief in your voice. "It’s not even close. Harry’s my ex something, nothing more. And you’re asking me to go with you to a family event, full of your relatives, and you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend in front of all of them?”

Frankie’s eyes flicked upwards, his impatience seeping into his expression. He rolled his eyes.

“It’s not like we’re getting married,” he said, dismissive, his voice tinged with frustration. “You’re exaggerating. It’s not the first time I’ve taken a girlfriend to a family thing. What are you, fifteen?”

You crossed your arms, giving him a skeptical look. “I don’t know, by my standards, introducing a girlfriend to your family seems like a pretty serious thing.”

Frankie exhaled through his nose, clearly growing more insistent. He looked at you with unwavering intensity, his gaze now pointed, as if trying to break through the walls you were building between you and this ridiculous proposition.

“I’ll take care of that,” he said.

You weighed his words in your mind, the absurdity of the situation tangled with a strange sense of reluctant curiosity.

“Are you really going to accompany me to the wedding?” you asked, your voice quieter than you’d intended.

Frankie nodded, a reassuring, almost teasing gesture, as though he was certain he had already won.

“I’ll help you catch the bouquet and everything.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet, here you are, still going with me to that wedding.”

Frustration rose in your chest, pooling in your throat like heat. You bit down hard on the inside of your cheek, trying to suppress the rush of emotion that threatened to spill over. How utterly insolent. How impossible.

“Fine,” you finally spat out, barely containing the anger simmering beneath your words. “I’ll help you. But you’d better make my time count, Francisco.”

He flashed a half-smile, the kind of smug, self-satisfied smirk that made your fingers itch to slap him. You wanted to say something else—something cutting, something that would make him regret this entire conversation. But you couldn’t.

Instead, Frankie reached into his pocket, pulled out his phone, and tapped the screen a couple of times before handing it to you.

“Give me your number.”

You took the phone from him with a swift, almost startled motion, your fingers brushing against his as you punched in your number. The action felt mechanical, as if you were moving through a script you didn’t want to follow. When you handed it back to him, you watched him tap the screen, adding you to his contacts. His fingers moved quickly, but you couldn’t catch the name he gave you. It was probably something ridiculous, something that made you cringe even without knowing it.

He didn’t say anything, just slid the phone back into his pocket, and turned to head for the door. But before he reached it, he stopped and looked at you, his eyes meeting yours once more.

“I’ll text you,” he said abruptly, almost as if it were a last-minute afterthought.

And then, without waiting for a response, he opened the door and left, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the quiet stairs. You stood there, still staring at the empty doorway, the weight of his words hanging in the air long after he was gone.

With one click, you confirmed your attendance.

tags: @darkheartgatita @joelmillerisapunk @nandan11 @whirlwindrider29 @onlythehobi @diabaroxa @yellowbrickyeti (a few of the tags aren't working, idk why, fix it tumblr!!!!)

beautiful divider by @saradika-graphics 💗

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ba9go · 10 months ago

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bakugou katsuki finds you annoying (he can’t stop thinking about you) pt. 1

sort-of enemies to lovers with bakugou katsuki <3

read part 2 💥 part 3 (nsfw)

from the very moment you walked into the 1-a classroom, you set off a ticking time bomb in bakugou katsuki. he hated your guts.

it was early in the morning, with about 20 minutes till class started. bakugou was seated in his chair, leaning back with his eyes closed, when all of a sudden he hears this agitating, grating voice.

his eyes snapped open and flicked to the source of the sudden noise.

you.

you stood in the doorway, bowing and apologising refusely to fucking icyhot for running into him. bakugou took one look at your stature next to todoroki’s and huffed. ‘idiot walks into a wall and apologises. what a dimwit.’

bakugou watches as todoroki awkwardly but earnestly bows back at you with a murmured apology of his own. you pause mid-bow to shake your head, “no, no, no, this was entirely my fault!” and bakugou thinks he can feel his temple twitch when you start laughing. “god, i’m sorry, we just look so stupid right now!”

‘damn right you do, fucking morons.’ bakugou tears his gaze away from your bright smiling face and spams the volume-up button on his phone until ears (jirou) can actually overhear travis scott from his earphones and flinches beside him.

bakugou closes his eyes and sighs through his nostrils. it’s way too fucking early for this.

later that day, aizawa-sensei announces that you’d be joining class 1-a as u.a.’s newest transfer student, and invites you to introduce yourself in front of the class.

you stood beside aizawa and introduce yourself with yet another beaming smile. your bright eyes roam around the classroom from face to face as you address your new classmates, until they land on bakugou, who narrows his eyes and glares at you.

bakugou feels a strange sense of satisfaction, watching you stutter mid-sentence, and he thinks you’re such an idiot, but then your eyes quickly dart away to look elsewhere and bakugou is somehow even more pissed off by you.

so he grinds his teeth and tears his gaze away from you once more to look out the window.

the rest of the week goes smoothly for you as you quickly befriended the class. with the exception of one, everyone seemed friendly and warm and genuinely interested to get to know more about you and your quirk. likewise, you were just as curious and enthusiastic about getting to know your classmates. with the exception of one.

you ignored bakugou like the plague — just as he’d wanted, bakugou thinks. you’re an eyesore, the way you’re all smiley and giggly, all of the damn time. bakugou hates it, hates the look in your eyes, like you’re so damn happy and you’re somehow just always having the time of your damn life.

‘just another fucking weakling who won’t last.’

it doesn’t take bakugou a long time to realise that his judgement of you was entirely off. you were in fact, not a weakling. you were strong, and you proved it every single time, putting your all in every training and going above and beyond with your hand stretched out to anyone who needed it, all the while with that damn smile on your face.

one training, bakugou busted one of his gauntlets. he had expected it, had already sensed that something was off when he was gearing up before training. he cursed under his breath and went to remove it, when you suddenly spawned by his side and scared the living shit out of him.

not that he’d ever admit it, but hearing your voice was enough to make his hair stand on end.

“hey, um, do you need help with that?” you asked, and bakugou freezed as you looked at him with those big, innocent eyes. “your gear, i mean.”

“hah?” bakugou flares up instinctively. it’s his default response to being approached, after all. “the fuck do you know about fixing jackshit?”

“oh, um, i tinker with a bunch of random stuff sometimes, so i figured maybe i could—”

“like hell i’m gonna let some idiot like you tinker with my shit,” bakugou sneers at you, and you flinch but you don’t take a step back. “find somethin’ else ta do if yer bored, sunshine.”

“sunshine— what—” you genuinely look a little concerned and even a little offended as you guffaw over bakugou’s words. “my quirk has nothing to do with sunshine!”

“hah?! ya think i’m stupid or some shit?! ‘course i know that it’s got shit to do with the sun, moron!”

“then why in the world would you call me that?!”

“i’ll call you whatever the fuck i want, shitface!”

then, class prez tenya iida dashes to break up the “fight”. “YOU TWO!!! BAKUGOU ESPECIALLY, CEASE YOUR SQUABBLING THIS INSTANT!!! SUCH PROFANITY IS NOT BECOMING OF A FUTURE—”

later that evening, you find yourself seated on the couch watching alien: covenant in the common room with kirishima, kaminara, sero and mina. however, you’re not paying much attention to whatever that egomaniac david’s doing in the movie, you’re still dwelling on how horribly your first proper interaction with bakugou had gone.

“y/n, darling, would you please tell us what’s wrong? this is, like, the tenth time you’ve sighed, and i know david is not that hot,” mina nudges your arm with an elbow. kaminari squawks in defiance, crying out that “if david’s not hot, i’m toast!” and kirishima reassuring him that he’ll be just fine, because “david’s just not manly, man!”.

“yeah, it’s not david,” you sighed yet again, and mina facepalms so hard you wince. “sorry, it’s just, i’m still a little peeved by what happened during training today.”

“bakugou, huh?” kirishima shoots you a wry smile, nodding sympathetically. “don’t mind it too much, bakugou’s just always like that!”

“i know, i know, but why the fuck did he call me sunshine?” you groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow and shoving your face into it.

“holy shit, okay, guys, this must be really bad,” kaminari shoots up from his horrendous slouched position and grabs sero’s shoulders to shake him like it’s the end of the world. “y/n just swore, and bakugou is acting up! i mean, that doesn’t sound like bakugou at all!”

“okay, firstly, kaminari, i hate to break it to you, bud, but i swear. like, a lot,” you dropped the pillow in your lap. “secondly, what do you mean bakugou’s acting up? doesn’t he call everyone names all the time?”

“yeah, insultingly,” jirou walks by the common room and chimes in. she points at the earphone jacks dangling from her ears. “i’m “ears.””

“i’m pinky,” mina hums in agreement.

“soy-sauce face,” sero deadpans.

“dunceface!” kaminari high-fives sero.

“and bakugou calls me shitty hair,” kirishima completes with a sigh. “what did he call you again?”

“moron, sunshine, and shitface, i think?” an awkward silence falls over the room, and you frown. “what? what does that mean? does he, like, really hate the sun or something?”

