#Advanced Background Checks

[authenticate01]

Make Sure Your Criminal Background Check is Accurate with Authentication

Everyone needs to authenticate their personal information at some point in their lives. Whether you’re applying for a job or a loan, you need to provide accurate information about yourself in order to prove who you are. In some cases, you may even need to prove that you have no criminal history. This is where an Authenticatecomes in.

A Criminal Background Check can provide individuals and businesses with details about an individual's criminal history. The process involves gathering information such as arrest records, convictions, and court appearances. This information can be used to make decisions about someone’s eligibility for a job, loan, or other opportunity.

To Check Your Criminal Record, you can use an Authenticate. We provide you with information about your past arrests, convictions, and court records. The information is gathered from public records, such as court documents, police records, and other public sources. The results will usually provide you with the details of any criminal charges you have been convicted of, along with any pending charges you may have.

You may also be able to get a Federal Criminal Background Check. This type of check is more comprehensive than a state background check, as it includes all federal offenses, such as terrorism and espionage. A federal criminal background check can provide an even more detailed picture of a person’s past criminal behavior.

No matter the reason you need to authenticate your identity, it’s important to remember that a criminal background check can help you make informed decisions about someone’s eligibility for a job, loan, or other opportunity. Using an online criminal background check service can provide you with a comprehensive view of someone’s criminal history. Additionally, a federal criminal background check can provide an even more detailed picture of a person’s past criminal behavior. By having this information, you can ensure that you’re making the right decision for yourself and your business. For more info give us a call at +1 833-283-7439 or visit our official website at:- https://authenticate.com/

[psychopomp-namine]

you don't understand how much I felt the slow saline drip of gaining interest in a character, and instead of going, "oooh. interesting. new blorbo?" I instead went, "...really. that guy? oh. oh no."

<- guy with a li tianchen icon ends up blorbofying liu xiao. alas, I have played myself 😔

[livescan360]

Becoming an APRN in Florida? We make fingerprinting fast, easy, and fully compliant for just $80. Use ORI EDOH4420Z and get scanned in minutes! Book your appointment with Miami Live Scan today—secure, professional, and hassle-free. Call now or book online!

[stellanslashgeode]

Okay, so. Star Wars has all these concepts that weirdo New Left boomer George Lucas tosses in there but because of storyteller limitations it would kill the plot to fully explain them all, so later writers have to come in for the spin-off materials and bat clean-up to fully explain all this crazy crap. And I would like to talk about something that made me actively angry at first, but which I now adore. And that is the Naboo.

So much about Naboo culture is infuriating from a logical standpoint. They have a queen, okay. A constitutionally elected queen? Weird, okay. Don't know why they'd do that but... She's FOURTEEN? Excuse me? Is it a ceremonial thing or, oh no it's not? Legit head of state? Why does she dress like that? Why does she talk like that? I'm so tired.

Here's the explainer. Let me go cook.

There's this joke in Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy where the last living human goes back in time and finds out humans aren't actually from Earth, but an alien culture that tricked all the middle managers, pedantic weirdos, and other infuriating folk into getting in a space arc which they gave the wrong evacuation coordinates to simply get rid of them. The Naboo are like this but they're all artists and poets and hippies, but like classy ones. They fled their home planet during a war and crash landed on Naboo, then did a colonism to the Gungans because, hey, they were fleeing a war and it was do or die. This spiritual rot in their creation story is later rectified by Padmé. But it's super important to their cultural psychology. They're hippies, but will subjugate if needed. They are "peaceful" but I guarantee you every single one of them has a tiny extremely shiny pistol up their sleeve and they will draw down on you if backed against a wall.

The scene that I think says it all is at the end of Phantom Menace when Padmé is surrounded by Nute Gunray and his droids, they've got her dead to rights, but Sabé her double creates a distraction so the queen can make it to her throne. This one piece of furniture is the Naboo in a nutshell. It's richly carved with artistic details, it has two seats to the side so the queen's handmaidens can read the lips of people in the back of the room and use hand signals to communicate with the queen while she can remain focused mostly on who is speaking to her. It is hundreds of years old. And it has a secret compartment in the armrest that is FULL OF GUNS. Layers of artistic opulence hiding their true intentions.

The Naboo were created to be backwards compatible with Princess Leia. They're compassionate pacifists, but they will shot you if needed.

Why do they elect teenage royalty? It's a little creepy. It's giving "age of consent is emotional maturity". It makes no sense.

The explanation they give outsiders is they want youthful idealism untainted by cynicism. What they don't tell you is that they take kids with stated interest in politics and put them in an advanced highly competitive Leadership Academy which is like Model UN mixed with Battle Royale. Well, they don't kill each other but it's intense. It's like what the clones went though just all diplomacy training and tea ceremonies all the time. Which is crazy but so Naboo.

Oh, and all the delegates for the royalty election run using pseudonyms for security. Imagine voting for the head of state but you can't run a background check. It's so crazy.

Why does Padmé dress like that? Well, fashion is one of Naboo's major industries so it's like she's wearing the entire Fall line catalog at once. To advertise not only the talent of her people, but to show how much they favor her. BUT that dress has multiple layers of padding and resin armor. And aforementioned spots for those little silver blasters. And it breaks up her silhouette making her harder to shoot. And it's so elaborate you pay more attention to the crazy dress and not if the person wearing it is really the queen or a decoy. Everything about Naboo is like this.

Queen Amidala has that weird accent while Padmé does not. Because all her handmaidens helped create the accent together so they all can imitate it. It's like if you gave girls at a rowdy sleepover the job of federal counterintelligence. That's what they came up with.

The handmaidens wear colorful identical clothes so you can't tell them apart, hoods to partially conceal their identity, and they don't wear the queen's fancy makeup. So one of them can be the queen and spy on people in the audience. Because the Naboo don't trust shit for shit.

Their public face is so silly to hide all the truly weird shit they do behind the scenes.

They use their reputation as artist hippies to conceal multiple layers of subterfuge and disguise their methods of self defense and assuage their paranoia due to wartime trauma and their disturbing colonial past. All of them are completely off their rocker even by Star Wars standards. And I love them so much. They put on a show so everyone thinks they have them figured out but what they have going on is far more weirder and more sinister than meets the eye. You know how catty, neurotic, and competitive art school students stereotypically are? Yeah, planet art student. Love them!

There you go, @charmwasjess

[fandomfuntimem]

Dp x dc: batshit crazy driver au.

Bruce hired a new personal driver for the Wayne's. He was a nice enough guy. His grades weren't great, but he was a great driver and very patient. Like, really patient. Like, he is so unbothered by traffic, stupid drivers, and villain attacks, its kinda scary. But all the background checks came back clean. Minus his mad scientists parents, of course.

Daniel (Danny) Fenton. He could relate to any of the Wayne kids and hold an intelligent conversation with Bruce. Bruce feels that he doesn't need to be all Brucie Wayne around the young man. He doesn't know about their nightly activities yet, though. They're not quite sure if he even needs to know.

The first sign there was something more to Danny happened when Tim was sitting in the passenger seat. Tim was struggling with a math problem. It was driving him nuts. It only took a quick glance for Daniel to solve it, though, "it's thirty-six"

"What?"

"The answer is Thirty-six. You forgot to carry the three."

"Huh..."

He was right, Tim made a simple mistake, sure. But that was advanced college level math. Danny was a straight c student and never went to college. It only took him a momentary glance to solve it. Tim, though suspicious, chalked it up to a simple case of gifted kid syndrome. He related to it and began to consult with Danny on some of his math problems. Danny was more than happy to help, for a price, of course.

Then, there was a villain attack. The villain's goons ran rampant through the city, terrorizing anyone unfortunate enough to be outside at the time. But not Danny, they'll tried, oooh they tried. But those goons swiftly found themselves zip tied, in the trunk of a car, and on their way to jail. All while Danny blasted some music by a small artist named 'Ember'.

Alright. He is in Gotham, and his mother was a black belt, so maybe he was just well trained. Its good to know how to deffend yourself.

Then, Damien was kidnapped. It was so fast they barely saw, but a white van sped by and grabbed Damien as he made his way tawords the car. Initially, Damien expected the chauffeur to panic and call the police. But when shouting and cursing were heard from the front seat, and the men in the back slipped the van door open to check behind them, it was revealed Danny had followed them and he had a gun.

What could only be described as an action movie chase scene ensued. Every corner they swerved, every shortcut they took, Danny was right behind them. Driving like a bat out of hell, he shouted and fired at the wheels of the van. Knocking one out, the van swerved and was forced to come to a stop.

A kidnapper grabbed Damien by the hair and held a gun to his head, but before the threat could even leave his mouth a bullet flew through his hand. He dropped Damien and fell to the ground screaming, clutching his hand.

The kidnapper in the van already took off running but was swiftly stopped by Redhood arriving just in time to see Danny helping Damien up and checking him over, profusely apologizing for "letting this happen."

When asked why he did all of it, his simply answered, "I don't think I would get paid if I let Mr. Wayne's kid die! I can't let a kid die in general!"

Bruce, of course, gave the young man a bonus and a few days off for the stunt. Accompanied wlth a few stern words about safety. What was truly remarkable was that there was not a single scratch on the car. Untouched, meaning he never hit anything during the whole ordeal. "I just learned what not to do from my dad!" He joked, but Bruce felt that, despite the clear joking tone, there was some truth to the statement.

The family is suspicious, very suspicious. The man they previously viewed as their simple and humble driver turned out to be a monster of a fighter, and they have no idea how or why.

----------------------‐------

A/N: Feel free to add onto this in any way you would like :3

[vixxdaemon]

Hello, I am Nader, I am from Gaza-Palestine and I am a 26-year-old dedicated to working alongside my father in our family-owned enterprise specializing in importing stationery, school supplies, and printing services.On October 7, 2023, the war began in Gaza, and on the morning of October 20, 2023, the area where our company was targeted with several missiles, led to the destruction of a large part of the company.Then, On January 8, 2024, the area was targeted for the second time, leading to the burning of the entire company, stores, and affiliated printing press for the company's store.Recently our home was bombed on the 20th of March 2024 and now we are without shelter and homeless and there’s no place to go back to or to be.Help us to leave Gaza to the safe zone before it’s too late, every 1 dollar can save a person’s life, and every donation will directly contribute to my needs—shelter, food, and medical assistance please share so we can start a new happy life.Thank you in advance for your kindness, and for bringing a glimmer of light to my family in such a dark time.

I’d be happy to help.

Another vetted fundraiser over here, do share and/or donate if you can, thank you.

[hepalien]

Hey rarepair shippers, I'm about to change your lives.

The AO3 Primary Ship Search add-on for Firefox (it's called AO3 First Tag Search for Chrome) adds this little checkbox to the AO3 advanced search page

And if you check the box, the search only returns fics where the pairing you entered is the first one tagged. This is better than the otp:true operator imo because it will show fics with secondary/background pairings too as long as your preferred ship is the main one.

You can even use the add-on in Firefox or Kiwi browser on Android mobile.

Have fun 😘

(more ao3 tips here)

[fawniette]

more for this au ❤︎ ꒰ criminal!sukuna ꒱

criminal!sukuna who you met during your senior year of high school, being the typical bad boy and good girl trope. you did pretty well, your grades always decent if not good and you typically stayed out of trouble whereas sukuna was the polar opposite.

criminal!sukuna who was every teacher’s nightmare, always found in detention. he had failing grades, with sport being the only subject he exceeded at. it wasn’t because he was dumb, he just rarely ever attended class. and when he did, he was causing mayhem.

criminal!sukuna who stereotypically, was then paired up with you in one of your classes for a school project, the good girl who the teachers had counted on to hopefully get his grades in check.

criminal!sukuna who then had his eyes set on you from that day, a cheeky smile on his face when he sat next to you. he spent weeks of his time working on this dumb project he had zero interest in for, but when it meant getting to spend time with you, then he didn’t mind at all.

criminal!sukuna who you knew had a bad boy reputation, making you very weary of giving into his advances. he was always kind to you though, always making an effort unlike the other boys in your school. but, you knew deep down a girl like you had no business getting involved with a guy like him.

criminal!sukuna who never stopped trying despite your gentle rejections. it wasn’t common for him to actually catch feelings for girls, let alone even like someone enough to be their friend. so, sukuna wasn’t gonna let this deter him. this man knew what he wanted - and that was you.

