#when it comes without a warning

[punkypiscesell-writes]

when it comes without a warning - ch. 2

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Javier Peña x plus size f! reader

summary: first dates and revelations.

tags (updated after each chapter): fake dating AU, strangers to lovers, romcom, 90’s vibes, angst, small town dynamics, casual sexism, slow burn, pining, insecurities, drinking, smoking, food related descriptions, mentions of family, innocent touching, flirting. The picture in the header is just for the visual and isn't an indication of the reader's skin color. Not beta read.

word count: 22k

notes: Hello and happy spring!! Firstly, thank you if you’re keeping up with this fic even after my inactivity here. It means the world to me. If you’re following this fic and have followed me bc of it, have reblogged the previous chapters, or have commented, please know I’ve seen your lovely messages and reactions. My ADHD has been ADHD'ing pretty hard these past couple of months and I've been dealing with a lot of overwhelming feelings. Even though I haven't answered you personally yet, just know that I’ve seen your feedback and I appreciate every single one you who has been reading this story so far. I will eventually answer you all. Thank you for the patience and I hope you'll enjoy this extra long chapter <3

dividers by cafekitsune

The knot under your shoulder blade throbs as you listen to Abigail speak. She has a thick folder open against her thighs, the front cover reading ‘wedding inspiration’ written in swoopy cursive. There’s everything from pictures to pieces of fabrics and laces, writing here and there, post-it notes in different neon colors, and paint sample cards glued on the pages to indicate the theme for each section.

The different tabs on the edges of different pages are already worn out, telling you that this folder isn’t new but well-loved and thoughtfully collected. She flips through each spread effortlessly, going back to the tabs to find a specific flower and table setting style that should inspire you to create a cake fitting for whatever she wants.

Your pen presses against the notebook in your own lap, ‘Abigail and Noah’s wedding’ written neatly on the top of the page. You already drew a couple of drawings for possible cake designs and decorations after Abigail showed you pictures of buttercream roses and tall and wide five-tier wedding cakes.

“They’re just for inspiration, focus on the details here,” she traced her finger against the glossy, thick paper and you looked at the white frosting and the style the ribbons had been piped on the cake.

Under the pictures in your notebook, you’ve written down questions about the flavors and wishes they have for the cake. After all, it’s an important part of the reception. So far, you’ve managed to figure out the general style and some color options yet haven’t found answers to any of the other questions you have asked Abigail. She’s so excited about the possibilities that it’s almost overwhelming to go through them all.

“There was this lemon and raspberry tart,” she starts, her wistful eyes looking towards the patio doors.  “We had it when we were in Laredo. Noah had some business meetings there and I wanted to join him.” She smiles at you, her thoughts in that moment between her and her future husband. “It was like biting into a cloud. It was so light, but creamy and just melted in my mouth. The lemon was so tart in the custard, it was almost like a spritz of fresh lemon juice that just burst with flavors when I took a bite. And the raspberries were as fresh as they come. They were sweet and gentle, almost soft in how they tasted.” She opens a new page from her binder and shows you pictures of different types of lemon and raspberry tarts. She pushes it towards you for you to see all kinds of desserts with the same concept. Your mouth waters even thinking about the tart she’s describing.

“You know, when I sat with him and we shared that tart, I think it was just a normal workday too, nothing special, and suddenly I knew that I could marry him. We had been together for a couple of years by then, but I had never really seen him as husband material.” Abigail looks almost incredulous as she tells you how she felt in that moment. “I had always imagined marrying someone who isn’t like Noah and suddenly I just kinda knew I could marry him too. That he is someone who I could imagine the rest of my life with.” There’s a bittersweet undertone in her words, unbelieving how she came to understand her feelings and wants for her future. Just a random day like any other and there Abigail was having dessert with her boyfriend and everything changed. You would probably reminisce at that time the same way she does.

 You write down a short description for the flavors and why they’re important.

Abigail’s mom comes back into the wood toned living room that is now tinted gray. It’s one of those cooler, humid days when rain falls steadily from the sky. She’s carrying a hefty pile of bridal magazines in her arms and her footsteps write a rhythm for the constant downpour that hums against the roof.

“Okay, so,” Abigail begins with her excited voice that reminds you of blowing bubblegum bubbles and popping them against your lips.  Your focus shifts back to her immediately. “You know how much I love peppermint, Noah loves oranges and we’re both obsessed with that chocolate cake you sell every Christmas time?” Abigail demands you answer her rhetorical question with a nod that mirrors hers. “We want an orange peppermint chocolate cake!” Abigail’s sweet smile is a little too sweet considering what you just heard.

The flavor combinations draw all the moisture from your mouth and sour in the back of your tongue. Her eyes get that Abigail-like innocence in them again, bordering on forcing you to accept her suggestion without questions. The knot in your upper back burns and your knowledge is screaming at you to speak up.

“I haven’t heard anyone using peppermint and orange together with chocolate before.” Abigail’s face drops immediately. “Maybe I could find a way to combine them in the decorations? Fresh mint leaves and candied orange would look beautiful together. The cake could still be chocolate. The color options are great too, we can use something natural, white chocolate, or even dark chocolate. It’s also easy to use colorings to make it exactly as you wish.” Your voice is soft as you try to gently let her down and urge her to find a more palatable cake.

“We’d appreciate if something would also taste like orange and peppermint, we don’t want a cake that is like cardboard after all,” she giggles and you smile with her, unsure about why you’re smiling after hearing her backhanded remark. Does she think your cakes taste like cardboard? You can’t fixate on that right now.

How on earth are you going to make it all work if she insists on this one specific cake? Abigail’s mom flips through the pages of one of the bridal magazines with carton thick covers. She’s looking for something, trying to decipher the writing on post-it notes riddling the edges of the pages.

You turn your focus on the notebook in your lap. You don’t want to write the words down under each other, but you do; peppermint, orange, chocolate. Maybe you just have to follow her wishes and make a cake like any other. Let her taste what it’s all like together. Or maybe, just maybe, you’ll make the flavors work like never before.

“I could make orange chocolate and peppermint chocolate cakes. They’d look identical of course, but that way the flavor profiles will be a bit more agreeable, and they might also work better together that way.” You turn your notebook to Abigail and quickly draw a two-tier cake, separated by arrows that point to the words you’ve scribbled down.

“The problem is that we want a three-tier cake and all of them have to be similar by looks and how they taste.” There’s an edge in Abigail’s tone.

“Sweetheart,” her mom sounds calm. Her presence is like a balm not only for the bride’s stress but also for the static in the air between you and your longtime friend. You didn’t think she was really listening to your conversation, only preoccupied by the magazines, as she opens a new one on a spread with aesthetically pleasing pictures of table settings.

“She has been baking cakes for years now, you have to trust her when she says something doesn’t work. You want the day to be perfect, don’t you, pumpkin?” She brushes her daughter’s hair behind her ear. Abigail sighs, and it draws all tension out from her shoulders.

“Then let her come up with the cake. You’ve given her a lot of inspiration already.” Abigail’s mom nods at you in a way that reminds you of your own mom. When she’d know something everyone else also knew, but she still managed to make it seem like a secret that only you had the privilege of realizing.

“Yeah, okay, you’re right. Professionally, what do you think could work then?” Abigail softens. Her mom smiles and gets back to the magazine in her hands.  

“You said something about cream being one of the main colors?” She hums in agreement. “What if the cakes had white chocolate butter cream? I could look into making a Swiss meringue buttercream as well if you’re not into the idea of white chocolate, and the decorations could include orange slices in some form and mint leaves?” The ideas come to you fast, a steady stream of possibilities.

“It could also be a dark chocolate cake with a bourbon and orange syrup that could highlight the orange flavor?” You have to write it down. Abigail reaches for something on the table, a post-it note and a pen, to write your suggestions down into her folder.

“If you really want the cakes to taste like oranges and peppermint and chocolate, I will try to make it work but I can’t make any promises of it working out well. For the tasting I’ll make a few different versions that you can choose from.” Saying it all out loud starts a checklist in your head that you try to write down as fast as possible, in an effort to not forget anything.

The few things you wrote about the memory Abigail shared earlier peeks out under your thumb when you’re about to turn the page. “You didn’t ask for it, but can I make something with lemon and raspberries?” You suggest. Abigail’s mom perks up immediately.

“You caught onto the story too, huh?” She winks at you. Another secret between the two of you, just like you used to have with your own mom.

“The dessert story?” Abigail almost rolls her eyes. “It’s so boring, there’s no sparks or excitement, just a boring realization!”

“Isn’t that what’s the exciting part? That you found out your true feelings for Noah in such a mundane moment?” You ask her, smile on your lips, surprised to hear her dismiss the special moment.

“I guess?” She surrenders with a shrug and matches your smile. She fills her words with emptiness. “What would you make from lemons and raspberries?”

You draw Abigail in by giving her the details of gentle vanilla and tart, but sweet lemon, with fresh raspberries that would round out the flavors and bring everything together. You try to keep her earlier wish in mind, but the more you talk about the second option and the emotional connection the ingredients have, the more excited you get about baking a tester cake with the ingredients. Maybe you imagine it all, but Abigail doesn’t seem to hate your ideas. On the contrary.

Her mom brings you homemade lemon and orange lemonade after a few hours of throwing ideas around, with chocolate chip cookies that you brought from the bakery. Abigail grimaces when the sweet citrus and buttery chocolate crumble together in her mouth.

“If chocolate is like this with lemon and orange, I’m not sure if I want it after all.” You all laugh. The joke wrote itself. You try not to smile too wide to hide the satisfaction her reaction gives you. You’ll follow Abigail’s wishes, but maybe your job as a professional baker isn’t going to be as difficult when you try to convince your customer which flavors work together and which don’t.

After hours of planning, the knot under your shoulder blade is spreading its flames to the back of your neck and base of your skull. Your notebook is thick with inspirational pictures and notes, better indicating what you’re asked to do than what you could’ve illustrated with your blue ballpoint pen. Your calendar has all the important dates and deadlines marked down, now you just have to write them down into the order schedule too.

Standing up from the too soft couch makes you roll your shoulders back when you say goodbye to Abigail’s mom. The tightly wound muscles complain harder and burn with blood flowing through them. 

“I heard a crazy rumor the other day,” Abigail laughs out of nowhere as she walks you to the door. You hand her your shoulder bag while you put on your jean jacket. It’s dry, at least, after the rain colored the light blue denim dark on the shoulders.

The rain hasn’t eased up. It was drizzling lightly early in the morning when you got to the bakery, and got heavier when you left Lili by herself, and you made the drive to come meet Abigail. It has turned into white noise in your ears over the hours. You’re really not looking forward to driving in rain when the roads have a layer of water on them.

“Hmmm?” You swap the slippers Abigail’s mom borrowed for you to the flat-bottomed sneakers you had on when you got here.

“That…” Abigail laughs again, harder like she just told you a hilarious story you should already know about. “That there’s something between you and Javier Peña.” Her laugh is still friendly, a little giggly, but there’s a layer of forcefulness and hardness that she wouldn’t normally have if she actually thought something was funny.

You can’t help the smile that also spreads on your face. Nerves start to sizzle in your belly, bubbling deep and rising steadily towards your chest where it spreads and makes you forget about the pain in your shoulder. You fix your necklace, run the small links between your fingers to make sure it’s not snatched on anything.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Lili saw you two getting cozy, at your bakery no less!” Now you’re both laughing. The tickles of butterflies lift the sound easily through your vocal cords, effortlessly twining with Abigail’s high-strung snickering.

It worked. You reach for your bag which she happily gives you while you avoid her searching eyes. The floor is much more comforting of a companion. You’re not sure what Lili has told people. How Abigail worded it though, the interaction might’ve caught some extra legs along the way. 

“Well?” Abigail pushes. Her mouth is tight and her brows high up. She has always been bad at hiding her impatience.

When you’ve been with her, the demanding tone directed at someone else, she has always come off as powerful and straightforward, someone who gets answers and things done. But now that you’re at the receiving end of her insistence, she is more intimidating than anything else, even with a smile on her face.

“Well, we’re going out this weekend, it’s not a big deal.” You remember every word from your unwritten script you prepared in case Abigail asks you about Javier. Even with your friend waiting for you to tell her more, the smile on your face isn’t hard to keep intact. Your cheeks start to ache from it.

“What do you mean you’re going out? Like on a date?” You didn’t prepare for this. You had only planned to tell her about how Javier had asked you out and Lili had seen something private. Abigail isn’t privy to anything you had planned with Javier.

How you told him when people would be most likely to get baked goods from you. Or how he made sure to walk in at the peak of morning rush hour and stand in line. You had prepared a small order for him to pick up, some breadcrumbs Chucho had asked for a while ago and a couple of cream puffs, with salted caramel pastry cream. You were interested to hear what Chucho thought of the new version of his favorite pastry.

“Trust me, it’ll get people talking,” Javier assured you on the phone the night before, when you finessed the scheme. It was silly, like you were part of a play, and you were the only two actors who knew about it.

He came in the bakery at the right time, just as you had planned. What you didn’t expect was the shit eating grin on his face and the head nods at people looking at him, greeting each with a soft “mornin’”.

He stood in line with his freshly groomed mustache, in a red plaid button-up shirt that was a little heavier than his usual t-shirts. He stood tall, shoulders squared, chin proudly high and his aviators on his eyes. You waited impatiently in the bakery, the little bag of breadcrumbs in your hand and the small box of cream puffs in the other.

Lili called for your name, and you were in the shop before she could say anything else. You met him at the register. Javier took his sunglasses and looped them on his shirt. There was easiness in his eyes and a rumbling coffee tinted good morning on his lips.

The secret between you two made you smile. He answered it by taking a piece of paper from the back pocket of his jeans, a pen from a little cup on the counter, and wrote something on it. Lili followed the interaction like she was looking at zoo animals, her neck stretched to catch a glimpse of his note and a bug-eyed stare when he paid, left a generous tip, and held the piece of paper between his index and middle fingers like a cigarette, taking the order from you with the rest of his hand.

Your fingertips brushed against his when you took the note. His brows jerked up when you held your hand still against his for a second longer than he had anticipated. The seed was already planted. Lili was intrigued. There was no harm in showing her, and the people behind Javier, that it wasn’t just any note. It held meaning.

“See you Friday,” slipped from his mouth. The bakery stood still for a breath and a second after that and then he was out the door. The sun was on his hair, sticking to the brown that curled on his temples and the back of his neck, right above the neckline of his shirt.

“I told you,” the note read. It’s still in your jeans’ back pocket even though he gave it to you a few days ago. You just haven’t had the chance or reason to change your jeans. You’ll throw it away when you put them in the laundry anyway.

“Yeah, like on a date,” you answer Abigail a little taken aback. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but you expected even a hint of excitement, maybe some thrilled questions since you going out on a date is such a foreign thing to happen.

“How?” is the only thing she asks. You stare at each other, disbelief on her face while your smile shrinks and gets replaced with confusion that pulls your brows together.

“He asked me out?” You shoulder your bag. This conversation with Abigail is like you’re freefalling, the floor suddenly gone under your feet.

“Out of nowhere? You don’t know him. Have you even met him?”

“We got to talking on New Years, at your engagement party.” Every word sounds like a defense, like you’re building a case for yourself against a ruthless prosecutor.

“But you were supposed to be hanging out with John. You’ve gone out with him too?”

“Oh god no!” You laugh, but Abigail’s question was genuine. “Why would I? He’s an asshole.” You have no remorse saying it out loud.

“Hey, that’s not fair. I know he can come off as a little harsh at first, but you just have to get to know him more.”

“I don’t think so…” you roll your eyes at her, the words huff out with a snort. You try to push past her towards the door, but she grabs your arm. Her fingers press into your bicep.

“Clearly there are things you don’t know about Javier.” There’s urgency in her voice. She looks almost… scared?

“What don’t I know?”

“Javier is… He’s not a good man. I know many women whose hearts he has broken, and I don’t want to see you on that list.” Abigail’s forcefulness dissipates and is replaced with empathy that sweeps across her features.

The arch of her brows is a little too downward, her eyes a little too soft, her mouth a little too sad. Like you’re a child who must be told what to do, who doesn’t understand what’s good for her. Why you get a sense of being pitied by her, you can’t be sure, but it’s burning the nerves away and the bubbles in the pit of your stomach aren’t fun anymore. They’re popping one by one into teeth grinding annoyance.

“Can I make that decision on my own?” Your voice stays even, even with the irritation tightening the back of your jaw and locking it defiantly. Her hand softens against your arm. She swallows, a new type of determination settling in her eyes.

“Javier is a player,” she rushes to reveal, puffing air from her lungs that still has the tart sweetness of lemonade laced through it. “He has a very particular type and none of his relationships have lasted longer than a few months, if that. I’ve also heard that when he was in Colombia, he was sleeping around a lot.” Her words hold weight that she probably doesn’t even understand.

“Okay, so he was in Colombia and he got around… don’t you think it’s a bit weird you’re accusing your fiancé’s good friend of being promiscuous? Why do you even care about that?”

“Oh god no! No, that’s not what I mean! I don’t care who he sleeps with in the future or how many women he has slept with in the past, but I don’t want you to become just a conquest for him.” She shakes her head almost shocked that you’re turning the question on her rather than swallowing what she’s saying without any questions.  

“What did you mean then?”

“I’m saying this because…” Abigail takes another breath, preparing herself for whatever she is about to drop on you. Her cheeks blush and she looks at you straight in the eyes, wide like she’s once again asking you for something and making it sound like it’s your idea.

“I’ve known him for a long time. You know how I and Noah met? Because Noah was his best man at his wedding!” She pauses and waits for you to react. You can only stare at her, speechless by her reveal. “Javier left his bride at the altar, in front of all our families and friends, humiliating her. He didn’t even show up!”

Each word that Abigail shushes from her mouth is full of venom, her anger and unresolved disappointment so clear that they throw you into a church, in the audience as one of those family members who had to bear witness to whatever happened at that wedding.

Abigail urges you to believe her, standing close, her hand still gripping your jean jacket against her palm, hanging onto hope that you understand what she’s saying. That the warning isn’t meaningless and she’s not saying any of this out of nowhere.

“The next thing I know, he’s on his way to Colombia trying to save the world or whatever. You have to know this because you can’t trust him. You’re too nice! You’re not protecting yourself from him so I’m doing it for you. He’s not good news and I think he’s using you.” She breathes deep, a heavy weight visibly drops off her shoulders as she straightens her back, calmness settling over her features.

What the hell are you supposed to do with this information? How on earth can you defend someone who has betrayed someone’s trust by not coming to their own wedding? The burden Abigail sheds from her shoulders now lays harshly on yours, the reality of not knowing Javier at all sinking in. You can’t let that show through, not now when your plan with Javier has barely even taken off. Not when the other option is someone you don’t want to see ever in your life. You have to suck it up and then bring it up with Javier. You’ll either figure this out and ask him to explain himself. Or you’ll tell him you don’t want to be in any more contact with him than what is necessary.

This is exactly the reason why you don’t date. You don’t want to end up in the middle of people’s messes. You don’t want to deal with people’s dirty laundry. You don’t want to deal with hurt feelings or broken promises. Worst of all, you don’t want to be dealing with broken families.

You have enough experience of that of your own, you don’t have to have that from someone on the outside as well. Your body is trying to admit defeat by making yourself small in front of Abigail, who is chipping away at your confidence by standing taller every second that passes.

“What’s he using me for?” You try to gain back some standing in this conversation. Abigail huffs out a breath and throws her hand in the air from your arm.

“Are you serious?” The frustration is so thick in her hushed voice, and in the air, that you could cut it with a knife. Every time she breathes the heavier it is for you to be standing in front of her.

You never expected to be opposite from your friend, stubbornly asking a question that makes you a teenager who is begging to make her own mistakes even when someone is warning her that she’ll only get hurt if she doesn’t open her eyes and take the warning seriously.

“I don’t know,” she speaks too loud. Abigail looks over your shoulder immediately, expecting to hear her mom say something in the living room. “I’m trying to protect you here. If I were you, I wouldn’t trust him. I don’t want to see you wasting your time on someone who doesn’t care about you, at least not in the way you deserve.”

Your jaw twitches and you swallow but your mouth is so dry that it’s almost like your body is rejecting your wishes to get the uncomfortable tightness away from your throat. What a nightmare. You should’ve considered asking Javier if he has any skeletons in the deepest corners of an empty, dark closet.

Being cornered by none other than Abigail of all people isn’t something you want to experience ever again. You never wanted to be on the receiving end of her frustrations but here you are and you’re going to be making a fool of yourself for a man you don’t even know. 

“I don’t need your protection, Abigail.” You clear your throat. “We’re just going out on a date. I’m not marrying the guy. I can handle myself.”

“I’m just worried he’s –“

“I don’t need you to be worried. I’m an adult, I can take care of myself.” Maybe it’s your inexperience of never really having dated anyone or never experienced being in a relationship with anyone. Maybe Abigail is genuinely being protective. You just have a gut feeling that something isn’t adding up here.

No matter how many times she says she’s trying to protect you, you’ve never seen her like this. Abigail is fiercely loyal, you know that. You’ve known that this whole time you’ve been friends. She will defend the closest to her until there’s no one else standing. It’s part of her nature. To care in a way that reassures you’re one of a kind in her life and she won’t leave you on your own.

She has proven that time and time again. Like when you were in college and someone stepped on your feet at a house party. Abigail pushed the guy away, her finger against his chest, making sure everyone in hearing distance heard how the guy didn’t even have the decency to apologize.