“…not that i know of? but it sounds like, uh,” kirishima scratches his head and gives you another one of those wry smiles. “sounds like you don’t completely piss bakugou off.”

extras:

yes that was an abby miller reference

yes i have walked into a wall yes i apologised

i REALLY wanna watch alien romulus in cinemas soon PLS NO SPOILERS

taglist (thank you for your support!!): @anicaaa67 @maddietries @valeriyaaak @v3n7s @deimosjay @zaiban2989 @girls-overflower @notmeduhh @dreamcastgirl99 @busdriver-move-that-ass @atashiboba @kathsuhki @armeenix @channnee @antiwhores @sukunasbottomlefteyeball @kenqki @vikizzy @thesimpybitch @eempxth @hanta-seros-wifey @itztaki @thekidscallmebosss

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feralforfrank · 6 months ago

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simon riley x fem!reader

simon gets hit by an umbrella like three times, sorry for not knowing proper british and scottish slang, i'm greek and trying my best 👍🏻 implied age gap (reader is in uni)

holidays in Edinburgh, part 1/?

the 141 is home for the holidays. home being all over the uk, with gaz and price spending their time somwhere in the country with their partners and simon accompanying johnny and his partner in Edinburgh. johnny insisted he come along, Edinburgh is full of bonnie birds, you never know, you might meet your match, lt.

you're miserable. spending yet another holiday in a foreign country, isolated in your flat with only your cat, warm tea, and a book to pass the time. you couldn't go back home due to finals starting soon, and your parents decided to spend Christmas in warm weather down under (Australia).

it's not half as bad, you try to convince yourself. your flat is quiet, as are the neighboring ones and the building in general. your bedroom window overlooks a busy street, and you envy those who flood them with shopping bags and smiles. you haven't made that many friends, and the ones you have are already visiting their hometowns. the upside is that you're in a warm, comfortable space while others are freezing their pinkies off.

even johnny is gone. the loud scot from next door, a guy you had disliked at first without having officially met him - thin walls was the only bad thing this building has, and you were forced to listen to him do everything, from weight lifting, to watching tv, to having sex - but when you bumped into each other your opinion changed drastically. a gentleman, funny and light-hearted. he hadn't taken to heart your complaints about the noise, only promising to take it down a notch.

without the muffled sounds of his tv to annoy you - his partner had apologised for the volume, saying he's partially deaf in one ear from having been too close to explosions way too many times - you were left reading your book in silence. maybe you'd go to the grocery store later, stock up so you won't need to leave your house - the weatherman said it's going to get colder, heavy snow expected.

johnny hands simon the keys to his flat. him and his bird are going to the supermarket, there's nothing in the fridge or the cupboards for the next few days. the scot told him to take a shower, relax and make himself at home until they come back, and he didn't have to be told twice with the biting cold making his nose stuffy.

johnny's building is freshly painted to look new on the outside but old on the inside. he's been here before, and he remembers mactavish struggling to open his front door sometimes, for the lock got stuck.

he tries to reenact the technique his best friend uses to get in, trying his hardest to open the door gently instead of pushing with his shoulder like he does back at his own flat. he turns the key one, two, three times and pulls forward softly, trying to turn the key for the fourth and final time.

fuck. you gotta be fucking joking.

"fuckin' hell."

he tries again. and again, this time throwing his bag on the floor. the door rattles as he uses a bit more force, frustration building steadily and quickly.

you press play on spotify, the familiar voices of joe and frank from the basement yard podcast filling your ears. your headphones are pushing the hair out of your face and also act as ear muffs. you check your coat pockets for your phone and keys, nodding to yourself before kissing your cat goodbye. you promise her treats from the grocery store.

at first, you don't notice the hunk of a man at the door next to yours. the podcast is on full volume and your securing your scarf around your shoulder. it's when you turn to shut your door that you freeze mid-step.

in front of you, with is back turned to you, there's a giant guy pressing all his weight to johnny's door. he's wearing all black, hood drawn up, which makes this situation much much scarier.

fuck fuck fuck fuck. what the fuck. he's tryinf to break in the flat. oh fuck fuck fuck, what do i do? has he noticed me? he hasn't turned around yet. what the fuck. shit fuck. FUCK. what the fuck?!

your body reacts a few seconds later. with wide eyes and pursed lips, you hold your breath, and take a step inside your home. half your body is outside, facing him incase he decides to turn around and your arm is blindly reaching for your big umbrella.

once you have a stready hold on it, you don't hesitate to take two big steps forward and hurl it on the intruder's neck. your headphones for on your shoulders, and you hit him again, and this time he physically recoils.

you hit him another time, not quite as hard, and flinch at the sound the plastic makes against his jacket but you're gaining confidence as he grunts in pain. you shout something at him, something about this being karma for trying to break into somebody else's house, and he yelps something in response, but the blood rushing in your ears is louder than your voices.

you swing the umbrella back to hit him again, gathering all the courage you can muster for a final blow. you take a millisecond more to do so and he has time to move before it can connect with his back. unfortunately for the guy, the umbrella hits the side of his face.

he yelps and you drop it with a gasp, hands covering your mouth in shock.

his face is still hidden under his hood, but his ungloved fingers reach for his cheek, where the tip of the umbrella connected.

there's a moment of silence. your eyes are wider than before, as wide as saucers, and you're breathing heavily like him. you're scared beyond your mind, the fear having paralysed you once again. you stand there watching him rub his face witha grunt.

"you fuckin' crazy or wha', lady?!" he finally speaks with gritted teeth. his accent is hot. "'m not a fucking intruder."

oh shit.

"...you're not?"

"no, the fuck 'm not," he says calmly, and your heart rate picks up. "would an intruder have keys to the bloody flat?" he shows you the keys and you gasp softly, recognising johnny's scottish flag keychain.

"i'm—oh," your hands reach out as you try to approach him. "i'm so terribly sorry, i just—mactavish isn't home and you're huge and you were throwing yourself at the door and you have your hood up and you're so. fucking. big, i thought you were trying to rob the place—" you take a deep breath, trying to calm your racing thoughts - you just beat a guy with an umbrella for no fucking reason!!!!!! ‐ "here, let me help you." you signal for him to enter your flat.

simon watches you for a moment. flushed cheeks, eyes glassy and overflowing emotions, hands waving frantically as you open your own door wider for him to walk in.

he should refuse. flat out say no. you just attacked him with an umbrella for fucks sake. it's still in your trembling hands. he should refuse. but you said mactavish. you know johnny. and he knows himself. he must've looked terrifying to you, back hunched over the lock, shoulder pushing on the old wooden door.

you look genuinely sorry and worried, very willing to let him into your home, even though he hasn't given you any information about himself. for all you know, he could've stolen the keys from johnny or his bird, he could be a proper burglar.

he should shake his head and turn your back on you. it doesn't even hurt. he's had worse. he thinks his cheekbone might have a scratch, but he's fine. ghost has been through torture before - your hits are nothing compared to that.

but you're pretty. extremely so.

so, he nods slowly, removing his hand from his cheek and grabbing his duffel bag from the ground. you wait by the door, watching his every move as he walks in.

you point to your kitchen chair, he sits - he's so imposing, your kitchen seems smaller with him in it - and you immediately rush for a pack of beans from the freezer and a towel.

"put this on your cherk," you instruct and disappear somwhere further inside the flat. he watches you.

when you come back you have rubbing alcohol, cotton pads and a packet of band-aids. simon begins to stand.

"'s not necessary. 's barely a scratch, ma'am."

you don't even look at him as you set the stuff down. he stares at you. "no, no, i feel terrible - the least i can do is fix your face."

"you sayin' my mug is ugly?"

you pause, head snapping to the side to meet the stranger's eyes. you frown, another apology ready to escape your lips.

he's smirking. right corner of his lips tilted up. he's joking. your shoulders sag and you exhale with a smile.

"no, your face is quite nice, stranger."

it is. strong features, long nose - looks to have been broken a hundred times - some scars here and there, long eyelashes and pretty brown eyes.

"simon. simon riley."

simon. nice name - suits him. friend of johnny's, you remember. probably military, judging by the width of his back. and the unintenional scrutinising and intimidating gaze.

you introduce yourself, breath hitching when he repeats your first name slowly.

"pretty name." you shrug, grabbing a wet cotton pad and slowly moving it towards him. he doesn't pull away, and you press it against the small scratch on his cheek as he speaks. "suppose a pretty girl deserves a pretty name."

you chuckle, heat rising up your neck and spreading to your cheeks as you move on to the pack of band-aids.

"so, you know johnny?" you ask.

"saved his ugly mug a coupl'a times. we're spending christmas here."

your smile falters as you stick the small band-aid on his cheek (only now realising it has anakin skywalker printed on it). you're once again reminded of how lonely you'll be during christmas. simon notices it, but hesitates asking if you're okay.

"sorry for the uh, band-aid. uh, i don't have any normal ones." he brushes it off with a shake of his head. "you're good to go, now. i'm sure you have things to do."

simon silently gets up and grabs his things, all while watching you put your coat and scarf back on. whatever light you had on your face moments before is gone, and he's trying to figure out what he said wrong to cause this.

he follows you out of the flat, mind forming different ways to ask if something's wrong. he can't help but ask when he hears you sigh heavily, almost defeated.

"you okay, love?"

"huh—what?" you look at him once and then continue locking your door.

"you alright? did i say something that upset you?"

your smile returns with his words, but it doesn't quite reach your eyes.

"no, i'm all good, don't worry. just don't want to go for groceries in the freezing cold, ya know?" he nods, jiggling johnny's keys in his hands. "anyway, it was nice meeting you, simon. and i'm really sorry for thinking you're an intruder and hitting you with my umbrella and whatnot. i hope to see you around - have fun!"

and before he can ask where you're spending your christmas, or why you're going to the supermarket instead of packing to go back to wherever your home is - your accent clearly indicates you're not from edinburgh, as if the books, pens, and scattered notebooks at your home were not enough - you're walking down the stairs and dissappear from his eyesight.

simon stands for a moment before turning to the door again. you're interesting, to say the least, and you said his face was...nice - he doesn't get that often. and you have band-aids with Star Wars characters, and you laughed at his joke. and you were brave enough to attack him when you thought he was a burglar.

yeah, he hopes to see you around too.