“c’mon, i’m not all bad, i promise. i’ll show you a real good time, and if your not fucking with me after that, i’ll leave you alone.”, he says to you with a tone so unusual for him. and when you finally agree, shutting your locker with a smile on your face despite the eye roll you gave him, he can’t help but feel a genuine smile make way on his face, with a feeling in his chest he’s never felt before.

criminal!sukuna who was to your surprise, such a gentleman. he showed you the real princess treatment you hadn’t received from standard guys in your year. he paid for every date, with beautiful red roses in his hands every time he saw you. she would even leave a hidden note attached for when you were alone, looking back at your smile as he walked away.

criminal!sukuna who knew he had to tell you the truth about him and everything he was involved in before making you his girlfriend. not the half assed answer everyone already knows, but the real truth about his background and his life growing up.

criminal!sukuna who eventually laid everything out to you, the night he could hopefully make you his girlfriend. he explained his childhood growing up, the horrible treatment he had to endure, to then how he got into the lifestyle he’s in. you knew he was doing shady shit on the side, but you never really realised just how deep in it he was. but your gently traces along his rough hands made him feel more at ease at the words fell from his lips.

criminal!sukuna who expected you to tell him that you didn’t want to be involved in that, which he would’ve understood despite how much he liked you. but, he was met with your glossy eyes and a reassuring touch on his hand when you told him that you didn’t care, that you cared only about him and how sorry you were he had to go through that.

criminal!sukuna who made you his girlfriend that night, kissing you with pure desperation and need. he had never felt so grateful for someone before, unable to show that with his words. so instead, he showed you physically - he wanted, no, needed to feel you in every way he could.

criminal!sukuna who was beyond shocked when you told him you were a virgin that night, but couldn’t help the way his cock hardened at the fact that he would be your first. he would be the first guy to show you what sex felt like, the guy to take your innocence.

criminal!sukuna who was so gentle, slowly stretching you out with his tip after sliding it through your glossy folds and teasing your clit. he didn’t want to hurt you, making sure to pay attention to every part of your body, rolling your sensitive buds between his fingers as he whispered sweet praises and distracting you from the pop you felt when he finally slid himself in.

“relax f’me, yeah? you’re squeezing the fuck outta me. i don’t wanna cum yet.”, he says either a breathy laugh, placing gentle kisses down your neck.

criminal!sukuna who made sure to watch what touches made your back arch, or what pace had you babbling out pretty moans as you claw down his back. he wanted to know exactly what you liked, exactly what got you going. he wanted to make this night the most special for you.

criminal!sukuna who made you cum at least three times, only stopping when he saw your overstimulated figure and your tears of pleasure, kissing them away as he came on your stomach and whispered how good you were for him, how special he felt that he was your first.

criminal!sukuna who was truly yours after that. you had him wrapped around your little finger like a dog on a leash. he was so aware of it too, not caring one bit when he knew he had grown too attached to you by now.

criminal!sukuna who underestimated how much your different lives would clash, finding himself always making you worry when he came to your bedroom window with cuts and bruises, stinking of weed. or when he found himself in a heated argument with your dad after he had found out about your relationship. it was safe to say your dad despised him after that.

criminal!sukuna who despite how much you loved him, was causing too many problems in your life, finding yourself questioning if it was a good idea that you had even gotten together in the first place.

criminal!sukuna who knows this, knows how much of a bother he can be to you and your life. and unfortunately, when you came to him with tears in your eyes and a pitiful look on your face, he knew exactly the words that were about to come out of your mouth, his heart racing with an unfamiliar feeling.

“you know i love you, kuna. but, i just- i don’t think i can do this, anymore. i can’t be with you, anymore.”

[alienzil]

Nanny Danny

“That is a whole ass baby,” was the only thought running through Lex Luthor’s head when the scientist proudly showed him the tube containing Project KR. It was not remotely the sort of thing he would normally think and most definitely not what he had expected to be thinking the first time he saw the clone.

He’d been pleased when he’d read the reports indicating the success of KR after years of failures. Lex had poured millions of dollars and literally his own blood into ensuring a clone of the alien could be made, one that would be under his total control instead of the unknown aspirations of Superman.  He’d wanted to see the fruits of his labors personally but this…

It. No, not an it. He scrunched his tiny face and smacked his lips and…did he smirk? Was that HIS SMIRK on that baby’s face?! No. No. Babies this small didn’t smile or smirk. They passed gas and their sleep deprived and addled parents mistook it for an intelligent response. He’d heard enough inane conversations in the Lexcorp office about the various progeny of his employees to pick up on that but still. This child had Kryptonian DNA, not to mention his own contribution. Surely, he was far more advanced than the dribbling potato shaped lump of an infant whose pictures he’d been forced to smile and nod over when Mark from accounting had rudely shoved them in his face at the last quarterly budget meeting. Yes, that was definitely a smirk. His, that was his smirk.

“So as you can see its growth is well within expected parameters and we’re planning to start phase one of accelerating the maturation process tomorrow once the testing is do-”

“Take him out.”

“Sir? The testing can all be accomplished while it remains in the tube. There’s no need to-”

“I said, take him out. The project is cancelled.”

“What?! Mr. Luthor you can’t!”

“I think you’ll find I can. Now get me my son.”

*****

Two years later

“Call them again”

“Sir, I’ve called them seven times. They won’t answer.”

“Then call another agency!”

“There isn’t another agency, Sir”

Lex glared at his assistant who stared back at him impassively. Mercy stood by the door staring off into the distance and pretending she didn’t notice him being bested by his own secretary.

He stopped himself from shouting again and took a deep breath before asking, “Then what, exactly, do you propose I do Mrs. Anderson? Adjust my entire schedule around naptimes? Find a toddler size lab coat and safety goggles and bring my son with me to tour the new clean energy project on Thursday? Perhaps buy a tiny business suit while I’m at it for the next board meeting?”

“I’m not suggesting anything of the sort, Mr. Luthor. I’m telling you that no childcare agency in Metropolis will return my calls anymore. Most won’t even answer.  You’ve gone through 27 nannies in the last 3 months. You need someone better suited to your son’s…special needs.”

Lex snorted. “Special needs might be a bit of understatement. He can lift a car over his head and his favorite word right now is No.”

He sighed and rubbed his forehead. “Thank you for…clarifying the situation, Marjorie. If there’s nothing else, you can leave.”

His secretary didn’t move. She looked at him like she was waiting for something and now that he was paying attention, he saw she was holding a file.  “Did you have a suggestion?”

Looking pleased with herself she responded, “Actually, yes, I did.”

“Well?”

She set the file on his desk and flipped it open. He looked down at the first page and raised an eyebrow, “What am I looking at here?”

“This,” she responded pulling out the top set of papers and spreading them out, “is the employee file and background check for Daniel J. Fenton, an intern that started in our engineering department about 4 months ago. He has one sibling, two parents and several close friends he regularly meets with. His current supervisor has nothing but good things to say about him and reports he gets along well with all his coworkers.”

She set out the next set of papers, neatly arranging them on the desk to be easily seen. “These are newspaper articles and screenshots of social media posts regarding a small town vigilante locally known as Phantom. The same small town, Mr. Fenton is from coincidentally. Also coincidentally, Phantom made his first appearance only a few weeks after Mr. Fenton was involved in a minor accident in his parent’s home laboratory when he was 14, the medical records for the incident are included.”

“Hmm,” Lex said observing several photos of Phantom and a younger Fenton arranged in order of similar poses and facial expressions and printed out side by side.

“Finally,” she said handing him the last set of papers directly, “this would be a report from the lab Mr. Fenton works in from an incident that happened yesterday. A test with a new protype went wrong and started a fire. Everyone evacuated per protocol when the alarms went off but one of the other interns was working on a programming issue off to the side of the lab while wearing headphones and didn’t hear the alarm or notice the fire. Mr. Fenton noticed his absence and returned to the lab to get him out.” She stopped talking and let him look at the last several pages in the file, a series of photographs of the lab.

“Is this ice?”

“Yes, it is. It’s several inches thick and covers half of the lab. It completely put out the fire leaving minimal damage.”

“This machine was moved?”

“It was. It was very close to the flames and would have required replacement if exposed to extreme heat or cold. That particular piece of equipment also weighs several thousand pounds and was bolted to the floor.”

Lex read through everything in detail then clasped his hands under his chin and stared at the photo of Daniel Fenton for several moments before turning back to his waiting secretary.

“Have HR send Mr. Fenton up. I’d like to offer him a promotion.”

[authenticate01]

Enhance Trust and Security with Seamless Background Check API

Background Check API are crucial as they enable businesses to seamlessly integrate background check functionalities into their systems. They provide valuable insights into an individual's history, helping to authenticate and establish trust, while enhancing security measures.

Are you looking to elevate trust, safety, and security within your business? Look no further than Authenticate! With our cutting-edge Background Check Integration API, you can unlock the power of background criminal checks and revolutionize your verification process.

Background checks have become an integral part of today's society, whether it's for employment, tenant screening, or partnership evaluations. The ability to authenticate an individual's background information has never been more crucial. That's where our Background Check API Integration comes into play, providing you with seamless access to comprehensive background check services, all within your existing system.

By incorporating our Background Check Integration API, you gain access to a wealth of information that can empower your decision-making process. From criminal records and employment history to education verification and reference checks, our API harnesses the latest technology to deliver accurate and up-to-date information in real-time. Say goodbye to manual processes and the potential for human error. With our API, you can automate the background check process and streamline your operations.

Why choose our Background Check Integration API? It's simple - we prioritize accuracy, security, and efficiency. Our API is designed to seamlessly integrate into your existing systems, providing a hassle-free experience. Whether you operate an HR platform, a rental management software, or a professional networking site, our API is flexible and customizable to fit your unique requirements.

By incorporating Background Criminal Check, you instill confidence and peace of mind in both your organization and your stakeholders. Trust is the cornerstone of any successful business relationship, and with our API, you can ensure that you are working with reliable individuals. From preventing fraud to protecting your brand reputation, our Background Check Integration API safeguards your interests.

Contact us today to explore the endless possibilities our Background Check Integration API has to offer. Our team of experts is ready to guide you through the integration process and help you unleash the power of background criminal checks. Together, we can elevate trust, security, and success in your business. For further info call us at +1 833-283-7439 or visit us at:- https://authenticate.com/!

[k12academics]

We provide over 60 services from Background Checks, Drug Screening, MVR'S, DNA, Employment Screening, IQ Testing and much more.

[sevikaswifegurl]

RED FLAG!

Synopsis: What happens when he says that one of his habits is a red flag?

Word count: 2.389

Characters: Carlos Sainz, Oscar Piastri, Lando Norris, Kimi Antonelli and Lance Strol.

Note: English is not my first language, so I apologize in advance if there are any errors and promise that I will improve the templates

Inspiration: @tsunodaradio please don't curse at me, I swear I looked at your post and thought: "I have to do one like this, I need to" and I love your account, so I was inspired by it, I'm sorry if you feel "invaded" or something like that, if you feel that way let me know and I'll delete the post!

CARLOS S. (CS55)🚩 ⸻ INSTANT TEXT REPLIES

Carlos realizes something's changed when you stop replying so quickly. It’s not a huge absence — not hours, not days. Just long enough for him to notice that now, your messages sit there. Waiting.

Before, it was automatic. He’d barely hit “send” and your reply was already coming in. Sometimes you both typed at the same time, your messages overlapping. It was lighthearted, fun. He laughed, and you used to say you just wanted to make sure he never felt alone.

But after that stupid conversation — just a random night, when he made a thoughtless joke about replying too fast being a red flag — it all stopped. You smiled, but it wasn’t the same. The next morning, you took over twenty minutes to reply to a “good morning.” That had never happened before.

By the third time he notices it, he can’t pretend anymore.

You’re sitting on his bed, rubbing lotion into your hands, lost in your own routine. Carlos is leaning against the doorframe, watching you. And he says it — no warning:

“You stopped replying fast because of me, didn’t you?”

You glance over your shoulder at him, not quite following.

“You said it was a red flag.”

“I was joking.” He folds his arms, stepping closer. “But I think I hurt you.”

You take a deep breath and lower your gaze.

“You laughed at one of the only things I did without thinking. Replying to you quickly… it was never about anxiety. I just liked talking to you.”

Carlos sits beside you. Your shoulders brush.

“I didn’t want you to change that because of me.”

“I know.” You smile, just a little.

“But I thought maybe you didn’t like it as much as I thought you did.”

He takes your hand. Squeezes it gently.

“I loved it. Still do. I stare at my phone like an idiot, waiting for that ‘hey’ two seconds after mine.”

You laugh under your breath. Rest your head on his shoulder.

“Then don’t complain when I go back to being way too fast.”

“I won’t. Promise.”

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it, type a reply without even looking. Carlos smiles.

You’re back.

OSCAR P. (OP81)🚩 ⸻ TAKING A GYM MIRROR SELFIE

Oscar never thought something as simple as a gym mirror selfie could mean so much. It was more than just a photo — it was a fragment of your day, a stolen moment between sweat and effort that he could keep and revisit whenever the distance started to weigh heavy.

He loved those pictures. Your hair tied up in any way, sometimes damp, sometimes stuck to your forehead with sweat. The soft gym lighting glowing against the foggy mirror. That crooked little smile you’d give the camera, like you were saying, “I’m here, I’m still going.”