Or how she always made sure to tell you how pretty something looked on you when you were insecure about it. A new shirt or a dress that was shorter than your usual dresses. She built your confidence up word by word, like a sister, always standing by you and ready to psych you up until you believed it yourself. Until you were able to psych yourself up as well.

Being against her, against her warning, and trying to stand here on top of the building blocks of confidence that she helped you find, suddenly they’re wobblier than you’d want them to be. You try to keep your shoulders open, your back tall, eye to eye with her.

The more you watch her, see the flustered twist of her mouth, her skin pale and an unexplainable hardness flaming in her eyes, the more you’re convinced she’s not necessarily protecting you. She’s warning you, but not because she’s afraid of you getting hurt. She’s trying to say something. She’s trying to make you see it. But no matter how hard you try to see through the troubled look on her face, no matter how you listen to her, you can’t catch it between her words.

“Where are you going at least?” She finally breaks the tension. It deflates, so do your shoulders while she gathers determination to not make this into a disagreement.

Abigail is still standing in the doorway when you get to your car and shut the door behind you. The rain-streaked windshield distorts her figure, with more drumming against the roof and hood at a steady rhythm. You take a deep breath, and then another before you start your car. As soon as the engine roars to life, Abigail is out of the doorway.

The rain falls heavier when you turn to the road leading back to town, and even harsher when you’re in the middle of nowhere. It forces you to lighten your foot against the gas pedal when your wipers are working overtime, and you still can’t see a thing outside the window.

The car jerks forward and keeps on going until you’re not the one slowing your pace to a crawl. It’s the engine too. A red light blinks on the otherwise dark dashboard warning you of what’s to come. Your hands immediately sweat against the black leather on the wheel when the car tangibly slows down.

You try your best to get it on the side of the road safely before it shuts off. The tires bump down from the asphalt onto the gravel, before driving over the thick grass that only leads into a ditch. You breathe through your mouth as you steer your car to stay on the flat edge even when you’re blinded by the downpour.

You shake your head. This can’t be happening. You listen to the rain beat against the metal cage around you, head empty of any thought that might help you find a solution. The red light on the dashboard… The battery. Of course it would do this on a day when you’re stranded on a lonely road.

It’s an older car, the seller even told you that you might have to check on the battery at some point after driving a specific amount. There are still miles left until that point, yet here you are. Your shoulder complains when you lean your head backwards and close your eyes against the headrest.

Something approaches. The rain gives way to a heavy rumble that suddenly gets closer and closer. You hit the emergency light button on your dashboard and not even five seconds later a massive semi-trailer barrels past you, shaking the car and leaving it in a cloud of water that pillows behind the freight.

You rub your fingers against your eyes, and up towards your hairline. No matter how long you sit here, nothing will change until you do something. Your phone. You rummage through your bag, take out your notebook and your calendar, then your wallet and CD-case for car ride tunes. Your bag is empty, your phone nowhere in sight.

“Fucking shit,” you mutter, seeing your phone on the bakery table. You called the wholesale earlier when you ordered a few different jams. Strawberry, apricot and raspberry. “Fuck!” You hit your head against the steering wheel, bumping your hand against it and setting the horn off. It startles you, like you’re not allowed to wallow in frustration even for a few minutes.

Your options are limited. You can walk to town and get drenched while doing that. You can wait until the rain calms and then start walking. Or you can cross one of the fields to call for a tow truck, risking getting bitten by a snake or something. None of those choices appeal to you.

You close your eyes and lay your head against the steering wheel again. You can only think of the look on Abigail’s face. The worry that honestly looked like she was more annoyed than really worried. If you didn’t have to think about this dating thing at all, there’d be nothing to stress about. If she hadn’t sprung this all up in the first place, you could be burying yourself in work and everyone would be happy.

The rain seems to only get stronger. It’s pouring from a bucket, alienating you on the road, making you an island with no bridges to anyone. You can’t shake Abigail’s story from your mind. How foolish of you to think this wouldn’t kick you in the back at some point.

You haven’t even had a proper conversation with the man yet and here you are, sitting miserable in your car, forced to mull over someone’s life choices based on what you heard from an outsider. There’s only Abigail’s word to believe and you’re still trying to think of possible reasons why Javier ended up leaving his bride at the altar.

The rain waves over you. It quiets and makes you believe it will finally give up when another, heavier wave rolls in and envelopes you in its arms. Through the white noise of your car’s roof being beaten, you hear a motor.

Your side window is streaked with water, the side mirror is covered in a damp haze. The headlights of a car blink through it, approaching in a crawl. At least it won’t splash you like the truck did or swing you off the road and into the ditch that is most likely already full of water.

The car, a pickup truck, drives past. The taillights flash red when the car slows even more and parks in front of you, backing up until it’s only a couple of feet from your bumper. Great. Either they’re going to help you, or it’ll be someone who will only creep you out. The truck though. It looks familiar. The rusty maroon and the blocky white stripe on the side. You’ve seen it in town so at least you’ll most likely know the driver.

The driver’s door opens. You can’t make out who it is through the rain, only a tall, wide frame that jogs towards your door. You recognize Javier’s face only when he’s about to knock on the window. His hair is already dripping. His eyes are squinted even though it doesn’t help much in this downpour. You roll the window down, your head suddenly empty.

“Need a ride?” It’s a quick question. Water pours over his face, sticks to his moustache and trickles into his open mouth. You don’t have to think long. “Take your stuff,” he orders, and you happily comply.

He’s already by his truck when you lock your car doors and rush to the passenger’s side with your bag in your arms. The warning lights blink against the wet ground as your shoes get soaked and through your socks in an instant.

Javier opens the door for you from the inside and you pull it open the rest of the way, falling in with your things in your arms. You pant, from the adrenaline of getting saved from your four wheeled island and rushing to his car as fast as you can. It doesn’t help that suddenly Javier makes your head spin and uncertainty stir your gut when you look at him. The damp of your clothes turns into wetness as the water from the rain seeps through the layers of your jean jacket, your t-shirt, through your jeans, right to your skin and under it.

“Hi,” he sighs, looking at you with a smirk on his lips, even his eyes glinting in the grey of the weather that tries to suck the warmth from the brown.

“Hi,” you breathe out and it relieves some of the tension that stirred in your head.

“You like to hang out here just for fun or…?” He starts the car and gets it going on a crawl. His hands squeeze the steering wheel loosely, almost relaxed, unlike you.

“Yeah, sure. I was having a party with the blinking lights, didn’t you see?” The breathed-out chuckle makes you bite your lip, to keep your smile under control.

“Trust me, I saw. And it looks like that party has ended.” How ironic of him to tell you to trust him. You still smile but tension builds up in your jaw immediately.

“Thanks for stopping, I was kinda losing hope out here.” You try to put on your seat belt, but the clutch doesn’t want to stay in place.

“Happy to help.” He shakes his head slowly, from one side to the next, his eyes flashing on your hands as you battle with the belt. “Let me get that.”

He keeps his focus on the wet road, while pushing your other hand away by just covering yours with his. His thumb presses the loop down. His palm covers your hand easily as you keep the latch in place. His skin is so warm, sucking the cold right out of your bloodstream. The buckle finally clicks into place. He draws his hand back, a quick glance your way as his fingertips accidentally slide against the outside of your hip.

“Thanks.” You don’t want to make it weird. You focus looking out the window and the rain-streaked windshield.

 “Where are you going, the bakery?”

“Well, no, not anymore. I need someone to come and tow my car. The battery is fucked.” 

“Gary’s it is.” You’ve never been there. You got your car checked over in the next town over, where the seller had it. Since then, you’ve always gone there to get your car cleared, twice every year since you got it. The mechanics there are older, who know cars inside and out, understanding every sound and every hiccup. There hasn’t been a time when they’ve failed to give you a good deal if something has to be fixed. This time it doesn’t matter. You need your car.

“What were you doing out here anyway?” Javier sounds conversational, casual with his question.

“I met up with Abigail, to talk about their wedding cake.”

“They ordered one from you?” He switches the wipers to go back and forth a little slower, as the rain finds a lazier rhythm.

“I’m giving them one.” Javier nods and you think he hums in understanding. You remember the story about the tart. Raspberry and lemon fill your senses. Even the thought of them wets your mouth and the idea of a sweet, gentle lemon-flavored cake with fresh raspberries and vanilla frosting puts your brain to work. Maybe you’re hungry.

As fast as you remember the tart, your thoughts shift from cakes to Abigail’s reveal.

You glance at Javier from the corner of your eye. It’s hard for you to imagine him walking down an aisle to wait for his fiancée to join him. Let alone standing at an altar in a black suit next to someone in a white dress and bouquet of flowers in her hands while a bunch of people stare at them and wait for them to vow to be together forever. That idyllic life and Javier Peña in the same sentence are like water and oil in your mind.

Maybe you can’t say anything about him in his drying hair that is curling at the ends. The mustache that he hasn’t trimmed in a couple of days and the five o’clock shadow on his jawline that is now at least a couple of days old. The neck that could be carved by someone with a chisel, long and strong, richly tan even in the cold lighting.

How many button-up shirts does this man own, as you’re seeing him once again in a new one, this time in dark blue with long sleeves. His fingers tap against the steering wheel, a rhythm only in his head, the radio silent.

You can’t judge a man you don’t know. You can only see the surface, not what he’s really like. He could want that idyllic family life and a big wedding, but he keeps a low profile about them.

He tilts his head towards you, a minor movement, like he wants to hear you better. His dark lashes frame his focused eyes, looking even thicker in the gloom of the rain. His head leans more towards you. Maybe you need to just ask him about it, the wedding, his failed marriage that wasn’t even a marriage. It’s on your mind. It’s better to get rid of it now than let it simmer and keep you wondering.

“What?” His chin leads the turn of his head, suddenly catching you red-handed in taking him in. For the first time you’ve really gotten a chance to look at him. If you would’ve known better, you would’ve made sure to not get caught because you don’t stand a chance against the deep brown of his eyes that read you in a heartbeat.

The question is on the tip of your tongue. You’re about to ask if he can explain himself, tell you more about his past.

You sigh, “Nothing, was just thinking about this arrangement of ours.” You let the questions slip from your grasp.

Technically you’re not lying. Abigail’s words are under your skin and your candor about something else on your mind is only a way for you to avoid turning a stone you’re not ready to. The road turns and buildings are finally appearing through the downpour.

“I’ve been thinking about it too.” His unexpected confession spikes your heartrate instantly. His voice goes a bit lower, a little shakier. Javier is still as confident as ever, but there’s a light tinge of ‘what if’ coloring it.

“What about it?” You sound a bit more worried than you’d like to.

“Look, when you said yes to this whole circus, I’m grateful for that.” You already hear the but in his voice.

Immediately you’re on a carousel, going over the few instances you’ve been in contact with Javier. If you’ve told him something that would make him second guess you and your intentions. You have no secret intentions. You just want to get through this wedding without any extra attention.

Though, how Abigail reacted, that might’ve been a useless wish.

“I just can’t stop thinking how we have to fake something just because someone is being a little… eager.” The shake of Javier’s head is the cherry on top of the irritated thought that makes it sound like he has been thinking about this for a while.

“You think we should still do it?” Him saying no would release you from any stress you’re already predicting to experience the closer the wedding is getting. You wouldn’t have to think about keeping your stories straight or how you literally have to seem like you like this guy any more than just as a friend.

Are you even friends, you can’t put a finger on that.

But him saying no would also end this new connection you’re having. Even though you don’t have time for dating, Javier’s presence and knowing he’s in this situation with you does give you a sense of comfort. If he became your friend in this town that sometimes manages to shove your face in loneliness, you wouldn’t say no to it.

“Yeah, I’m in. Won’t mean I’ll be happy about people pushing their noses into our business.”

“I’m with you on that.”

“What have you been thinking?” He asks. His other hand drops from the steering wheel, and he glances at you, trying to dig into how you’re dealing with all this.  

“I…” The words get stuck in your throat. This is a perfect chance. Ask why he left his bride at the altar, a little voice in your head urges. Your mouth goes cinnamon dry and your jaw clenches, not letting any words out.

You can’t help the uncomfortable laugh that makes the mood shift from open honesty to awkwardness immediately. “I’m gl—” Your voice catches and you have to swallow before trying again, “I’m glad I can do this with someone who understands what we’re pretending, that’s all.”

“Yeah.” Javier isn’t dumb. You can hear how he knows you’re hiding something. He knows you’re not telling him what’s really on your mind. He doesn’t have time to get into it as you reach Gary’s Garage. As soon as he turns the car off, you open your seatbelt and jump out, briskly walking in through the front door.

The smell of gasoline and oil hits you immediately, the second smell being air freshener, closely followed by tire rubber. You’re taken back to childhood, and your grandpa’s garage where every spring you checked your bike over.

He helped you paint it more than once, always allowing you to use whatever colors were your favorite. There you stood, with the bike’s skeleton turned upside down with some parts covered in tape and plastic to protect the colors you already liked and the parts that had to stay bare.

Your grandpa stood beside you with paint respirators on both of your faces, spray paint cans in hand. When you were younger, the can was so big that you had to hold it with two hands, and it still kept slipping from your grasp. When you got older, you could hold it easily.

Being around Javier is like being around a magnet. You hear him get in through the door. You take a step back, like he’s able to pull you towards him. He doesn’t say anything, you don’t even hear his footsteps. He hovers, like two same poles rejecting each other. You look at him and immediately he comes closer, to stand right behind your back.

“Ah, Peña! What can I do for you?” A younger looking guy wearing a dark grey overall stained with black oil appears from behind a hood of a car. He rubs his hands on a rag tied to his belt loop, before scrubbing his hand through his dirty blond hair that’s in need of washing.

“Follow my lead,” Javier whispers in your ear before placing his arm loosely over your shoulders. You meet the guy at a small service desk. It’s covered with a plastic desk cover that has yellowed at spots and has different car brand logo stickers glued to it. People have tested a pen at the corners, random loops and something that looks like boobs cartooned on the mechanics’ side.

“I’m cashing in that favor your dad owed us.” You immediately turn to Javier, but he shuts you up by squeezing your shoulder. His thumb is right at the edge of the knot under your shoulder blade, pressing against it in a way that makes you pull your shoulders back and wince in discomfort.

“My girlfriend is having some car trouble.” He says at the same time, notices your pain and backs off from the squeeze, only having his hand lay gently against the tight muscle. It’s warm and it seeps through the layer of damp denim and cotton on your skin.

The mechanic looks at you with wide eyes, then at Javier, then back at you with his brows lifting and an unbelieving smile forming on his lips. You know him. He’s a flirt. You’ve had to deal with him before, when he has come to the bakery with his wife.

“Javier, I believe my dad can only do favors for you or your dad, no one said anything about a girlfriend.” He says the word like it’s a joke. You breathe against Javier’s hand, which in this moment manages to keep you calm.

“No worries, I can—”

“Rick,” Javier cuts you off. Another gentler squeeze forces you to listen to him, just like he commands Rick. “I believe your dad said that he owes me one after I helped him fix that fence you had promised to help him with. He didn’t say anything about there being conditions.” Rick looks between you two once more, until he focuses back on Javier.

“So, what’s the problem, what happened?”

“Ask her, it’s her car.” Javier’s hand slides off your shoulder, leaving you to stand on your own two feet. The wide shadow of him behind you moves away and as he does so, you gain confidence. The heels of his boots hit the concrete floor, and with each step your confidence bursts to life, like he’s pulling it out of you to deal with a nuisance just like any other day. You hear the door, you’re alone.

“I was driving, and the battery light came on and then the car stopped, J—” You catch yourself, his words fresh in your ears, “My boyfriend picked me up, but the car is still on the side of the road.”  You can tell Rick doesn’t believe you when you use that word for Javier.

No wonder. Only a couple of weeks back you had to deal with him, and you didn’t use Javier’s status as your boyfriend in one of your jabs back at him.

“Your boyfriend,” Rick starts and leans forward with a sly smile on his face, against the small counter that separates you from him. You can smell it on him, the low blow that he’s going to serve. “Are you two really together? Because I know a sweet thing like you could do so much better.” He raises his brows at the same time, thinking he got you.

You stare at him. Your mind drains of every possible comeback that you’ve perfected over the years when thinking of different scenarios where you’d need to have a snarky comment at the ready. Rick is one of those men who will look at you once, insult you, and think you’ve fallen head over heels in love with him based on that one interaction. Even when he’s married.

Your head blows up with all the ideas what you could say to him, mixing into a ball of nothingness that makes you mute. The longer you stand still, the more he’s convinced he has won you over, finally.

You take a step forward, even shaking yourself up with the bold move. You lean your hip against the counter, curving your back in the process, and smile at him, just like a sweet thing would. The door opens and lets in fresh air. Javier. He stops a bit further away; his presence isn’t enveloping you. But there’s still that pull.

It’s just you, and Rick, you tell yourself.

“Is that so?” You place your hand right next to his and tilt your head.

“Mmhmm,” he hums, ecstatic about the attention you’re giving him.

Javier’s slow steps echo from your left to your right side, until he’s standing where you can see him from the corner of your eye. It shouldn’t be hard for you to keep up with the act with him there, but suddenly your focus wavers and the fearless imaginary conversations, where you know every single word, you want to say, are pointless.

“I really like when little ladies like yourself know their customers. I still remember when you recommended that creamy thing to me, just because you knew I’d like it.” Rick blabbers on. Javier’s eyes narrow, but you keep your cool like it’s an armor.

“I think I recommended the cream doughnuts to your wife, when your in-laws were coming to visit?” You ask innocently. Javier hides his mouth behind his hand immediately, turning from you.

Maybe with this guy you don’t even have to try coming up with something snappy. Rick chuckles. He almost manages to trace his fingertip against your wrist, but he’s not close enough. You make yourself stand still. What you’d really want to do is slap him.

“I know it was meant for me. You don’t have to hide it. Listen…” Rick stands back up, a cocky look in his eyes. “I bet I know why you recommended them to me.” Your face must tell him to continue.

“I bet you’d love to try my doughnut, and my cream.” The way he says it, sleazy and so full of himself, with his tongue licking his lips to emphasize the very obvious double meaning, is supposed to be the thing to make you fall on your knees in front of him.

Instead, it takes everything in you not to burst out laughing right at his face, or to keep yourself from slamming your fist in his eye. The smile Javier was trying to hide earlier isn’t there anymore. He’s far from it. His eyes are hard and venomous under his brows, dark in a way you haven’t seen yet even from the corner of your vision.

“You know what I’d love?” Rick perks up at your question, thinking you’re finally catching the bait with a smile. He wishes.

“I think I’d give you exactly what you’re looking for, sugar.” You can’t help the laugh that finally makes you break. Rick chuckles with you and he reaches his hand towards your face. You step back right before his dirty fingers make contact with your cheek, and you drop the smile, the cute voice and look him straight in the eyes.

“I want you to get my damn car and change the battery. Then you’ll call me when it’s done because I need my car. Please.” You emphasize the word with a smirk that only appears for a second, until you’re giving him stone and ice again. Rick’s face turns to disappointment and annoyance. Javier takes a step forward, pulling out a folded map from his back pocket and smoothing it against the table.

“It’s here,” he says, his voice low, his finger pointing at the road where he picked you up in a demanding manner.  

“You can call the bakery when it’s done.” You tell Rick with finality in your voice while Javier folds the map back up. You don’t want to stay in the garage any longer than necessary. As soon as Javier is done, you grab his hand and pull him along with you.

“Bitch,” you hear Rick mutter under his breath when you’re almost at the door.

“Thank you!” You singsong to him, rolling your eyes just as you step outside into the humidity. At least the rain has calmed, but it seems like it has gathered in the air, like a weighted blanket on top of everything. Your heart is pounding in your chest, barely staying in place rather than jumping through your throat. You breathe in the watery air and blow it out slowly.

“I think you deserve a drink after that,” Javier bumps his arm against yours. You look up at him, your hands still linked together and see the impressed smirk on his face.

“What?”

“You don’t come across as someone who’d have that in you.” He speaks nonchalantly, like it’s just a normal day at the office to witness you talking back to a slimy guy like Rick.

“You have no idea.”

“Come,” he says, pulling you along with him across the street. You match your steps with his.

Javier opens the door for you. A red-themed, all-day breakfast diner welcomes you in with the smell of pancakes and bacon, the complete opposite of what’s on the other side of the street. It doesn’t smell poisonous, or like you’ll lose brain cells after inhaling the smell for long enough.

Javier finally lets go of your hand and you walk in front of him towards the line. The diner is full. Booths with red tables and worn-down red leather couches are occupied with families and workers from all over the town.

The waiters and waitresses are wearing the same uniforms, red pants and white t-shirts, with little aprons on. Orders are getting yelled out from the kitchen, the mood an exciting mix of delight and stress. People are getting welcomed in by name, asked how they’re doing, and their usual orders are placed without them having to say a word.

“Did it really happen?” Javier asks against your ear, his presence like a backpack. “With the cream doughnuts?”

“Oh yeah, the guy comes in with his…” You look around yourself, see a couple of little kids nearby, and turn more towards Javier, “Fucking wife and she asks what pastries would be good for the in-laws. I remember her saying that it can’t be anything too fancy, but something more interesting than cookies. And he takes the suggestion as a double entendre,” you huff and shake your head. Either she doesn’t know her husband is like that or then she’s just turning a blind eye. Or maybe she likes it.