#ehhhhhh idk if people like it i'll finish and post part two 😊#simon riley #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x you #cod #cod x reader #cod mwiii #cod mwii #ghost cod #fluff #friends to lovers #holiday series i guess #johnny mactavish #naewrites #holidays in Edinburgh

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lovemaybankk · 7 months ago

Text

sweet - part 1: rafe cameron x kook!reader

pairing: rafe cameron x kook!reader

read part 2 here!

inspired by lana del rey's song, "sweet" ♡

summary: growing up with your protective older brother, topper thornton, has been challenging yet comforting. until recently, have you been starting to see your older brother's friend, rafe cameron, in a new light and your relationship with him starts to change.

word count: 2,324 words

author's note: thank you so much for reading this new series!! i sincerely hope you enjoy :)

p.s. next chapter includes smut!!

warning: cursing, mostly fluff!

"topper!" you called out, your voice sharp as it bounced off the walls of your large kitchen. "topper, where are you?!" frustration bubbled up as you roamed through your house, checking room after room. the faint thrum of loud music reached your ears, pulling your attention toward the home gym.

with a deep breath, you shoved open the door to the home gym, the music instantly blasting at full volume as if it had been lying in wait.

"topper!" you yelled, your voice barely cutting through the pounding bass that seemed to vibrate the very walls.

dumbbells, resistance bands, and foam rollers were scattered across the floor and in the center of it all, topper was doing bicep curls with his dumbbells, completely immersed in his conversation with his two friends, kelce and rafe. you had absolutely no idea how they could even hear each other with that loud of music playing.

"topper!" you shouted again, louder this time. he froze mid-curl, finally noticing you, and a little startled yet annoyed at his younger sister for barging in.

"what do you want, y/n?" he barked, as though you were the one intruding.

you marched straight to the speaker and turned the volume down to a level that wouldn’t have the neighbors filing noise complaints. the music dropped to a faint hum.

behind you, kelce was pumping through incline bench presses, his grunts in rhythm with his reps. rafe, meanwhile, was bent over a barbell, effortlessly pulling through a set of deadlifts.

"are you kidding me?" you snapped, spinning around to glare at your brother. "topper, you ate my food in the fridge! that was mine!"

he rolled his eyes, tossing the dumbbells onto the floor with a loud thud. "god, y/n, relax. it’s not a big deal. i'll give you cash and you can buy another one that's freshly cooked anyways."

"you’re so selfish, you know that?" you said, folding your arms.

he snorted. "chill out, y/n. here..." he pulled out his phone in his pockets and started frantically pressing the screen. you felt a vibration in your pockets and brought your phone lit up to your face to see a notification,

"'top' sent $100"

"that should be more than enough. go get yourself snacks if you want too. whatever will make you shut the hell up."

growing up, topper had a habit of finding ways to annoy you whether it was stealing your food when he knew you’d been saving it, blasting his music in the middle of your movie nights (with yourself), and even leaving behind his messes for you to clean.

and yet, in his own way, he cared about you. like the time in elementary school when you scraped your knee during a particularly bad fall on your bike. you’d been crying, more out of frustration than pain, and instead of teasing you for being "soft," he had come back minutes later with a band-aid, your favorite snack, and an awkward pat on the back.

there were moments when he let his guard down to be a good older brother. moments when he’d pick you up from sports practice, or buy you a bag of clothes after a long day, or cover for you when you accidentally broke the vase that one summer.

since then, topper had continued to care for you in his clumsy older-brother way. sure, your parents mostly favored him but their expectations for him still existed. they expected him to excel, to lead, and to be a perfect role model for you, especially since he was (exactly two years) older. topper carried the weight of their demands, which often translated into him pestering you with the same energy he’d picked up from your parents. like now.

"why don’t you just go and hop on your bike now, huh?" he said, cracking open his water bottle as though the solution was obvious. "go grab something to eat, chill out, and leave us alone."

"it’s literally freezing outside, topper," you shot back, already regretting coming into the gym.

"you’ll be fine,” he said, smirking as he leaned back against the bench.

and before you could deliver your next scathing comeback, rafe came in, setting down his barbell with a clang. "i’ll drive her," he offered, shrugging casually as he wiped his hands on a nearby towel. "it’s too cold for a bike ride, and she looks like she’s about to bite your head off, dude."

truth be told, you’d always kind of liked rafe cameron growing up. unlike most of topper’s other friends, who barely acknowledged your existence, rafe was the one who always made an effort to be friendly. he’d always greet you when he came over, ask how school was going, and sometimes even share a laugh at topper’s expense with you.

and then there was that one memorable time, back during the ninth-grade, when you’d gotten stood up for your first high school dance. you’d spent weeks picking out the perfect dress, building up the courage to say yes when a boy you liked asked you to go. but when the night came, he’d never shown up. you had sat on the couch, trying to hide your disappointment as topper and his friends teased you about your "special night".

rafe had been different, though. he’d walked into the room, taken one look at you sitting there all dressed up, and without missing a beat, said, "i’ll take you." you’d blinked at him in response, a little stunned. "what?"

"i’ll take you to the dance," he repeated, a faint grin on his face as he shrugged. "you’ve already got the dress and everything, right? might as well go."

topper had rolled his eyes and laughed, but rafe had ignored him. twenty minutes later, he was in a suit jacket, standing by the front door, waiting for you like a proper date.

that night, he made sure you didn’t feel out of place, even though you were nervous and embarrassed at first. he’d danced with you, cracked jokes until you were smiling, and even pretended to be your date when your friends asked questions.

when the night had finally wound down, rafe hadn’t dropped you off and gone home like anyone else would. he’d offered to take you out for a late-night snack. so, the two of you had ended up at a diner near the city, picking at plates of fries and sharing stories while the neon lights flickered outside. and for a brief moment, it made you forget all the times you felt like an afterthought in your family, while your older brother was the center of attention.

that night had turned into one of those memories that stuck with you dearly. and though rafe was still the same cocky, laid-back guy, he had an empathy that maybe only you saw. and by the way, your older brother made the decision to gather himself and his friends, including rafe, to "confront" that same boy who stood you up.

topper groaned, rolling his eyes. "fine. go, whatever. just let me and kelce finish our workout in peace."

luckily, rafe was already grabbing his keys.

"c’mon," he said, his voice low but firm. "i could use the break anyway."

as you climbed into rafe’s car, you glanced around the messy interior: empty water bottles, a stray jacket, and a faint scent of mint and cologne. he turned down the music as he started the engine, his movements smooth and unhurried.

"you okay?" he asked, glancing over at you as the car warmed up along with the slightly loud noises of the air conditioning. his tone was casual, but there was an edge of sincerity in it that comforted you. "yes," you muttered. "thanks for this."

he smirked, his eyes briefly meeting yours. "don’t thank me yet. topper for sure owes me for this one."

you couldn’t help but laugh a little, the tension from earlier melting enough to make the ride bearable.

as rafe pulled into the familiar parking lot, you realized where he was taking you: the same diner you’d gone to after the dance. the neon lights flickered outside, casting a soft glow across the empty lot. a wave of nostalgia hit you, and you couldn’t help but smile at the memory of that night.

inside, the warmth of the diner greeted you, and the smell of greasy fries and fresh burgers filled the air. you both slid into a booth, and rafe didn’t waste any time before he ordered. you hesitated, but eventually chose something simple, the kind of comfort food you knew would hit the spot.

"you know, this place actually isn’t half bad," rafe said as he looked over at you, his voice light. he gave you a quick smile before shrugging.

you laughed, feeling a little lighter. "it's actually really good!"

as the food arrived, rafe handed you his jacket, noticing you shiver. "here, you look like you could use it." you blinked in surprise, but his easy, nonchalant gesture made it feel completely natural. you draped it over your shoulders, grateful for the warmth.

the ride back home was quiet, the sound of the car humming as you leaned back against the seat. the warmth from the jacket and the full stomach made your eyelids heavy, and before long, you were drifting off, your head lolling against the window.

when the car finally stopped, you felt a gentle nudge on your shoulder. "hey," rafe said softly, "we’re here."

you blinked awake, your body delaying to respond. you looked like a complete mess with a little drool coming out and your hair bunched up, but he didn’t say anything. instead, he gently slid the seat back, helping you out of the car.

before you could protest, he had already scooped you up into his arms, carrying you with surprising ease toward the front door.

"rafe, what the....?" you mumbled, still half-asleep and confused, but he didn’t answer. he just chuckled quietly and continued up the stairs to your room. when he set you down on your bed, he tucked the blanket around you, his movements careful as if he were trying not to wake you completely.

"get some sleep y/n," he said softly, pausing at the door. "you’ll need it."

your eyes fluttered closed again, the warmth of your bed and the comfort of rafe’s care wrapping around you. you barely registered when the door shut, but you knew, even if you couldn’t thank him properly, he’d done something more than just drop you off.

you felt a sudden tug at your shoulders, and your eyes slowly blinked open to find your older brother standing over you, shaking you awake.

"oh my god, what do you want, topper?!" you groaned, trying to push the blankets over your head in a futile attempt to block out the morning.

"it's 10 am y/n," he said, his voice more annoying than usual, "you remember breakfast with our grandparents, right?"

you blinked a few times, still trying to shake off the fog of sleep. the memory gradually crept back into your mind, and you groaned again, this time more out of frustration than sleepiness.