Every photo you sent was like a secret note, a quiet reminder that even far apart, you were connected. He’d check his phone with this ridiculous anticipation, waiting for that one notification that could brighten up the middle of a long day.

Sometimes it was a classic selfie — sports bra on, elbow on your waist. Other times, a short clip of your workout, muffled music in the background, your focused eyes as you pushed through the final rep. The caption could be anything — “almost died,” “PR on leg press,” “barely surviving” — but to him, every word was a precious detail of your routine, your effort, your strength.

And then, one day, the photos just... stopped.

At first, he thought it was just a break. Maybe you were tired, or too focused on training to think about documenting every moment. But what started as a pause turned into silence. The silence became longing, and longing turned into this quiet, aching emptiness he didn’t quite know how to fix.

He missed those images the way he missed your scent when you were apart too long, the way he missed your touch after a bad day. He missed opening his phone and seeing your flushed face, that tired but proud look in your eyes, that visual proof that you were out there, pushing through, winning.

One night, after another full day, he gave in. Picked up his phone, hesitated just for a second, and typed:

“I miss your gym selfies.”

On the other end, you laughed — light, surprised.

“Really? I thought you said that was a red flag.”

He shook his head, even though you couldn’t see him.

“Red flag? Never. I love them. They're my favorite part of the day.”

You went quiet for a second, then your voice came through soft and careful:

“Then why did you say it was?”

Oscar sighed, a little embarrassed.

“I didn’t want to sound weird. I thought it might annoy you.”

“You don’t annoy me” you said, and he could practically hear the smile on your lips.

“Alright. I’ll send you a bunch of selfies. Every time.”

The phone buzzed a minute later.

There you were — hair stuck to your forehead with sweat, cheeks flushed, the gym mirror foggy behind you, a tired but genuine smile lighting up the frame.

Oscar smiled to himself on the couch, holding his phone like it was the most valuable thing in the world.

“Best thing that ever happened to my timeline” he replied, already counting down the minutes until the next one.

From that day on, the gym mirror selfies became a ritual. More than just photos, they were pieces of both your days — invisible threads that held you close through distance and time. Every picture a silent promise: that no matter where you were, you’d find each other — even if just through a screen and a slightly blurry selfie.

And deep down, Oscar knew those photos — so simple, so you — were more than just images. They were the way you stayed close, remembered, loved.

LANDO N. (LN4)🚩 ⸻ LIKING EVERY PHOTO ON HIS SOCIAL MEDIA FEED

You never really thought about it. Liking Lando’s posts was one of those small, automatic things — a reflex. He posted a gym mirror selfie, you liked it. A random selfie in his stories with a ridiculous filter, you liked it. A photo of the car, the track, a random sunset: like. Always.

It wasn’t flattery. It was just... you being there. Present. Saying everything without saying anything.

At first, he thought it was funny. He used to send you screenshots of the notifications, saying “First like as always,” or “Can’t get a second of peace with you online.” It was a joke. Affection disguised as teasing.

Until the video.

You were lying in bed, scrolling aimlessly through your feed, when you saw the title: “F1 Drivers Decide Their Personality Red Flags!” You clicked for entertainment, nothing more — until Lando showed up on screen, cap on, with that look like he was always on the edge of laughing.

“Red flag?” he repeated, thinking. “If you like every photo on my feed… I’ll block you.”

Your stomach twisted. Sure, he laughed after the line. But it was that weird kind of laugh — the one that comes a little late, with a half-look. And it stuck in your mind.

The next post, you hesitated. Scrolled past without hitting the heart. And then you kept doing it. One, two, five posts — no likes from you. Nothing on his stories either. No comments.

Two days later, you were both on the couch, sharing a pizza and watching some random movie neither of you were really paying attention to. He was scrolling through his phone while you queued up the next episode.

“You stopped,” he said, out of nowhere.

You looked over. “What?”

“Liking my photos.” His eyes stayed on the screen, but his voice was more serious than usual.

“You said you’d block me,” you shrugged.

He finally turned his head, raising an eyebrow. “You thought I meant that?”

“It sounded like you did.”

Lando sighed and leaned back against the couch, dropping the phone onto his lap. “It was a joke. I said it smiling.”

“You smiled two seconds after saying it. That’s not the same thing.”

He was quiet for a moment, just looking at you, like he was deciding whether the argument was worth it. Then, softer:

“I liked it. Seeing you there. Liking everything. It made me feel like you were... with me. Even when you weren’t.”

Your chest tightened. You dropped your gaze for a second, until he reached over and laced his fingers with yours.

“If you want to like everything, go ahead,” he said, with a half-smile now. “Just don’t like stuff that’s too old or I’ll know you’re stalking me.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “As if you don’t do worse.”

“I’m discreet.”

“You liked a 2016 photo of mine at three in the morning.”

“I was conducting historical research.”

You rolled your eyes and pulled out your phone. And there, curled up next to him on the couch while he laughed beside you, you opened his profile and liked everything again. One by one.

Even the dumb ones.

Especially the dumb ones.

KIMI A. (KA12) 🚩 ⸻ NOT BEING TAGGED IN A GROUP PHOTO

The photo was taken right after the movies, after a whole Saturday wandering around the mall with the group. You hadn’t thought much about it: just lifted your phone, squeezed everyone into a tight frame, and hit the button before anyone blinked.

The result? Three spontaneous smiles, Giulie’s funny pout, and Kimi in the background, half-hidden behind you, with an expression too neutral for someone who had laughed so much half an hour before.

You posted it as soon as you got home. A simple caption, basic emojis. Tagged those who had replied to your stories on the way back. And went to sleep.

The next day, his notification wakes you up.

Kimi Antonelli commented on your post: “Nice photo. Too bad not everyone was there, huh?”

You don’t get it at first. Only later, reviewing the post, you notice the absence.

You didn’t tag him.

You open the chat without thinking twice.

“It was unintentional.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Kimi, I swear.”

“You even tagged Alessandro, who barely appears.”

You laugh despite the mini panic. Because yes, Alessandro only shows a shoulder and an eyebrow — and yet he got tagged. Kimi, fully there in the background, didn’t.

“Want me to fix it?”

It takes a while. Like three minutes.

“Too late now. Delete it. It looks ugly.”

You drop your phone on the bed. He never says things directly. But you know this tone. Kimi can drive a kart at two hundred an hour, but he feels invisible in a group photo.

In the afternoon, he shows up in front of your house like nothing happened. Old sweatshirt, messy hair, phone in his pocket. But when you open the gate, he just says:

“You forgot me.”

You cross your arms. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.” He puts his hands in his pockets. “But still.”

You stare at each other for a long second.

Then you pull out your phone. “Smile.”

“For what?”

“For a new photo.”

“Just me?”

“No,” you answer, walking over and tugging his sleeve. “Ours.”

He hesitates but smiles — that quiet kind you’re the only one who recognizes. You take the selfie, the two of you in front of your house, with no one else left to forget to tag.

You post it right after, no filter, no caption.

And tag only him.

LANCE S. (LS18) 🚩 ⸻ TAKING A PICTURE OF THE MEAL BEFORE LETTING PEOPLE EAT

Lance realizes it the worst way possible: when it’s already gone.

You’re at a restaurant in Barcelona, and the dish that arrives is too beautiful to just let pass — one of those you’d normally turn to the side, adjust the napkin, and murmur “just a second” while looking for the best angle.

But this time, you just... eat. As if you couldn’t let it go by.

He watches for a moment longer than he should, his own cutlery still resting at the edge of the plate.

“Aren’t you going to take a picture?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

You chew slowly. Give a small, almost shy smile. “You said it was a red flag.”

His fork slips slightly from his hand. “That was a joke.”

“I know.” You shrug. “But you were serious. At least at the time.”

He doesn’t answer. Just pretends the food is still too hot.

Later, with you asleep on his chest, Lance scrolls through the camera roll on your phone. Pictures of everything: your sneakers pressed against the subway, a crooked plant in Vienna, the reflection of you both in some shop window in Milan. But food... no. The last one is weeks ago — pasta with pesto and a glass of white wine. His hand appears in the corner, holding the plate for you.

He feels a silly tightness in his chest. It was just a photo, he thinks. But it was also your way of caring for things. Your way of marking what was beautiful. Of not letting it go unnoticed.

The next morning, you make pancakes. Serve two plates with cut fruit and a drizzle of honey, all simple, all beautiful your way. When you turn your back, he grabs the phone almost without thinking.

“Hey,” he says. “Hold the plate a little more to the left.”

You freeze. Turn slowly, looking at him.

“You want to take a picture?” you ask, voice low, suspicious.

Lance gives a half smile. “I want to see you do it again.”

You hesitate for a second. Then adjust the plate.

“Like this?” you ask.

“Perfect.”

[merrinla]

Nick Thornborrow on BlueSky showed some more Lucanis narrative sketches

Sketch of Teia and Viago

Portrait sketch of Lucanis

Sketch of Lucanis violently dispatching prison guards along with Spite rapidly dispatching Venatori minions in the background.

Spite conversing with Rook. Spite grins with … well… spite. And Rook looks like she's having none of it.

A hedonistic bath house. Lucanis is deep in foreground in silhouette with two sword hilts apparent in the silhouette.

Ilario being seduced by I forget her name. But the villain in Lucanis's story. The villain is in a glowing red pool and drawing Ilario towards her who sits on the edge. Lucanis spies in the foreground.

Shirtless Ilario hulked out advancing on Lucanis in the foreground with a sword. The villain is in the background towering on a miasma of blood magic.

The villain reduced to a skeletal frame begging Ilario to save her.

Ilario smoke bombing out I think. Lucanis in the foreground in command of Spite.

Rook checking in on Lucanis who is curled up on the floor. Lucanis has just had an episode with his demon, Spite. Scorch marks in the shape of wings smolder on the walls.

Lucanis holding Rook in an embrace but looking warily back at Spite's wings protruding from his own back.

Lucanis ceremonially marking a book with blood.

I honestly can’t remember what was going through my head. I drew this years ago. It’s possible I was working from an explicit description of a ritual to become a Talon, or I may have been taking creative license. Either way, it was something to do with Talon coronation.

Lucanis and Spite working together for once to defeat the villain.

Action shot of Lucanis. I don't know. Kinda scruffy.

Lucanis looming over the villain who has been thoroughly defeated.

Lucanis becoming First Talon.

Lucanis with Spite wings out kissing Rook in the rain. This sketch was meant to portray an intense moment in the midst of going into a battle we don't expect to survive.

An intimate moment between Rook and Lucanis in the hot springs at the Dellamorte Estate.

Rook (who quite famously can't swim) tumbling into the canals of Treviso in a friendly game of bumper car gondola with Lucanis.

Rook and Lucanis having a wholesome (read spicy) experience in a secluded tunnel on a gondola. Lucanis's back is to us and his shirt is half off. Rook is obscured by Lucanis but the two are kissing.

Lucanis executing an ancient God with a lyrium dagger by stabbing him in the back. The God has a skull like face and and a horned helmet. Grey fog leaves his throat as he perishes with the word "URK"

[rafesangelita]

♡ bsf!rafe reads something he wasn’t supposed to..

warnings: use of the name ‘daddy’ (kinda a lot, so if you don’t like this nickname, don’t read pls), male masturbation, handjob (but not really??), suggestive ending

ding—!

rafe’s ears perked up at the sound of your phone going off, a series of notifications ringing out as you sat in front of your vanity. applying the lipgloss rafe loved so much, you eyed his reflection in the mirror as he laid sprawled out on your bed, patiently waiting for you to be done with your makeup so you two could go out for dinner. “can you check my phone, please ray? it’s probably one of my girlfriends.” he grabbed the device from where it sat on your nightstand, your playlist playing softly in the background as he unlocked your phone, opening your recent text threads.

scanning down the list, his eyes zeroed in on the name ‘josh ♡’, his jaw clenching as he clicked on the contact. you were too busy singing along to your favorite song and spritzing your face with setting spray to notice rafe scrolling through your private messages with another guy, his eyes scanning down the flirtatious advances and even a few selfies here and there. you looked amazing in them, of course, and he couldn’t stand that you had granted another person to see you looking that good. scrolling down to the most recent messages, he read the texts you two exchanged just last night.

[8:21 PM] josh ♡ : why won’t you just call me daddy? like how do you expect this to go any further if you don’t call me what i want you to?

[8:27 PM] do you hear yourself? if me not calling you daddy is what’s going to be a factor in us not speaking to each other anymore, then that’s perfectly fine. you aren’t even ‘daddy’ material.. my best friend has more grit than you do.