More people walk in as a new wave of rain rolls over the town and forces the line to squeeze together. Javier steps a little closer. His warmth and broadness hover right behind you, brushing against your back every few seconds.

Someone tries to walk past you and forces you to squeeze yourself right against Javier. A puff of warm air hits your neck, right above the collar of your jean jacket. You almost apologize to Javier for stepping so close, but his proximity drives you to forget about it. The darkness in his eyes isn’t like in the garage, but it burns in a different way. It’s not scary, but open, bordering on vulnerable, and it punches against your chest in a way that manages to draw all air from you.

“Thanks for coming with me and using your favor on me.” You say instead, heavy debt sitting on your shoulders as the line stands still. There’s something happening in the kitchen, after you hear a great splash.

“It’s nothing, we rarely go to Gary’s anyway. Had to get that favor out of the way somehow. But I don’t think you needed me.”

“If I was alone, I don’t think I could’ve been like that to Rick, and I also would have to pay full price for the battery.” Javier chuckles. It’s a small sound, light and airy, like he’s hiding a real laugh behind it but not ready to reveal it yet.

“You’re welcome then.” A waitress announces they’ve dropped a gravy canister in the kitchen and will need a few more minutes before they can resume serving all the customers.

“He deserved it,” Javier says after a moment of people rumbling their disappointment and understanding. Someone pushes past you again. Javier’s hand instinctively lands on your shoulder to guide you.

“I should’ve asked you earlier, if it was okay for me to touch you?” He almost takes his hand off you but someone else makes their way through the crowded diner as well, and once again he’s guiding you to squeeze closer to him, away from their fast feet and body that would otherwise bump into you.

“Yeah, I mean, I guess we can’t be afraid of some hand holding and casual touches, right?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He doesn’t pull his hand off you, which you expect. He’s tentative with his touch, unlike in the garage. It lingers lightly, but then presses steadily against you, his thumb on that damn knot, and once again your shoulder complains. You flinch and turn your head away from the pain, gasping out a breath in discomfort.

As on cue he lifts his hand even though you can still feel the heat of it. “You okay?” You roll your stiff shoulders even though it doesn’t seem to help at all.

“I’m fine. Just a tight musc—” your words cut out with a sharp inhale as he finds the spot instantly.

“Here?” His thumb rubs against it in a tight circle, presses gently but enough to cause the knot to burn.

“Uh-huh,” you squeak, and tilt your head away from his hand.

“I had the same problem, always when I was stressed it would lock back up, right here.” He presses on the muscle and makes you gasp for air. He almost sounds like he’s talking to himself rather than you in the full diner. You wouldn’t hear his voice if he wasn’t as close as he is.

Javier massages the spot over and over, slowly bringing blood flow back into it. You could get used to it, his touch, the large hand on your shoulder, the thumb that manages to circle the pain exactly at the right point, coaxing the tension onto the surface. 

“Why don’t you go to Gary’s often?” You could close your eyes. You’re already leaning against Javier’s palm, almost against him, but the question stuck with you.

“Because of his son.” You giggle as the knot starts to open and his answer hits you at the same time.

“You?”

“No, I never go there.”

“Wonder why,” his voice sounds like it’s right next to your ear.

“Yeah, the tip jar won’t be full after my car is fixed.” The soft vibrations of Javier’s chuckles run in through your ear and spikes your skin with goosebumps. You tip your chin against your chest, unable to hold in your own gentle laugh.

Your shoulder is still a bit sore a few days later, but it doesn’t complain anymore when you need to turn your head. You can pull out the hanger with the little black dress you haven’t worn too often and when you get your head through the neckline and zip up the back, the muscle doesn’t burn like you would’ve just spent hours in the same position decorating a cake or sitting by a desk typing out orders and invoices.

You smooth out the dress and look at yourself in the mirror. Is it too short? The hem falls on your mid-thigh, covered in see-through black pantyhose.

You turn and run your hands over your backside. It’s okay, not too short.

Your phone rings once before it stops completely. Javier. You told him to call and let the phone ring once to let you know when he’s downstairs at six. You look at the clock. He’s five minutes early.

Your heart starts to slam against your ribs. You blot lipstick on your lips and rub your finger against them to spread the red more evenly. You check your purse for the umpteenth time since you packed it right after work.

You step into your black pumps, giving your posture a boost. You check your necklace in the mirror last, the chain empty against your chest. You really should find a fitting pendant for it. To replace the one your mom had but lost right after your grandpa died.

You turn your keys in the lock and as soon as your door clicks, nerves spike.

“It’s an agreement, nothing more,” you repeat to the irrational side of your brain that keeps telling you that you’re going out on a date.

A pungent, odd smell drifts to your nose as you pass your neighbor’s door. That same irrational voice says you forgot to wear deodorant. No, you didn’t, as you smell your pits. And it also doesn’t smell like sweat, more like some heavy duty cleaning product. It must be your neighbor. There’s some pumping, 70’s disco music playing in his apartment and the vacuum cleaner is on, clanking against the wall closest to the corridor.

A buzzing wall scone illuminates the corridor in dim yellow, leaving the stairs dark until another, flickering wall scone welcomes you into its sepia toned embrace at the bottom of the stairs. You take steps carefully down, holding onto the handrailing with your dear life, your feet getting used to the high heels after wearing sneakers for months.

You can’t even remember the last time you wore heels. This time it’s appropriate. The restaurant Javier has reserved your table at is a fancier one, right outside of town. You’ve never dined there, but you once delivered a cake there for the 60th birthday party of the richest family in town. You’re not sure whose birthday it was, but the place looked dressy.

The steps descend into darkness and your legs turn into cement. You have to stop and hold your hand against the wall for a moment. The light at the bottom of the stairs doesn’t illuminate this far and the narrow window on top of the door is a joke at letting in light. Though there’s no natural light left anyway. Evening and twilight have already fallen.

It’s not the dark that holds you in place. It’s the voice in your head. The irrational one, the one that likes to live in a fantasy from time to time. The one that made up all the images of a soulmate who you’d buy a traditional home with and where you’d have a mantelpiece filled with family photos.

The one that made you wake up with a smile on your lips when it was barely morning because you dreamt about Javier. In the dream you were sitting next to him, and you were happy. You knew he was the one. When reality finally caught up with you, you were horrified of what your mind had concocted in your sleep.

This time the voice likes to remind you that you’re going out on a date. When you get down the stairs and open the door, Javier is going to be standing next to his car and there’ll be no turning back. You’re pretending something that will hold meaning to some people and others won’t bat an eye.

You shut that voice down immediately. You’re only helping each other out, taking care of a joined problem and that’s it. No matter what people think or don’t think, you’ll be done with this act immediately after Abigail and Noah’s wedding.

You can go back to normal. You can forget it ever happened even when people would ask why you two parted ways. It will probably give you some good, shared laughs with Javier every once in a while, when you bump into each other around town or if he happens to come and pick up something for his dad from the bakery.

You take a deep breath and take the steps down. Under the flickering wall scone you tell the voice that it’s not a date. You’re just seeing each other to get the ball rolling. People have to see you two in public so your scam will be more believable. That’s all it is, and that’s all it’s going to be.

You open the door. Javier isn’t next to his car like you thought he would. He’s standing behind the door, a palette of emotions running over his face at once. Surprise, calm, nervousness? Until his eyes take you in by looking you up and down from your eyes to your dress to your pantyhose glad legs to your shoes and back up again to your eyes, settling on a soft smirk.

“I was going to ring the doorbell,” he points at the buzzer with his thumb, your name written with bulky letters on a sticker.

“Sorry, I had to make sure I had everything.”

“That’s fine!” He stands still, in front of you, a sudden silence filling you with awkwardness.

“Well…” And you laugh a short laugh, one that could be mistaken for a confused ‘huh’.

“Ready?” Javier melts into action, letting you walk out of the doorway.

“Yeah, let me just lock this.” He waits patiently for you to lock the door behind you. He’s hovering again. You see him from the corner of your eye, his black boots that shine dimly under the streetlights.

He’s not wearing jeans, as you somehow thought he would. He’s in dark slacks, his white shirt a crisp contrast to the shirts he usually wears. He opens the truck door for you, and waits patiently for you to get in.

He offers you his hand when you’re about to take support of the car door to sit on the worn leather of the front seat. You smile and take it, his skin burning hot against your warmth, gentle yet firm as he holds it until you��re in.

You try to smooth the hem of your dress under you, but it’s already in place. The leather imprints against the backs of your thighs, the only saving factor is your pantyhose, keeping your skin from sticking to the seat that gets toasty from body heat in no time.

Javier waits for a car to pass until he hops in on the driver’s seat.

“You got your car back,” he says, the lights on his truck flashing on the rear of your car.

“I got it the day after we went to the garage. Apparently, Gary had to send his son to pick up the battery from Laredo.” You still made sure to personally tip only Gary. Rick wasn’t getting any of it. No matter how it was a favor for Javier and Gary was adamant in following through, you couldn’t leave without paying something.

“Good.” Another silence falls between you two.

Javier drives in a way that is secure, even on the darkest roads, where the only sweeping light illuminated against the asphalt is from the headlights. He’s relaxed. His other elbow rests on the open window where warm wind blows in at the comfortable speed he’s driving. His other arm lays against his thigh, yet both his hands are on the steering wheel. He knows these roads. He has driven them countless times over the years.

The restaurant is like a mirage in the distance. It appears through the dark with a golden haze. Javier fixes his back against the leather seat the closer you get. Your heart rate spikes when he parks the truck in the far end of the small parking lot, full of cars.

Cicadas chirp as the engine shuts off, your door towards the solitude of night. He’s out the door before you’ve opened your seatbelt buckle, and he opens the door for you just as you lay your hand to open it yourself. His white shirt illuminates against the restaurant lighting, working as a safety barrier between you and the vast emptiness where there’s nothing else than miles of farming land.

He's still not saying anything, neither do you. Your mind is blank, and the only sound that echoes in your ears are your matched footsteps. Your heels click and his boots scuff every few steps against the ground. The sound of the cicadas drifts off the further away you get from the tall grass and bushes.

The hem of your dress caresses against the back of your thighs until there’s another feeling. It’s very soft, barely there, but it’s still there, on the small of your back. Javier’s hand. It’s not intrusive or forced, but careful and measured. His fingers drag lightly against you when he pulls his hand back to open the door for you and let you walk into the restaurant first.

“Welcome to the Velvet Fig, how can I help you tonight?” A chipper, blonde woman asks, her hair in perfect curls and her teeth as white as the pressed tablecloths.

“I have a reservation, under Peña.” You stand next to him clutching your purse in your hands. You scratch the fabric with the nail of your thumb, standing with your back straight and a tingling in your lower back.

Javier’s arm is almost against yours, still far enough that you’d need to lean towards him if you wanted to truly press against him, but still close enough that the hair on your arm is standing still and reaching for the feel of him. The hostess runs her finger along the page of her reservation book, taps it twice and then lifts her face to smile at the two of you.

“This way Mr. Peña.” She takes two menus with her and leads you through the restaurant. Javier lets you go first, following behind you. You get the same sense of him as you did when you met him for the first time.

His warmth radiates towards you, like you’re attracting it, and he’s happy to make you feel it. It makes you aware of him, almost hyper aware of how close he is and how he follows each of your steps with his own, matching them so he won’t step on your heels.

You catch someone’s eye as you walk past them. An older lady with graying hair. She’s possibly with her husband, who is sawing through a well-cooked steak. She observes you from your head to the hem of your dress. If she was wearing pearls, she’d clutch them.

The judgmental look in her eyes is enough to give you a few extra inches of confidence and you smile sweetly at her with a little head tilt, passing her by without giving her a second thought. The whole restaurant is full of people like her. Older couples. People with money. People who will look at you down the bridges of their noses, giving you a mental score to decide how deserving you’re to be in here.

“Here you go,” the hostess presents a round booth table for you and Javier at the far end of the restaurant. It’s quiet here, even with the other booths full. A small bouquet of red roses sit in a small vase in the middle of the table, a candle in a frosty glass candle holder next to it. Javier waits for you to get seated before he slides in from the other side.

The velvet of the seat catches against your pantyhose, and you try to fix your dress the best you can in the narrow space. The hostess places the menus in front of you on the table and claps her hands together gently, to not draw attention to herself with a loud noise.

“A waiter is going to come take your drink orders in a few minutes.” Her pleasant attitude is so well crafted that you could almost believe that’s what she’s like when she takes off her black pencil skirt, high heels, and white little collared blouse.

You’ve seen her before though.

She has come to the bakery a couple of times. You never forget the faces of those who complain. She didn’t see you at first, but you sure heard her laughing about how she would’ve added more butter to the brioche and made the brownies cakier than fudgier if the bakery was hers.

She also found some big words to critique your choice of opening hours, thinking the bakery would do better if it stayed open until late in the evening since no one can come in during the day like she did, right before closing, while looking at the empty shelves and discounted brown paper bags with the last bread rolls in them. Luckily she’s not in charge of your business.

“Thank you,” both you and Javier say at the same time, immediately locking eyes right after. The hostess leaves, and so does your confidence. Once again, you’re in a game against Javier, the game of who breaks under pressure first. He looks at you with unblinking eyes. They’re honey dipped in the warm mood lighting, almost melting in the way he’s keeping you nailed to your seat.

“I don’t know why, but I’m nervous,” you throw the towel in immediately. You can’t win against this guy, you don’t even have a chance. A smile appears slowly at first, from the corners of his eyes, until it breaks through and spreads onto his lips.

“Me too, this isn’t something I do often.” He smooths his hand against the tablecloth and brings the folded thick cotton napkin closer to you.

“Fake date women to keep people from asking too many questions about your personal life?” You crack the joke and immediately regret it when he turns his attention back to you with a smile on his face, but seriousness in his eyes.

“No, take women out on dates.” A vague sound that resembles an “ah” comes out of your mouth as his answer strips you of any other words. What can you even say when his answer sounds like a lie. Or at least if you look at Javier, it seems impossible that he wouldn’t be going out on dates. A thought crosses your mind. Maybe, just maybe him ditching his bride at the altar had another reason entirely.

“You mean… You’ve…” Your slow words make his brows get a quizzical arch in them. You have to clear your throat and make sure no one else will hear you.

There was a guy once who you had a crush on. You had just started college and he sat next to you in one of your classes. You once asked to borrow a pen from him, he once asked to see your notes from the previous class that he had missed.

Since then you became friendly, your thoughts racing ahead of you a million miles an hour. Once, when you were having lunch in the cafeteria, there was another guy who came to sit with you. Andrew and Christopher, Andy and Chris for short. They tried to be subtle, but the sentences they finished for each other and them sitting like they were glued together only told you that Chris was off the market. The last you heard they live in San Francisco now.

“I totally get it if you’re trying to hide and I would never let anyone know…” you whisper to Javier, almost apologetic he has to be in a position like this with you.

“What?” He leans closer to you, clearly not catching onto what you’re trying to imply with your unsaid words.

“If you’re… you know…” A waiter walks past your table with a big, expensive looking wine bottle in hand. You lower your voice even more. “Gay?” Your voice is barely above a whisper, protective of his privacy and secret already. He leans back, stares at you, and then breaks into a rich baritone laugh. He finally looks away with his cheeks tinting pink in the low lighting.

“No,” Javier breathes out the word between chuckles and shakes his head. “I’m not gay, I just haven’t been out on dates. With anyone.”

Your mouth goes dry. “Oh, fu—” you break the curse word with a light exhale as the waiter briskly appears from the shadows.

“Good evening, I’m Jonathan and I’m going to be your waiter this evening.” He smiles at you both and whips out a little notepad and a pen. You reach for the glass in front of you, ready to take a sip of anything to make the sandpaper feel of your tongue go away. It’s empty.

Javier eyes at the motion from the corner of his eye. “If you haven’t had time to look at the menus yet, you can find the drinks on the last page, and I can tell you about some cocktail options as well if you’re interested?”

“We’ll start with a bottle of water, thank you. Would you like some wine?” Javier asks, the pink on his skin settling down.

“Rosé?” Your voice is begging for some moisture.

“And a glass of your best rosé for my date,” Javier orders effortlessly. Jonathan writes it down swiftly, already a seasoned veteran in his job even though his skin is still smooth and there’s a boyish twinkle in his eyes.

“Water for the table and a rosé for the lady, I’ll be back in a moment.” He leaves just as smoothly as he appeared.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to make assumptions, I just thought I had put two and two together and… I’m sorry, it also wouldn’t be my place to even know if you were,” you ramble while your palms start to sweat.

The gentle smile on Javier switches to his eyes narrowing while getting stuck on words that start the game up again. The way he listens to you, intense and all his focus on you, makes you shut up. He doesn’t care that Jonathan comes back with a thick glass bottle of water in one hand, which he places on the table next to the flowers, and a tall wine glass in his other hand, which he places in front of you.

You smile at him while Javier’s acknowledgement is mostly just a quick side look and a quiet “thank you”, that he says to you rather than the server. It doesn’t take too much investigating to know what exactly he heard between your words.

“You had put two and two together, huh?” There’s no backing out now.

“There’s something I heard…” He’s somehow even closer now, leaning his forearm against the table, crowding you with his broad shoulders, his smell that’s somewhere between leather, soap and cigarette smoke and his voice that’s still ringing in your ears.

To some his presence could be intimidating. It could make them cower, make them lose their own voice and submit to him. Yet when you sit next to him, you don’t get the urge to back down. You see the softness in his jaw, the curiosity that twinkles somewhere in the smooth crow’s feet next to his eyes, in how he patiently waits for you to keep on going no matter what it is.

“Abigail said something about you almost getting married?” Javier’s sudden, but subtle inhale is an answer in itself. He turns from you and busies himself pouring water for you and for himself.

“So that’s what was bothering you in the car the other day.” He doesn’t even look at you. It’s only an observation.

He most likely saw how relieved it made you to say it out loud after holding onto questions you know you’re not going to get answers to anytime soon. He’s a brick wall and he’s not going to say another word.

“Should I know something, so I won’t be blindsided with whatever people tell me?” If you’re still playing the game you two have been unconsciously playing, you’re winning by heaps. This game just seems awfully unfair and not something you’ll celebrate winning.

“You already have something on your mind?” The cold look on his face could shut up anyone.

“What happened between you and her, your ex-fiancée?” Javier lifts his chin almost in defiance. He breathes through his mouth, his lower lip puffing out under the now well-groomed mustache. Then he looks at you, crowds your personal bubble again.

He holds his arm over the back of the velvet couch you’re both sitting on. His eyes are unfocused just past you, his thoughts taking him back to another time in his life. To another version of him.

“We had a rough patch for a few months because of a job I applied for, and we were talking about splitting up. She told me she was pregnant and that changed everything.” His voice is monotonous, like he’s reading a script.

Then his eyes focus on you and a mirthless little smile invades his face with pain. You’re instinctively ready to plant your palm against his cheek, to let him lean on you for a moment. You press your hands together tighter to keep yourself from exploring that action.

“We were going to get married, until the night before the wedding when she told me she made it up. She was holding out hope I would still marry her but we both knew that wasn’t going to happen. I left, she stayed, life moved on.”

“Where did you go then?”

“I took a job in Colombia.”

“Tell me about it,” you urge him without a pause.

His shoulders stiffen instantly. He takes you in, watches you with unblinking eyes, and like he gets zapped by an electric shock, he notices how close he is to you.

As he pulls himself slowly away from you, the first thing you notice is how the heat from his body leaves you as well.

Then it’s his breath from his parted lips that doesn’t blow gently against your face anymore.

Then it’s his smell.

His arm slides against the back of the dark velvet of your seating, his hand against the thick tablecloth.

Then, it’s his knee. When he pulls the last few inches of his body away from you, his knee leaves yours under the table. It was a steady pressure, a connection of clothed skin against clothed skin, yet it was branding you hot.

You hadn’t even noticed it until now when it’s gone. Almost like his knee had always pressed against yours under tables, in secret but still in plain sight if you knew what you were supposed to look for.

Your knee cools fast, even in the comfortable warmth of the restaurant.

Last, he turns his face from you. You’re sensitive to the loneliness next to him when he shuts himself off from you. Milliseconds tick away and each gives your brain a jolt of restlessness.

You’d want to reach your hand out, not necessarily to even touch him, but to get closer to him. Not for your sake, but his.

The hurt he doesn’t want to talk about hangs heavily over him and the longer he’s quiet, shut away from you, the likelier it is that the topic is off limits. Never something for you to know about, or something for you to even ask about. It’s a hard line and he’s drawing it in the sand.

Jonathan strolls in, breaking the tension in the air.  “Have you had time to decide on the menu options or would you like me to tell you about our specials?” You scramble to open your menu and straighten your back, fixing a smile on your face to tell him that he’s not disrupting anything. The worry in his eyes calms instantly.

“What are the specials?” You ask him just as Javier takes the menu in his hands, opens it slowly and drifts back to the present moment.

Jonathan starts to repeat a list of dishes from his little note pad, pointing at each with his pen. The ingredients and options fly right through your ears, and nothing sticks to the Teflon of your understanding.

You nod your head while reading the menu at the same time, hyper aware of Javier’s tight jaw and presence next to you, heavily pressing against your right side. He wants to say something, but Jonathan is still reading the list he has written down.

“I’ll have the pasta, please,” you tell him before he can start with the desserts.

“The lemon and shrimp pasta?” Jonathan raises his brows, his pen immediately ready to write.

“Sure!” You smile, only remembering hearing the word pasta, but not any of the other ingredients.