"ugh, i forgot about that," you muttered, rubbing your eyes and sitting up. "why did you have to remind me? it's too early for this."

topper shrugged, unfazed by your groggy attitude. "because mom wants us there by 11, and you know how she gets when we’re late. i also know you take forever to get ready and clearly, you're not even close to ready."

you shot him a glare, already thinking about how this day was shaping up to be like every other which was full of reminders about family obligations. "fine," you grumbled, throwing off the covers and getting out of bed. "i’ll go. but this better be worth it."

"no wonder you're so tired," he said, clearly annoyed. "i bet staying out late with rafe last night did you in, huh?"

you groaned, sitting up a little, now fully aware of the teasing tone in his voice. "it wasn’t that late," you mumbled, trying to sound convincing, but you knew he wouldn’t let it slide. "and maybe if you didn't eat my food, i would've slept at a decent time. and your friend actually had the decency to help me get that food back."

topper raised an eyebrow. "sure..." he paused and gave you a concerned look.

"and i’m not exhausted because of that, topper," you snapped, rubbing your face. "i’m just exhausted because you woke me up too early."

he let out a little laugh, walking toward the door. he shot you a teasing grin before he left. "you know, if you didn't stay up snacking with him, maybe you wouldn't be like this right now."

"you’re a pain in the ass," you muttered under your breath as he disappeared, but you couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped. you knew he was just being his usual protective yet controlling self, and maybe, just maybe, there was a hint of concern underneath the teasing regarding his friend's relationship with his little sister.

you heard the door suddenly open again, with topper lingering by the hinge, his hand hovering over the handle. "by the way," he said, his tone still calm, "we go in thirty minutes. so be ready and at the car."

"i got it," you grumbled, not looking up from where you were half-draped over your bed.

topper didn’t wait for a response. he just turned and walked out, leaving the door wide open.

"topper, are you serious?!" you called after him, your frustration mounting. "close my door!"

but of course, he didn’t. typical of him.

you sighed in annoyance, getting up to close the door yourself. and with the door finally shut, you hurried to get ready. you took a deep breath, grabbing your belongings and heading downstairs, ready to face whatever the day had in store.

#obx #rafe outer banks #rafe x reader #rafe cameron #obx rafe cameron #rafe imagine #rafe obx #outerbanks rafe #rafe fluff #rafe fanfiction #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron imagine

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just-a-sewer-goblin · 8 months ago

Text

Collars of Duty 1

Hybrid!Simon x reader - Chapter 2 -

When a new problem hybrid is brought to the rehab center, you're called in from medical leave. Having been through hell he's classed as dangerous but you believe he deserves a chance. Hopefully you both can heal each other without adding to old wounds.

I dedicate this story to @kiwiimochi because they said they'd be interested in a story like this. I hope you enjoy and you're welcome to tell me what you think.

Content: hybrid AU, brief description of wounds, allusions to torture

The call comes through in the middle of the night, ripping you from deep slumber that for once was peaceful.

You wake with a gasp, heart immediately racing to outrun the invisible danger. It takes you a few seconds to blink the last remnants of sleep from your eyes. You’re at home, in your bed. There is no danger around, except the phone that rings impatiently in your bedside drawer.

You recognize the ringtone. It’s your work phone, which hasn’t rung in weeks even though you always keep it on and charged. It’s slightly unsettling to hear it ring at such an ungodly hour. It’s freeing too, to realize that your heart slowly calms down and you do not spiral into a panic attack.

Yawning your reach into the drawer and open it, getting the angrily vibrating phone and hold it up to your ear.

“Hello?”

“We need you here.”

You’re stunned into silence. Everyone knows you’re on medical leave. They should know better than to call you in randomly during the night. They -

“Like right now.” You recognize Elizabeth’s voice and your heartrate skyrockets again.

“Liz, you know that I’m on leave. You know wh-“

“They want to put him down.” Her voice interrupts you, full of urgency.

That has you sitting bolt upright. Putting down hybrids has been illegal for years now and the center mostly adheres to those laws. Mostly, not always and when they don’t they usually have a damn good reason not to.

Working at a government managed rehabilitation center for hybrids meant that sometimes they put their decisions above the law.

You’re already out the bed and stumbling around the room while trying to get dressed one handed.

“I’m coming. Anything I should know?”

You tuck the phone between your shoulder and your ear so you can use both hands to pull on your pants. The short pause strains your nerves. She wouldn’t have called you if the others could handle whatever was happening.

“Liz?” You prompt her.

“Belgian Malinois hybrid. Military. They found him after he was MIA for moths. Severely malnourished, signs of torture all over him. No idea how they managed to get him into a chopper and bring him here, but he is here.” She rattles down and if you didn’t know her better you’d think that she doesn’t care. But you do know her better. Staying professional helps her not to break down with cases like this.

Hectically you tuck a shirt over your head, gather your things and basically run out the door. When you started working at the center you moved as close as possible to your new workplace and because you were lucky that meant living just down the street.

Running along the sidewalk you urge her on. “What more, Liz. I need everything you can give me.”

The silence speaks volumes. She hesitates, then goes on.

“He attacked and killed one of the soldiers that brought him here. They sedated him but said if no one wants to work with him, they have to put him down. I’ve seen hybrids go animal before but not like this.”

You grit your teeth at that. You hated the term ‘going animal’ even if it was a widely accepted term when working with hybrids. Just because they we’re genetically part animal didn’t mean, that them going berserk was less human that an ordinary person losing it.

And if what she told you was true, he had more than enough reason to lose his marbles.

Before you can ask another question you reach the fence of the rehab compound and to your surprise Liz is there, already opening the door for you so you won’t have to use your access card. You end the call and pocket your phone when you approach her.

“I want to say it’s good to have you back but the circumstances make the whole thing slightly less cheery.” She greets you and then engulfs you in a heartfelt hug.

Damn, you missed her. Liz didn’t work with the hybrids as a handler. She was part of the office team but she was one of your favorite coworkers here. Liz got shit done while taking none and still she was the nicest, sweetest person around.

You nod, returning her hug. Then you breathe deeply, preparing yourself to actually step foot into the facility again. The very reason why you were on medical leave in the first place. It doesn’t feel as bad as you feared but you’re not sure how you will react to the hybrid.

“Where is he? What’s his name?”

Liz sighs deeply. “He’s in the cell. The others refused to work with him when they heard the details from the soldiers. Honestly, I don’t blame them but I thought it was worth calling you.”

You nod grimly and let her lead the way. The facility worked with aggressive hybrids a lot. Problematic cases were nothing new. But one who had murdered mere hours ago was new territory. You’re not sure this is the best decision.

Was this the kind of case you were ready to come back for? After what happened? This had the potential to ruin any progress you had made during your leave.

No. You couldn’t let him be put down just because you were scared. He deserved a chance and if all the others were too worried then you’d give him the chance. Even if it might cost you the stability you’d gained back.

Liz comes to a halt before the cell and turns to you. Her hands clasp onto your shoulders, looking at you through her glasses.

“Thank you for trying.” She hesitates briefly. “Don’t destroy yourself over it though. If he’s lost, he’s lost. You can’t save everyone.”

Her words make your throat tighten and swallowing seems like an impossible feat. You nod, despite the unease bubbling up in you.

He’s a person, you remind yourself. It’s not like you’re meeting a wild animal.

Finally you turn to look through the small window into the cell. The large hybrid nearly steals your breath. He’s still unconscious, lying on the mattress at the far end of the otherwise unfurnished cold cell. The dark pointed ears that peek out of his shaggy hair twitch every now and then.

“His name?” You ask again, your voice a whisper, even though you’re not entirely sure why you feel the need to quiet down.

He is dirty beyond belief; his hair unkempt and you can make out a slight beard on his strong jaw through the bars of his muzzle. You grind your teeth at the sight of it. Using muzzles of that type on hybrids has also been forbidden and you wonder if they found him like this or put it on him.

The fact that he doesn’t wear a shirt, only ripped and sullied pants, grants you an unobstructed view of his torso. There are various wounds in different phases of healing and his ribs are overly visible beneath his skin.

The twin wounds on his left draw your eyes. They seem almost circular and are located between his ribs. Already crusted over messily they seem to not be the newest ones; still you shudder with how painful they look. Over the ribs that lay between those wounds the skin is blackish blue and bruised.

You decide to not look closely at his other wounds as to not make you feel shakier than you already do. Instead you look at his face again. That too is covered in shallow cuts but those do not make your insides want to turn over.

His hair seems to be a deep, dark brown, matching the ears and you wonder how he’ll look, once he’s clean and not on the brink of starvation. Liz’ voice interrupts your thoughts.

“Simon Riley. Lieutenant.”

You both know rank means almost nothing when it comes to hybrids but you don’t comment on the information. You’re about to ask something else when he starts stirring and you hold your breath. Even though you’re outside you feel the tension rise along with his consciousness from the artificial sleep.

Two figures, that were obstructed from view before because they stood so close to the wall, step forward. Soldiers, you realize and they have their weapons trained on the slowly waking hybrid. On Simon.

As soon as he’s halfway conscious he scrambles to his feet, slightly swaying in his spot. He tries to bring his arms to the front but they seem to be tied behind his back. His tail grows stiff behind him, the ears tilt back and his upper lip curls into a snarl revealing his canines while his eyes fixate on the soldiers.