“what was it?” your voice made rafe jump, his eyes widening slightly as he shook his head, trying his best not to show that you had completely flipped his world upside down with a single name. “oh, just some text alerts from sephora.” he cleared his throat awkwardly before excusing himself to go to the bathroom. once he was away from you, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, his mind racing at what exactly you were insinuating in your text. he didn’t know what to think. were you alluding to the fact that he was indeed ‘daddy material’ or were you just trying to piss off that loser?

putting his own kinks aside, rafe cursed under his breath as he imagined you referring to him as that god forsaken word, the dirty thoughts in his head only being fueled by him not even having to ask you to call him something as depraved as daddy. he envisioned you so many times crying out for him, his fantasy of fucking his best friend haunting him every single night. groaning at the reminder that you were basically forbidden fruit, rafe sighed out in frustration when his jeans suddenly felt two sizes too tight. “rafe, i’m ready!” you sung out, your heels clicking against the hardwood floor in the hallway.

rafe panicked, shouting out a “o-okay, i’ll be right out!” as you snapped pictures of yourself for your instagram story. while you were scrolling aimlessly on your phone to pass time, rafe was splashing cold water on himself in a poor attempt to get his cock to stop straining against his pants, a groan leaving his lips as he palmed himself through the denim material. you froze when you heard the sound, your eyes lifting up from your phone as you fixated your gaze on the door knob. “rafe? are you okay?” as soon as he heard your voice, he shut the water off to the sink. “fuck— yes! yes, i’m fine!”

you continued waiting, now sitting at the top of the stairs while rafe struggled to tug one out. “come on, what the fuck?!” he whispered to himself, his cock aching mean and rock hard in his fist. “i’m starving!” you whined, resting your forehead against the staircase. “okay, that’s just unfair. i waited nearly two hours for you to get ready and now you can’t wait for me when i have an actual problem going on?!” rafe grumbled, his jaw ticking as he only made himself feel more embarrassed than he already was. problem? you turned around, walking over to the door.

you could hear him breathing heavy, a slick sound making your eyebrows knit in confusion. biting your cheek, you whispered a ‘fuck it..’ before opening the door, your jaw dropping to the floor at the sight. “oh, shit—!” rafe cupped himself, hiding everything from your view as you stood there dumbfounded. “why would you come in here?!” he shouted, your eyes raking down his form until they settled on his hands. “that’s why you’re taking so long? because you’re too busy jerking off?” rafe watched as you stepped closer, his eyes screwing shut as you leaned against the counter.

“i’ve been trying to make it go away,” he shifted uncomfortably, “it’s not like i can control this.” you were standing just a few feet away from the very thing that’s made you lose sleep just thinking about. you two had it so bad for each other and neither of you had a single clue about it. rafe stared at you as you blinked up at him, a playful glint sparkling in your eyes. “sooo.. what happened?” he shook his head, feeling slightly guilty that you caught him doing this in your bathroom. “look, we don’t need to go over anything—”

“you saw my texts with that guy, didn’t you?”

rafe swallowed thickly, a sigh leaving his lips before he nodded. “how did you know?” rafe asked, embarrassed. “i looked at my phone when you ran off over here and saw that the messages had been opened.” he narrowed his gaze at you, a shock of realization hitting him. “you knew i was going to see them. that’s why you asked me to check who was texting you.” rafe watched as your lips curved into a smile, his eyes turning dark as you put your hand over his. “i would’ve called you daddy a long time ago if it meant finding you like this.” you pulled his hand away so he wasn’t concealing himself from your view anymore, his jaw clenching as you took him in your palm.

he felt hot and heavy as you stroked him, his forehead falling against your shoulder. “oh, fuck,” he moaned, pulling you closer to him so that you could feel his bulge poking your tummy, “say it again.” rafe lifted his head, both of you sharing a knowing look before you leaned in and pressed your lips to his. he immediately tasted the sweet vanilla of your lipgloss, both of you pausing to take in the fact that you were actually kissing each other after all this time of just being friends. bringing your mouth close to his ear, you pecked the sensitive spot on his neck before whispering.

“daddy, will you please take me back to my room?”

thank you nonnie for celebrating with me ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

[skeltnwrites]

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / masterlist

part five - tee-ball practice leads to a trip to the emergency room. cw mentions of sex, description of injury (no gore) 12k

a/n - this broke my heart to write i apologize in advance

── .✦

You didn’t spend much time on the phone before you met Steve. The landline lived on your kitchen countertop, collecting more toast crumbs than voicemails. But it has since been moved to the living room on a fold-out table beside your couch. Because now, several times a week, you collapse there with the phone wedged under your ear for hours, a smile as constant as the voice on the other end. 

The first thing you do when you get home is check your answering machine. You’ve come to love that little red light that lets you know when you have a new message. Sometimes it’s no one important, a salesman or a scam or work, but most of the time it's Steve.

You know his phone number better than anyone’s. You’ve entered it so many times the digits have started to wear away on your keypad. And the trill is as thrilling as the first time you heard it. 

Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr. Brrrr. Brr– “Hey, you’ve reached Steve– AND PENELOPE– Yes, and Penelope, uhh– WE’RE BUSY– well, yeah if you’re hearing this we probably are sooo leave a message and I’ll get back to you when I can. By– BYEEE!”

Steve changed his voicemail the night you exchanged numbers. He wanted something more him, more Penelope, too. And you love it more than he knows. Sometimes you hope he won’t pick up just to hear the message play. 

You press the switchhook before it beeps. You’re turned and only two steps away when it rings back. “Hey,” you grin into the receiver. 

“Sorry, hi, I just– I think I've flooded Nell’s bathroom and–”

“You think?”

“Alright, fine, I definitely flooded Nell’s bathroom. Look, there was food in the oven, I told her to start the bath, and then— boom— suddenly it’s the goddamn Titanic in here. I’ve been stomping on towels for like ten minutes, and it’s not helping.”

You snicker down at your pajamas. “Do you want me to come over?” 

“No, no, I’ve got it. The house will probably just smell like wet dog for eternity.” 

“Better put it on the market now before it really sets in.” 

“Yeah, I–” Steve pulls the phone away to shout, “Penelope Anne! No, thank you!– I might have to call you back, she's–” There’s a thump and a crumbly static sound like the phone was dropped, and then– “I wanna talk! Hi, Y/N!” 

Hijacking the phone isn’t uncommon in the Harrington household. Steve would scold you for letting Penelope hear you laughing about it. But he’d be just as guilty, smiling through something like you’re supposed to be on my side, you know.

“Hi, Miss Penelope Anne.” You tug the phone’s rubber cord to your heart, your voice sticky with affection. “Are we being a good listener for Dad?”

She giggles. You’ve never used her full name– didn't even know it until two seconds ago– and you’re pretty sure it’s reserved for when she’s in trouble. “Yes!” 

“Are you sureee?”

“Yesss,” she promises. Steve’s voice is too muffled to make out in the background, but Penelope fills in the gaps, “I’m not lying, Dad!” 

Your hum drags suspiciously. “Did you help him clean the bathroom?”

“Yes, and it wasn’t even my mess.”

“Oh, well, it’s still nice to help, yeah?”

“Will you come to my game tomorrow?”

You are unfazed by her master deflection skills at this point. If Penelope is finished talking about something, she will make that clear. “I thought it was over the weekend, babe.”

“Oh– dad says it’s just pra-tiss.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Daddy! Tomorrow?” A long beat, Steve’s voice barely crackling through the speaker. “Yeah. He said you don’t have to go, but I think you should ‘cause it would be really fun if you did.” 

“Sounds super fun. What time tomorrow?” 

“Six? Yeah, six,” she confirms. 

“Okay, I’ll try to go. But only if you’re a super-duper good listener for the rest of the night. ‘M gonna call Dad later to check, ‘kay?” 

“‘Kay.” 

“Okay, I’m gonna hang up now. Tell him I said I’ll call back. And go stomp on some more towels with him.” 

“Okay, bye-bye.”

“Bye, Pen. Goodnight.” 

You hang up the phone with aching cheeks. You’re still smiling as you set out tomorrow's clothes and even as you slip into bed. It’s always like this with them, this perpetual, overwhelming sense of joy. 

Work isn’t quite as boring when you have tee-ball to look forward to. But still, each passing hour feels like a hurdle between you and the best part of your day.

You arrive at practice a little late, more than a little worried that Steve will think you’re making his daughter empty promises. But he’s waving at you from the top of the bleachers with a huge grin, and all the worry disappears. 

“You made it,” he beams as you climb up past other parents. 

“‘Course,” his warm fingers slip across your pulse point as you take his hand. “You doubt me?” 

“A little. You are like twenty minutes late.” 

You sit, hip to hip, your smile aimed up at his. “There was a bad accident. Had all of Pine Ridge blocked off. Oh, and then I missed the turn and I couldn’t find the entrance. This place is like a maze, they should have more signs.”

He hums agreeably. The sun spills across his front like a can of gold paint was dropped on his lap. One eye’s clamped shut and the other’s narrowed, glinting like a shard of amber. “Nell wanted to get ice cream after this if you wanna go.” 

“You buying?” 

“Maybe. If  you’re nice to me.” 

“I’m always nice to you.” You swipe the sunglasses off your head and turn the arms toward his face. He lets you push them up his nose without complaint. You’re much gentler than when Penelope tries to do it. And they look as silly on him as you hoped they would, pulling a bubbly laugh from the bottom of your chest. “See? I’m nice. What number is she?”

His eyes roll behind the tinted lenses. “She’s four.”

You scan the field. There’s a ring of girls in teal at the pitcher's mound, tip-toed with their hands in the sky. Penelope stretches beside the coach in the cutest jersey, HARRINGTON stamped proudly across her back. “Why? ‘Cause she’s four?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he huffs. “She lucked out. I guess three other kids had the same logic. ” 

“Aww, look,” you elbow Steve, leaving your arm against his side where it’s warm. 

He feels you sit up straighter to wave at Penelope, who’s literally jumping for you now that you’re here. A few girls turn their heads to see what the big deal is, and you feel a little shy when the parent in front of you does the same. 

Steve would never tell Robin this, but she has officially been knocked to number two on Penelope’s list of favorite people. Penelope adores you more than anyone he’s ever met. She talks about you more than all of her classmates combined. And most of her crafts from school end up on your fridge instead of theirs. He even had to put the phone up where she couldn’t reach after she memorized your number and started harassing you after work.

The girls stretch and run laps around the field's perimeter before taking turns swinging foam balls off the tee. Penelope’s got a pink glove to match the cleats you helped them pick out. And her helmet’s already decked out in stickers from the Lisa Frank book you gave her. You forget how intertwined you’ve become in their lives until it’s so apparent you can’t even try to deny it. 

Baseball fields are quite noisy. Moms trade gossip with other moms, whining siblings are entertained by other even whinier siblings. There’s the consistent knock of a ball against a bat, cheering and chanting from an adjacent field, and the occasional “heads up” to listen out for. You and Steve watch the team, but you slip into the comfort of each other’s company, the outside world fading away as you trade stories. But then someone gasps, and it’s like the whole park stills, the silence hanging just long enough for an awful scream to break it. 

“Oh, shit. What happened?” 

“It’s one of the girls. She fell I think.”

“Is she okay? Whose kid is that?” 

You get up from your seat as Steve pushes past you. Your heart becomes a woodpecker, peck, peck, pecking you in the ribs like it wants out. And your eyes snap between Steve and the field in a desperate search for Penelope. 

Steve cuts through the dugout as the girls start to huddle around third base. It’s impossible to tell them apart when they’re all wearing the same shirt. But there’s number six, number thirteen, number two– fuck where is she? 

The crowd parts for Steve to get by, and then, finally, you see her. Poor Penelope’s curled up on her side in the clay. Something about it puts your brain on autopilot and your feet start moving on their own volition. 

It’s a blur how you end up on the other side of the fence but you’re there, kneeling in the dirt beside Steve with a big audience of onlookers. Penelope squeals out a pitiful little sound and it’s like an anchor drops right on your chest. 

“I’m here. I’m right here,” Steve’s promising her. His hands hover near her face. They’re shaking so hard he’s afraid to do anything with them. “You’re okay. It’s okay.” 

Penelope’s whole body trembles with the force of her breath, one gasp tripping over the next. Her face is scrunched bright red, leaking snot and tears like a faucet. And she’s trying so hard to speak but all she’s babbling out are broken sounds. 

Steve attempts to move her hand out of the way, but she screams at him loudly. 

“I know it hurts, I know– I have to see, baby.” 

You pin her ankles to the ground so she stops kicking him for one second. He quickly pries her fingers loose, his voice straining through apologies as she squirms. Her left arm lies limp across her tummy, swollen twice its size, a shade of plum blooming from her elbow out. It’s really an awful sight. 

You feel your arms prickle and your face goes cold. You want to turn away, but you can’t. 

Someone behind you says, “It’s really swollen.”

A smaller voice goes, “Will she be okay?” 

And a third, “Is she gonna die?” 

Your neck cracks with the speed at which you turn around. You glare daggers at the kid you’re pretty sure that came out of. Admittedly, not one of your proudest moments. 