”Steak for me, medium rare, please,” Javier shuts the menu and hands it to the server.

“Anything else you’d like?”

“We’re waiting for that rosé we ordered?” Jonathan’s face flashes bright red, immediately going back to his notepad and finding the right ticket.

“I’m so extremely sorry, I’ll be back with it right away.” He ducks his head low and speedwalks away.

“You don’t have to know more about Colombia than what you’ve probably already heard from people and their big mouths,” Javier’s low voice mumbles as he turns back to you.

It’s deep enough to vibrate into your ears and send shivers down from the back of your neck to the small of your back. There’s an intensity in his eyes that melts immediately when he sees you run your necklace between your fingers and the wide-eyed shock as he’s suddenly talking to you again.

The assumption hits you like a slap across your face. “I haven’t heard anything, just that Chucho’s son is back in town. How would I have known the guy I met at a party would be him? Or that he’d ask me to fake date him so people wouldn’t ask questions? And you really think I go around seeking gossip and making decisions about others based on those?” The words flow fast and sting in the back of your throat as you try to calm the odd tension between you two.

Jonathan flies in with a fancy full bottle of wine in his hand and another tall glass between his fingers.

“As compensation we’d like to offer you a free glass of wine, if that’s okay. I’m incredibly sorry I forgot to bring this earlier.” His boyish features carry shame in a self-deprecating way that manages to zap even more energy into your annoyance.

“Yes, thank you.” The smile on your face is tight, but you can’t let the irritation spill into your voice. Javier is still sitting turned towards you. His figure relaxes. His arms visibly lose their hard stiffness even in the corner of your eye.

You don’t have enough patience for tantrums from a man who you’re on a pretended first date with. Instead, you watch Jonathan pour the rosé into the tall, high-rimmed glasses. The drink flows in like the time has slowed down, your questions to Javier hanging between you two. Yet Jonathan doesn’t seem to notice or care that now his presence isn’t welcomed. You want to hear what Javier has to say.

“I’m sorry,” Javier says immediately when Jonathan is out of earshot. He takes a deep breath and taps the fingers of his right hand against the table. “I’ve been…”

“Your dinner will be served shortly.” Jonathan comes back once more with utensils and places them onto your napkins.

“Thank you,” you repeat in unison with Javier, relieved Jonathan leaves. The whole restaurant is booming with chatter, your conversation with Javier staying under the volume. You take a deep breath and take a sip of your wine.

“Good?” The sweeter notes hide the first signs of dryness in the warm pink wine, until they spread around your tongue like a blanket.

“Good,” you answer and set the glass down. You turn towards Javier as well, finding him once again closer than you expected. “What were you about to say?” He bows his head down and shakes his head lightly.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me something that I don’t want to talk about since I took you to town earlier and you still managed to surprise me.” He calculates each word, his voice slow and soft, each word following each other in a careful manner.

Slowly they bring out his confidence again. His knee taps against yours and then settles there. This time you’re sensitive to the feel of him, unexpected and still completely expected from him to use his body to ground you.

“You’re welcome?” The bite in your tone has shifted into sarcasm. The wine spreads warmth through you. Your second sip gently relaxes you in the moment.

“People like to talk here, that’s how they’ve always been and will always be. I’m sorry that I was too much in my own head to give you the benefit of the doubt.” He’s sincere. It’s obvious from his unwavering eye contact and the determination that has settled between his brows.

He leans slowly against the back of the couch. His other arm rises naturally behind you, to rest on the velvet. He’s taking up his space while still making your little booth a bubble just for the two of you. He’s not demanding you to be in it, he’s also not forcing you to even stay still with your knees knocked together, yet here you are, with no intention to move.

“Now I know you haven’t dated anyone in a while.”

Him sitting like that, relaxed and his attention on you and your words, in the nervous tick of you touching the minimal links of your necklace, gives you enough confidence to bring the conversation back to something that surprised you as well. He chuckles. It’s an action he might not do too often as he hides his smile by looking away from you.

“How did you know about this place then, if you’ve never been here before?” He brings himself back to you and leans forward. You don’t know how he does it, but once again he’s closer. So much closer. He drops his left hand behind you onto the seat, and the length of his arm presses across your back, like an extra support.

“See that man over there?” He pointedly looks at a table in the middle of the room, the same one where the judgmental woman was sitting earlier. She has left and has been replaced by a much younger woman in a tight top and her hair in a perfect updo with strategic flyways curled on her temples and the back of her neck.

Across from her sits a man with salt and pepper hair and a body that is wide and round. He smiles at the woman who is holding the menu in her hands, an uncomfortable server standing next to them with her notepad open. You don’t hear them, but you can imagine the man urging his date to order anything she wants from the list, while she’s struggling to make a decision between a salad or fries to go along with her rib eye. You nod your head and lean your ear a little closer to Javier. He inhales right next to it and breathes out so slowly that the air gets trapped between you two. He does it without tickling your ear.

“He caught his ex-wife cheating while he was away on some cruise with his girlfriend. Guess who won the court case because the judge knew him in school and is now flaunting his alimony to make the ex-wife jealous.”

“You serious?” Javier hasn’t fallen far from the tree of this town.

“Yeah. Little does he know the ex is going to sue him for the alimony and will most likely win because he has been hiding his assets. Or that’s at least what people have been saying, because he comes here every week with the girlfriend.”

“You know what?” The younger woman gives her menu back to the server, and she folds her hands under her chin. The innocent move with the smile she has on her face is so rehearsed that the performance could be from a low budget movie that gets people talking for about a week because of the age difference between the actors and then everyone will forget about it.

You turn to look at Javier, your noses only inches away from each other. You can count every pore on his face, the deep brown of his eyes like burnt candy, aware of your proximity before you even focused on him, his attention on you like it had never even left.

“You’re a great gossip,” you say jokingly, but not really joking.

“Ugh,” he gasps out a chuckle and turns back to the other guests with a shake of his head. “You can thank my dad for that, he always tells me what’s going on around town. I don’t really care what people are doing unless someone I know is involved.”

“Have you heard any juicy rumors about someone you know lately?” Curiosity takes over.

“You,” he says, almost proud when you whip back to him with your eyes wide.

“Me?”

“Yeah, a little bird tells me you’re seeing Javier Peña.”

“Oh great, haha, very funny.”

“That’s what I’ve heard.”

“Wait, are you serious? People are actually talking about us?”

“Yes,” Javier laughs. “And now they’ll be talking even more.”

“How would you know?” You bring your wine glass to your lips. A couple of tables over is a woman, probably in her forties, who stares at you two intently.  She looks like someone who you’ve seen at the bakery before too, but you can’t remember her name.

With a jolt she notices you’ve caught her, and she immediately looks away. A few tables from hers a couple of older people are both looking at you from the corners of their eyes, shamelessly whispering to each other every once in a while, while still watching you. Have these people been watching this the whole time you’ve been sitting here, or did they just start?

“This place has a reputation. If you want others to know about your status or you just want to be seen, you come here, and everyone will be talking about it in a few days if the gossip’s juicy enough.” Javier explains into your ear.

“And the note trick, at the bakery? You knew that as well”

“Outsiders will always want to know what a note says if it’s given to someone visibly enough to make it seem like a botched attempt at trying to be sneaky.”

“You know awful lot about things like that,” you wonder out loud while you scan the whole restaurant. Your eyes sweep past someone very familiar.

“Abigail and Noah are here,” you whisper to Javier, and smile at him. He catches on immediately.

Even though you’re not looking at her anymore, you can still sense her eyes drilling into you. She’s making your date with Javier something that’s forbidden. You can already hear her voice in your head tell you off for not cancelling the date even after her warnings about him being untrustworthy.

“Like I said, this place has a reputation. Some people come here just to see what they could talk about for the next week.” he says into your ear. His breath tickles against your skin. So, she’s here to check if you’re really going out with Javier. Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe she’ll let her obsession of you finding a date for the wedding go and she won’t bat an eye when you show up there with a date who she hasn’t chosen for you.

“Relax. They might be watching us, but we don’t have to care about any of them.” As soon as he says it, any of them, you notice that it’s not just a couple of people who have noticed you. It’s everyone.

Some are more discreet, hide their prying eyes into checking the time on their wrist watches or hiding behind their hands as they fix their hair. The booth you’re sitting in might be by the back wall, in the dim lighting, but it doesn’t mean that you would be invisible to others. On the contrary, it seems like you’re sitting at the perfect spot for others to see you two sitting almost skin to skin, his arm behind you, still pressing against your back and giving you something to lean on when the dread hits.

This isn’t about a date for a wedding anymore. This is something that will follow you to the bakery, to grocery shopping trips, to the post office. The only ones who will stay in the dark are people who don’t live in your town, and even those who might hear rumors but won’t understand who are the two who have now apparently found each other. This was supposed to be simple, an arrangement so the people who won’t get off your backs about a date would stop talking. Now, everyone else will be doing the talking instead.

“Why are they all so nosey?” You try not to show distaste on your face with the question. You still have to school your nose and upper lip to stop wrinkling.

“Maybe they’re bored,” Javier questions out loud, sounding like he has thought about this before too. “Or then it’s because it’s you and it’s me. They know me well enough, they know my history. Do they know yours?” It’s a genuine question which you don’t know the answer to.

“I’ve lived here for years now, I shouldn’t be a stranger.”

“Maybe not, but you’re not from here either.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“No,” Javier laughs, almost too obvious for him to even answer you. He shakes his head and a smirk settles onto his lips that makes the other side of his smile crook up bringing out a playfulness that tells you this isn’t the first time he has used his knowledge to create such scenarios where you’re at. He knows the patterns and details, he knows how to get under people’s skin. Most importantly, he knows how to use those details to his benefit.

“You’re enjoying this aren’t you?” You ask him genuinely curious to know what’s going on inside his head. He doesn’t hide it either, the mischievous glint in the burnt amber of his eyes that are searching for your reactions every second as you take in the situation you’re in.

“It beats the sweaty farm work.” You can’t help but laugh and he joins you.

“Can I ask you something?” the laughter ripples into gentle smiles where you try to hide your fear he’ll lock himself away from you again. He waits, still relaxed, not showing any signs of pulling away from you this time.

“In Colombia,” you pause to see how he responds. He swallows and breathes out a long breath, all the air from his lungs, but still refuses to leave you stranded. “What did you do there? What were you working on?”

“You really haven’t heard?” He asks instantly. His brows dip lower and his eyes narrow. His knee is locked against yours.

“No, I haven’t.”

“What are you thinking I did there then?” Flipping the question to you.

“Hmmm,” you sigh out and lean back a little. His arm presses against your back almost like he’s making sure that you won’t fall off the couch even though there’s no risk of that happening. Or then he’s keeping you from moving away too much.

You look at him, truly look at him. You’ve seen him before too, but those have been times when it has almost been like watching him through a curtain. You’ve been too afraid to show him that you’re truly seeing him for who he is.

The face is a given. All the freckles from staying out in the sun for long, the gold flecked eyes, the well-trimmed mustache, the plushy lips that are about to crack into a wider smile as he watches you watch him. The thick arches of his brows and the lines between them from frowning tell you he has spent a long time stressed, even worried. His tanned skin is another.

But then there’s the strong neck, the chest that wants to peek through the neckline of his button-down, his wide shoulders that protect and support, the strength of his biceps bulging through the cotton of his shirt. He turns his head a little and his nose reminds you of those roman historical figures you read about in school. He’s fit, but in the way that he does a lot of physical activities, rather than hitting the gym seven times a week.

“I honestly don’t know. You could work in IT based on your extensive shirt collection, maybe an engineer of some sort, or then you were, I don’t know, in military? You seem disciplined enough.” He actually laughs at that, and it pulls you back in. He sighs, mutters “disciplined enough, hmmm,” to himself and watches you, in similar manner as you did him.

It’s impossible for you to decipher what he sees when he looks at you like that, with his eyes a little squinted, slowly moving from one part of your face to the next, looking at your hair, then down your neck, to the necklace, and down still, moving quickly past your chest to stop at your middle and the hem of your dress that rests high up your pillowy thighs.

He’s kind with his observations. You could easily fall into insecurity and unease, but he makes sure he’s soft with his expression and how he handles you while you’re sitting so close to him.

“I think I’ve heard a joke somewhere, about a baker and an ex-DEA agent walking into a restaurant…” You immediately tut at him and almost roll your eyes too, shaking your head, when he takes your wrist into his hand and presses gently, forcing you to focus.

“That’s why they care, because of the life I’ve lived somewhere else, the people I’ve come to contact with.” His answer makes the sarcasm drift off from your answer to him. He’s not joking. The hand on your wrist stays, but it forces you to take in the information he has given you.

“So you were…” How do you even ask someone about a life that included, maybe still does, so much danger. He finally looks away, to his hand locked around your skin. “You were in Colombia working as a DEA agent?”

“Yes.”

Of course you’ve seen the news over the years, about cartels and drugs. Of drug lords and the complicated power play people have had to play either as outsiders or as participants.

No wonder people were talking about Javier coming back home after everything that went down there. The whole town must be proud of him. He looks up, through his lashes, somehow the light in his eyes darker.

The people in town, even in this restaurant, might feel proud of him, but the look in his eyes tells a different story. The others might put him on a pedestal, see him as a hero of some sort. He disagrees.

“You want to ask me about it?”

“Do you want me to?” it’s not your choice or decision. He has to be the one to tell you about it, in his own time, if he ever feels comfortable enough.

“Not now,” Javier straightens his back and lifts his chin, his eyes following something.

“Okay!” Jonathan strolls back in just as you turn to look at what Javier was already following. “The pasta for the lady,” he places the plate with steaming fettuccine pasta topped with parsley, thin lemon slices and fat shrimps in front of you.

“And here’s the steak, medium rare,” Jonathan turns the plate in front of Javier, the piece of meat glistening in the low lighting, green beans and a creamy dollop of mashed potatoes next to it, a quenelle of what looks like seasoned butter melting over it.

“Thank you,” you repeat at the same time with Javier again, like little kids trained to say the right words at the right times. Jonathan nods and sweeps past your table, head held high like an ostrich looking around with its tall neck. He observes his surroundings and immediately moves faster when an older man’s hand raises up a couple of tables over.

You follow Javier’s lead in taking your cutlery in your hands and twirl pasta around the fork. It’s salty, tangy, a little sweet, and the shrimp comes through with a fishy meatiness that you wouldn’t have missed until at the last moment.

Javier eats slowly, enjoying each bite, forcing you to pace yourself as well. If you were alone, and at home, you would probably listen to the rumble in your stomach and be done with the plate in a record amount of time.

While you eat, you forget about the others around you. There’s only you and Javier. The silence between you two is comfortable, almost soothing you to forget about your friend sitting on the other side of the restaurant with her fiancé, still keeping an eye on you and your every move.

Javier is cutting a piece off his steak when the knife slows down in thought. You help more pasta in your mouth when he sets his cutlery down completely and reaches for his wine glass. Now Abigail’s observing eyes aren’t the only ones you can feel on you.

“You asked me questions, I think it’s fair if I ask you something as well.” He’s calm and collected, while you nod with your mouth full. You wipe some of the sauce from the corner of your mouth hastily and try to chew so he doesn’t have to wait for an answer for long. You’re an open book, whatever he asks, it can’t be worse than what you asked him.

“You wanted to know if there’s something you could be blindsided with. Is there anything like that I should know about you?” There’s a last little bit of pasta waiting between your teeth and you stop chewing immediately when you hear his question.

Maybe you were being a little naïve, thinking he’d ask something specific about where you grew up or how you ended up in this town, how you met Abigail or how your bakery came to be. An open-ended question like his, it makes your thoughts spiral out of control. Your fingers reach for your necklace, and you can’t look at him.

“Uhh,” you mumble when your mouth is finally empty. “I’ve never dated anyone before.” It seems like the safest answer. His eyes are fixed on your necklace, until they’re not. Disbelief settles on the lines between his brows.

“You’re joking.” He’s not even asking, only stating his disbelief.

“There just hasn’t been anyone who was special enough. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve gone out on dates but those have never evolved into anything more serious.” Javier huffs out a breath at your answer.

“What?”

“Seems hard to believe you would’ve never dated anyone.”

“Well, you better start believing.” The song with the similar lyrics starts playing in your head. He shakes his head, and then focuses back on your hand that’s still playing with the golden chain against your chest.

“That’s a beautiful necklace.”

“Oh, thanks!” You press it against your skin with your palm.

“Has someone given it to you?” You blink at him, head emptying immediately. You try to smile but have tears pricking at your eyes instead.

“From my mom.” Your voice is eerily steady, so much steadier than you usually would have it.

“It must be special then?” Javier’s voice drops. His observing nature doesn’t miss the change in your mood or the way you look away from him. Your hand drops to your lap, but your throat is filling with heaviness.

“Yeah,” you manage to choke out before you clear it. There hasn’t been a moment when Javier’s presence would’ve been too intense, too observant or too close. Yet now he’s too close.

The knee against yours is still pulling you in like a magnet and the pressure is too deep. His watchful eyes see too much, and you have nowhere to hide. Your discomfort is too palpable that even you’d want to get away from it.

You force yourself to pick up the fork and collect the last pieces of pasta onto it. You put it in your mouth and chew slowly in hopes of getting your throat to understand there’s no reason to be afraid. Javier won’t push it. If he would, he already would’ve done it.

He sits silently next to you, his hand resting on his thigh. You focus on it and the way his fingers curl against the dark fabric of his slacks. His knuckles are only a fraction of an inch away from your thigh. Luckily he doesn’t reach you.

“Are the toilets where?” You turn to him suddenly, catching him off guard. The gentle sadness on his face could break your heart if you weren’t so determined to leave for a moment. He’s sensitive to you, how you want to physically get away from his questions.

“It’s fine, she is living a good life. Sometimes I miss her. I… I’m sorry if I’m being weird about it but I don’t think about her that often really. We are doing our own thing.” You’re sensitive to him as well. You can’t leave him hanging or give him the impression that something is completely wrong with you or your mom.

“Okay,” he nods, accepting anything from you at this point.

“The toilets?” You ask again and he looks past you.

“I think they’re behind the corner there,” he points a finger towards the host’s table. You smile at him, a reassurance that you’re okay, before you make your way to the ladies room.

There’s no one else in the small toilet. Two stalls with open doors and a sink with a round mirror on the wall make you sigh out long. Your eyes sting with salty tears, so does your nose. You lock yourself in one of the stalls and take a wad of toilet paper from the dispenser, dapping at your under eyes frantically to not make the tears smudge your mascara. You take deep breaths in and blow them out slowly through your mouth.

The door to the toilet opens and closes. Heels click against the tiled floor. The woman on the other side of the stall opens the faucet and water starts splashing against the ceramic bowl. The normalcy of the action, even when you can’t see the other person, calms your racing memories. You dry the last remnants of wetness from your cheeks and flush the toilet paper.

Abigail is turned towards you when you open the stall door.

“What did he do?” She asks immediately when she sees you. You stand in the doorway, unable to move. This is the first time you’re talking since you last saw her at her house. What she said still stings, how she thinks Javier is using you and you’ll only be a conquest for him. Little does she know you’re both using each other and not for what she thinks.

“Nothing, I’ve just been a bit stressed.” You walk past her to the sink and start washing your hands in the running water. When you turn the faucet off, Abigail’s attempted calm breaths sound too loud in your ears.

“Please be honest with me. He clearly hurt you someway already, proving my point.” She places her hand on your shoulder and the too sweet look in her eyes, too much empathy, wipes away any sincerity she might’ve otherwise had on her face.

You shake your head and wipe your fingertips along your lower lash line. Your reflection in the mirror looks decent still, the tears haven’t turned your eyes red, and your makeup is still intact.

“Abigail,” you turn to her and look at her in the eyes. “He didn’t hurt me. We are having a good time together. I’ve been stressed lately, and it has nothing to do with him.” Your lies seem pretty believable to your ears. If confronting her wasn’t as serious as it now is, you’d be laughing how the last sentence couldn’t be farther from the truth.

“Are you sure? Because it looked like he said something that upset you and I don’t want to see him do that to you.” She rubs her hand against your shoulder, exactly where you’ve had the tight muscle. It’s not comforting for you, instead it makes you tighten your shoulder, and it complains immediately.

“Yes, I’m sure! You don’t have to be worried about me. I love you, but let me handle this on my own, okay?” Abigail sighs and drops her hand. She looks disappointed, almost like she was looking for the juiciest gossip just like Javier said.

“Okay then. But there’ll come a day when you will be hurt by him, and I’ll be there for you when that happens.” She tilts her head, and the empathetic downturn of her eyes almost makes yours roll a complete 360.

“Will you be there for me even when nothing happens?” You ask Abigail. Her empathy resolves into a smile that you’ve come to recognize as insincere. She still looks warm, just like a friend would. But there’s a tightness in her cheeks and the corners of her mouth that makes your alarm bells go off in your gut. You realize why that is. The smile doesn’t reach her eyes, they’re hard and keeping an eye on you. Just like out in the restaurant, when she was watching you and Javier eat.

“Come here,” she coaxes and pulls you in for a hug. You wrap your arms around her and feel her stiff body against yours. “Of course I’ll be here for you, no matter what goes down! You can always count on me.” She squeezes you against her one last time before she lets go but keeps her hands on your shoulders.

“I’ve missed you!” She gushes and shakes you gently. It has always made you laugh when she has done that. Almost like it’s a tradition for her to tell you she has missed you, driving every word home by shaking you by the shoulders. The tension between you to reminds you of the sweet times you’ve had together but you don’t get that sense of relief of someone missing you now.

