#but please don't make a third to confirm the pattern

[cobbssecondbelt]

Din Djarin's most confusing mystery

[capuccinodoll]

The boyfriend act, part 14: "The one with the nightly calls" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST

Chapter summary: With Frankie in Boston, the small phone calls at night begin to carry more weight. Meanwhile, things get harder for him. But it doesn’t take long before he’s close to you again. WC: 16k

A/N: I have nothing to say… just thank u for reading and sooo much love to all of you!! Don't forget to let me know what you think, your feedback really matters <3 If you want to be in the tag list, let me know. Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications! (also, If you've asked me before to tag you and your tag isn't on the list, please send me a message and let me know! Sometimes I miss comments!)

Wednesday, October 16th

Frankie called you after dinner. He’d been in Boston for almost two weeks now. He left on a Friday—the fourth Friday of the month.

The first night he called, it felt casual, like a passing thought. He told you about his day, the kinds of things he did and saw, because you hadn’t spoken at all that day. The next night, at almost the exact same hour, he called again. He didn’t seem to notice the pattern. But by the third night, you were already waiting for it, your phone close by, your chest pulling quietly toward the sound of his voice.

Tonight, you took a shower and got into bed with Mr. Darcy. You already knew your phone would ring, maybe not right away, but soon. And when it did, it would be him.

Sometimes the conversations meandered. He’d talk about Jamie, mostly—how they spent hours walking, sometimes talking, often in silence. Frankie didn’t say it outright, but you could tell he was trying to anchor Jamie to something steady, something outside of the hospital walls and the quiet fear threading its way through their days. Because Henry, his dad, was sick. Not just the kind of sick that passed with time, but the other kind—the one people didn’t like to name until they absolutely had to. They were still waiting on tests, on confirmation, but everyone knew. It hung there between them.

Luna seemed steadier with her family around. Frankie told you that most evenings they all sat together in the living room, watching movies with the lights low and the volume too high, like maybe sound could shield them from dread. Helena didn’t want to go back to Austin just yet. But Frankie wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay. Work was waiting, and so was everything else he’d pressed pause on. Still, every time he mentioned going back, Luna reminded him—gently, but firmly—that it was okay to leave when he needed to. That it didn’t make him a bad brother. That love could stretch across state lines and that being present didn’t always mean being in the same place.

With Jamie, Frankie seemed lighter somehow. He’d tell you stories every night—about the park they discovered not far from Luna’s house, where the trees were tall and gold-tipped, and how Jamie insisted on racing him from bench to bench, laughing so hard he nearly fell over. They rode bikes, Frankie jogging beside him when the hill felt too steep. He taught Jamie how to cast a fishing line, how to use his fingers to tie little knots that held. There was something grounding in it, he said, using your hands like that. Jamie clung to him with a kind of unspoken admiration that made something in Frankie’s voice catch when he talked about it. One night, Jamie asked him if he’d take him flying someday—really flying—and Frankie said he would. In Austin, he promised. When they came to visit.

Each night he’d give you pieces of his day, and you’d offer yours in return—your routines, the small details of your work hours. You told him that Santi had been trying, with the kind of stubborn optimism only he could sustain, to organize a group trip somewhere not too far, somewhere quiet, maybe on a weekend.

“When Fish gets back,” he had said, like it was obvious.

You’d seen Emma a few days ago too. She wasn't that subtle about this new thing going on with you. She never was. She tried, in her own way, to keep her thoughts to herself, but she had a certain look when she did—eyebrows tight, lips curved, like biting back smiles and words.

“I’m not going to say anything,” she told you one afternoon while you were pushing a cart through the grocery store. That night you were making pasta—she was on sauce duty, claiming it was the only white sauce worth making. “I know how you get. All bashful and avoidant every time I bring him up.”

“I know what you think,” you said, grabbing a bottle of olive oil and dropping it into the cart. “You think we’re rushing things. You don’t have to say it. I can see it in your face.”

“Rushing?” she said, eyebrows lifting. “He’s in another state. You talk once a day, maybe twice. I don’t think it’s too fast. I think you’re moving the way people move when something it's... you know.” She turned away from you, scanned the row of spices, distracted. “What I do think is that you haven’t realized that you’re probably already dating.”

You blinked. “We’re not dating.”

“Oh no?” she turned back, one brow still raised, like a challenge. “Then what exactly are you doing?”

“We’re… friends. More than friends. For now. I dunno. Don’t name it.”

Emma smiled, but not in a mocking way. It was softer than that.

“More than friends,” she echoed. “You should see the way you sound at night when you talk to him. You get this voice. All careful and… sweet. ‘When are you coming back?’ ‘How’s everything over there?’” she teased, doing a vague imitation of your voice that didn’t sound like you at all, but you let her have it.

You laughed, half-guilty, half-exposed. “I dunno. It just sounds too serious to say things like that.”

“To say what? That you miss him?”

You looked away, pretending to search the shelf behind her for something—anything—your fingers trailing along the edges of jars you didn’t need.

“I think he’d like to hear it,” she added, quieter this time.

And you didn’t say anything, but you wondered if maybe he would.