“Here,” someone shoves a grocery bag full of ice into Steve’s hands, “ice it.” 

Steve molds it to her arm and her other hand grasps for something to squeeze. You scoop her fingers up from the dirt, letting her nails bite the meat of your palm. 

You miss whatever the coach says to Steve, but it doesn't appear to be good. Steve gears to stand up but falters with wobbly legs. There’s a great distance in his eyes like he’s seeing right through Penelope. 

You press up off your shins and squeeze his arm until he nods. 

You think her screaming can’t possibly get any worse, but it does the moment he lifts her off the ground. You’re trying really hard to turn your ears off, to trigger whatever dissociative state Steve has gone into, but nothing will stop the hurricane that is your heart. 

Steve speedwalks across the pitcher's mound. There are a few dozen sets of eyes on him, but he barely notices. His mind is running a mile a minute. All he keeps thinking about is how he wasn’t watching when it happened. 

What if she hit her head? Is she in shock? Should I be helping her in some other way? Which hospital is closest? And where the fuck did I park the car? 

You catch up to him and cover the back of his bicep with your hand. He glances at you and exhales a shaky breath he'd been keeping. He doesn’t smile like he usually would. But he’s more grateful for your presence than he can put into words right now.

You shove the chainlink gate open and easily spot the beamer, parked in the very first row of cars. Steve almost eats shit in the dip from pavement to gravel but he rights himself with the help of your hands. 

You try the backseat door handle and find it locked. “The keys?” 

He takes one hand off of Penelope and quickly returns it when she shrieks. And she nearly launches herself out of his arms when he tries to shift her to his hip. He looks at you miserably and says, “Front pocket.” 

You might’ve felt weird about reaching into the front pocket of Steve’s jeans in any other circumstance, but there was no time for hesitation here. You unlock the doors and start the car while Steve fights to get Penelope in her seat. 

“Nooo,” she yells, gripping the back of his shirt so hard the neckline chokes him. 

You turn in the driver's chair, finding Steve with his teeth gritted, knelt on the edge of the backseat, and Penelope holding onto him for dear life. Her back arches under his hand, her feet pushing the passenger seat forward a notch. She’s relentless. Steve pulls her back out of the car and swings to the other side. He climbs in behind you and slams the door hard. His eyes find yours in the rearview as he urges you to, “Just drive.” 

You wrench the gear shifter into reverse and reach behind the passenger seat so you can see. While you are focused on not running anyone over, it’s hard not to notice the battle going on in the backseat. Steve’s wedged up against the car seat, in the middle of the row, and Penelope's crushing his nose with her good hand. 

By the time you’re turning onto the main road, Steve has given up forcing her to sit in her own seat. It’s doing her arm more harm than good at this point. 

His head slumps hard into the headrest, his arms keeping her tight to his chest. “It’s okay,” he keeps saying. “You’re okay,” he promises, but the words do nothing to relieve her tears. 

Your fingers tap the steering wheel impatiently. The cars in front of you aren’t moving nearly fast enough, and you’re already pushing the speed limit. You check the rearview for the umpteenth time. “Almost there, Pen. Promise.” 

She warbles something too quiet for even Steve to make out. 

“What?” he asks her. 

“Don’t want my– my arm– ‘r gonna,” she gasps, “take my arm.” 

Steve blinks at her sorely until it clicks. “No, baby. No one’s taking your arm. They’re gonna help it feel better. No one’s gonna hurt you.” 

“It hurts,” she sobs. 

Steve wipes his eyes. “I know.” 

This is simultaneously the longest and shortest drive of your life. You park under the emergency room’s overhang behind an ambulance. Steve tests the child lock on his door until you can get out and open it. 

You’re rushing in behind them when an EMT stops you. “Ma’am. Ma’am, you can’t park here.” 

You’re ready to argue but Steve doesn’t give you the chance. “Just go park,” he barks, halfway through the automatic doors. 

The car’s parked in the first spot you see, and the jog back up to the building is achingly long. From the sidewalk, you can already hear Penelope wailing inside. And the sound only worsens as the entrance doors open. Steve’s not hard to find, shifting impatiently at the front desk. 

The receptionist slides a clipboard across the counter like he has room in his arms for paperwork. But you appear at his side as you always seem to, reaching for the pen and paper before he even has to ask. 

Steve hoists Penelope back up where she’s slipped and turns around without a word. He’s expressionless, near mechanical in his movements. You’ve seen him have bad days at work and you’ve seen Penelope scare the shit out of him a good handful of times, but you’ve never seen him like this. You follow him to a vacant pair of chairs, hugging the ream of paperwork to your chest as you sit. 

Penelope still doesn’t settle. Steve encourages her sweaty cheek off his chest and she looks up at him in this terrible way that splits your heart right in half. Her eyes are glossy, and so swollen, her lashes dampened into dark points. Her ponytails have loosened, frizz bunching up at each hair tie. And she looks like she needs an inhaler the way her chest keeps distending for air. 

Steve flattens a hand down the short breadth of her spine, the other wiping snot bubbles from her nose. “Penelope,” he pleads, “take a breath, baby. Take a breath.”

She sucks in air so hard she chokes on it. It’s scary from your position, you can’t imagine how Steve feels. 

“You’re okay. I’m right here, it’s okay.” 

“No,” she shakes her head and hiccups, “hurts.” 

“I know.” He brings her head to his lips, nostrils flaring against her bangs. He’s blinking like tears will fall any second. All he can say is, “I’m sorry.” 

You feel so bad. Anxious and useless most of all. You stop clicking the pen in your hand and flip through the intake forms on the clipboard. It's standard stuff– name, date of birth, allergies. You fill in what you know, which isn't much, but it keeps your brain occupied and saves Steve a few questions. 

Penelope’s crying subsides to a steady whine. The tears stop, but her back spasms with every handful of breaths. She’s gotten as comfortable as she can be in the crook of Steve’s elbow, his hand stapling her face to his bicep. 

“Pen,” you start softly. 

Shiny brown eyes flick up to yours. 

“Help me out here. Do you know your birthday? You remember?” 

She shakes her head as much as she can manage with her head laying like that. 

Steve frowns at her. Or maybe he’s just looking at her, and the frown’s a permanent new addition to his face. “Come on, you know it,” he whispers. “Tell me."

“Ju–une,” she shudders.

You wiggle your eyebrows excitedly. “June… first?”

“No.” 

“June second?” 

“No.” 

“June one hundred and sixty-fourth?”

Not even a millimeter of a smile. You might be poking the bear the way her brows twist at you angrily but you continue to tease her regardless. “Do I have to say every number in June?” 

She kneads her eye with a closed fist and grumbles, “Se–even.” 

“June seventh?” You look at Steve, and his eyes flick to yours. “Eighty-nine?”

He nods. Penelope looks severely unhappy with you, but at least she’s distracted. 

You run down the long list of questions together. You fill in his information for the emergency contact, then Robin’s as a secondary, and then Steve asks, “Can I add you?” 

“Add me?”

“As another contact.”

You blink at the page and then raise your eyebrows at Steve. The idea would’ve never crossed your mind.

“Only if you want to. It’s fine if not.” 

“No,” your brows sink and furrow, “I mean, yeah– I want to. I'd love to.” You grin, and he grins poorly back. 

A nurse calls Peneleope’s name from the other side of the room. You’re guided down to triage– less a room and more a section of the hallway, tucked behind a frosted glass partition and cramped with a cabinet full of supplies. 

Steve sits in the patient chair with Penelope on his lap. He explains what happened, and that no, she has no allergies, no nausea, no fever, just a very obviously broken arm. The nurse sticks a thermometer under her tongue anyway, cuffs her working arm with a blood pressure monitor, and counts the beats of her pulse. He fits her with a sling tinier than you’ve ever seen and administers cherry-flavored children’s Tylenol, which sparks a whole new well of tears because Penelope clearly stated she wanted strawberry. The nurse isn’t as apologetic as you think he should be, he just straps a bracelet to her wrist and you’re walked right back to the havoc that is the waiting room. 

And so you wait. When you’re not people-watching, you watch the clock because there’s nothing better to do. Fifteen minutes, thirty, forty-five minutes pass. At an hour, you peel your legs off the vinyl chair to take a lap around the room. You skim a pamphlet about heart disease and a second about stress management. 

You present Penelope with a wrinkled Highlights magazine you found, and she’s not thrilled, but she’s calm at least. Stuffy and tired, but in much less pain than she was. Steve coaxed her down for a nap, but she insisted that it’s too loud. And between the constant sirens and people rushing in and out and the fluorescent lights, you can’t blame her, you wouldn’t be able to nap either. 

Steve’s sneaker is a riot under his chair. You cup his knee to stop it from bouncing, though it doesn’t do much. He places the front of his hand across the back of yours. It’s noticeably clammy but it could be drenched in sweat and you probably still wouldn’t move it.

You feel his fingers flex every time a nurse returns with a clipboard and a new name to call. But each time, all the anticipation deflates when it’s not Penelope’s. 

Another hour passes, and you’ve had enough when, for the second time in a row, someone who arrived after you gets called back first. You stand quickly and inform Steve, “I’m gonna ask how much longer.” 

He nods, gratefully, you think. 

The receptionist offers the same rehearsed answer they probably give everyone else– “The doctor will be with you as soon as they’re able.” 

You stare at her bland face. You know she has nothing to do with the number of patients here or the order in which the nurses decide to call people back, but it’s no less frustrating. 

“Soon,” is what you tell Steve when you return. 

He knows you well enough to tell that you don’t actually know how long it’ll be. But he pretends like you’ve told him the truth anyway. He finds it’s much easier to be optimistic when you’re around. 

You drop back in your seat, arms crossed, feet tapping away on the linoleum. Steve can’t sit still either. You’d think his hands would get tired, but they’re tenacious when it comes to back rubs. His hips shift, and Penelope whines. You chalk his squirming up to an anxiety similar to your own, but he’s starting to act like he sat on an ant hill or something. 

“What?” you ask.

Steve shakes his head, eyes drilled on the floor. 

“You okay?” 

He funnels air slowly out of his mouth and nods. 

“Steve, what?”

“Just have to pee,” he mumbles, his hand kicking back into gear where it paused on Penelope’s shoulder. “‘S fine.” 

“Go,” you say. “I’ll sit with her.”

He looks from the floor to you, back down to Penelope. She’s comfortable, finally, and moving her is a risk he doesn’t want to take. But he really fucking has to pee. He nods at you, straightening out in his chair and pushing Penelope forward. 

She protests the movement with a great big groan. It’s like when she wakes up from a long nap, always so grumpy, but with the cutest little pout. Though this time, you’re foreseeing a meltdown, and you can’t imagine it’ll be cute at all. 

“I have to go potty. I need you to stay here,” Steve explains. 

Her face crumples instantly, her lip jutting as her eyes fill with fresh tears. She clings to Steve’s arm like a buoy, blubbering into his sleeve, “Go with you.”

“I can’t hold you in there, baby.” 

Her voice rises, earning a few turned heads. “But I want you to!” 

“Please, baby. I’ll be so quick, promise.” 

“Pen, let’s look at that magazine again,” you try. “I think I saw Tic-Tac-Toe somewhere.” 

Steve dumps her in your lap and books it. He feels terrible but he’ll feel much worse if he pisses himself in the ER lobby. He prays Penelope isn’t as rough with you as she is with him, but she’s still shouting for him by the time he reaches the bathrooms. Not a good sign at all. 

You press the back of your hands to her cheeks with the utmost care. They’re so warm and slick with tears falling too fast to chase away. She’s gone ballistic, bawling helplessly at you like you’ve done something truly terrible to her. And you sort of have. You urged Steve to go, that you could handle it, but a little part of you is starting to regret that. 

There are at least a dozen pairs of eyes on you, filling you to the brim with embarrassment. Generally, you think you’re pretty good at talking Penelope down from a tantrum. You make up silly songs and do weird little dances, but none of it is coming even close to working right now. She’s crying so loud you almost miss her name being called. 

“Penelope Harrington,” the voice says again. 

You lock eyes with the nurse across the room. Fuck. 

“Pen, hey, Penelope, listen,” you tip her face toward yours, “we have to get up, okay?” 

“I want Daddy.” 

“I know. He’s coming. He’ll be right back.” 

“No– we, we can’t–” her voice cracks into another heaving sob. 

“We won’t leave without him, we just have to get up.”

She continues to cry as you struggle to your feet. Penelope’s not what you’d consider heavy but her lack of cooperation is making her very difficult to carry. 

The nurse meets you halfway and confirms, “Penelope?”

“Yes, she’s– can we just wait one second, her dad’s still– he’ll be right back, he just ran to the restroom.” 

The nurse follows your gaze to the empty hall. Her mouth opens and closes like no is on the very tip of her tongue. 

“He’ll be just one second,” you plead.