“I’ve missed you too,” you tell her. For the first time ever it’s only a half truth. There have been times when you’ve missed Abigail a lot, and there have been times now that you’re not as close friends anymore, where you’ve found yourself to be missing her. Saying those words makes unease fall to the pit of your stomach and it stays there. Almost like this is the last time things will be somewhat normal between the two of you.

“Will you be ready soon?” She asks.

“No, I don’t think so.” You try to find smooth mellowness as you walk back into the restaurant hand in hand. “We might order some dessert still.” You tell her. You shouldn’t look at her, but you do and there’s no smile or empathy on her face. Only cold doubt that she tries to hide with a laughed out “aha!”.

“I hope you enjoy the rest of your date night,” you tell her and move to let go of her hand.

“Remember what I told you,” she holds on tight, forcing you to turn to him.

“I’m okay, there’s nothing to worry about.” She nods and lets go.

Javier is watching you when you turn to come back to your table. His eyes follow Abigail as she walks behind you to the opposite direction. When you’re only a few steps away from sitting down, he looks up at you and smirks.

“What was that about?”

“Nothing, she’s worried you’re going to use me.” You scoff and scoot back next to him. Were you really sitting this close to him? Your knees knock together again and stay there. The pressure that radiated against you earlier has disappeared and you easily welcome his physical touch again.

“Is that so?” His eyes linger on your thighs when you fix the hem of your dress after you’ve settled back in your seat.  

“I think you were right. She just wants gossip.” He quickly glances at her, then shakes his head.

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“Where are the plates?” You were almost ready to fix yours up for taking.

“The server got them and offered me this,” Javier gives you the dessert menu bound in dark leather.

“I was just thinking we could get something!” Your enthusiasm about a possible dessert is contagious. He leans closer to see the pages of the little booklet in your lap. You turn it towards him. Javier leans his other hand behind you again. It would be so easy to bend towards him, to make space for yourself against his shoulder. It doesn’t seem right, you don’t know how he’d react. How even you would react.

“Find anything interesting?” He mumbles against your ear. The sound makes you swallow instantly.

“The triple layer chocolate cake sounds interesting.” Heat rises up with chills on the spot where his breath gently tickles your skin.

“I agree.” He signs for Jonathan to come by your table, and he takes the lead naturally. Javier takes the menu from you when you hold it out for him and his back straightens when he speaks with the server, ordering two pieces of cake.

“Actually, let’s share a piece, if that’s okay with you?” You ask Javier. His lips part as he looks at you and his lower lip naturally puffs out.

“I’m fine with that.” He turns back to Jonathan and changes the order. His eyes glint as he looks at you two, a little mischievous edge to them. You’re not sure if Jonathan is from town or from somewhere else, but the knowing look he gives you two is a good indication of your plan working. Maybe you just need to lean into the flirty gestures and weirdness of going out with someone only for show.

Javier turns back to you as Jonathan makes his way to the kitchen. There’s disbelief in the low smirk of his, intrigue in the few smile lines next to his eyes.

“I was looking forward to eating a slice by myself,” he accuses, clearly more offended he didn’t come up with the order on his own, but you outshone him in his own game once again.

“I was thinking, let’s give them all what they want. I can give you more chocolate cake from the bakery any day anyway.”

“I chose wisely. Not everyone has a bakery and access to chocolate cake at all times.” He makes you laugh, genuinely bursting a bubble of restriction and bringing out a sound that starts with gentle giggles and ends with your teeth showing and your eyes scrunching shut for a second.

When you open them, Javier’s smirk has evolved into a gentle smile, almost proud of his success in finding what kind of humor works on you.

“Look,” he begins and brushes his fingers against the lines between his brows, smoothing them. “I didn’t want to overstep with my questions, I’m sorry.” The words hold meaning. How many times have you been apologized to, sincerely? You can’t remember. There are no expectations, only honesty.

“I forgive you.” You let go of the rest of the heaviness. Javier smiles and nods. He moves his hand behind you, so his arm is gently pressed along your back again.  

Jonathan comes back with the chocolate cake. It looks decadent, moist, the layers thick and the filling creamy. There’s a generous dollop of Chantilly cream next to it on the plate. The taste isn’t bad either, even though you would’ve added a little espresso in the cake to bring out the flavors of the chocolate more. It doesn’t matter in the end.

You notice Javier taking a piece and close his eyes for a second after tasting the cake. His spoon hangs from his fingers and he eats slowly, even more so than his dinner.

“You like it?”

“Your chocolate cake has to be a hundred times better than this or I’ll be disappointed we didn’t order that second slice.” Maybe it’s the wine, it most likely is the wine, but you laugh again. He’s milking them from you now, and it’s almost unfair you haven’t managed to make him laugh yet.

The thought freaks you out. You can’t be thinking about making him laugh. This arrangement needs some structure. That way there’s no danger of emotions getting in the way. You can’t get attached.

“What do you say about coming up with some ground rules for our little deal?” You drop your voice. He automatically leans closer and looks around you to make sure no one else hears you two from your little bubble of privacy.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Hand holding is fine, so is cheek kisses. Public touching in general.”

“What about what we’re doing now?” Javier looks between you two, the little proximity you have to each other.

“I think this is fine. Are you okay with it?”

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

“I also want us to have fun. This is a silly thing anyway, no need to make it complicated and weird.” He nods at your words and takes one more bite of the cake. He has left the best part, the middle, for you with plenty of cream still on the plate. “And dancing! We have to dance at the wedding at least.”

“I don’t dance.”

“What! Sure, you do! And even if you didn’t, you can’t be much more helpless than I am.” He blinks slowly and nods, not being able to argue back.

“I have a request…” Javier almost reaches for the water but then decides to go for the wine. He washes the cake down with it while his glass still has plenty left. “I want you to talk to me. Don’t keep things to yourself if something bothers you. We have to be on the same page about things and if we’re not honest, this won’t work.” What a way to bring the silly mood down.

“You’re right,” you can’t deny it. “Okay, so honesty, dancing and physical touch, I think we’ve covered our bases.”

“I agree.” He holds the wine glass in his hand and brings it towards you. Automatically you take yours into your hand as well and go to clink it against his. Javier pulls it back, a little naughty spark lighting his smirk and spiking your nerves.

“Just try not to fall in love with me,” he says under his breath, then clinks his glass against yours. “I could corrupt you.” He drops his chin but never drops his gaze. It stays on you from the shadows of his lashes that line those wickedly dripping, burnt honey eyes.

You clink your glass against his for the second time, surprising him. “You might corrupt me,” you try to match his mood, dropping your chin while mirroring his moves and keep your voice low. “But I won’t be the one falling in love.”

The grin on his face falters, the corner on one side shaking slightly before it falls, revealing something else in the confident exterior. A crack, a hairline fracture in the well-constructed personality of one Javier Peña. The chuckle that you laugh out loud surprises even you, but he immediately joins you, and takes a sip of his drink, now mirroring you.

There’s two bites of the cake left. Carefully you take a spoonful and smother it in cream. You bring it to your mouth and even from that angle you can see some of the whipped Chantilly fall from the edge. Immediately you drop your spoon and lean back against Javier’s arm and check your dress. Of course it landed on the hem. You sigh out a disappointed grunt and push the plate towards him.

“You can have the rest,” you nod towards the cake and take the napkin off the table to clean your dress.

“Wait,” Javier’s voice makes you look up. He stares at the corner of your mouth, almost fixated on it.  With his thumb and forefinger, he brings your cheek against his palm.

It’s the cream, a light and airy dollop of it stuck on your face. Javier reaches his thumb towards your mouth and takes the rest of the cream onto his finger, running the tip of it gently against your lip, more than is necessary.

His eyes are focused on your lips, how you swallow. His mouth opens instinctively with yours. You feel an exhale on your face, a little shaky, sweet from the dessert. Your face burns and your skin prickles with his touch, with him being so close that you can count his lashes.

Like a sudden realization his eyes lock with yours. “Is this okay?” You’re frozen in place, held by him, by his hand and by the dark in his eyes. By his breath and by his smell. By his body and his voice that rings in your ears. You nod, shutting up the voice in your head that is screaming at you that this isn’t just a fake date. It’s a real date.

No, it’s not.

Javier pulls his hand back, leaving you shaken and your skin tingling. You take a sip of your wine, much larger than it needs to be, and the dryness burns in your throat for a moment. You expect him to wipe his thumb on the thick, fancy napkin, but instead, and without a second thought, he brings the tip of his thumb against his lips and licks it clean.

“You can have the rest,” he tells you, pointing at the last piece of the cake. He lifts his hand when Jonathan walks past your table. “Can we have the check, please.” He writes with an invisible pen in the air and the server nods. You eat the last piece and make sure there’s no cream left on your face this time around. It would only be embarrassing if it happened again.

He digs out his wallet from his back pocket, picking out cash while looking at the piece of paper.

“I can pay my half of the bill.” Your purse pops open with a satisfying softness of the magnets separating.

“It’s my treat,” he waves his hand towards you, still focused on reading the bill. With neat handwriting he scribbles the tip amount on the receipt. “You can pay next time.” He looks back up at you when he has attached the money under a small paperweight on the little metallic platter.

“Ready?” He asks and you nod. He lets you scoot out of the booth first and then follows close behind. His hand lands, gently, on the small of your back and guides you to take a detour. You go where he leads you to. It doesn’t surprise you, but it does make you nervous. His hand snakes to take yours in his. His palm heats your skin up instantly, pressing an imprint in your hold.

“What’s little brother doing here, out on a date?” Javier jokes when you slow down and stop right in front of the engaged couple. Noah laughs and grabs Abigail’s hand. She smiles but her eyes are tightly on you and Javier.

“We heard someone might be coming here for a date as well, had to make sure I wasn’t hearing a bunch of hogwash. And here you are,” Noah swoons at you two.

They have dessert plates in front of them, a devoured crème brûlée for him, half a cheesecake still left for Abigail. Her hard eyes travel between you and Javier, up and down, until they focus on your linked hands.

Maybe it’s out of spite, maybe you’re looking for support, maybe it’s the wine giving you a little extra confidence, but you twine your fingers through Javier’s. You look up at him. His hand tightens around yours at the same time as his jaw flexes. He smiles, his shoulders a little more pulled back. He catches you in the corner of his eye. He squeezes his hand once.

“A special girl deserves a special date.” Fire flames against your cheeks immediately and you all laugh. Abigail’s voice is shriller than you’ve ever heard before. Javier squeezes your hand once more, then a second time, like a quiet “this okay?”. You reassure him by squeezing his hand back and lifting your other hand to cradle his bicep in your palm. Abigail notices it immediately.

“You’re coming to Laredo with us, right? All the ones in the wedding party and their partners are coming there for a weekend.” Noah asks. Javier tenses next to you.

“You have a lot of work and stress though, maybe it’s not the best idea.” Abigail opens her mouth immediately, talking for you.

“I think I can spare a weekend.” You smile at her and try not to let the sting of her putting words in your mouth cloud your genuineness. Abigail smiles back, but in that too sweet way to hide whatever she is thinking.

“Good!” Noah looks as excited as ever, his cheeks a little pink and his eyes sparkle in the golden mood lighting.

“We have to get going now, enjoy your desserts.” Javier takes a side step, letting you find your place next to him without having to detach from his arm and hand. With a final “bye!” you let him lead you out of the restaurant. His bicep tightens against your palm.

“Are you flexing your arm?” Javier laughs at the question, slipping away from your reach. Maybe that’s enough of an answer. His hand finally lets go of yours as you get closer to the doors. It effortlessly lands on the small of your back again. A gentle pressure, not invading or forceful, only spreading heat to your back.

“You’re perfect at that, so good.” He murmurs into your ear before he opens the door for you. You smirk up at him as you move past him. The words tickle in your ear, as does the look in his eyes and the smug smile on his face.

[starry-bi-sky]

on a completely separate note; shizun luo binghe with a disciple shen yuan who fell into the abyss??? *thinks about LBH canonically stealing SQQ's corpse for 5 years* he'd hallucinate i think. like, like visual and audial hallucinations.

Keeps thinking he's seeing SQQ in the corner of his eyes, or wandering between the trees, amongst a group of disciples. Thinks he hears him calling for him, but its just the wind or another disciple.

Gets Xiu Ya reforged but patently fucking refuses to make a sword mound. Because his disciple Is Not Dead :))) There was No Body. He's Not Dead. And If You keep Insisting That He Is, He's Gonna Skewer You :). He's holding onto Xiu Ya so he can return his most favored disciple's sword when he returns. It's on his hip right next to Zheng Yang where it's supposed to be.

Also this motherfucker?? does not sleep btw. He has the image of SQQ, wide eyed and hysterical and standing at the mouth of the abyss burned into his fucking eyelids. Can't use the dreamscape to escape it either because he keeps trying to save him and either he does and it's an incredibly cruel trick to wake up to, or he doesn't and he gets his heart broken in several different pieces again.

There is no convincing this man that Shen Qingqiu is dead. Absolutely nothing at all. He is buried so deep in denial that moles would be jealous of how deep he is. He keeps making tea for two in the bamboo house only to remember that it's just him. SQQ's fans are hiding everywhere, little reminders of his presence. He goes to wake up SQQ on the mornings he sleeps in-- only to find the room empty.

[smallidarityfan]

smallidarity highschool au

came up with this au like actually 2 years ago where it's mainly empires 2 smallidarity centric, with Jimmy as a student council member and Joel as an honours student who doesn't like the way Jimmy runs things around the school.

As payback for the regulations Jimmy put up that Joel thought was stupid, Joel does these elaborate 'The Office' style pranks on Jimmy (specifically) while Jimmy retaliates by trying his best to dig up dirt on Joel. This banter goes on for a while— however Joel ends up doing the pranks less as a statement, and instead more just to see how Jimmy would react... with his comical, cartoony villain yells, and... weirdly cute face....? (YAOI YAOI YAOI YAOI)

very very old au drawings below:

from July 2023

😭😭 joel does NOT look like a highschooler here 😭😭😭😭 (i also wanted to draw angst in the first two ig idk a year later it's pretty cringe [i am still cringe]) (also partially inspired by when I read "Go for it, Nakamura!" and the mc reminded me of joel for no actual reason. or maybe i was just thinking about that manga while drawing smallidarity. idk)

from November 2022:

I think these doodles were genuinely the first instance of me converting from being against mcyt shipping to for shipping LMAOO

[leal-hound]

me and the bad bitch i pulled by having the same trauma

[lazy-creates]

"SANS?"

"i'm ok bro, don't worry 'bout it."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A screenshot from my animation, since people are allergic to watching videos on this platform.

Can't wait for new Deltarune chapters ✧ﾟ･: *ヽ(◕ヮ◕ヽ)

[shit-people-probably-didnt-say]

Just thought of Wesper kid finding a rogue spider on the loose in the house, and because he knows his Pa doesnt like them, he traps it under a bowl.

But he doesnt know how to get the spider outside without it running off so he just leaves it under the bowl and puts a note on top

The note reads:

Spider - please put outside…

🕷️🚫

Wylan appreciated the hieroglyphics and left it for Jesper 🤣🤣

[punkypiscesell-writes]

when it comes without a warning - ch. 1

previous chapter - next chapter

Javier Peña x plus size f! reader

summary: You meet a stranger at a New Years Eve party, not knowing where that chance encounter might lead.

warnings (updated after each chapter): fake dating AU, strangers to lovers, romcom, 90’s vibes, angst, small town dynamics, slow burn, pining, insecurities, drinking, smoking, food related descriptions, family mentions, mention of pregnancy, cynicism about love. The picture in the header is just for the visual and isn't an indication of the reader's skin color. Not beta read. If you see any broken Spanish, please let me know!!

word count: 9.4k

notes: Here we go, chapter 1! I hope you enjoy it <3 I will be updating this story each month, the final chapter coming out in July. The next update will be on Valentine’s Day weekend.

dividers by cafekitsune

When you were a child, you watched a movie every Saturday evening with your mom. They made you think your life would follow a specific path. Go to school, graduate, you’d find a boyfriend who you’d someday marry and have kids with.

You’d buy a house somewhere quiet with a big garden and a picket fence. The kids would grow up and you’d watch them become their own people while knowing you’d always have your first love with you. You’d look at pictures that would span years until those would turn into decades, with the same people in them getting greyer and wrinkles all over their faces. It would be perfect.

What you didn’t understand back then, was how life doesn’t usually go like in those picture perfect stories. Rarely it’s wrapped neatly with shiny paper and finished off with a flawless bow.

You watched your friends find their first loves while you became a wallflower. You didn’t know what to do in life while others were making decisions about their futures. One by one your old friends moved away to chase their dreams, forgetting the people and memories back home. With the need to get out of the town where you grew up in, like your friends had, you realized you could turn your hobby into a job.

Chasing a dream makes people optimistic and the possibility of having your own story unfold like in one of those movies you used to watch with your mom seemed possible again. You kept your eyes open, even dared to step out of your wallflower persona, full of hope and enthusiasm. When your story still kept you waiting, you understood how chasing love doesn’t always mean chasing romantic love.

In the glimmer of a big city, you found new friends. Abigail, Eileen and Mary were actually interested in talking with you and getting to know who you are outside of being just someone’s friend. They already knew each other having grown up in the same town, but you fit in with them like the last pea in a pod.

“What’s holding you back, you can move anywhere!” Mary drunkenly encouraged on the night of your graduation, while the humidity of Austin bathed you in sweat.

“Yeah, you can start a bakery anywhere!” Abigail offered you her glass to pour more tequila into. How she said it, like it was the simplest thing in the world, made you laugh, and you thought she was joking until you realized she wasn’t. She was far from it.

“And then what? Just rot in some dying town until the end of my days?”

The seed was already planted though. They had a point. You could start a bakery anywhere if you wanted to and you could find help with the business side of things, especially in the beginning.

When you sobered up and you were sitting on an uncomfortable bar stool leaning your elbows against the kitchen island in your small, hole in the wall kitchen. You started to plan it. The more you planned, the more convinced you were you could make it work.

The movies you watched while growing up rarely had people move into a small town with a population of only a few thousand when they could move into a big city and keep those big dreams alive.

You bought a small space for your bakery from a building that used to have a restaurant. Mrs. Sánchez has a flower shop next door, and she has always been supportive of you, even when for a while you were the “new girl” in town. The whispers around you and your business were excessive, but eventually the whispering turned into actual conversations with you, rather than about you.

You had your best friends being part of their family businesses. Your bakery started to bloom. You were in control of the strings in your hands and all the puzzle pieces were clearly laid out, all of them locking into place.

“We want you to clear your schedules next July,” Noah begins with his soft voice, his calmness the complete opposite to Abigail who is hanging from his arm.

“We’re getting married y’all!” Abigail yells and pulls her hand from her fiancé, flashing a big, shiny ring for the guests to see. Your face drops as an excited shock washes through the room of Noah’s family’s luxurious farmhouse that they’ve had since forever. The high ceilings echo the eruption of cheering and clapping with the sound of glasses tinkling together in toast. You raise yours and smile, your feet rooted against the floor.

Your best friends. You look at them fawning over the ring, the smiling couple surrounded by their closest friends.  

“Finally, everyone knows!”

“Now we don’t have to hide it any longer!” Eileen and Mary laugh. Your smile doesn’t falter, it doesn’t even flinch. But it’s like a cold shower that runs down from the back of your neck to the bottom of your spine. Abigail’s eyes flash to you after the women have said the words out loud.

You used to be a part of that group of best friends. In the last couple of years they’ve turned into people you sometimes hang out with. The frequent dinners and game nights at each other’s places first turned into occasions that happened once a month, then into once every six months when schedules and life got in the way.

First it was Mary, who announced she had reconnected with her high school sweetheart. Then it was Eileen who found her boyfriend through Mary’s boyfriend. For a while it was just you and Abigail, the two of you against the world. You were bridesmaids to Mary, then to Eileen, then Mary got pregnant and Eileen right after her. You and Abigail held the fort as the only single women in your group.

And then suddenly it was only you. Their lives are different now, as is yours. You’re not in your early twenties anymore, naively finding your way in this world. Sometimes you wonder if you’ve chosen the right place for you, but you’ve also understood that you might not want the future with the house and a picket fence, a husband and kids and the pictures on a mantelpiece. Your best friends want that while you’ve chosen another path.

Then, before you can delve too deep into other existential questions, you remember a cake order that has to be filled next week or how you have to make one more batch of the new malted wheat sourdough bread because your customers are emptying your shelves before 8 am.

“So, what do you think?” Abigail catches up to you after you’ve congratulated the pair. She reaches her  left hand towards you and wiggles her hand.

You hold her fingers and twist them gently. The rock sparkles in the champagne hued light of the farmhouse. “It’s beautiful,” you smile.

“Noah chose it himself, with the help from my mom. I can’t believe he managed to do all that and I had no idea!” Abigail sighs and pulls her hand back to marvel at the jewel around her ring finger.

You sip from your drink, the alcohol almost a welcomed friend in the full house. The atmosphere is electric from the unexpected news. The music is turned even louder than it already was. The New Year is only a few hours away and you don’t see the party dying down anytime soon.

A little quiet wouldn’t do you any harm, especially as someone keeps bumping against your back, and pushes you to give them more room.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something.” Abigail pulls you to the side, somehow managing to find a corner that isn’t occupied.

“I’d love to ask you a favor.” You’ve always been impressed by her ability to make her eyes so innocently big, pleading in a way that is caring and can make even the coldest person believe whatever she says is their own idea.