You can hear his deep resounding growl through the door and everything in you wants to run. This is a military hybrid, all right. Everything about him is big and intimidating, the aggression rolling off of him in waves along with the resounding growl.

Instead of running you set your shoulders and breathe deeply. “Let me inside and get the soldiers out.” You say a lot more confidently than you feel. Evidently their way of handling him is not working.

Liz raises her eyebrows but communicates with the guards inside. Slowly they back towards the door, keeping their guns pointed at the hybrid while Liz unlocks the door. Quicker than you can comprehend you changed positions with one of the guards, the other staying with his gun still pointing at Simon.

“”Out.” You command. You wish your body was as unwavering as your voice but you can feel a subtle shaking start in your legs.

The soldier seems conflicted but Elizabeth keeps the door open and he backs out too. Everyone at the center knows that working with hybrids comes with a lot of risks. If this goes south all you’ll be is a small stack of papers on Liz’ desk, waiting to be signed. And maybe a body to be buried.

You’re alone with him now, the heavy door closing behind you and the hostility rolling off Simon nearly suffocates you. His eyes are now fixed solely on you and he seems to be weighing his options, every muscle in his body coiled tight, ready to attack you.

You pray that he doesn’t.

You study him for a moment longer and you see the sheen on sweat that appears on his skin. This is not only aggression. He’s scared. Scared of you and somehow the fear being mutual calms you down. This hybrid must have been through hell and now he woke in a strange room after forcefully being sedated. You’d be scared shitless too and growl at people.

“Hello.”

You hold the eye contact and the way his ears perk forward for a second before going back again would be adorable in any other situation. The growl stutters before returning stronger than before. He reacted to being spoken to. Liz’ had exaggerated, maybe they’d misinterpreted him, because this hybrid was not on a murder spree.

Yet he’d killed earlier, you have to remind yourself. Just because you were a softie didn’t mean he’d spare you.

Slowly you raise your hands. “I’m just going to sit down, here. Do you know where you are?”

You can see the confusion on his face at the fact you talk to him and you mentally curse the soldiers that brought him in. Despite his display being more animalistic than human he is still a person before all else. How come they hadn't had the common sense to talk to him?

His keen eyes don’t miss even one of your movements as you settle down and cross your legs.

“You were found just north of the border in Texas.” It’s difficult to keep your voice as soft as possible with the way your throat is so tight. For a second you hate yourself because you’re thankful that he is muzzled and his arms are restrained.

Then you remind yourself that he is not Phillip and despite what Liz told you, you will judge him based on his behavior not on the stories. Like you should have with Phillip.

Something about what you said makes his ears perk up. He’s still careful but the previous stifling aggression is gone. Once again you try to suppress your anger at the soldiers not talking to him. This isn’t nearly as bad as they made it out to be.

“They brought you to a rehabilitation facility for hybrids that work with the authorities or the military. You might have heard of it before. It’s called “Rehybrid” which is a stupid name if you ask me but I wasn’t born when they decided on that so…”

Now he cocks his head at you and you try to keep from smiling. You know you’re rambling but it seems to help so you keep going.

“Not everyone is gifted in name giving.” Without much of a pause and consciously casually you continue on. “Mind if I take the handcuffs off of you?”

That makes him stiffen, reflexively his lip curls up again a small growl starting up. Of course he doesn’t trust you. But you’re also very aware of how unfair it is to have him shackled and muzzled when he feels threatened already.

“I know. I wouldn’t want anyone near me too if I were in your position but I think it would only be fair.” You’re very aware of the fact, that Liz, and the soldiers probably too, are watching through the window, most definitely thinking you’ve lost your mind.

Simon shakes his head and even if it is disappointing it makes you feel incredible that he interacted with what you said. Your chest expands and you suddenly feel like a big boulder lifted off your shoulders. That’s a good start.

“It’s okay, I won’t do it then. Just give me a sign when you’re ready.”

Once again you briefly glance at the state his body is in and you slightly wince. Yeah, maybe you would have to press a little harder.

“Listen. I really want to give you the time and space but I think your wounds and your body are on slightly tighter schedule than I am. I won’t force you but I don’t want you dying on me.”

His eyes widen at that and in that moment you’d pay to know what he’s thinking. It’s interesting to watch him as he seems to mentally take note of his body. He nods at you and you breathe a sigh of relief.

“Take the cuffs off?”, you ask again just to be sure. Simon nods again.

Keeping it slow and easily predictable you stand up again and raise your hand to the latch in the door, opening it and sticking your hand through it. If Liz and the soldiers listened, they’ll give you the key, hopefully.

For a few agonizingly long heartbeats nothing happens, then a key is dropped into the palm of your hand and you close the latch again.

“I’m going to take a step towards you and then you can come to me. Sound good?”

Simon nods again and you take the step. His body tenses but then he crosses the small space and turns his back to you. His chest is heaving and his back is damp with cold sweat. It’s almost unnerving the way he has his head tilted as far to the side as possible, watching you out of the corner of his wide eye. If you make one wrong move he could still easily put you on the ground.

This close you can smell him and the stench coming off of him almost makes you gag. You try to breathe through your mouth at the smell of something rotten assaulting your nose. There's also the underlying smell of piss and filth along with other scents you can't identify. You concentrate on the task at hand in order not to imagine what might have happened to him.

Trying not to stress him out more, you talk him through the short process of taking off the handcuffs. His fast breathing makes you slightly worried that he’ll hyperventilate.

The moments the cuffs are on the floor he’s on the other side of the room again and his hands are tearing at the muzzle on his head. His fingers are frantic and a nail on his already damaged hands breaks, a little bit of blood welling up.

“Wait, please!” You call out desperately but his movements only grow more hectic. The muzzle he has on is designed so the hybrid is unable to take it off without seriously injuring themselves. His nimble fingers flit all over the piece, grabbing and tugging until he decides to just start pushing it upwards off his face.

Immediately the metal cuts into his cheeks and you know he’ll do it anyway. He doesn’t care about cutting his skin in the process. Panic swells in your chest at the thought of him shredding his face just to be muzzle free.

“Please, Simon, Stop!” You say desperately in a last attempt before he pulls it off his face. Against everything you expected he freezes, eyes going wide.

“Simon, that’s your name, right?”, you question your hands outstretched as if you could keep him from hurting himself further by sheer force of will.

You’re shaking and you know he can see it. Swallowing is almost painful. “Please don’t hurt yourself, I’ll take it off of you but please stop hurting yourself.”

His eyes narrow but this time he hesitates less before nodding and stepping towards you. God he is big. You’re all too aware of how incredibly vulnerable you are right now. He could probably rip you apart with his bare hands if he wanted to.

He’s a fully trained soldier and you… you’re just an ordinary person who helps hybrids to get back on their feet. You specifically chose this line of work because you’re soft and stupidly selfless. Using those traits for work seemed like a good option to turn them into strengths.

Now you’re all too aware of how little your softness would guard you against Simon’s brute strength. Even on the brink of starvation the fact that he’s a weapon remains.

Achingly slow your hands reach up to the muzzle, feeling along it for the mechanism to unlock. His eyes stare into yours and this close you can see that they’re the color of dark honey. Nothing about the expression in them is sweet though and you have to consciously swallow against the lump forming in your throat.

You unlock the mechanism and Simon stays in your personal space for a second longer. You don’t break the eye contact and slowly he moves backwards until there is enough room to breathe between you two again.

He flexes his jaw for a moment to test it and this time you smile. His eyes narrow at that but you don’t let it deter you.

Until now he hasn’t made a move to hurt you and you decide to introduce yourself. When you tell him your name he still doesn’t answer but he’s attentive and you think that maybe it will be fine after all.

#the sewer writes #hybrid au #simon x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #cod x reader #hybrid!simon #hybrid!simon x reader #gn!reader #simon x gn!reader #simon riley x reader #hybrid

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foxybrownsugababe · 1 month ago

Text

𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐈𝐧𝐟𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Ai Michael B. Jordon x Black!OC

𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 - in which a woman receives a mysterious crate that changes everything she thought she knew about solitude, control, and connection.

𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 - Mild language, slow burn, emotional vulnerability, light sci-fi themes, let me know if I missed anything! Sorry for any spelling errors and grammar mistakes!! Go easy one me <3

𝐉𝐚𝐳𝐳𝐢𝐞’𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞𝐬 - I had the idea, and I thought “Why the hell not?” And here we are….

𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 - 5,637+

There was no room for weakness in Nadine Nelson’s life.

Not in her closet, where the hems of her Italian suits and Asian silks hung like armor. Not in her penthouse apartment in the heart of Manhattan, with its clean marble surfaces and city skyline views. And definitely not in the courtroom, where a well-timed objection could make or break a multimillion-dollar case.

Nadine was steel, wrapped in silk.

Her alarm rang at 5:45 AM, a single chime before she cut it off and sat up. Not a single grin or anything, just a long cat stretch before rolling over and letting her feet hit the floor. And already, her mind was racing.

Deposition at 10. Client call at 1. Lunch with the DA’s assistant—, no I’m skipping that. Trial prep at 4. Court by Thursday.

She moved like a machine all while thinking. First her perfectly manicured feet slipped into her slippers before she was up and tossing her arms into her deep blue silk robe. Then she was turning on the bathroom light, standing in front of the mirror before the sound of her electric toothbrush humming filled the space. Once she put into the sink, cold water hit her face, a nice cleaned scrub applied to her skin with some expensive soap before multiple serums and creams soothed her epidermis. Then she was down the hall and into the kitchen, her domain of silence.