Penelope must gather what’s going on and she’s not a fan at all. Her fit escalates even more, one hand cinching your collar, tugging your shirt so far down you fear you've just flashed the nurse. She nearly flails herself onto the floor, then headbutts your chin hard enough for your eyes to water. The reactionary tears worsen into real ones because you have absolutely no idea what to do. Steve steps away for all of two seconds, and you’re already screwing it up.

“Look,” the woman says in a way that makes the back of your throat burn even worse, “I’ll come back–” 

“No, wait, he’s–” You blink until the restroom sign unblurs and find that Steve’s actually there at the end of the hall this time.  “He’s right there, see– Steve!” 

Steve's jogging life his life depends on it. Nearly knocks someone over trying to pass them. And when he gets close enough to see your matching wet eyes his stomach kinks itself like a hose. 

Your arms are burning, nearly trembling by the time Steve takes her. Never in your life have you been so grateful to give up your Penelope. 

But Steve is just so good at being a dad. He calms her with practiced ease, cradling her like she’s no bigger than she was the day she was born. The walk to her room gives her a chance to catch her breath and for you to wipe your eyes. Steve asks if you’re okay and if you’re sure when you swear that you are. He’s a great dad but an even greater friend. 

Steve situates himself on the edge of the hospital bed with Penelope balanced on his thighs while you stand restless near the foot. You can’t shake the goosebumps from your skin, and your headache thrums like a second heartbeat behind your eyes.

“Alrighty, Miss Penelope,” the nurse reads sternly off her clipboard, “can you tell me what happened?” 

Steve reiterates the play-by-play. They discuss her pain levels, medical history, changes in symptoms– it’s deja vu. The woman is as curt as just about everyone else in this place, jotting his answers down like she already knows them. And she’s halfway out the door before you or Steve even have a chance to ask any questions. 

Steve shakes his head at you. How he’s not snapped at anyone by now, you have no idea. But you think his last nerve is starting to fray, and yet, his voice still softens when he tells you to, “Sit.” 

There’s only one chair in the room, the same peeling vinyl type from the waiting room. You steer it over to the side of the bed and sit. 

Penelope mumbles into Steve’s chest, her words buried in the fabric of his shirt. 

Steve’s gaze falls to her. “What, baby?” 

“‘M hungry.” 

“You’re hungry?”

She hiccups, nodding with the tiniest sweep of her chin. 

“Want me to go stick my hand up the vending machine?” 

No, her head shakes. “Stay.” 

You’re already standing when Steve looks at you. He digs around in his jeans for his wallet, but the second you see it, you wave him off.

“I got it,” you press.

He opens it one-handed across his thigh, but you flip it closed.

“Watcha want, Pen?” 

You think she shrugs, but your eyes are sewn to Steve’s. He fights the worn leather back open and pulls a crisp twenty out. “Please?” 

The magic words don’t work on you at his big age. Not for this at least. You tear the wallet from his hand and slide the bill back inside. 

If Steve didn’t have Penelope in his lap and his brain didn’t feel like it had been diced up on a hibachi grill, he’d put up a much better fight.

You swing the door open with an, “I’ll be back!” 

Steve frowns at your gloating smile, but his lips catch something similar the second you’re through the door. 

You’re thrilled to have something to do. Watching Penelope be miserable is at the very bottom of your list of least favorite pastimes. Your chest squeezes as you remember her poor little face. You’ll never forget that first scream at the field. Or how when she fell, she just laid there. You’d thought so many awful things might’ve happened. 

The gift shop is hard to miss with windows stretching from floor to ceiling. And right there on a shelf in one of them is a teddy bear with its arm in a sling. Jackpot. 

The door jingles as it opens and an employee greets you from across the room. You browse the get-well cards and bouquets of balloons, but nothing is as good as a new teddy when you’re a kid. You take it to the counter quickly. You’ve been sent out on a very important mission and you’d guess Penelope’s mood is souring with every grumble of her empty stomach.

The first vending machine you find is fully stocked– snacks, candy, soda– a hangry little girl’s dream. You have a pretty good idea of what she likes at this point, but a much safer way to ensure you get the right is to just buy all of it. Maybe not all of it, but you do feed a twenty in the mouth of the machine and buy as much as you can. Pack after pack of candy drops into the well and a few healthier options in the rare chance that Steve vetoes. You shove them all in the gift shop bag and hustle back to the room. 

The snacks are dumped across the foot of Penelope’s hospital bed, much to Steve’s horror and Penelope’s great surprise. It’s like Christmas the way her eyes light up.

“Wow,” Steve says. “Bought the whole machine out, huh? Whadya say?” 

“Thanks,” Penelope sniffles. Her lovely voice is so congested from all the crying. 

“You’re very welcome. Which one you want?” 

“M’s.” 

“Yeah, M’s,” you laugh. “That’s what I thought you’d say. 

Your eyes flick to Steve’s as you lift the pack of M&Ms. He nods as you tear them open. 

You hold out your hand to ask for Penelope’s, but she opens her mouth instead. 

“What! You need me to feed you?” you play along. 

She stifles a giggle, her open mouth twitching to smile. 

“Last I checked, you still have one working arm.” 

“No, feed me,” she implores. 

Steve squeezes her thigh. “Come on, you’re a big girl.” 

Penelope shakes her head, still tilted up at the ceiling. 

“Alright, alright, here’s one. You can do the rest, silly girl.” You drop an M&M on her tongue and let Steve steal the bag from you. 

“Yummy?” you ask. 

She nods and pops another few in her mouth. 

Your eyes return to Steve’s. “For you? There’s a Snickers and a Hershey’s and…”

He shakes his head, pushing his hair back before it falls over his eyes. “Thank you,” he mouths. 

Your lashes mesh together when you smile at him, but your eyes pop back open as fast as they closed. “Oh– Pen, guess what?” 

She blinks at you with a mouthful, chocolate already painting the underside of her chin. 

“I gotcha something else.”

Her eyes go impossibly wider, and they have a much happier sheen to them. “What?” 

She springs up with a newfound energy as you unveil the teddy bear. You press it into her lap and her fingers curl around its tiny ear to keep it upright.

“Like it?”

“Yeah,” she coos, “can I keep it?”

“Of course, it’s for you.”

“We match.”

“Yeah, isn’t that cool?” 

She beams, her hand roving all across its fur, her smile blooming full force. 

Sometimes, it feels like all the love you could ever need is right here— woven into every grin, every word, every look Penelope gifts you. Her smile truly is like a weight off your shoulders. 

The intensity of Steve’s gaze pulls your eyes away from Penelope. He’s looking at you with enough warmth to set your face on fire. And if he’s not careful he really might have to call the fire department. Or maybe just a nurse in case your heart gives out. You turn away, but your smile is no secret. 

You end up with a pair of disposable gloves from the counter. They get blown up with air and each a set of eyes with a pen you found, and now Penelope’s got two turkeys to play with. You’re so creative, Steve really doesn’t know what he’d do without you. He’s done this whole parent gig by himself for the majority of Penelope’s life, but he’s starting to rely on you like you're the other half of her. Had you not already been at practice, he’s sure he would’ve called you from the hospital. 

It’s during difficult times like these that Steve yearns for validation of his parenting choices from his own mom and dad. He knows they’re no example setters and he has far better people to seek that from, but it’s an urge he can’t put away sometimes. But then there’s you, laughing and making his daughter laugh even harder, and he realizes he just doesn’t need it anymore. He knows he must be doing something right when you’re around. 

Penelope gets another snack, and Steve gets his very own balloon turkey. You cycle between lots of games as you wait. You think Charades might be Penelope’s new favorite after you end up in a pretzel on the floor trying to get her to guess that you’re an octopus. Steve gets a kick out of it too, though you are adding it to your book of embarrassing things you did to make Penelope laugh. 

Thankfully, you’ve finished making a fool of yourself when the doctor knocks. She’s got a pep in her step and a wide, pearly smile. If only this type of attitude were more universal among the hospital staff. 

“Hi, there!” she says. “I’m Dr. Ruthman, I’ll be your–” A hand clamps across her gaping mouth. “Woah! Wait a second,” her eyes flick between her clipboard and Penelope, she flips a page theatrically, “they didn’t tell me I’m taking care of the Penelope Harrington today.

A Cheez-It slides out of Penelope’s hand onto the floor. Her blank stare is comical and says I’ve never met this woman in my life. 

Steve appears to be similarly confused– his brain really is fried– but you catch on quickly. “Pen, you famous around here or something?” 

Dr. Ruthamn scoffs. “Are you kidding me! Only the coolest, bravest athletes get to see me.” She shoves her hand out in front of Penelope. “It’s an honor.” 

Penelope has next to no clue what is happening, but she giggles because it seems like it’s something silly. She takes Dr. Ruthman’s hand and shakes it gently. 

“You’ll let me get your autograph, later, won’t you?” 

Penelope smiles funny, her voice lilting up an octave. “I guess?”

“You must be a busy woman.” Dr. Ruthman sticks her hands in the sink and flips the faucet handle. “What number are you again?”

Penelope’s gaze falls to her aching arm, snug in the sling. You can just see the gears turning as she realizes her counting hand is out of commission. Her other hand raises slowly, and four fingers unfurl stiffly. She double-checks that she’s got the right amount up before saying it out loud. 

“Four! No way! You know, I used to play basketball when I was in school, and you’ll never guess what number I was.” 

Penelope tips her head. “Four?” 

Dr. Ruthman gawks as she crouches in front of Penelope. “Ugh, you are just the smartest little smartie-pants, huh? How’d you know that? ”

She shrugs. “I dunno. I just did.” 

“You just did,” the doctor laughs, “Well, don’t you worry, I’m gonna get this arm back in swinging shape. Get’cha back on the field in no time.” 

Her freshly gloved hands run gingerly down Penelope’s arm, two fingers poking and prodding the inflated muscle. Steve cradles Penelope’s knee to keep her still, his other hand working lots of love into her shoulder. 

“Score any home runs today?” the doctor asks. 

Penelope’s mouth opens and snaps shut. How can she possibly focus on the conversation when this woman is kneading her arm like a cat? 

“Being so brave, honey. Can you wiggle your fingers for me? Yeah, good. Your thumb?” 

You wince as Penelope does. Fresh tears start in her waterline and she writhes uncomfortably back into Steve’s chest. 

“Good!” Dr. Ruthman beams genuinely. She pokes Penelope’s palm with her fingertip. “Can you turn this side to the floor? Perfect, now to the ceiling?” 

Penelope’s lip quivers as she tries. She can’t even get it halfway before her hand starts to bobble. 

“That’s okay. Doing so good.” 

“So good,” Steve echoes. He thumbs a little tear off her cheek.

Dr. Ruthman sheds her gloves and looks from Steve to you as she stands. “Your girl’s a trooper. I’ll go ahead and order an X-ray. A tech should be by to pick her up soon.” Her focus returns eagerly to Penelope. “And I’m coming back for that autograph, number four.” 

Penelope doesn’t cry like you expect she will. She really is a trooper. Steve tells her so several more times and promises they’ll get two ice cream cones since she’s been so brave. 

There’s not much to entertain yourself with, let alone a four-year-old. Steve keeps Penelope busy with Tic-Tac-Toe on the back of a diabetes brochure, then I Spy when she gets bored. But unfortunately, the majority of the room is white so that doesn’t last very long either. 

Meanwhile, you flip over the only magazine on the side table and skim the all-caps headline about sex health. There’s no shot Steve can read it without his glasses from where he’s sitting, but still, you feel self-conscious for not putting it down. You’re both adults, and you’re close friends, yeah, but you don’t exactly discuss your sex lives with each other. The thought of Steve having partners you aren’t aware of crosses your mind. He’s entitled to his secrets, you suppose. And it's probably best for your own sake that he doesn’t tell you anyway.  

You read an article praising abstinence for being the safest sex practice but feel weirdly worse about your own case. When Steve asks what you’re reading about, you lie, foot fungus. He takes you for a comedian and doesn’t press for details. 

The x-ray technician pops in sooner than you expect. He escorts you three turns down the hall to a room packed with lots of expensive-looking machines. A wall divides it into two, the first section smaller with a long counter and enough computer monitors to track a space launch. 

The tech stops you from following him and Steve into the second half. “Only one of you can come with her in the examination area,” he says as he jams a stopper under the door. 

You nod and hang back in the doorway. Penelope whines about how dark the room is, and Steve tries, but she still refuses to be put down. The tech fits them both in heavy-looking aprons and wheels a table up to the chair they’re sharing. 

Penelope peeks up at you with a deep frown that screams get me out of here! Her brows twist together like she’s trying very hard to telepathically forward her escape plan to your brain. It tears you apart, but the best you can do for her is two big you got this thumbs-up. 