Abigail lifts her hands to your forearms and squeezes with a smile that reminds you of a child you saw at your shop yesterday after he had seen the experimental chocolate and peanut cupcakes you had made. After seeing his face, you might bring them back when you have an overstock of the ingredients, just to see that same kind of enthusiasm again.

“Remember that cake you baked for my 27th birthday?” Abigail asks. She doesn’t have to remind you. It was an elaborate white chocolate vanilla cake with raspberry compote filling. You topped it with handmade chocolate decorations that you created after work, the hours stretching closer to 20 spent in your bakery that day. Your back ached and you were stressed because you wanted the cake to be perfect. It was all worth it.

You nod. “I’d love it if you could make our wedding cake. We’ll of course pay, unless…” Abigail smiles with her lips tightly shut, the apples of her cheeks glowing.

“Unless you want me to give you a wedding cake as a wedding gift?” You fill in for her, the idea cracking your smile.

“Yes! Oh my God, it would be perfect! I’d be so incredibly lucky to have your creation at our wedding. It would be so special!” She grabs at you and pulls you into a tight hug that crackles against your tight shoulder where the muscle has been burning for the past week.

“I think we could make it work.” You swallow, defeated by your inability to say no to Abigail. One wedding cake. It’ll only be one wedding cake, among the other wedding cake orders that flow in during the busiest season of people tying the knot.

“I also have one other thing in mind.” You immediately prepare mentally for whatever she’s going to ask from you next.

“At my wedding, I’d love for you to bring a plus one.” Your mind goes blank.

“What?”

“The wedding is still six months away, so you have plenty of time. I just don’t want to see you alone there!” Abigail laughs and rubs at your arms. It has been a while since you wore anything else than your comfy clothes at home or your work uniform that consists of soft cotton T-shirts all in creamy white, tucked in your jeans and under an apron. Your friend running her hands up and down against the fabric on your arms, the blouse is suddenly coarse and too hot.

“I don’t have time for dating,” you remind her.

“You never have time for dating! I think that’s not true, you’re just afraid of finding someone and falling in love. That’s okay,” Abigail’s tone is encouraging, but her words sting. She’s not wrong. Of course you’re scared, you’ve never really dated anyone. The only dates you’ve been to were either pity dates set up by your high school friends or a few failed first meetings with guys who had been your customers at the bakery and who now only visit when they have to get something special for their girlfriends and wives.

“Fear not, you’re meeting someone tonight,” your friend’s eyes glimmer mischievously.

“What?” You hiss immediately.

“Noah has a friend who’s single. We think you’ll like him a lot.” Each of Abigail’s words is emphasized by a nod of her head or a poor attempt at a wink.

“We?”

“Eileen, me and Mary of course, silly,” she whacks at your arm playfully. Her cheeks blush while your stomach is heavy with dread.

“I really don’t think it’s a great idea. Also, I don’t need a date, it’s a wedding, it’ll be fun no matter if I have a date or not.”

“Bullsh–,” Abigail shushes herself and makes sure no one heard her. Her eyes soften to the level of pity. “It’s okay for you to find someone special, we all have. You’ll love it when someone takes care of you and pampers you and you won’t have to be alone anymore. You want to get married, you want a family! You’ve said it yourself, remember?” She laughs and tilts her head.

“Yeah!” You hope she doesn’t hear the doubt in your voice.

“We’re making sure you’re not going to end up alone.”

“What do you have in mind then?” Abigail turns immediately from you and leaves you standing next to the huge Christmas tree still fully decked and deeply green. You see her long, blonde hair swinging as she makes her way through the crowd. The curls at the ends are perfect. You smile at an older couple and wish them a happy New Near under your breath as they pass you by, a suspicious look in their eye while you try to keep track of Abigail.

You don’t have to wait for long. You see her first, then a tall man in a crisp white button down shirt behind her. He eyes you up and down immediately, his eyes blue and hard. You can’t read the look he’s giving you, but it’s not pleasant. He makes you nervous.

“Here’s John,” Abigail announces with a smile, and a hand that she waves down from his shoulder to midriff. You’re cornered between Abigail, John and the Christmas tree. The man nods his head and keeps his eyes locked on you while you notice the drink in his hand, a glass too gentle to be held in a death grip like his.

“Noah always calls him Johnny,” She proudly pats him on the shoulder and pushes John closer to you. The wall bumps against your back.

“He doesn’t,” John argues. His face twists in confusion, while his words are drowned by Abigail’s enthusiasm.

“Noah always tells good stories about John, how they’ve known for years, and how reliable he is. And you’re both into…” Abigail smiles, her eyes a little empty. She looks at you and massages John’s shoulder with her bejeweled hand. The engagement ring sparkles in the soft lighting of the family home. “You’re both into business! You’re entrepreneurs! I think you might have interesting conversations in the horizon,” Abigail chirps and finishes the last note with a smile that reveals her perfectly white teeth. Something catches her attention. Her eyes get larger, and her cheeks burn bright red. Noah stands close by with some of his friends, deep in conversation.

“Oh, excuse me, I have somewhere to be,” she points somewhere towards the crowd of people and disappears into it with a wave of her hand, in the opposite direction from Noah.

You stand awkwardly next to just as awkward John. He smells like aftershave from 30 years ago. It’s not completely unpleasant, only something you can imagine he got as a regifted present on Christmas. It’s warm, a little spicy, and a little too musty. He might like it, or then he wore it to keep unpleasant people away. You sip at your drink and try to take a step back without John noticing. The wall is in your way.

“We should sit down,” he tells you. You stare at his back when he leaves you standing alone, and only turns around to check if you’re following when he has found a couch end for you both to sit on.

He sits on the sofa with his legs spread wide. His face is smug, borderline conceited, when you make space for yourself next to him. How did Abigail, Mary and Eileen ever think you’d be into this guy? You try to relax, sip on your drink and smile at John. He smiles back. Maybe he’s not as bad as you’re making him out to be in your head. You don’t know him. Maybe your friends have a valid reason to believe you two could hit it off.

John pushes his leg against yours, seeking physical contact. You pull back from him immediately and lock your inner thighs together to keep yourself as small as you can. Your jeans aren’t tight but the way you’re sitting makes them dig into your skin.

“So…” John begins and drinks from his glass.

“So…” You repeat awkwardly, waiting for his next move.

“You want to hear how much money I make? I know women like to hear that. You don’t seem like an exception.” Your smile tightens, it’s a mask. The contents of your glass would be perfect on this guy, maybe he’s even begging for it.

“Like Abigail said, I’m an entrepreneur…” he talks in a monotone voice, reading off an invisible script. You don’t really even care if the mask on your face slips, not when John drones on and on about his savings, his investments and how he wants a stay-at-home wife to take care of the kids and home  while he’s working.

“My business will become massive in the next ten years. Yes, I plan ten years in advance. I recommend it to everyone who…” you drown John’s voice into the different voices around you. He’s like the perfect candidate for people watching.

Abigail and Noah’s parents are standing in one corner of the room, with lighthearted looks on their faces. Noah’s brother is leaning against a wall, looking bored as ever as he snacks on something from the snack table. Mary and Eileen are swaying to the music, pointing out different people from the party goers.

Abigail is with a man who you don’t know. She has her hand on his bicep, then she lifts it to his shoulder. Up and down she moves it, while trying to step closer to him. The man in a dark blue button up, his hair combed to the back with a few fly aways sticking out on his temple, a well-groomed mustache moves over his top lip, knows when to take a step back and shake her hand off him without seeming rude. Is she drunk? Abigail straightens the man’s collar. Her hand lingers on it, her fingertips touch his neck before she pulls her hand back.  

You’ve seen the man before. You’ve caught him staring at the pastries and bread in the bakery window a few times but he hasn’t come in.

“… You do for work?” The question is already fading. John’s tone is cool, almost as uninterested as you are. The distant look in his eyes isn’t helping to get you more invested in his monologue.

“I have my own business.” You answer, even to you in a too formal tone.

“Oh, what kind?” John leans forward, a spark of interest on his face.

“I have a bakery downtown.”

“Ah.” John scratches the back of his neck and shakes his head. “That’s a risky business endeavor. Have you thought about something else when this one bites the dust?”

You grind your teeth together behind the smile that you try to keep even remotely kind looking. You have to get out of here. You spot Abigail mingling with the guests, now with Mary and Eileen, who all turn towards you. Abigail draws a heart in the air with her index fingers and points to John. Miserably you turn back to him, who is still talking about different options for you.

“You could sell your business, cut your losses before they’re too overwhelming for you to handle.” Mary’s thumbs up don’t cover the murderous snarl you give them, your mouth twisted when you shake your head “no”. They’re back on the move, finding a quieter spot while laughing. You can hear it over the steady buzzing of conversations.

John has moved on from your imaginary bankruptcy to talking about his newest investments.

“Who handles them for you”

“Hmm?”

“Your investments, who handles them for you?”

“I haven’t really looked into it.” The bottom off your glass stares back at you, the rest of the alcohol now going down your throat.

“You should! Having a fickle business like yours isn’t going to keep you afloat for too long. Especially in a place like this. I could give you some recommendations on how to maximize your profits.” Your skin crawls. How satisfying it would be to yell at this man to shut the fuck up.

You don’t. You see the people around you, your customers. They have their usual orders, some have something else on a specific day, and some stick to the same baked goods day after day. You know them by name. You remember the stories they’ve told you, how something you made was shared with a loved one and new memories were made. John doesn’t seem like a person who would understand the value of memories since they’re not monetary.

Your friends clearly don’t have any idea what kind of a man you’d want to be with. To be fair, neither do you. But John? Setting you up with someone who is as interesting as the worn-out, uncared-for leather of his shoes, at least you can say who isn’t your type.

Sitting next to him, his knee still bumping against you, making your skin itch, even when you try to keep distance to him, listening to him ramble on about investing and profits, your friends would be bored out of their minds in your place as well.  Maybe they haven’t spoken with John. Maybe they haven’t even met him before. Your fingers find your gold chain against your chest. Its dainty links run between your thumb and forefinger, the familiar trail soothing you.

“If you’re free tomorrow, I could give you some tips on finding–“

“Look, John,” you cut him off with the drop of your necklace back against your skin. “You’re… clearly knowledgeable about money, and someone might be very interested in hearing about all of this. But that’s not me.”

“What are you saying then?” He’s genuinely surprised.

“I don’t think we should explore anything further.” You let him down gently and give him an apologetic look.

“Okay,” he tilts his head with deep creases across his forehead. “I’m a bit surprised. There’s not many, if any, people paying any attention to you here. I’m a catch looking for someone to carry his children who will become the next president or congressman some day and you’re just a bakery keeper who clearly has let herself go. But whatever, I’ll respect your honesty.” He says it all with a smile on his face, the insult somehow meant to sound like a compliment. His brows rise and fall after every other word, like they’re part of the conversation too. You stare at him, your mind blank, your mouth with a life of its own.

“What a small man,” you say to him and stand up with a laugh. He says something more, but you don’t stay to listen. There’s nothing more you’d want in this moment than get away from this man and to refill your glass with the punch served here.

It splashes against the edges of your glass when you make your way to the balcony. You want to hide from the people inside the party. From John. He can think whatever he wants, you’re not fazed by his rudeness, by anyone’s rudeness for that matter. It doesn’t mean what he said didn’t hurt you.

The dusky balcony is the place to be, away from the golden lights, the music and people who apparently don’t even see you. An unreasonable fear rises from the back of your mind with an image of John chasing after you onto the balcony, telling you how great he is and how generous he is for even agreeing on a blind date with you. You’d need to understand how this night wouldn’t change his life, but it would still change yours.

There’s a lonely chair behind the corner, away from direct eyeline of the celebrations. There’s barely any light here, only a small lantern next to a flower arrangement on a small table next to the chair. You sit down and relax. The drink feels good, comforting, on your over stimulated nerves. Muffled music and people talking, laughing, puts a rift between you and whatever is happening inside.

There haven’t been many moments when you are truly alone and when you are, you usually invite it with open arms. What follows that alone time is usually a guest you rarely want to invite along. Being alone is almost easy, being lonely always chips away at your heart. At the belief that maybe there’s someone out there somewhere for you as well.

You’ve accomplished so much in the last few years. You can be proud of so many things you’ve made happen by yourself. At the same time, you have to admit that it has all happened because you’ve been ready to sacrifice something.

You go with the flow, but you’re looking in at your own life rather than living it. You’re waiting for something without knowing what that could be. Apathy follows the gentle buzz of the alcohol in your system. You breathe deep against the coolness of the night. At least your skin isn’t pouring sweat while wondering which turn you forgot to take at some point in life to find a missing, nameless puzzle piece.

A clink and a soft scratch of glass. You’re ready to tell John to leave you alone. Instead, your eyes meet the deepest of ambers, sitting on the other side of the little table next to you where the lantern and flowers have been arranged. Someone laughs inside in a way that reminds you of a breathless donkey.

“I didn’t mean to scare you, sorry,” he says while pushing his glass further from the edge of the table, his voice deep, soft like a cloud.

“I didn’t know someone was here.” You’re ready to stand up, find another hiding place and leave this man alone.

“I should’ve said something.” You nod at his words, unsure of what to do. Maybe he wants to be left alone…

“You know the couple?” He asks, cutting your plans to leave short.  

“I’m friends with Abigail.” He smiles, acknowledges your words and presses his hand against his chest.

“I’m one of the groomsmen.” You smile a tentative smile back and hear the conversation between you two die down.

Even when you’re not talking, you find yourself glued to your seat. His presence is overwhelming. It draws you in, makes you nervous with curiosity. He’s looking out into the vast darkness facing the farmhouse, forcing the building to become a lighthouse in the quiet. Your left side, his side, is vibrating from his nearness. The little hairs on your arm stand up, reaching for him. There’s electricity in the air, zinging gently, a hum in your ear as you listen to it. Listen to him take a deep breath in and push it out with slow force.

He's the one Abigail spoke with earlier. The one with the mustache and dark blue button up. The one who you’ve seen stop in front of your bakery but never come in. The town gossip train would help you recognize who he is, but you’ve tuned that station off.

You hear about some things regardless, while some other things aren’t for your ears, you’ve decided. Maybe that decision would be different if you had grown up in a small town like this, your life filled with people knowing what is happening in other people’s lives.

“Do you mind?” His question is hushed. There’s a cigarette between his fingers, and a question in the quirk of his brow. You shake your head and watch him pull out a lighter. It flickers a golden glow against his face when he has the cigarette hanging between his lips. The embers light up and then go to rest when he takes a drag, the smoke in his lungs until he breathes it out slowly. The cloud hangs in the air and drifts towards you. You inhale the rich aroma mixed with burning sweetness.

“I’m quitting in the New Year,” he tilts his head towards you, his eyes like black embers fixated on you through his lashes, in the lowlight of the candle and whatever light streams from the window.

“And this is your last one?” Your voice tunes itself to the quiet smokiness of his tone without you trying.

“Last, or second to last, I haven’t decided yet.” He rolls the butt against his fingers and flicks it. The burning flecks distinguish in the air. There’s loud cheering inside, rattling against the calm atmosphere outside.

The man looks inside, his focus on the noise as well. “Why aren’t you with them?”

“Abigail had set me up with Noah’s godawful friend, I had to take a break. Apparently, I need a plus one for the wedding.”

“With who?” Another drag from the cigarette.

“John?” He nods at your answer, and blows out the smoke to the opposite direction from you.

“They’re not close, not really even friends,” the man muses and turns his eyes on you.

Like an electric shock, you have to turn away from him and stare out towards the dark. This man is intense, demanding in a gentle way, his attention on you and only you. He’s not filling a silence with useless noise, but with observing. You run your necklace between your fingers again, twist it around one and draw a line against your skin over and over.

“I think she just wanted me to find someone.” Wish that someone wasn’t a self-important dickhead.

“The wedding isn’t in months.”

“My friends know I need time to think, and to take it slow.” The man inhales from his cigarette again and raises his brows in what could only mean silent disbelief.

“What?”

“Just wondering why Abigail wanted to set you up with an asshole like John, everyone knows he’s a player.” His words pour on you like ice. The more you repeat the last part in your head, the more convinced you are it wasn’t a serious setup, but a foolish prank.

Maybe listening to the grapevine would’ve been a good thing at least once. You take a big sip of your drink and let it burn in your throat as you swallow it down slowly.

There’s more cheering and clapping coming from inside, pulling you to look in at the party as well. Abigail is standing in front of the guests, Mary and Eileen next to her. Abigail has a pouch in her hand, where Eileen is digging something from.

“And why aren’t you a part of that?” The man’s low voice rumbles slowly against your eardrums.

Mary and Eileen open something in their hands, small pieces of paper, and show them to the other guests. People, mostly women, erupt into gleeful joy. Bridesmaid and maid of honor. “I don’t know.” Your voice is barely above a whisper.

“Why aren’t you in there celebrating?” You turn the question to him with a determined smile tugging against your cheeks. You should’ve known you won’t be part of the wedding party, it shouldn’t be a surprise. It shouldn’t hurt. You cover it with the smile and hope it will ease the sting.

The man notices your attempt at directing the focus away from yourself. He takes one last drag and then stubs the cigarette against an ashtray on the floor. He blows the smoke from his lungs and manages to turn more towards you.

He spreads his legs in the rickety garden chair, but his point isn’t to establish dominance like John, but to slide down and relax in the too small chair in his snuggly fitting dark jeans.

“I had to take a break,” he repeats your answer back to you. From his mouth it’s vague, words that hold some other meaning that he’s debating sharing with you. “Abigail is busy playing matchmaker in there.” He tilts his head to lean his temple against his fingers, his elbow perfectly perched on the arm of the chair.

Him facing you, his chin lifted, the amber of his eyes flickering in the candlelight, draws heat to the surface of your skin. Your chest, the back of your neck, your cheeks. It’s annoying that this stranger can cause a reaction like it.

You want to defy it and push back. You face him as well, stare him right in the eyes. Lava splashes on you from your head to your toes. Your palms sweat and you swallow, still with a calm smile on your face. It has become your safety blanket that you can hide behind. No matter if it’s a true kindness or you’re killing someone with it, the smile is familiar to you now.

“She found someone for you as well?”

“She suggested it, but I turned her down.”

“And that’s why you had to take a break?”

“No, it was because of the other guests.” He looks away. A small victory you didn’t think you’d get. His answer stirs the win into confusion.

“Why?” A question you have no right to ask, out of your mouth before you even consider asking it.

He lifts his eyes back to you, the look in them warm but laced with a warning. It’s not your place to know. It’s a question too complicated in its simplicity, the answer even simpler, yet more complicated.

Two can play this game. Who hides better behind a mask? Who stays calm when someone tries to crawl under the other’s skin? He’s a master at it, catching you off guard, letting you think you had won him in the game he has perfected over the years.

You’re knocked off the number one spot and he figures it out immediately, when your smile cracks and you have to hide behind the excuse of taking a sip from your glass. There’s only a little left, one more mouthful and you’re done. You don’t want to see his victory, but you also don’t want to seem scared.

The look on his face isn’t victory. Instead, you’re met with a man who is deep in thought. His brows are lightly pulled together, defining the two small lines between them. His eyes are veiled, only a slight shine from the candle still reaching them. Yes, he won.

“Well, I think it’s my time to go.” He snaps out of his thoughts. The watch on his wrist flashes with the reflection of light hitting the glass face.

“It’s not even midnight yet.” He sounds almost alarmed.

You circle the drink in your glass a couple of times and see his glass on the table. You stand up, lean over the table and smile more to the empty glass than to him. “Happy New Year,” you say out loud and clink your glasses together. The sweet and sour taste is soothing and if you were alone, you probably would drink a few more to ring in the special evening.

“I’ll see you around,” you tell the man who follows your every move. He watches your hand as you place your glass next to his. He watches you wipe at the backside of your jeans to make sure there’s no dust on them from the chair. His eyes are burning against your back as you leave him sitting on the old, weathered chair.

Someone opens the door to the balcony and sticks their head out. Noah.

“Hey, have you seen Javi?” his voice is a little hoarse, joy on the corners of his eyes.

“Who?”

“Javier, dark shirt, jeans, brown hair…” the man’s presence appears on your back, lifting all the hairs of your skin again, heat coursing through you.

“I’m here,” his voice is like the stickiest and sweetest honey. It’s also much closer than you anticipated. You look over your shoulder. Javier is right behind you, his chest almost against your back. Noah’s face lights up, clearly pleased he found his friend.

“Is Abigail somewhere? I’m going to be heading out, I just want to congratulate her once more.” Javier stands still and manages to shake your voice only by being close to you.

“But it’s not even midnight yet, you should stay a bit longer,” Noah pleads, a relaxed slurring in his speech.

“I think I’m done for the night, just too tired to keep on partying. Thank you for inviting me and congratulations once more.” You hug Noah, genuinely happy for him. His tan skin glows with pure excitement.

“Can you believe her, leaving before midnight on New Year’s Eve.” Noah points his thumb at you, the jokey question directed at Javier.

“I know, almost like tonight doesn’t change anything.” His sarcasm makes you snort, and Noah fake a laugh.

“Abi is downstairs. Thanks for coming, and thank you for the gift,” he winks at you, the promised wedding cake now apparently confirmed.

Abigail entertains some older people, talking with them, sharing moments from how she met Noah and how he proposed. You barely get a word in and her answer to you leaving is: “Okay, I’ll call you.” before she’s back to talking with the people who have made her their center of attention.