She barely blinked as she moved around, effortlessly pulling together an authentic espresso. Double shot, four sugars, two creamers. She sipped out of the small cup that she placed on a saucer as she made her way to the living room, clinking on the large television with a simple tap to the panel near the light switch, as well as opening the curtains to the floor to ceiling windows of the space.

It was the news on low volume, something she played in the background as she sat on the couch and began the first part of her work day, which was checking notifications. Stock tickers scrolling. Loads of emails, and real mail. Even a text from her assistant.

Jane: Morning. Confirmed meeting with Sloane. Added an extra hour for court prep. I had to push your massage again. Sorry.

Nadine didn’t even flinch. Self-care was for people with the luxury of losing. She had no such privilege. As she continued to check and sort through her things, she came across a letter, which was rare nowadays in their advanced society. But she didn’t sit to read it for long once she saw it was some sort of survey with a government seal.

C.R.I.S.

(Cognitive Robotics & Intelligence Systems)

Confidential Prototype Program | Not for Public Disclosure

To Ms. Nadine Nelson,

Congratulations.

You are one of only twenty individuals selected to participate in the private beta phase of AURA—the world’s most advanced artificial intelli-

With a sigh, she tossed the paper into the rest of the junk mails she’d gathered, not even giving it a second thought.

By 6:30AM, she was showered and dressed in navy Balmain with matching slacks, gold cufflinks fastened, and her Louboutin heels clicked against the floors like a metronome. Every detail was precise. Her eyeliner was sharp, her decently pixie bob cut was curled and bouncy, not a strand out of place.

That was the version of herself she showed the world.

The version no one saw was the one who stared at herself in any reflection for a moment too long, trying to spot any imperfections and critiquing the ones she had. The one who pressed the ends of her hand to her temple when things became too much, roughly rubbing against her skin to not panic. The one who felt the beginnings of a headache every morning before she even stepped outside.

But there was no time for that.

Today was a big day. So big that she nearly ran over one of her co-workers in the complex’s private parking lot. The woman leaned out of the window, looking at her co-worker, Simon, was entrapped within his phone, coffee in other hand.

“Simon.” She clipped as she exited the car, standing beside the driver’s side with her bag slung over her arm and her eyes narrowed like the barrel of a gun.

Her junior partner, Simon Gellar, flinched, nearly spilling his coffee. He was leaned against the concrete column next to his vehicle, relaxed as if he had no multi-million-dollar contracts waiting for him upstairs.

“Nadine! Goodmorning.” He blurted, straightening up, phone still in hand. His thin wire glasses were crooked from how fast he’d jerked up.

She leveled a gaze at him. “You’re in my line of motion. Next to my parking spot. Were you planning to get hit by my car?” She asked, and though she was being sarcastic, her stoic face didn’t lean into that notion.

Simone scrambled back, laughing awkwardly. “Sorry, sorry. I was—uh—watching something.”

“I gathered.” She pushed past him, heels echoing. Still, curiosity peeked through her otherwise impenetrable wall of ice. She pivoted at the elevator. “What was so important it made you forget spatial awareness?”

Simon followed her with a sheepish grin, lifting his phone to show a paused video. “This new AI prototype. It’s a for a government project. They’re calling it a fully integrated domestic interface. Basically a robot with a personality. They’re doing a limited civilian roll-out.” He explained.

Nadine gave a single, unimpressed glance at the screen. It was paused on a thumbnail image—what looked like a man stepping out of a delivery crate, bare-chested, perfect skin, electric-blue eyes, and a jawline engineered with an questionable precision.

“They sent you a stripper?” She deadpanned.

Simon choked. “We-well, no! Th-this isn’t mine, this is some guy online. A-and he’s, uh, he’s supposed to be adaptable. Learns your habits, routines, even preferences. The AI body is designed to assist with home tasks and companionship. There’s an application online—”

“Companionship?” Nadine asked, one brow arching as they stepped into the elevator.

“Not like that. I mean—maybe like that.” He said, squinting. “But—anyway, apparently they already started selecting people to house the prototypes.” He sipped his coffee, missing the twitch of Nadine’s jaw. “Random civilian testing. They’re sending out offers from low to high-income environments.” He continued.

The elevator dinged. Nadine stepped out before the doors fully opened.

“Mm, sounds like a weird distraction. Who has time for pet projects from a government that doesn��t care about them. Let me know when they build one that can argue in court and bill clients.” She deadpanned before the elevator dinged and she stepped off, stuttering down the hall to her office.

“Will do.” Simon called after her, blushing as he pushed up his glasses and watched as the woman walked away from him.

✦

Nadine’s office sat at the top floor of the firm—an expansive corner with floor-to-ceiling windows, brushed gold fixtures, and enough clean lines to make any minimalist cry from joy. But it wasn’t decoration that mattered, not to her at least. It was power. Clients walked in and knew exactly who was in charge and who was a leader.

She dumped her bag on the chair and was halfway through her espresso number two when the day officially launched.

By 7:15 AM, she was pacing through an emergency strategy meeting regarding an international corporate dispute. She cut through the legalese with surgical precision, offering airtight solutions and eviscerating anyone who hesitated.

By 9:00, she was on a three-way call with the CEO of a pharmaceutical giant and their scandal-scrambling PR team, coaching them through deposition answers while reading through a second case file on her desk.

By 10:00, she was downstairs in one of the firm’s conference rooms, dressed in a power stance that had the opposing counsel checking their notes twice before daring to even speak. She flipped through paper evidence like chapters of a book she’d already read, correcting a junior associate mid-sentence with nothing but a hard stare.

Every moment, every move, every gesture, was precise. Intention was behind it all.

There were no lunch breaks for her, only a small snacks here and there, or of like the food version of a power nap. And even then, she canceled today’s one-on-one with the DA’s assistant five minutes before she was supposed to show. Nadine opted to pace the rooftop patio instead, shoes clicking against stone as she answered emails, reviewed evidence, and toggled between two back-to-back client emergencies.

Her assistant, Jane, appeared like a ghost, silent as ever behind her at 2:35 PM. “You’re behind by twenty minutes.” She said softly, placing a fresh folder on the edge of the table. “And you haven’t eaten.”

“I’ll eat…later.” Nadine replied, flipping open the folder.

Jane hesitated. “Should I reschedule your chiropractor again?”

“Does he do brain surgery now? If not, no.”

✦

The rest of the day continued in a blur of depositions, and back-door negotiations. She squeezed in a quick stop at the firm’s media floor to prepare for an interview with New York Legal Elite next week—her sixth cover in two years.

By the time she returned to her office at 6:47 PM, her makeup was still flawless. But her shoulders had a weight she didn’t let show and her temples ached with the pressure of having to always be better. A pressure she put on herself everyday.

She sat at her desk, the city lights beginning to glow outside her window, and pressed her fingers to her forehead.

Three seconds. Just three seconds of quiet.

But then her phone buzzed.

BiBi: On our way up. The twins are bringing “surprises.” Brace yourself.

Nadine closed her eyes for one heartbeat before standing.

Her apartment was ten minutes away. She could beat them there, she thought. Maybe.

She did not beat them here. Inside, chaos was already blooming. Her penthouse was already lit up when she stepped inside at 7:15PM. She barely had time to set her bag down before she heard the commotion. Marley was dancing on the rug in her socks, while Micah had discovered the fridge’s smart screen and was trying to play Mario Kart through it.

“NADIIIIINE!” The two high-pitched voices screamed in unison. The twins came barreling toward her, curly hair flailing behind them like capes. They launched into her legs with the force of tiny meteors.

“Oof.” Nadine said, catching her balance. “Are you two ever not moving at Mach 10?”

“Nope!” Markey grinned. “We made cookies!”

“With Aunt Bianca’s help.” Micah added with a proud nod.

Bianca appeared behind them, holding a wine bottle and looking way too comfortable. “And I brought provisions. You look like you’ve had one of those weeks.” She said with a small pout on her lips.

Nadine raised a brow, looking over at the older woman. “I have those every week.”

“Exactly my point.”

“I missed the Nelson Towers!” Micah said, throwing herself dramatically onto Nadine’s ivory couch.

Nadine gave her a small smile, sliding off her heels. “Your mom should’ve brought you to court last week. You would’ve seen me destroy a man three times my size.”

“Did you throw a chair at him?” Marley asked.

“No, I used the law.”

“That’s boring.”

“No, my friends, that’s winning.” She grinned. As she moved around her home, making her way into the kitchen. Bianca settled onto a stool at the kitchen island, watching her sister silently. After a beat, she asked, “What time did you go to bed last night” she questioned, the sudden ask causing Nadine to scrunch her face as she looked over at her. Before she could open her mouth to speak, Bianca spoke again. “When was the last time you slept through the night?”

Nadine simply sighed as she turned her back and opened the fridge. “I sleep.”

“That’s not what I asked. I said through the night, not on your files. What time?”

Nadine pulled out a green juice and a yogurt, even though her stomach was already tight with stress. “B, I appreciate the visit. But I don’t need a wellness check. I’m at the top of my game, so I would say I’m doing pretty fine.” Nadine said with a small smile.

This only caused Bianca to give her a look. “You’re at the top of your ulcer.”

Nadine’s sarcastic grin dropped as her jaw flexed, nostril flaring as she glared at her sister.

Bianca continued, gently now. “Nay, you’re doing amazing. But you’ve been in trial mode for two straight years. You don’t date. You barely see sunlight. You don’t even blink unless it’s part of a strategy or some shit.”

Nadine stayed quiet, her spoon tapping the edge of the yogurt cup.