The technician removes the sling, taking Penelope’s arm and gently pushing it in a way it just does not want to go. The tears are immediate, like silver streamers unraveling down her cheeks, shimmering under the machine's lights. Steve watches the tech helplessly as he straightens out Penelope’s arm. 

You backtrack out of the doorway, and the tech kicks the stopper out on his way in. The door slams, and Penelope’s hysterics muffle, though you can still see her struggling through the thick pane of glass. 

The tech types and clicks away at the desk. You know there’s no use in rushing him, but the urge is there. It’s any other day for him, but probably the worst of Penelope’s whole life. 

Eventually, he clicks his tongue, stands, and marches back through the door. He repositions Penelope’s arm– not without protest– and circles back to the desk. It’s a terribly long and painful deal of rinse and repeat. And Penelope doesn’t give poor Steve’s ears a break. 

You count eight photos on the monitor by the end, all from different angles and proximity. You’re no doctor, but there’s a distinct line through the white of her bone in nearly all of them. 

The tech pins the door back open and flicks the examination room lights on. 

“All done,” Steve shushes into Penelope’s hair. “That’s it, no more. You’re all done.” 

His knuckles have turned white where she’s squeezing them. Her whole body turns towards his, and she collapses with a big, open-mouthed sob. 

The tech fixes her sling back on while you lean over Steve’s shoulder, your hand rooted gently on his spine. “You did so good, Pen. Always so brave.”

“So so brave,” Steve affirms. “‘M so proud. Think about that ice cream we’re gonna get.” 

She couldn’t be less interested in praise or even ice cream at the moment. Steve tugs the apron up her back, you help thread her arms through the holes and pass it to the tech. Steve struggles to slip his off one-handed, so you guide one weighty end of it over his head, your fingertips skimming the fluffy ends of his hair. 

With Penelope still glued to his front, the four of you trek back to her room. She cries the entire way but panicked tears ebb into sleepier ones. You realize how many hours past her bedtime it is. 

“The doctor will be in with the results soon,” the technician explains on his way out. 

Steve resumes his position on the hospital bed, scooting back to the headboard and crossing his legs over the sheets. Penelope slumps down in his arms, boneless with the heavy weight of defeat. Her hiccups peter out under Steve’s hand, her breaths turning thick and congested with sleep.

“Coffee?” you ask, not because you want any, but solely because you’re anxiety swells again and you'd love something to do. 

Steve looks up with heavy-set eyes. He feels terrible, suddenly, looking at your own. “You don’t have to stay. I can– I’ll call you a cab.” 

You hadn’t considered that to even be an option, and honestly, you still don’t. “I want to stay.” 

He sighs but he decides he won’t fight you further because he really, really wants you to stay too. 

“Large coffee, three cups of sugar?”

He cracks a smile for the first time in a while. “I’m not that insane,” he defends, carefully maneuvering his wallet out of the front pocket of his jeans. 

You take it without argument this time. He might throw it at you if you avoid it any longer. And you’re not made of money either, the gesture is always appreciated. 

The cafeteria is closed, which, maybe you should’ve guessed. But you do some exploring and eventually find a pot of coffee in some sort of lounge you aren’t totally sure if you’re allowed to be in. It’s for a good cause, you tell yourself as you steal a styrofoam cup. The coffee is lukewarm at best and questionable in color, but Steve takes enough sugar in his you expect he won’t know the difference. 

There’s a pen lying there and a pail of extra sugar packets. You draw a smiley face on one and stick it inside the flap of his wallet for him to find later. And while it’s open, you can’t help but snoop. Cash and cards with his full name, a thick stack of pictures of Penelope, and a folded photo booth print of the three of you, your face plain as pavement in the clear pocket on the side. 

You keep the other half tucked in the sun visor of your car but it hadn’t occurred to you that Steve would treasure his copy just the same. Your heart tumbles, your thumb roving across the plastic divider. You’ve held your version long enough to sear those images into your brain forever. But these two you haven't seen since the day they were taken. You look at them for a long while before heading back. 

When you return, Penelope’s still snoozing, and Steve’s mid-conversation with her doctor. 

She pivots when his eyes veer to yours. “Oh, Mom, you’re back! Perfect timing!” 

Mentally, the caffeine heist is still underway. Her words don’t process until she’s well into her next sentence. She talks so damn fast that Steve didn’t have much of an opportunity to correct her either. Though maybe he wouldn’t have. He looked at you after she said it, oddly calm for something that cranked your pulse up a few notches. 

The doctor clasps her hands together. “Okay, so, do we want the good news or the bad news first?” 

Steve winces. “Bad?”

“Tee-ball is off limits for a couple months, give or take. But good news, it’s a clean break, should heal good as new in no time.” 

As far as bad news goes, he was expecting a lot worse, but this will still devastate Penelope when he has to tell her. She hadn’t even made it through a week of practice, and he’s pretty sure he isn’t getting her registration fees back. 

Dr. Ruthman explains lots of medical mumbo jumbo as you hand Steve his coffee. She leaves and you end up back in your chair, sleepy enough to think that maybe you should’ve gotten something with caffeine too. Your back aches against the sturdy armrest but you’re trying to pretend it’s a lot more comfortable than it is. You must not be doing a very good job, though, because Steve shuffles to one side of the hospital bed and pats the sheets. 

Your gaze floats up to him. “I’m okay.”  

“You look tired.”

You are tired, but you hoped it wasn’t that obvious. 

Steve pats the sheets again when you don’t answer. 

You push yourself onto your feet and trip over to the empty half of the bed. There’s an obvious lack of space between your bodies– this bed was clearly not built for two adults– but neither of you minds. It’s not the first time you’ve sat like this, and you’d bet it won’t be the last. 

Like Penelope’s Barbies, you both sit upright with legs straight out across the sheets. Both of your guys’ knees are smudged brown with clay. You wonder if it’ll come out of your work pants and Steve’s nice jeans. Yours aren’t anything expensive, you can always buy more if it doesn’t. 

You let the side of your shoe tip into his, just to see how they look beside each other. His sneakers are well-loved with lots of creases and a hole or two, not so far off from your own pair. You zone out pretty quickly thinking about shoes. Your eyes start to burn, but you refuse to let the exhaustion catch up. 

“I stepped on your foot earlier.”

You blink the weight off of your lashes and turn your face toward Steve’s. “What?”

“I stepped on your foot. On the bleachers, when I was getting off. I just remembered.” 

“When?”

“When she fell.”

“You did?” You struggle to talk through a big yawn. “I don’t– I don’t even remember.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“It’s okay, Steve.”

“I know, I just… felt bad.” 

You sigh deeply and let your ear drop to his shoulder. There’s a gentle curve to your lips, a happiness bubbling inside and out. “Better call the nurse back so I can get it x-rayed.” 

He huffs through his nose. “Don’t start.” 

“Don’t be sorry, then.”

You can’t help but close your eyes. Steve’s a good pillow, though maybe that’s the delirium setting in. 

He takes your hand to the tiny sliver of his thigh that Penelope isn’t using. His fingers bunch yours up, then unfurl them one by one. You’ve seen him fidget with Penelope’s hands countless times, though this is the first time the nervous habit’s been extended to you.  

A little nap won’t be the end of the world, you decide. 

You wake to voices, Steve’s and a less familiar one. You gather from the short conversation and Steve’s sudden sitting up that she must be the casting technician. 

Steve slides off the bed onto his feet. Penelope’s still passed out on his chest, her open mouth coating his sleeve in drool. He hears you elbowing up off the sheets. 

“You can stay. It won’t take long,” he says quietly. 

You swipe the crust out of your eyes and shake your legs awake on the floor. “Mm-mm. I’ll go.” 

You follow him and the casting tech to a room so small you could’ve mistaken it for a storage closet. 

Penelope’s still in Steve’s arms when she rouses, but she’s in an entirely new room. There’s someone she doesn’t remember meeting, a girl with a boy’s haircut, wearing the same boxy clothes that everyone who works there has. 

“Hey, sleepy girl,” Steve rubs her thigh, “gotta pick a color for your cast.”

Penelope scrunches her eyes real tight at Steve. It is not time to wake up. 

The casting tech clears her throat, “We have pink, purple, red, blue, black…”

Steve sits Penelope upright on his lap as her head lolls to his shoulder. “Baby, look, see these pretty colors?” 

“Pink,” she groans into his shirt, her lashes fanned across her cheeks. 

“Pink?” the tech calls. 

Steve nods and the woman begins to prep on the countertop. You stand beside the bed Steve’s perched on, your head heavy as a dumbbell. 

“Don’t fall over," Steve says.

You grab his shoulder for balance. “‘M not.” 

The technician rolls a side table up to Steve and pops the brake. She has him scoot forward and maneuver Penelope’s broken arm flat. His stomach knots itself in a guilty pretzel when her eyes open full of tears. Casts are all the rage when you’re that young, but they’re not so fun to put on and take off. 

She’s so spent she barely puts up a fight. Steve holds her good hand more for his sake, sprinkling sorry kisses all across her head as the tech works.

Penelope’s arm is wiped, padded, and all plastered up in no time. The amount of minutes it takes to harden is the same amount it takes Penelope to calm back down. She’s awake, but zombie-like; moaning and groaning like she might really bite someone’s head off. 

Back in her hospital room, she tests the weight of her cast, complains that it’s so itchy and too heavy. But the mention of signatures adds a little shot of excitement to her cup. You track down a Sharpie and are begged to sign it first. After, she insists you must draw Cinderella too. And now you're no artist, but you try your absolute best.

“I’m the only boy who’s gonna sign this, right?” Steve asks as he colors in a heart by DAD. 

Penelope nods with her lip between her teeth so she doesn’t laugh. Every boy on the block is about to sign it, that’s for damn sure. 

A nurse steps in with discharge paperwork and a speech about cast care and referrals and payment plans and it all goes in one ear and out the other. But finally, Penelope is free to go. 

It takes ten minutes of wandering the parking lot to find the car because you’ve completely forgotten where you left it. Penelope treats it like a game of hide and seek and Steve genuinely doesn’t seem to mind, though he does tease you about your awful parking job when he sees it. You’re just glad it’s in an actual spot and not halfway to some impound lot. 

Penelope fusses as Steve eases her into her car seat. He threads her casted arm carefully through the seatbelt strap, her new bear crushed to her chest with the other. She looks more asleep than awake the way she’s blinking at him. 

It’s late enough to wonder if he’ll keep her home from school tomorrow. Or if maybe he’ll stay home from work himself. You could call off too, make a special day out of it. 

Steve adjusts the rearview so he has a slice of Penelope when he checks it. She’s an absolute goner before the car’s even left the parking lot, her head swaying like a ragdoll with every turn. 

The drive back to the field is peaceful. The hum of the engine pushes you dangerously close to a second nap. And Steve patting your thigh certainly doesn’t help. 

When he parks you’re crestfallen with the realization that the night is coming to a close. It’s been the most stressful part of your week and yet undeniably your favorite. You hang out in the heat of the car while Steve goes to search for Penelope’s missing cleat. He searched all up under the car seats for it, but you’re almost positive she kicked it off on the field. 

You watch Steve retrace his steps up to the dugout. Your mind, for whatever reason, jumps to earlier, smushed in that little twin bed, using his arm like a pillow. He was so gentle with your hands. He always is. And you were close enough to kiss him as you have been so many times in the last couple of months. You’ve had every opportunity to do it, but so has he. If it’s something he wanted to do, surely he would’ve done it by now. But it is nice to consider that maybe one of these days your delusions won’t be so delusional.

The passenger door clicks, and a swell of cold air hits your side. You’re stunned for a split second before Steve’s face slides into view. His eyes swing from Penelope’s over to yours. “Ready?” 

His fingers are icicles, slipping between yours to pull you up. You stand toe to toe, more than happy to encroach on his body heat in the residual spring chill. There’s a streetlamp behind him, his face is shadowed but still clear, his head fringed in white like a halo. 

“Couldn’t find ‘em,” he says, “but I did find your sunglasses.” 

“Oh,” you pat the top of your head, “I didn’t even realize.”

He cleans the lenses with the hem of his shirt before folding them into your hand. “Sorry, I must’ve dropped ‘em.” 

You shake your head. He could have snapped them in two and you still wouldn’t care. “Her cleat– one of the moms? Or her coach, maybe?” 

“Yeah, probably. Her bag’s gone too.” 

You hum. Your chest aches fiercely with the gauntlet of emotions you’ve bounced between all night. You aren’t sure what to say apart from, “Sorry.” 

He wrinkles his nose, a laugh of disbelief shaking his shoulders. “Why on earth are you sorry?” 

You squeeze your hands together, grasping for the right words. You're running on empty, though, and your thoughts just feel so heavy right now. “Today… it was all just so scary,” your voice goes paper-thin. “I just can’t imagine.” 