Luckily Mrs. Sánchez is on her way out with her husband, taking you to town. You have one neighbor, living in the apartment on the other side of the corridor from you on top of the carpenter shop. You’ve met him plenty of times since you moved in six years ago, but you can’t for the life of you remember his name.

You’re already sleeping, groggy and confused when you hear your neighbor counting down from 10 with his guests, the cheering overwhelming even through your wall. Auld Lang Syne starts to play, and you lay in bed, staring at the blank surface of your ceiling. Not even the streetlights can light your apartment enough.

Maybe this year you’ll push yourself to enjoy your life rather than watch it pass you by. You make the resolution before you fall back asleep, barely remembering it the next morning.

Time ticks on even after midnight and the days after don’t create a limbo effect anymore when you go to work. It’s darkest when you wake up at 3.15 and head to the bakery thirty minutes later. The morning rises as you’re tipping proofed loafs from their baskets onto the floured wooden table for scoring. You’re trying a new leaf design, lashing the surface with a sharp blade that glides against the dough like butter.

When you’ve pushed the loaves into the oven you take the next trolley of bread from the walk-in fridge and under the zippered hoods you uncover what you made yesterday in preparation for today, buttery wheat loaves in their neat little rectangle pans. One trolley after the other you solve the walk-in fridge puzzle, pulling out hooded trolleys. Yellow hoods for sweet products, blue for savory.

“Morning!” Lili, your bakery assistant, greets as she walks in from the small locker room. Unlike you, who stayed up too late writing down ideas for Abigail and Noah’s wedding cake, her under eyes are bright and her voice clear after a well-rested night.

“Good morning,” you croak and clear your throat right after. Your shoulder complains as you fill in the vanilla tartlets, row after row of neat custardy pies waiting for a couple of slices of syrupy lemons Lili has prepared for them.

As the shop fills with the fresh loaves, rolls and biscuits, the last sweet things are baking in the ovens, filling the bakery and shop with a sugary, toasty smell. Butter, nuts, fruits, spices and chocolate, are like a dessert after the early morning savory baking.

You’re filling cream puffs when the doors open and the first customer walks in. You have the bakery door open but can’t see the shop from your sturdy work table. You can only listen to the sounds that indicate your work paying off.

The bell above the door tinkles constantly, people walking in and out with fresh goods in paper bags and bakery carton boxes, careful not to shake or mush anything that is even a little more fragile than the thick crusted breads.

Lili’s enthusiastic voice answers questions with a constant smile. “Yes, these have a hazelnut and chocolate filling.” “There is ginger and clove in the cookie dough.” “It’s the freshest today, but you can use the rest for bread pudding or French toast in the next few days.” “Sadly, that was our December limited edition cupcake, but we’re planning something for Easter.”

If she’s not answering questions, then she’s taking down orders and repeating every detail to get everything right. The free spots in your calendar for orders are filling out fast. You’re counting each one in your head after Lili repeats them, checking off the orders list you remember by heart. Someone asks for a wedding cake order for July, one already taken by Abigail and Noah.

“Mr. Peña is here,” Lili sticks her head into the bakery, pulling you from weighing ingredients for sticky cinnamon rolls. It’s eleven in the morning, you’re about thirty minutes early from your work schedule. The radio in the corner plays an older song softly, the words flowing from your mouth in a quiet hum. You wash your hands and check your face, wiping the remaining moisture from your temples as the ovens are finally cooling down. You take the small bakery box full of pistachio cream puffs from the fridge and take it to the register.

Seeing the shop full is always overwhelming, almost intimidating, especially when most look at you as they see you walking out of the bakery.

“Morning everyone,” you greet with easiness, the words wiping away your nerves. Mr. Peña is third in line, standing with someone who is looking at the small packets of chocolate confections that were leftover from your New Year’s specials.

You take one of the raisin and cashew loafs from the shelf and push it into a brown paper bag, and wheat knot rolls into another bag.

“Mr. Peña, what can I get for you?” Lili asks, her voice a little higher and squeakier than normal.

“Those ham and cheese muffins are looking fine today,” his voice rumbles. You smile to yourself as you pack a few lemon and poppyseed cookies into a box.

“¿Quieres algo dulce?” He asks his companion just as you turn with all the baked goods in your arms. You lay them on the table next to the register, Lili taping the muffin box closed and getting to work typing the prices as zero dollars.

“What’s this?” Mr. Peña asks under his brown, wide brimmed cowboy hat.

“You gave me the tip about Arnold’s shop, and he came to fix the oven right before New Year’s. It’s as good as new now. He also checked the other one, to see if it has the same problem with the wiring. This is the least I can give you as a thank you.” If you had ordered someone to come in from further, you would’ve paid a pretty penny for a simple fix that was done in fifteen minutes. You couldn’t be more grateful for Mr. Peña suggesting someone who he trusts.

“That was nothing, Sam is an old friend, he would miss his own funeral just to fix appliances,” he laughs and gives room for his companion to step next to him. Javier’s eyes bore into yours, a soft smile in them. He lays the little confection box on the table next to the breads and sweets.

“This is my son, Javier.” He pushes his aviator sunglasses into the neckline of his pink button up t-shirt.

“We met at Noah’s party a few days ago,” Javier says, making you nod along with his words.

“Oh! Well, then you need to know this little lady makes the best cream puffs in town,” Mr. Peña directs his attention to you. The smile lines get deep right by his eyes when the corners of his mouth turn up.

Javier hums in recognition, patiently watching you try to gather your thoughts. The two men look the same as they stand next to each other, the generation the only thing setting them apart. Javier seems to tower over his dad, his back straight and his shoulders wider with age pressing them forward for his dad.

“That’s a bit over exaggerated isn’t it, since there’s no other bakeries in town,” you turn the compliment into a joke, and your focus back to Javier’s dad to get yourself to calm down. Javier’s presence makes perspiration prickle at the small of your back.

“That’s why I said the best in town,” Mr. Peña jokes back.

“Exactly!” The shared laugh eases your discomfort. Why Javier makes you nervous, you haven’t decided yet.

“So, how much do I have to pay for these?”

“Nothing. Like I said, it’s the least I can do to thank you.”

“No, of course I pay, this is too much.”

“Mr. Peña, you helped me when you didn’t have to. These are on the house.” The people behind Javier and his dad are starting to get curious about what you’re giving away for free.

“Please, call me Chucho, I come here often enough for us to be in first name basis. And I already know your name, have known it longer than you’ve known there is a ‘Mister Peña’,” he tries to mimic your voice but only makes it sound like a mockery of you. He mumbles “sorry,” under his breath, all forgiven with a smile you give him back.

“What about these?” Lili asks with a quieter voice, the confections in her hand.

“I’ll pay for those,”

“And that’s Javier, you can call him by his first name as well.” His dad says pointedly. In a way he reminds you of your grandpa and how warmly he too always spoke even when to teach you about something more serious, like how to ask nicely, or when you needed help with your homework, and he checked where you had gone wrong.  

“Chucho,” you nod your head towards him, “Javier,” you say his name and it tickles against your tongue. The other side of his mouth rises.

“Javier will pay for the candy, and I want a couple of those lemon things over there,” Chucho points in the display. The vanilla tartlets you worked on just a couple of hours earlier.

“Yo los pago, papá,” Javier mutters when you pick up a carton and fold it into a box, placing two tartlets into it. Lili is already ringing him up when you place the box next to her.

“Have you changed the products?” Chucho asks, looking at the display more carefully.

“There are a couple new things, like these blueberry swirl cupcakes and these hazelnut cookies.” You point them out for him and notice Javier checking out the items as well. “Don’t worry, I’m not taking out the favorites,” you nod towards the pistachio cream puffs that have become Chucho’s regular order. He winks at you, like a secret has been exchanged between you two. Lili packs all the goods into a paper bag and hands it over to Javier.

“Thank you,” Chucho tips his hat and drops money into the tip jar.

“Thank you,” Lili yells after checking how much he gave. You greet the next customers while leaving to go back to work, watching the pair as they walk out the door and to Chucho’s truck.

As the day goes on, the bell above the door tinkles less. The noises from people talking quiets down and Lili’s answers and order taking slows until there’s no more questions or orders to be made.

“Only a couple of cupcakes, cookies, and rolls left,” she informs as she joins you to help with dough mixing and making products for the next day. You work like a well-oiled machine that has been in use for a hundred years. You turn the radio a little louder and the both of you sing along to songs that you both know either from your childhoods or ones that have been playing nonstop since they came out in the last year.

“Can you make the puff pastry, I’ll make inventory and clean up the front.” You massage your shoulder, the pain burning under your shoulder blade.

The day is warm, warmer than usual, people wearing shorter sleeved shirts as they pass the shop. The air is humid, yet still dust settles on surfaces. You write in your notebook all the products sold, keeping note of the ones that have leftovers, before packing them in discount packets to get them sold before closing.

The industrial dishwasher rumbles on the other side of the wall as you’re wiping down the display cases. The door opens and the bell jingles, followed by footsteps that stop at the door. You look over your shoulder, the pink shirt on Javier like an alarm for your system.

“Hi,” you straighten your back and finish cleaning the glass.

“I hope I’m not interrupting?” He takes his sunglasses off and hangs them off his shirt again.

“No, no, we’re still open. Did you forget something? Or maybe Mr. Peña wanted something more? I’m sorry we sold out everything you got, tomorrow I’ll be selling more again.” Javier breathes out a silent laugh listening to you ramble nervously, his eyes landing on the empty shelves.

“I’m sure he’d buy more if there was some left, and you can call him Chucho.” You bend your head down when his eyes meet yours. “That’s not why I’m here for.” He walks over to the register with you on the other side. He places his hand on the table, curiously taking in the empty shop.

“What can I get for you then?”

“Have you had any luck finding a date for the wedding?”

“Oh,” his question surprises you. “I haven’t even thought about that. I can guarantee it’s not going to be John. Why?” He nods, watching your lips as they move around the words. He presses his hand into a fist, opening his mouth once, then closing it, contemplating whatever he has on his mind.

“I was wondering…” He stops, his lashes dark against the tops of his cheeks as he has trouble looking at you in the eye. Until he does and forces you to swallow against the sandpaper in your mouth.

“Noah said something… And I remembered what you said about Abigail wanting you to have a date… Being single at a wedding can be…” The broken sentences raise your pulse. “What if we’d go to the wedding together?” Your pulse pauses for a second until it picks up like a storm.

“You make it sound like someone’s going to pair you up with someone more awful unless you do something about it first?” You’re surprised how even your voice sounds even though pins and needles run up and down your skin and your insides are in a turmoil.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come off that way.” Javier shakes his head fast, his eyes flashing to you in fear that you’d understand him wrong. “My old man has been eager to know if he needs to know a name before the wedding. It’s a hassle if I won’t deal with that in time.” He almost manages to calm the tempest. You join his chuckling, imagining Chucho pressing his son about finding a plus one for a wedding where his friends are already paired off.

“Look,” you begin, forcing yourself to calm down and think clearly. “It’s a nice offer, but I’m not looking for anything, I don’t have time for it. Abigail setting me up at the party was weird and I’m not concerned about finding a date. I honestly don’t care what people say or think. She just wants me to have someone and not end up alone when she’s busy having brunches and dinners with her married friends.” Javier’s eyes narrow the longer you speak, your last words like icing on a cake for someone who observes as closely as Javier does. You realize how you make yourself sound pathetic and Abigail like an asshole immediately after.

“I’m not looking for anything either, I was thinking it more as an arrangement of sorts.”

“An arrangement?”

“Yeah. I have a lot of groomsmen, ah…” he looks for the words, “whatever wedding things coming up and I know I’ll be put between a rock and a hard place unless I have a date. We could go together, avoid the awkward blind dates and we’d let people know we’re each other’s dates.” What he means with him being between two undesirable options confuses you, but the possibility of Abigail setting you up with someone like John again is high enough for you to get interested in Javier’s suggestion.

“So, you mean we’d fake dating each other?”

He’s unblinking for a moment, until he inhales and pushes the breath out with a “I guess so.”

“Sounds like you’ve read too many romance books.” The lighthearted joke makes him laugh. “Don’t you think it’d be awkward?”

“If we’re okay with it, no, I don’t think so. We could get to know the basics of each other and that would be it. You don’t have to spend your time with me any more than you have to.” He takes a piece of paper from his pocket and places it on the table. “Think about it.” He pushes the paper towards you. You take it, and it’s still warm. He has written his number on it neatly, Javier with a swoopy J on top.

A couple walks in. The bell startles you both. Javier steps back and takes his sunglasses from his shirt.

“Let me know, okay?” He raises his brows in question, and you answer with a nod. The couple beelines for the leftovers, talking in hushed tones, while the bell dings and Javier leaves without a second look back.

“I knew we should’ve come sooner,” the woman hisses and huffs.

“We’re open tomorrow, if you’re looking for something specific,” you try to get back into the moment, but end up following Javier push his sunglasses up his nose and jog across the street to his truck before a car crawls past.

Never would you have thought a piece of paper could be heavy but here you are, aware of its existence in your jeans pocket under your apron. The offer is appealing, you can’t deny that. The thought of having someone steady by your side, people not asking if you have a date, mainly Abigail, and not needing to think about the whole date thing, would be a weight off your shoulders. You could focus on the more pressing matters.

The couple buys the bread rolls, one more tick for you to write into your notebook. You finish preparing everything with Lili and when you turn the lights off a the end of the day, your brain is fried from thinking what to do with Javier’s suggestion.

The hot shower at home is heaven against your shoulder, loosening the tense muscle. It doesn’t wash away Javier’s suggestion though. You dry yourself, and you wouldn’t have to think about a plus one anymore. You warm up leftovers from yesterday, and you wonder how you could relax around Javier who has the ability to get your thoughts and blood roiling. You sit on the couch and get hurt once more thinking about John and if it was all a joke for Abigail to set you up with him.

You dig the pockets of your jeans and find the paper, still folded in half, his handwriting against your fingertips.

“Peña,” you hear Chucho answer. His joyful laughter after you say who’s calling makes you smile as well.

“Don’t say you’re giving us more bread and pastries. I’ll pay for them the next time.” There’s rustling on his end before you have a chance to answer, Javier’s voice muttering something to his dad.

“Hello,” his voice is softer, less deep as his father’s yet still deep enough for you to have it rattle your spine.

“Hi.”

“Sorry, I got a new number a couple of weeks ago and I’m not used to using it yet, gave you the house number by accident.” If you knew him any better, you’d say Javier is nervous.

“That’s okay. I wanted to call and ask if you’re really up for it, fake dating?” he chuckles quietly, almost like he wouldn’t want to make his dad question why you’re calling his son in the evening.

“I’d still call it just an arrangement, but yeah. That’s why I asked you.” You grind your teeth together, nervous about what you’re getting yourself into.

“Okay, let’s do it then.”

[captainmaxatx]

I’m writing a poolverine fic right now and am very tempted to add a very funny looking cat, so like Wade brought home the funny looking dog and then Logan brings home the funny looking cat, I’m particularly inspired because there is an “ugly” cat on BC spca shelter website that I’m a little obsessed with, I think I can make it fit but I’m a little iffy if it would feel right, what do you think

Here is a picture of the actual cat for reference

[fishthegenderwitch]

I have trimmed the fitted sheet I bought for its fabric of extraneous seam thread and elastic, in order to see how much fabric I had to make my shirt. (I'd planned to make this a couple days ago, but I was lethargic and it was grey and rainy; not conducive to creating.)

PLENTY O' FABRICS to make my first 18th century-style shirt! This sheet is 50/50 cotton and polyester, because I want to make this at least once with fabric that isn't perfect. I'd be sad if I messed up some swanky fabric on my first try.

Measured out each piece (they're all squares and rectangles so the cutting was easy), and then cut them out. Some are on the straight-grain and shoulder strips on the cross. The math and measuring part of it took a bit, as I've never made a shirt this way before, so I had to crank my brain open to a new frame of reference in how to figure out what went where, so I could get the correct numbers.

-The supervisor of crafting, Murf Here's where I stop because my phone died (I accidentally had the battery saver turned off), so it has to charge before I can continue. Both to take progress photos, and also because I was following the video by @vincentbriggs to make it, and without that I'm not chancing messing up.

[florida3exclamationpoints]

.

[seoulmatez]

𝓉𝑒𝒶𝒿𝒶𝓍 : tea x ajax

ajax is no stranger to danger — it comes with the territory of being a fatui harbinger. though, these days, he finds himself carefully considering what used to be an instinct to jump into battle. after all, if he comes back bruised and battered, it would make his dearest tea worry.

for @teataglia ♡

[enhanced-operatives-division]

Junicrane/Starstruck Ramble

I will not be brief, all under the cut

To clear some things right off the bat:

No corpse, no proof with Juniper. Obligatory this is set in a canon where he's alive and adjacent to the agency in some way.

Reggie & Juniper are just gay to me, but I don't mind any interpretation of their sexuality

The games are set in 1967/68 to me (based on a couple bits in game) which is before it was legal to be gay in America at least (1971), which is relevant to how I interpret canon as being somewhat grounded in reality, despite unrealistic elements.

This is just an insane amount of headcanons/elements of and AU all culminated into one post. I will talk about some headcanons like they're just facts because they are established in my head, and it saves me over explaining literally everything, however I will explain some parts a little bit for clarity.

Alright. Actual beginning of the ramble:

Juniper is a character to me who had gotten so lost in his job as an actor and a social presence that in the end his whole life revolved around that 'role'. Because of this, by the time he's put into the situation where he's around the Agency, he basically knows nothing about himself, though he doesn't realise at first. Furthermore, what little identity he had has changed in so many ways. He's no longer a beloved famous actor in the prominence of public light, he's legally dead and he tarnished his career just before he was supposed to die, with the bonus of that making him lose the majority of his estate. From that, he also has horrific facial scarring from the electrical burns from literally having his face fried. I believe a friend of mine made a post about this a while ago (I also think they were the first to think it up also), but, to me, Juniper has a permanent trimmer in his right arm (aka his dominant hand) from the electrical current and it is messing with his nervous system.

All in all, he's not doing great, but he's too proud to admit that he's not doing great, because if anything, what's left of his ego is all he has as a defense since he's deep in unfamiliar water.

Before ending up around the agency (I have multiple interpretations of this, so I'm just going to bring it up generally), he'd never actually seen Reggie, and his only impression of him is a single voicemail, which was his only reference he had to later impersonate him. Juniper probably has very little feelings other than the ones he projects onto him because of Phoenix and that, at the very least, he's physically attracted to Reggie to some degree (that's like the beginning of how everything else would tumble into place in this sort of interpretation at least).

And on Crane's side? His feelings towards Juniper are probably very intense and muddled. On the one hand, he adores musical theatre, and that's his now ex-favourite actor. The thought of just casually being around him blows the bit of fanboy in him away at first because THAT'S the GUY, plus the inklings of a celebrity crush which still poke at him. And then there's the rational side of him, which knows Juniper has committed absolute atrocities on the side of Zoraxis, and hates him for that. Then there's how much Juniper comes off as an asshole at first because he refuses to cooperate with anything the Agency tried to put in place. He finds Juniper endlessly frustrating, and yet he's stuck working with him since, afterall, he's the one who knows the Agency's history with Juniper the best. I imagine him acting a lot like how he does IEYTD 1 around Juniper.

At this point, I'm just describing the pitch for a romcom.

I think the start of their relationship with one another largely started with Juniper trying to wind Crane up. It was a way of getting his attention, and I don't think Juniper knows why he's so dead set on that at first, because I don't think he realises he has a crush on 'this grump' at first. (I think that's actually the fun part about these two, because it's almost like a role reversal of the celebrity crush dynamic. This ex-big name actor has a TERRIBLE crush on an average joe and it is KILLING HIM.) But of course the Agency keeps them together because Juniper is at least conversing with Crane, so it's a start.

Through one way or another, they actually get talking casually, at least mildly at first. It takes Juniper a long time to fully deconstruct the wall he's built, and the thing is, Crane isn't the one trying to deconstruct it, at least at first, because yeah, Juniper realises if he wants Reggie to actually like him in any way, he can't keep winding him up. So they talk. Small talk at first, something rhythmic and almost easy to keep to a script. And over time that turns into actual conversations. Genuine ones in which Reggie rips out the occasional one of his jokes which Juniper is endlessly endeared about. The way he smiles just before he makes them, like he wants to chuckle at what he's about to say before he says it. That's probably when Juniper realised that he does have some vague crush on him, and that it wasn't going away.

This is what kickstarts John I can't-buy-you-things-to-impress-you-so-acts-of-service-it-is Juniper to do little things for him. It mostly starts off as him trying to make Reggie his tea how he likes it. However, the nerve damage in his arm makes that hard, as the weight of the kettle and trying to pour is hard all of a sudden. And he refuses to accept that, so he tries for a very long while. Long enough that Crane would go to investigate what was going on. And when he does see Juniper leaning over a cup with the kettle as he uneasily tries to pour it, and when Crane asks Juniper responds so matter-of-fact that his intention is nothing but genuine. And it catches Reggie off guard because Juniper hadn't done anything like that up to that point, and his very apparent vulnerability is so clearly on show.

It shifts something between them.

From that point on, conversations are longer, more familiar. Both of their attitudes soften, and Reggie makes more jokes. Juniper learns how to better use his left hand while strengthening his right back to a point where it could be used again. Slowly, they're both spending time with one another not because they have to, but just because they can. Little bits at first, not too far outside what they already were doing, but those little bits turned into long bits to a point where the other person's company was genuinely desirable.