“You don’t have to prove anything anymore.” Bianca added.

And that struck something. Not that Nadine showed it.

“It’s not about proving.” She finally said. “It’s about maintaining. You fight your way up from nothing, and you learn fast—falling isn’t dramatic. It’s silent and quick. It’s one missed call, one lost case. One person thinking you’ve lost your edge.”

Bianca didn’t press further. Instead, she let out a sigh before she called out to her children. “Alright girls, thirty minutes, then we’re heading out.”

The twins groaned but obeyed, bouncing off to the guest room.

Bianca reached for Nadine’s tablet to put on a cartoon on the television, or something to entertain them while she packed snacks.

What she didn’t notice was Micah and Marley sneaking back in and whispering behind the kitchen counter. They had a letter in their hands, a piece of paper they found tossed haphazardly in the living room. And once they read it, the twins were all on board.

“There it is!” Marley whispered.

“I wonder why she didn’t answer. Robots are so cool.” Micah questioned, rereading the page over and over again in excitement. “Maybe she didn’t want one.”

“That’s dumb.” Markey sighed before pulling out her purple glitter pen from her back pocket. “Should I do it?” She questioned, looking over at her twin. There was a moment of silence that passed between them, staring into the other’s eyes before looking back down at the paper.

“Do it.” They said at the same time.

With sticky fingers and wild curiosity, they marked the “Accept Housing Unit” checkbox on the government letter Nadine had flagged but never opened. Marley then folded it back up before move to place it into the mail slot next to the front door, hearing the suction sound as the letter was whisked away back to the owner.

A pop-up confirmed the delivery on the screen next Mail Drop, causing the to high-five before they scurried off. “Okay, now we have to fill this out.” Micah said, pulling the retractable delivery screen closer as the screen loaded a soft blue logo. AURA | Adaptive User Response Assistant. Marley was already typing on the screen like she worked at NASA. “We so can’t tell mom about this.” Micah mumbled nervously.

“No one’s telling Mom.” Marley muttered.

“Okay, well, if Auntie Nadine gets mad, I’m blaming you,” Micah said, peering at the glowing tablet in his sister’s lap. Marley let out a sigh, rolling her eyes at her brother. “She’s not gonna get mad,” Markey tressed with a whisper. “She’s gonna love it. You saw the commercial—this thing can do laundry, make dinner, answer emails. It’s like if Iron Man was a butler.”

“No, it’s like if Pennyworth was a robot.” Micah added, eyeing the girl next to him. “That was a really bad…analogy? Have you ever even read Ironman?” The boy judged.

“Shut up.” Marley deadpanned. “We’re making Auntie Nadine’s house ten times cooler. You think she’s gonna notice another package with all the stuff she orders?”

“She will if it walks and talks.”Micah said, grinning. “Now hurry. I think this is the setup survey and anyone can come checking up on his at any minute.”

The screen adjusted to a smooth, futuristic interface.

AURA Configuration Survey. Optional. But, if you want to make the experience unforgettable…

“Unforgettable.” Marley repeated with a smirk. “Let’s go.”

Private Configuration Survey – AURA Unit #007

Answer honestly to ensure optimal user experience.(Note: Once submitted, preferences are locked in for bonding phase.)

1. What kind of support will the user benefit from most? (Select all that apply):

[ ] Physical assistance (lifting, running, protection). [ ] Task management (emails, errands, organization). [x] Emotional balance (stress de-escalation, energy reading). [x] Conversational engagement (company, reminders, reflection)

“Definitely that one,” Marley said, pointing. “She talks to herself too much.”

“I don’t think she notices.”

2. What is the user’s current lifestyle?

[ ] Highly active, social, fast-pace. [x] Independent, professional, busy. [ ] Creative, exploratory, experimental. [ ] Relaxed, home-oriented

3. How should AURA respond under pressure?

[ ] Assertive and directive. [x] Calm and grounded. [ ] Humorous and light [ ] Silent until prompted

4. What kind of presence should AURA have in the home?

[ ] Subtle but attentive. [x] Always on-hand. [ ] In the background unless called. [ ] Commanding and structured

5. How emotionally intuitive should AURA be

[ ] Not at all—task-focused only. [ ] Moderately—pick up on moods, offer support. [x] Highly—understand shifts in tone, body language, even silences

“Okay, she’s gonna love that.”Marley said with a grin. “Remember when she cried at the end of Paddington 2?”

“Well, so did I….”

6. The user prefers companions who are…

[x] Thoughtful and calm. [ ] Straightforward and direct. [ ] Reserved and quiet. [ ] High energy and expressive

7. Ideal communication style?

[ ] Formal and efficient. [x] Warm and intuitive. [ ] Light and witty. [ ] Minimal

8. Would the user appreciate personal attention to detail? (e.g. remembering birthdays, moods, routines):

[x] Yes. [ ] No. [ ] Only when relevant

9. AURA should interact like…

[ ] A professional assistant. [x] A loyal companion. [ ] A discreet observer. [ ] A supportive coach

Micah tilted his head. “What does ‘loyal companion’ mean?”

Marley shrugged. “I think it just means cool sidekick energy. Like Watson or Chewbacca.”

“Nice.”

10. Anything else we should know about the user? (Optional):

Marley hummed in thought for a moment before she began typing quickly. “She drinks coffee every morning at 6:45, she falls asleep with documentaries on, animal or history, and she forgets to eat when she’s on high emotions. Anger, stress, sadness. She likes it when people notice little things but gets weird when you say nice stuff too directly. She’s kind of secretly lonely but she won’t admit it. Oh, and she likes jazz but not the weird kind with screechy horns.”

Micah blinked. “Whoa. That’s kinda deep. You really know your stuff.”

“I pay attention.” The girl said. Marley then hit SUBMIT with a grin.

The screen flashed. Profile Logged. Preparing AURA for transport. Estimated arrival: 2-3 business days.

The twins then high-fived. “She’s gonna freak out.” Micah whispered.

“In a good way.”Marley added. “Hopefully.”

✦

It was now the next day, and if you couldn’t tell by now, Nadine Nelson was not one to wake up late.

That was the first rule of her universe. The first part to her routine. Her alarm chimed at precisely 5:45 AM, every morning without fail, a single soft note, like the chip of a bird, before she silenced it, sat up, and began the orchestration that was her life. Her body and mind moved like synchronized gears in a Swiss watch—sleek, efficient, and expensive.

So when a loud, jarring knock knock knock banged against her front door at 6:15 AM, it was not just an interruption.

It was an affront.

Her eyes snapped open, head jerking toward the illuminated time panel beside her bedroom light switch. 6:15? Her jaw clenched. She was already behind schedule.

Muttering under her breath, she shoved off her covers and grabbed her silk robe from the hook near her bed. Her movements were less precise this morning, more agitated than usual, and still a bit sleepy as her slippers scuffed across the hardwood as she stormed to the front door.

When she opened it, ready to deliver a verbal cease and desist, she paused.

There was a man at her door, next to a large package. But the man at her doorstep didn’t look like the usual FedEx or UPS guy. He wore a crisp black-and-white suit with polished shoes, a slim earpiece tucked behind one ear. He stood beside a large, square wooden crate perched on a steel dolly, taller than he was and easily the size of a refrigerator.

“Yes?” Nadine asked, her tone sharp as broken glass.

The man, unreadable behind dark glasses, tilted his head. “Are you Nadine Nelson?”

She didn’t like the way he asked it. Like he already knew the answer.

“Yes.” She replied flatly, arms crossed over her robe.

“Great. This is for you.” He said, stepping forward and pushing the crate toward her. Nadine moved out of shock, and instinct with a crate that size barking towards her, inevitably letting the man in with the crate, but once she realized she was coming drier into her honey she stepped in, palms up. “Uh, excuse me!” She said, stopping him. “I didn’t order anything. And certainly not something that looks like it should be in a warehouse.”

The man didn’t blink, but that the should tell through his glasses. “You are Nadine Nelson, correct?”

She sighed, jaw tight. “Yes. I already said that.”

“Then this is for you.”

Without another word, he wheeled the box into her foyer. Her eyes widened as the dolly clacked over her expensive floors, the crate casting a looming shadow across the pristine white walls of her home, from the sun shining through the large windows.

“Wait—hold on.” Nadine said, gripping the belt of her robe. “I’m serious. I did not order this. You need to take it back.”

The man was already turning for the door. “Take it up with customs, ma’am.”

“What? Customs? What customs?”

He ignored her completely. As he stepped outside, Nadine caught him press two fingers to the earpiece tucked behind his ear. “It’s been delivered.” He said coolly, then walked down the hallway of her luxury building as her front door slid shut on its own.

Nadine stood there in stunned silence, her arms hanging at her sides as she stared at the box now squatting in the middle of her living room.

Then she screamed.

A long, guttural scream that echoed off the marble and glass of her carefully curated life. Something she tended to do to let out her overflowing emotions.

And after a minute or two of huffing out of breath and anger, she turned on her heel and stormed back to her bedroom. Her phone was still on the nightstand, glowing from a few missed notifications. She didn’t even bother to text. She opened her voice message, hit record, and in her usual no-nonsense tone, she snapped.

“Clear my schedule for today. All of it. There’s some bullshit I need to take care of.”She pressed send to Jane, and then tossed the phone onto the bed without a second thought.

Back in the hallway, she opened the hall closet and pulled out a crowbar from the bottom shelf of her emergency tool kit. She hadn’t touched it since she assembled her custom bookcases two years ago, but it felt oddly satisfying in her grip.