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together. He’s quiet for a while, staring at you like you’ve said the wrong thing. And maybe you have, it’s so late you can’t tell up from down anymore. But his face screws itself tighter, he looks away and then quickly back with even more severity. And then his arms are pulling you roughly against his chest, squeezing you gently. “God, Y/N. I should be the sorry one, you– she’s not even your fucking kid and you– you don’t need to be sorry.” 

“No,” you push off his chest until you can see his face again. He’s frowned enough times today to last him a lifetime. “I am. I care so much about her and it was all so awful. I just can’t even imagine how you must’ve felt.” 

Steve’s eyes sting like fire ants have made a nest in his waterline. He’s using every last drop of energy he has not to break in half right now. The last thing he wants is for you to feel even more sorry for him.  

He puts you back where you won’t see if he does cry, a big hand holding the side of your head to his chest. Your arms loop around his waist, hands latching onto his shirt like he’ll turn to dust and blow away. 

“I don’t think I would’ve survived tonight without you,” he murmurs. 

“You would’ve figured it out. Always have.” 

“No, I–” he exhales hot air down the back of your neck, his chin anchored to the slope of your shoulder. “Honestly, yeah, I don’t think I’ve ever been that scared in my life,” he admits. 

“Yeah, it was scary. I don’t think I’ve ever heard a kid scream like that.” 

“I’m gonna have nightmares, I think.” 

He says it like a joke, but neither of you laughs. It feels too true to be funny. 

“I thought it would get easier as she got older… but I– I still have no idea what I’m doing.” 

Your lashes tickle his collar every time you blink. And your hand crawls up and over his shoulder, but a light squeeze does nothing for all the tension packed in there.  “I don’t think anyone does, Steve,” you say. 

A sigh whistles through his nose. 

“But I do know you’re doing a good job. A really good job.” Your sincerity colors every bit of your tone with warmth. “I think it all the time.”

“Really? You don’t think I’m astronomically fucking this whole raising a decent human thing up?” 

“Now I know you’re just fishing for compliments,” you pull back to flick his chest. The bud of a small smile appears on his face. “You know what I think.” 

He catches your wrist before it drops, bringing his other hand up to heat yours in both of his. “You know, I know she’s not yours, but I’m really grateful that she has you in her life.”

“I’m just–” 

“You’re here,” he cuts you off. “You’re not her mom, but I mean, you’re here. You’re always here for her– and for me.” 

“Steve.”

“It’s so fucking selfish of me, but God, I just wish sometimes you were her mom, like her actual mom, even if we weren’t–” he looks away, his eyes somewhere else before he turns back, “she’s just so fucking lucky to have you is all.” 

You swallow the giant rock in your throat. You hope he’s squeezing your hand tight enough not to notice how it’s shaking. “I wouldn't be as good at it as you think. You’d get sick of me.” 

“Are you kidding? You’d make a great mom.” 

You turn your face away. “Don’t play with me, Steve.”

“I’m not. I swear, I’m not.” 

You don’t know if you believe him. He speaks with such conviction it’s hard not to. But after tonight, you do know that parenthood scares the hell out of you, so much more than it already had. 

And every moment with Steve leaves your heart more exposed like it’s blistering itself raw under the weight of all these hidden feelings. You can’t kid yourself, you love Steve, maybe more than anyone you’ve ever loved in your life. And for a while, it seemed like hiding it was the best option, hoping it’d just go away seemed like it would work. But you’re still here, being tortured by every little stupidly kind thing that comes out of his mouth. 

Maybe it’s the lingering adrenaline, but suddenly this moment feels like your opportunity. You’re both being vulnerable, clinging to each other like you’re years past friendship. You know Steve. He’s considerate and patient and empathetic, he would never end things completely over this. 

Your lips part, then smush back together. It’s like you’ve swallowed a pint of glue, the words stuck swirling in the pit of your aching tummy. 

“I–” You clear your throat, “I think… I’ve been, um–” Your eyes close so hard you see colors. You laugh strangely, much more of a breath than sound, shaking your head, then his hands off of yours. “It’s freezing out. I’m– I’m gonna go.”

He nods fiercely. 

You don’t allow yourself to look at him, spinning on your heels before the words have left your mouth. “Night, Steve.” 

“Goodnight,” he tells the back of your head. 

The wind doesn’t help your stinging eyes. But you don’t wipe the wetness away until you reach your car on the other side of the parking lot. Inside you take a big desperate breath. You feel like you’ll be sick all over the steering wheel. 

He probably thinks you're such an idiot stumbling over yourself and then just leaving like that. The whole thing was stupid. It was stupid and impulsive, not at all how you’ve dreamt about doing it. You couldn’t even do it. You should have just saved yourself the embarrassment and kept it to yourself like you have been. 

You take your half of the photo booth pictures from the sun visor, your finger sliding across the torn ridge gently. You and Steve are friends! He’s said so himself dozens of times. And tonight, while it was absolutely awful in just about every way, it’s still a memory you’ll cherish because of Steve. You are so afraid to lose that. 

Every time you think you’ve come to terms with the way things are he goes and does something that sends you right back to square one.  Half of you is endlessly grateful for what you and Steve have. But the other half mourns the idea that this is all you’ll ever be. 

On Saturday, you arrive at the softball field early this time, nerves chipping at the soft smile on your face. Things with Steve have been… off since the last time you were here. Not alarmingly so, but enough to make your stomach turn when the beamer pulls in beside you. Though he’s grinning at you through the window like you’re a pile of gold, you decide that maybe you’ve just been overthinking things. 

Steve rolls Penelope’s window down with his. She’s loads happier than when you last saw her, sticking both hands out of the car to wave at you. 

You're beaming instantly, stupidly so, as you turn your car off and step out. It’s relieving to see her smile again. 

“Oh my goodness, look at you! Look at these fancy bows!” you fawn, pulling her door open for a full view of her uniform. She’s got knee-high socks over her pants, two big bows securing her braids, and streaks of sparkly face paint on her cheeks. “Are you so excited?” 

“I have pom-poms!” She nearly smacks herself with the speed she brings them up to show you. “I’m just cheering today.” 

“Did you practice your chants?”

She nods, still smiling but chin pointed down with an atypical bashfulness. 

“Saving them for the game?” you nod back agreeably. Your eyes flick over to Steve’s, where he’s elbowed into the center console to watch. He’s observing with that familiar softness, but there’s something else attached to that look. Tension, maybe, whether a good or a bad kind, is yet to be determined. 

You help Penelope with her seatbelt. With two hands, unbuckling is a breeze for this smarty-pants. But a bulky cast over one of them makes it quite a bit more challenging for her little fingers. 

“You’ve got so many new signatures I see,” you point as she springs out of her seat. 

“My whole entire class signed it! There was barely even room!” 

“Wow,” you squint at her wrist, “someone even squeezed a smiley face in there!” 

“Yeah, that was Shell. She's like my bestest friend in the world.” 

“Oh, Shelly with the short hair?” 

“No,” she squawks like you’re crazy to have even thought so, “It’s Michelle. Sometimes I call her Shell ‘cause it’s for short.” 

“Ohh,” you chuckle, a tight hold on her arm as she jumps out onto the gravel. “Michelle, of course.” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

“Silly me.” 

Steve laughs from the back end of the car where he unloads all her gear from the trunk. He helps her arms through the hefty straps on her bag. It’s heavy with a bat, helmet, and glove she won’t need today, but she insisted on bringing, just in case someone forgets theirs.

For the next six weeks, Penelope is the team’s very own part-time cheerleader and part-time dugouts assistant. This was abysmal news at first, she cried for an hour when Steve broke the news. It’s more than half of the season she won’t get to play. But you’ve spun it like it’s a real special job– and it is. You don’t know anyone who can cheer you up faster than Pen can. 

The three of you trek up to the field. Steve’s got a cooler full of juice boxes and a grocery bag of snacks for Penelope to hand out. You’ve teased him about being the team's best mom before, but this couldn’t be more on the nose. Still, it almost makes you want to cry, Penelope gets every drop of her generosity from him. 

Several families convene around the stands, sending their girls into the dugout with good luck. Penelope greets a couple of her friends, both of whom gawk at her cast and argue over who will get to sign it first. 

Steve reels her back over for a quick hug and a round of super embarrassing dad kisses. “My little superstar,” he calls her. “Gonna hear you chanting in the next field over, yeah?” 

She agrees and smacks his hand with her good one. 

You hold out your own with a, “Good luck, Pen!  

She whams down on your palm so hard it burns, but you’re both beaming despite it, high off the excitement of the very first game of the season. Penelope is towed away by a gaggle of girls dying to ask all sorts of questions about her arm. Steve drops the cooler off in the dugout and meets you in the bleachers. 

“Hello,” he says as he sits. "Fancy meeting you here." His eyes flit around every inch of your face, his smile beginning to mirror yours.

“Yeah, funny, I was hoping to see you."  

“You got all dressed up for this.” You're in a plain tee and jeans, but the shirt is technically new.

“Teal’s a hard color to find. Three different stores it took me.” 

There’s a pause, neither of you looks away, no one says a thing. 

“Thank you for coming,” he eventually says. He’s so serious about it as if he doesn’t possibly thank you enough. 

You bump your elbow to his and turn towards the game.

Penelope leads warm-up stretches in the outfield, shouting each countdown as loud as Coach does. There’s a little speck of pink in all that teal parting her from the rest of them. And maybe it’s cheesy, but it feels metaphoric. Penelope is truly one of a kind, your sun is a sky full of gloom. The kids’ stolen your heart for good, Steve, her little accomplice. 

[batboyblog]

Things Biden and the Democrats did, this week #13

April 5-12 2024

President Biden announced the cancellation of a student loan debt for a further 277,000 Americans. This brings the number of a Americans who had their debt canceled by the Biden administration through different means since the Supreme Court struck down Biden's first place in 2023 to 4.3 million and a total of $153 billion of debt canceled so far. Most of these borrowers were a part of the President's SAVE Plan, a debt repayment program with 8 million enrollees, over 4 million of whom don't have to make monthly repayments and are still on the path to debt forgiveness.

President Biden announced a plan that would cancel student loan debt for 4 million borrowers and bring debt relief to 30 million Americans The plan takes steps like making automatic debt forgiveness through the public service forgiveness so qualified borrowers who don't know to apply will have their debts forgiven. The plan will wipe out the interest on the debt of 23 million Americans. President Biden touted how the plan will help black and Latino borrowers the most who carry the heavily debt burdens. The plan is expected to go into effect this fall ahead of the election.

President Biden and Vice-President Harris announced the closing of the so-called gun show loophole. For years people selling guns outside of traditional stores, such as at gun shows and in the 21st century over the internet have not been required to preform a background check to see if buyers are legally allowed to own a fire arm. Now all sellers of guns, even over the internet, are required to be licensed and preform a background check. This is the largest single expansion of the background check system since its creation.

The EPA published the first ever regulations on PFAS, known as forever chemicals, in drinking water. The new rules would reduce PFAS exposure for 100 million people according to the EPA. The Biden Administration announced along side the EPA regulations it would make available $1 billion dollars for state and local water treatment to help test for and filter out PFAS in line with the new rule. This marks the first time since 1996 that the EPA has passed a drinking water rule for new contaminants.

The Department of Commerce announced a deal with microchip giant TSMC to bring billions in investment and manufacturing to Arizona. The US makes only about 10% of the world's microchips and none of the most advanced chips. Under the CHIPS and Science Act the Biden Administration hopes to expand America's high-tech manufacturing so that 20% of advanced chips are made in America. TSMC makes about 90% of the world's advanced chips. The deal which sees a $6.6 billion dollar grant from the US government in exchange for $65 billion worth of investment by TSMC in 3 high tech manufacturing facilities in Arizona, the first of which will open next year. This represents the single largest foreign investment in Arizona's history and will bring thousands of new jobs to the state and boost America's microchip manufacturing.

The EPA finalized rules strengthening clean air standards around chemical plants. The new rule will lower the risk of cancer in communities near chemical plants by 96% and eliminate 6,200 tons of toxic air pollution each year. The rules target two dangerous cancer causing chemicals, ethylene oxide and chloroprene, the rule will reduce emissions of these chemicals by 80%.

the Department of the Interior announced it had beaten the Biden Administration goals when it comes to new clean energy projects. The Department has now permitted more than 25 gigawatts of clean energy projects on public lands, surpass the Administrations goal for 2025 already. These solar, wind, and hydro projects will power 12 million American homes with totally green power. Currently 10 gigawatts of clean energy are currently being generated on public lands, powering more than 5 million homes across the West. 

The Department of Transportation announced $830 million to support local communities in becoming more climate resilient. The money will go to 80 projects across 37 states, DC, and the US Virgin Islands The projects will help local Infrastructure better stand up to extreme weather causes by climate change.

The Senate confirmed Susan Bazis, Robert White, and Ann Marie McIff Allen to lifetime federal judgeships in Nebraska, Michigan, and Utah respectively. This brings the total number of judges appointed by President Biden to 193