As time passes, Juniper probably realises that he doesn't genuinely know much about himself or what hobbies he's into, because he never really had the time when he got big, and his home life in his youth wasn't bad, but it wasn't picturesque. I think Reggie would pick up on it, and absolutely try to introduce him to some things he's into. Some things stick, other things don't (corn husking very much stays Reggie's passion, and John will go with him sometimes because it's him, but it's not something he strongly cares for). Crane introduces him to a lot of music, and it's something that becomes a staple between them, with tracks they listen to more than others (tragically, I know relatively little about 60s music so I couldn't really say what). Occasionally they dance, never anything intense, think slow dancing, but the closeness is nice.

Through all of it, Juniper is battling the worst crush of his life, and he can't stand it, because I think he struggles to read people since he doesn't have anything like a script or a director to refer back to, so he has no idea if Reggie likes him back or if he's just desperate for that to be true. I think because of that any sort of confession between them would be incredibly raw, not only because of the time they live in making it hard for them to be truthful about how they love, but because it's a complete show of Juniper who's worked to be this better person. I don't exactly know how that would go, mainly because I don't have one set version of their dynamic, this post is just a generalisation of main consistent points.

Reggie does like him back, because he's gotten used to Juniper being just this guy, not a figure in the public eye, not a Zoraxis lackey, and not any sort of Agency operative (despite being under their care to some degree). He's someone he genuinely cares for, because they've given one another the time of day to learn one another, and I think because Reggie was a field agent, he was a lot better at reading Juniper than Juniper was at reading him. Eventually Juniper's company becomes something he could see around him for the rest of his life, and I think he accepts that he likes Juniper a lot more gracefully.

I think any affection directed at Juniper would at first be met with him feeling a little muddled. Reggie was a very physically affectionate person when he could be, and sure the initial flirting with one another came with the occasional little touches, but everything now was so deeply intentional. I also don't think Juniper would almost ever get over the novelty of being able to kiss him, or many other gestures, because it made the fact that they were together so very real, and it was great. I do think it comes easier to Reggie, and it's a big way of showing how much he cares, so it's important for Juniper to try and show it back because he knows how much it means to the other.

I like the idea of them eventually living with one another, too. I think Juniper would have always had a quiet little daydream of sorts where he does just live a domestic quiet life, and he can with Reggie (well, as close as they can get between the Agency and Zoraxis always being at odds), and he loves that, and he loves him, and it's immense.

I think they cook for one another a lot, it helps Juniper work on his dexterity in a controlled environment, which means a lot because it's a huge point of insecurity (that and his scars). He does improve, and Crane is proud of that and shows it and it's great. I also think they'd probably cook together too, because they can deal with being in the kitchen together and they work well with one another. It's probably a good way for them to unwind because over time they can do it in relative silence.

As I said before, I also think music is a staple in their household, and that Reggie listens to things on vinyl almost all of the time because he likes the background noise. Sometimes Juniper will catch him chuntering along to the music which he finds endlessly endearing. I wouldn't put it past his dramatic ass to also join in to fluster Reggie, but I also don't think Reggie would mind that terribly because Juniper has listened to the music enough to know the lyrics, and that's huge to him.

I don't think they are without rough patches, no relationship is, but I think the good part about them is that they're willing to talk about it (... eventually). They're used to long conversations, and while they're often less fun conversations, they're needed and they know that, and it works out.

Alright. I think I'm done for now. I haven't mentioned everything, but this definitely got the worst of it out of my system. If you ever want to hear any specific thoughts my ask box is open but other than that, behold my general dynamic for these two which has been festering in my head for years. I think they're great

[snailvibes]

Thinking about how Max‘s habit of shying away from help or talking about things is because throughout that whole week she had to only rely on herself essentially. How she had the whole world on her shoulders and felt she had to carry it, not because no one else could, but because no one else would.

[punkypiscesell-writes]

when it comes without a warning

chapter 0.5 - next chapter

Javier Peña x plus size f! reader

summary: Your friend announces she’s engaged and is adamant at finding you a date. After all, you’re the last of her friends who is still unmarried. After a chance meeting with Javier Peña, an ex-DEA agent whose name you’ve only heard, he comes to your bakery with an offer too tempting for you to pass. You’ll pretend to be together until the wedding to get people off your backs and part ways afterwards. No feelings, clear rules, that’s it. Nothing could go wrong, it’s a foolproof plan. Until you become convinced rules are meant to be broken, even the ones you swore not to break.

warnings (updated after each chapter): fake dating AU, strangers to lovers, romcom, 90’s vibes, angst, small town dynamics, slow burn, pining, mentions of God, mentions of losing a parent (no specifics), the picture in the header is just for the visual and isn't an indication of the reader's skin color. Not beta read. If you see any broken Spanish, please let me know!!

word count: 2.3k

notes: Happy holidays! It has been a while since I last posted something. This idea has been brewing in my head for a good year and a half now and after reading through the lengthy outline of scenes, dialogue, songs, pictures, and ideas I’ve been gathering during this time, it’s finally time to write it out. My lovely friend Jess, @javierpenaispunk, has given me so much confidence in creating this story. She has been the listening ear of occasional snippets I’ve wanted (and needed) to share while I’ve been otherwise having a break from writing. Her patience is truly remarkable and if I were her, reading a scene from the middle of the story with no background or setup, I would’ve wanted to know more immediately. Her gentleness has nurtured my creativity and I’m glad I have such a supportive friend who is my personal cheerleader and who is always up for a conversation, no matter if it’s about something silly or deep. I hope you, Jess, and anyone who reads this will like it and you'll enjoy your time with this story.

This is the only chapter in Javier's POV, the rest is told from the reader's perspective.

dividers by cafekitsune

A few weeks after the wedding...

Javier doesn’t wake up. Instead, his brain catches up to his senses slowly. One moment he’s checked out, living in the darkness between night and morning. It’s a place somewhere in a dream world that is much more inviting than the one that turns out to be true. The next, clarity creeps in with the reminder that he hasn’t closed his eyes at all since he woke up last morning and crashed into bed after sitting on the porch listening to the quiet of the ranch which was ear shatteringly loud.

Light pushes itself gently into the stuffy room. Javier hears the sound of the bathroom tap when his dad brushes his teeth, then the soft click of the door when he closes it after himself and hobbles down the stairs with off-balance feet. The smell of fresh coffee drifts up next and mixes with the tainted taste that lingers in his mouth after too many glasses of cheap alcohol and too many cigarettes now dumped on an ashtray only hours earlier.  

He really should brush his teeth as well. It would bring a sense of normalcy to his day, mark a beginning that ends somewhere. It would pause the drifting along a timeline that repeats itself with the sun setting and creeping up the horizon again, with the work he does day after day, the screaming of his liver and brains when he picks up the beer, whiskey or tequila to get his mind off things… off you… to only have the smell of you, the touch of your hands, the feel of your skin, your body, branded on him and the memory crush him like a freight train.

If he could travel back in time, to Colombia, he could drown all of this, this useless emptiness, this sense of… fucking heartbreak into work that would take all his brain capacity, and he wouldn’t have time to think about anything else other than work. That part of his life is behind him though. Now he only has the town where everyone knows everyone’s business, the ranch, endless days and nights of quiet and simplicity, home cooked meals and his dad watching reruns of the same shows on tv every evening.

Whether it’s an escape or a way to have the ghost of you around him, Javier picks up the bottle again and again. He tortures himself with everything that reminds him of you like you were gone.

The other option is too terrifying.

He could make his way to town, open the bakery door and find you working. He could talk with you and ask you out, like you had, and this time he wouldn’t remind you of the arrangement you two had promised to follow.

It was broken the second he came up with the idea, on that balcony on New Year’s Eve as you stood there with a drink in your hand, a sad look in your eyes as you watched the people on the other side of the window celebrating. You turned to him, forgot about the sadness in your eyes and smiled at him like you were two sides of the same coin. You clinked your glass against his and wished him a happy new year. The mix of emotions hung heavily over your head, but you kept it away from him.

Javier’s skin itches under the too hot blanket as sunlight warms it up against his naked back. He doesn’t dare move it away. He hasn’t washed it in ages. It always smelled a little stale and reminded him of home. Those days when his mom would wash it for him because she knew he wouldn’t. That was years ago and now it has a new smell. It’s fading, day by day losing any particle of you.

Another string of hurt makes its way from the you sized space in his head down through his eyes, nose, mouth, throat, to his chest and spreads uncomfortably from the top layers of his skin to the deepest tissue. It flips his stomach and forces him to take a deep breath.

He found your necklace last night.

Maybe it was that time you had come over to bring his dad leftover pastries from the bakery. Your visit turned out to be a way for you to get a chance to thank him for taking you to the town after your car broke down.

Or maybe it was that time you had seen Javier’s dad run errands in town. “We have a little time, right?” You panted against his mouth and ripped his shirt off his shoulders. Your hands moved to his jeans when he held on to the shirt to not leave it downstairs. Of course, Chucho already knew then, but Javier didn’t want to fuel the gossip fire even more while the biggest evidence was parked out at the front of the house: your car.

Or maybe it was the time you came over for dinner. It wasn’t even Javier’s idea, but his dad’s. “I want to get to know her!” He said to Javier then. You stayed over that night, the second of two nights. The scent of end was already in the air. You didn’t sleep that night, neither did he. You wrapped yourself around him, clung to him with such force that your skin started to melt into his. He was at peace, just like all those other nights when he was with you, and you refused to let go.

Javier will never forget how you climbed on his lap for the first time, unsure and shy, your heartbeat hammering so hard it made your skin pulse and ripple under his touch. And then that first night you came over to the ranch, with his dad fallen asleep in the living room downstairs while the shopping tv blared old commercials. You climbed on Javier’s lap and drowned your moans bravely in his mouth and against his neck. That night was never ending and he would’ve wanted it to last even longer.

Maybe it was one of those times when you came over and left before he wanted to let go. During one of those visits you lost your necklace you always had around your neck no matter what the occasion was. You once told him it belonged to your mom, but you never told him more. From the way you turned from him and changed the subject, the conversation never continued, and Javier didn’t want to pry.

The lock is broken. The sunlight glimmers against the rosy gold, tiny links that lay on the pillow where he laid it. It was between the wooden bed frame and the old spring mattress that whines when laid on. The smell of you in his nose and the necklace on his pillow, it’s almost like you’re here with him. Javier can hear your out of breath laugh in his ears like the ecstasy of euphoria was still fresh in his veins, filling his brain with fluff and you. The memory hurts. You could be here if he had only admitted he had resigned from the arrangement a long time ago.

The kitchen windows look onto the porch. Chucho is drinking coffee and reading the paper with glasses pushed on his nose. There’s a mug on the kitchen counter for Javier too. It’s empty, but the message is demanding. With his skin now freshly scrubbed, his face shaved, his mustache trimmed, and his hair washed and brushed back, Javier is almost functioning like a human again. He fills his mug and steps outside. It’s cool still, but not for long. The humidity of the early morning is an indication of what it’ll be like later when the temperature climbs over 90.

Chucho has been following his son demolish himself for a few weeks. It hasn’t taken a lot of brain power for him to put two and two together when you haven’t come over anymore and Javier hasn’t stayed over at yours. The nights on his own were lonely, a reminder of when Javier was in Colombia. He would still take those lonely evenings and nights over a hundred times instead of seeing Javier pour his poison of choice down his throat.

“You came in late,” Chucho notes behind the paper without taking his eyes off the inked pages. Javier doesn’t answer, he never does because there’s no question.

“Would you run me some errands today?”

“I can stay and work on whatever you need, you can go.” Javier drinks the coffee and replaces the recollection of your taste with the strong, warm scent of the drink in his mug.

Chucho lowers the paper, his eyes fixed on his son. “What are you running away from?” Javier has to steady the mug in his hand after a cold wave crashes through him.

“Why are you hiding here?”

“I’m not.” The muttered words are unconvincing even to Javier. What they sounded to his dad pushes on his buttons, unnamed frustration piles up in his throat.

“After your mom passed, I too stayed here and locked myself away. You know what kept me alive?”

Javier’s knee sways from side to side, another kind of crushing hurt spreading in his chest with the pressure still blocking his vocal chords.

“You.” Chucho forces Javier to look at him by placing his hand on his son’s knee, stilling the stressful movement. His wrinkled and sun spotted face is soft as he looks at his son, a little smile on the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve always reminded me of her not because God sketched you in her image, but because of your gentleness and how much you feel. You’ve always been sensitive, mi hijo. Don’t waste it by hiding yourself away here.” Javier has to look away and bite the inside of his cheek. Every time his dad calls him by that endearment, many years of unconditional, proud love between a father and his child spills between them.

“You didn’t get your romantic streak from her though,” Chucho withdraws his hand and chuckles to himself.

Javier wants to desperately change the mood. “Where then? The songs she used to listen to?” He asks, hoping his dad will catch onto the joke in his voice.

“From me.” Of course he doesn’t joke back. “You think I won your mom over with my dashing personality?” Javier snorts.

His whole life his dad has been warm, generous and kind. People can trust Chucho and he’s easy to get to know. He’s respected in the community and for a good reason. But God knows if you cross Chucho Peña, you will never hear the end of it. Javier’s mom was strict, but not like his dad. He only accepted to hear the truth when Javier was growing up yet he was never judgmental. Now it’s easier to keep secrets from him, keep him at an arm’s length, even when Javier would need his support.

“I had to work for her to see me and take me seriously. I was the underdog.” The meaning behind the words doesn’t go unnoticed by Javier. He leans the side of his face against his fingers, his coffee mug forgotten against his thigh. Chucho looks too pleased with himself for getting his son’s full attention.

“You think I’m an underdog?” Javier asks, curious to hear how his dad will spin it.

“Yes.”

“Thanks for being honest.” Chucho laughs his familiar, deep, vibrating laugh and fixes his glasses on his nose.

“You are an underdog because you make yourself the underdog. Did you really think your arrangement with her would work when you both fell for each other?” His words shock the sarcastic smile off of Javier’s face.

“You are in love with her, and it won’t change no matter how long you’ll hide and run away from her.” Javier takes a sip of his coffee. It’s already cooling. The humid Texas air lifts sweat on his armpits, encouraged by his dad’s words.

“You can’t say that,” he starts, a lump in his throat as thick as wool.

“Say what?”

“That she fell for me.”

“Why do you think I’m saying you’re making yourself the underdog?”

“No lo sé, papá,” Javier shakes his head.

“Porque no quieres admitir que ella también se enamoró de ti.” His skin prickles uncomfortably. More memories. More you.

“You might be our son, but you haven’t inherited your cynicism from us.” Chucho thinks out loud.

Javier has to get away. “What errands do you want me to run?”

“I need you to get stamps and groceries.” Javier stands and downs the rest of his coffee, hoping it was something stronger. “Oh, and those pastries with the cream.” Another wave of sweat pearls under his arms. He pulls the screen door open and is already stepping inside.

“Tienes permitido amar y ser amado, mi hijo.” Javier stops. His fingers squeeze the wood frame of the screen door. The paint is chipping. From the corner of his eye, he notices his dad looking up at him. Another demand.

Javier answers it by turning to his dad. He empties all the air from his lungs through his lips. His sight gets hazy from the dry tears that prickle his eyes. Chucho reaches for his hand holding the mug but settles on his wrist and squeezes. The air is thick from the unsaid words, the ones that are hidden in his dad’s warm hand on his skin.

He nods and pulls his hand back.

Javier places the mug in the sink. He leans against it to settle his thrashing heart. How did he end up here? How did he laugh about it then, guessing he would corrupt you and your assumed innocence. How did he end up breaking the promise he made for himself about it only being an arrangement, but ended up following your words instead?

“You might corrupt me,” you said with a wicked glint in your eyes, “but I won’t be the one falling in love.” You were joking then. He laughed when you touched your wine glass against his.

And then he fell.

[akkivee]

Intensely Spicy Curry Training: Hypmic Curry Drama Track TL

Kuukou: Y’all sure took your sweet time getting here! I’ve already got everything prepared!

Jyushi: But didn’t you tell us to meet you at the temple?

Hitoya: If we’re making curry, why the hell are we way out in the mountains to do it?

Kuukou: Because I just had a great idea. Check this out!

Jyushi: Ooooh, look at all this meat! So, we’re going to be using all of this in our curry?

Hitoya: Beef and chicken, huh? I guess it would make sense not cook these while inside your temple.

Kuukou: You’re half right, and half wrong.

Jyushi: What do you mean?

Kuukou: I don’t plan to make just any ol’ curry. Now it’s time for the both of y’all to mince the hell out of this meat!!

Hitoya: I didn’t know whether to expect if a corrupt little monk such as yourself knew how to cook, but I’m surprised. Instead of using something pre-made, if we pound and mince the meat ourselves, we’d get a far more superior product. Is that what you were thinking?

Jyushi: Oh, I see! That’s amazing, Kuukou-san!

Hitoya: So, where’d you put the food processor?

Kuukou: Ah?? The hell are you on? You’re grinding this meat with your bare hands.

Jyushi: …Eh?

Kuukou: Jyushi, you’re on beef! Hitoya, you’re taking the chicken! Punch it with everything you’ve got and make minced meat out of it!! This is a new training session I thought up!

Hitoya: What the hell is this fool saying??

Jyushi: B-But there’s so much meat!! Grinding it by hand is impossible!!

Kuukou: I don’t want to hear any complaints!! You don’t know that unless you try!

Jyushi & Hitoya: *reluctantly pounds the meat by hand*

Jyushi: *tearfully* …My body’s going to become minced meat before the actual beef!

Hitoya: Damn it, I can’t believe I let my guard down like this…! I shouldn’t have expected we’d simply make curry…!

Kuukou: You can’t expect to get anywhere with a weak spirit behind weak fists like that!! Lemme show you how it’s done!

Kuukou: *starts punching*

Hitoya: You bastard, those are vegetables!!

Jyushi: E-Even I could mince a tomato by hand!

Kuukou: It doesn’t matter either way!! Whether it’s vegetables or meat, all that matters is the heart you’re putting behind it!!

Jyushi: T-That doesn’t make any sense…!!

Kuukou: “Enlightenment can be attained through one thousand fists!” Don’t just keep yapping and put some energy into your hips and legs too!

Hitoya: Tch, I don’t see any way out of this… Then, I might as well get it over with…!! UWOOOOOOOOOAAAARRRRGHHHH!!!!!!!! *maximum effort punching*

Jyushi: H-Hitoya-san??

Kuukou: Hyahaha! There’s the effort I wanna see!

Jyushi: Guh… Because My God has unshackled the chains binding his true power, I, too, must unlock mine to continue alongside him…! HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!!!! *maximum effort punching*

-------------------------

Jyushi: I-I can’t move another inch…

Hitoya: Ugh… I can’t even take the cap off my water bottle…

Kuukou: *sighs* It’s pretty pathetic to be that exhausted just from cooking.

Hitoya: You…!!!

Jyushi: But, I think it would be really nice if our training efforts could be felt by those eating our curry…!

Hitoya: …Well, I don’t think I’d say it like that, but I agree with the sentiment.

*the trees rustle and the birds chirp and there is peace*

Kuukou: The fuck are y’all talking about? There’s no point to this if the people who eating aren’t going through training too.

Jyushi: Eh?

Kuukou: Training can only be felt when you grow from the trials you’ve experienced yourself. Hopping off from other people’s efforts won’t mean shit.

Jyushi: B-but I mean, we’ll still be serving the curry to others once it’s finished cooking, right?

Kuukou: Yup. Which is why I’ve got…!

Hitoya: UWAH!! MY EYES!! IT’S IN MY EYES!!

Jyushi: That powder…!!

Hitoya: It’s red chili pepper!! Jyushi, run!! Move upwind so it doesn’t blow and stick to your mucous membrane!!

Jyushi: Eeek!!! *runs away sobbing*

Kuukou: HYAHAHAHAHAHA!!

Hitoya: Kuukou, you bastard, what are you doing? Are you trying to ruin everything we worked on??

Kuukou: I’m not ruining a damn thing! This curry will be spicy so I can provide a remote kind of training!

Hitoya: Stop fucking around!! There’s gotta be a limit!!

Jyushi: *runs back over* I think there’s more chili pepper powder than ingredients now…!!

Kuukou: Then it’s just right! Now try it.

Jyushi: NO!! I will not be eating!! I absolutely refuse!! Don’t even try me!!

Kuukou: Hey stupid, watch it, that’s dangerous!! Stop fighting me and just—Ahh??

Jyushi: T-The inside of the pot is pitch black……!!

Hitoya: Obviously. Chili peppers burn easily. Haah… Let’s just remake the curry.

Jyushi: But doesn’t that mean we’ll have to mince more meat??

Kuukou: Whatever, I was thinking our “Intensely Spicy Curry Training” was made too halfheartedly anyway!! Time to give it all I got and win this championship!!

[necromycologist]

i think my problem with recommending books to other people is that if i like something TOOO much i get my wires crossed because “this is bad but i like it” and “oh my god this contains every thing i could possibly want in a book” hit the same guilty pleasure feeling and makes me utterly incapable of being objective about books i LOVE-love. leads to a weird sort of thing where books that i enjoyed but wasn’t utterly captivated by are “really good! would definitely reccomend”, and yet books i liked a lot more and am in fact slaveringly obsessed with are “……………ok. EYE loved it, but,”. weird