The walk back into the living room was almost cinematic if someone else was there to view it—robe flowing, face full of anger, slippers skimming the floor, crowbar in hand. The crate sat there like a taunt. Uninvited. Immovable.

She didn’t hesitate to go to town, unleashing her irritation onto the box. Nadine wedged the crowbar into the gap between the wood slats and yanked. A nail groaned before it snapped loose, followed by another, and another. She was methodical but furious, stripping the crate open like a woman possessed with rage. Bits of sawdust and packing foam floated through the air, nails flying left and right, a bit dangerous but she didn’t seem to care at the moment. All of it littering her previously immaculate living room.

Nadine kicked aside the last of the packing material, breath puffing from her lips in irritation. She was done. Done with the entire thing. She expected to find an overpriced espresso machine or something.

But instead, she opened the crate and was met with… another crate?

Her brows lifted, her irritation fading into a slow, confused frown.

It wasn’t like the shipping box. This one was different. Striking. A dark wood, deep mahogany with an almost matte sheen. The surface gleamed with intricate carvings, elegant but oddly ancient, like something pulled from the archives of some old, forgotten dynasty from long ago. And in the center was a large gem. Oval-shaped, but a natural look to it, like it was just pulled from the earth and placed into the center. It was embedded like a heart, its color a deep blue, almost black in the shadows but gleaming cerulean where the light hit. It shimmered like water at midnight.

Nadine let out a breath she didn’t realize she was holding. Her fingers hovered over the jewel, almost drawn to it, like it was calling to something beneath her skin. Something primal.

She reached forward.

The stone was cool. Smooth. Her fingertips just barely grazed the surface when—

FLASH.

The gem lit up instantly, glowing from within like a waking eye. Nadine gasped and jerked her hand back, stumbling slightly.

“What the hell?” She whispered.

But she couldn’t look away, no matter how bright the light got

The light from the gemstone pulsed slowly, rhythmically, like it had a heartbeat. And then, as if in response to her shock, the carvings along the chest began to glow as well—lines of a sliver blue creeping from the jewel into the grooves and patterns etched into the wood, filling every line until the whole thing shimmered in a way that made her chest tighten with unease and…awe.

Nadine blinked, and her heart thudded against her ribs.

This—this was definitely not something you could order off Amazon.

And that’s when she noticed it. Taped to the inner panel of the crate, partially obscured by packing straw, was an envelope. Thick. Heavy. Cream-colored paper with a glossy finish and silver wax seal.

She reached for it, peeling it free. The seal bore the emblem of the United States, but stylized. Sleek. Futuristic. Her name was printed across the front in smooth, robotic cursive.

𝐓𝐨 𝐍𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐨𝐧

She frowned. A deep, suspicious furrow. This crate was for her?

Snatching the envelope, she tore it open and unfolded the single sheet inside. The words were printed, formal, precise. But they sent a jolt down her spine.

𝐓𝐨 𝐌𝐬. 𝐍𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐍𝐞𝐥𝐬𝐨𝐧,

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐥𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐲 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐯𝐢𝐝𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐬 𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐚 𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀—𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐥𝐝’𝐬 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐝𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐂𝐫𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬, 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐬, 𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀 𝐢𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭. 𝐈𝐭 𝐢𝐬 𝐚𝐧 𝐞𝐱𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐩𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐞 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐭.

𝐅𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐚𝐫𝐲 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡-𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐞𝐧𝐯𝐢𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀 𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐯𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐟𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐲, 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝, 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞, 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐦𝐚𝐲 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐧𝐨 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝, 𝐧𝐨 𝐜𝐨𝐝𝐞, 𝐧𝐨 𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐮𝐚𝐥.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲’𝐫𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠.

𝐖𝐞𝐥𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞.

—𝐂.𝐑.𝐈.𝐒.

𝐂𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐑𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐬 & 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐒𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐦𝐬

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐚𝐥 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐨𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐠𝐫𝐚𝐦 | 𝐍𝐨𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐏𝐮𝐛𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞

There was a purple glitter check mark by the question. And she closed her eyes as she took in a deep breath, already knowing who to blame for this. Nadine stared at the letter, then at the crate, then back again.

She was going to kill her niece and nephew.

And then—once the twins were grounded for life and Bianca was chewed out for letting them touch her mail—she was going to sue whoever thought it was cute to send her a six-foot robot without consent.

But for now, she placed the letter down slowly and stepped closer to the chest.

It hummed. Just once. A low vibration that rippled across the wood floor and into the soles of her feet. Then, the chest unfastened with a hiss.

The lid groaned.

A long, sinuous sound of pressure escaping, like the breath of something long dormant finally allowed to exhale. Mist pooled from the edges of the ornate coffin-like crate, curling along the floor like tendrils of fog. The dim morning light poured through the windows, catching the shimmer of the gemstone embedded in the chest—still pulsing with a slow, deliberate rhythm, like a heartbeat.

Nadine stared, crowbar slack in her hand, chest rising and falling too fast for comfort.

Inside, the shape was obscured. Cloth. A velvet-like black material draped across something… someone.

Another hiss whispered from the crate. The latches disengaged with an audible thunk. And slowly, ever so slowly, the coffin-like chest began to open—hinges smooth and silent, assisted by unseen tech. The lid released fully and slid backward, revealing more of the figure beneath.

Nadine inched forward, each footstep muffled by the hush of mist and the pounding of her heart. Her instincts screamed at her to stop. To turn around. To call someone. Her sister. Jane. The FBI. The CIA. The Pope.

She stared at it, eyes narrowing. “What did you two do?” She muttered, already picturing her nieces, innocent smiles hiding devilish delight, whispering and giggling as they plotted this chaos.

But her curiosity was stronger. That damned glimmering jewel. That sleek envelope with her name etched like some sort of prophecy. That letter that claimed this… thing knew her already.

The cloth stirred and Nadine froze.

Then the fabric peeled itself away—mechanically, precisely—revealing skin.

Well, no, not skin. It couldn’t be. It was just some beautiful mimicry of it. Smooth and matte. A man’s chest, carved with symmetrical precision and framed by sculpted shoulders. They were bare and powerful in the right compression shirt with the cut sleeves.

Nadine’s breath hitched.

And then he sat up. The fabric slipped off like water while Nadine stared, mouth slightly open.

It was slow and graceful, like someone waking from a century-long slumber. The man—because that’s what he looked like, down to the subtle flex of his hands—was breathtaking. Sculpted. Not just handsome, but deliberately so, he was made this way. Smooth dark skin, eyes like obsidian glass, and a face that didn’t seem designed but born from every secret longing she’d never dared voice. His eyes opened—two smoldering pools of warm obsidian, rimmed faintly with glints of silver. They found hers immediately.

Nadine staggered back a step.

He blinked once. Tilted his head. And then—smiled.

Not a robotic, lifeless twitch. But a curve of the mouth that felt… devastatingly real. It was warm and gentle. Intimate in a way.

Nadine almost forgot he was meant to be a robot and not some random man in a box.

“Nadine.” He said.

Her name, from his lips, made something low in her belly twist. His voice was deep, perfectly modulated, with just enough grit to make her toes curl. It was soft but strong, like thunder rolling far away across the sea.

“You—you know my name?” She asked, trying not to sound like a complete idiot. But she did anyways with the uncharacteristic stutter that slipped through, totally unlike her. The crowbar was still in her hand, but it felt laughable now. She wasn’t in danger. She was… almost enchanted in a way.

“Yes.” He said, stepping forward with fluid, feline grace. He towered a good foot above her, dressed in a fitted black uniform that shimmered faintly in the light. “I’ve always known your name, known it since you were assigned to the prototype queue.” He replied. “I was made for you. I’ve been learning you ever since.”

“Learning me?” She repeated, throat dry.

His eyes softened as he nodded. “I’ve watched your presentations. Your interviews. I’ve studied your calendar. Your habits. Your moods. What calms you. What drives you. What keeps you up at night.”

Her brows furrowed. “And why would you do that?”

“So I could be ready when you needed me.”

The words hit her like a wave. Sudden and unsettled something deep within her. It was undeniable.

“I didn’t need anyone.” She snapped at him out of instinct.

The man tilted his head, his eyes glowing blue as he scanned her face. ‘Defensive’ it flashed across his eyes. “No.” He agreed. “But you deserve someone.”

And then there was silence. A thick, emotional silence hung between them as Nadine stared up at him. His face was symmetrical, almost distractingly beautiful—like something a sculptor would weep over. But it was his gaze that disarmed her. No flicker of code was viable besides the unnatural glow, and even that was a bit comforting. There was no empty mimicry. He just looked at her, his eyes never once leaving her face.

“Who… what are you?” She whispered.

He then extended a hand with a small smile. Palm up. As if offering her not just an answer, but himself.

“I am AURA-7.” He said. “My designated name is Michael, but you can call me whatever feels right.”

Nadine didn’t move at first, her brain screaming a thousand warnings at her as her eyes flicked between his face and hang. Her chest was tight, unsure.

But her hand reached out anyway.

And when their skin touched—when her fingers slid against his palm—it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t metal. It was warm. Comforting and real. And this was the first time she’s touched someone in such a non work manner in a long time.

He smiled again, this time slower, more intimate.

And Nadine Nelson, woman of routine, disciple of control, high priestess of solitude… felt her entire world shift beneath her feet.

#michael b jordan x black reader #micheal b jordan sinners #michealbjordan x reader #michealbjordan fanfic #michael b jordan x reader #micheal b jordan #michaelbjordan #michael b. jordan #michael b jordan #foxy’s au #AI Foxy Fic

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