So the days passed quietly. The nights followed suit—predictable, comforting, marked now by something you hadn’t anticipated relying on. Each evening, almost without exception, his call came at the same time. Not by agreement, not because you’d asked him to. It just kept happening, like some new law of nature.

Tonight was no different. You were already in bed, the lights off, your room wrapped in the soft blue glow of the TV. Some show played faintly in the background, but you weren’t really watching it.

Your eyes were half-shut, your body sinking into the warmth of your comforter, your breathing deepening without your permission. It wasn’t even that late—barely past nine—but the day had pulled at you from every direction, and you felt the weight of it in your bones.

When your phone buzzed, you didn’t startle. You simply reached for it under the covers, your fingers brushing past Mr. Darcy, curled at your side. He flicked his tail in protest.

You didn’t need to check the screen. You already knew. But you did anyway, as you always did.

[Frankie🍾 ]

The contact photo was one you had taken right after the skydive. His hair had been wild from the wind, his cheeks flushed from adrenaline. He wasn’t looking straight at the camera—his smile was off to the side, crooked in that way you had started to recognize as entirely him. He was still wearing the black jumpsuit, the straps hanging loose around his shoulders like he hadn’t had the energy to take it off yet.

You pressed accept and stretched out, your voice sleep-rough as you spoke.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” he said. You could hear the smile in his voice. “Were you asleep?”

“No. Almost. I’m in bed.”

“Long day?” he asked, and then you heard it—the brief crackle of static, the soft inhale. He was smoking.

“You?”

“Not really. I’m out in the yard. Bambi’s trying to lick my face.”

You laughed, quietly. “Leave him alone. Those are dog kisses. That means he loves you.”

“Well, I hope Mr. Darcy doesn’t hold it against me when I come back. Do you think he’ll know?”

“Oh, he’ll know,” you said, smiling into the dark. “He’ll smell the betrayal. You’ll have to earn his forgiveness.”

“Mmm. You know him best. What’s the strategy?”

“The obvious one,” you murmured. “Food. Kibble and wet tuna. He’s kind of basic like that.”

“Reliable,” Frankie said. “I like that in a man.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment, just listened to the soft night sounds on his end of the call—the wind, maybe, the distant creak of something wooden, the faint thump of paws on the grass. You imagined him out there, sitting outside like the previous nights, Bambi pressed against his side. You imagined the glow of the cigarette, how it lit up his features for brief seconds at a time.

“And what about you?” he asked.

You turned slightly, shifting beneath the covers. “What about me?”

“How am I supposed to deal with you?”

For a moment, you didn’t speak.

“I think I’m easier,” you said eventually. “Just seeing you would be enough.”

There was a beat, and then you heard him exhale through his nose, amused. The kind of quiet, private laugh he gave when he didn’t want to sound too affected.

“I’ll be back this weekend. Maybe sooner.”

You smiled into the dark, instinctively, and tried to temper your voice. “Really?”

“Yeah. Mai and I. Mom’s staying a bit longer. She wants to be around to help Luna and Henry with Jamie while they take care of everything else.”

“How are they doing?” 

“Better,” he said, and you could hear the thoughtfulness in it. “Or, I don’t know—better within the context of everything. Henry’s holding up. Luna too. They took Jamie out for a walk today, just the three of them. She said it helped. Like things made sense, even if only for an hour.”

“That sounds nice,” you said. “I bet Jamie loved that.”

“He did,” Frankie said, and there was a warmth in his tone. “Then when they got home, he asked me to take him to the movies. Invited two of his friends. He planned the whole thing himself—texted their moms and everything.”

You smiled. “He really likes having you around.”

“Yeah, he does,” Frankie said, and he was laughing now, low and incredulous. “I think he thinks I’m cooler than I actually am. We saw some video game movie. The boys were hyped. I was just… lost.”

You laughed. “You’re getting old.”

“Maybe. Do you have any idea how many words I didn’t recognize tonight?”

“How many?”

“Definitely more than three. Jamie tried to explain them all, but when I tried to use one in a sentence, he told me I was ‘cringe’ and should just stop.”

You laughed again. Mr. Darcy shifted beside you, unimpressed by the noise.

“You’re officially out of touch.” 

“I think I’ve made peace with it,” he said. “If it means I get to be the uncool adult who buys popcorn and lets them talk through the previews, I’ll take it.”

“Come on, tell me one of the words.”

There was a pause. Frankie made a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh.

“Please don’t make me do this.”

“Okay, I’ll wait. You can tell me when you’re back, then.”

“I’m not making any promises,” he said, amusement spilling through the line. You heard the faint inhale of a cigarette, the soft exhale that followed. “My mom says hi, by the way. Actually, they all do. But she wanted me to tell you that her hello is the most enthusiastic. Like, she made a point of that.”

You grinned. “Tell her I say hi too. To everyone. But especially her.”

“I’ll pass it on. Bambi—hey, hey, off,” he muttered, the sound of shuffling fabric and a low thud in the background. “Goddamn, I swear. He’s trying to climb on top of me. Anyway—what did you do today?”

“Nothing thrilling,” you said. “Work was the same as usual. After that I stopped by Bill’s. It’s almost finished now. It’s looking really good. Just needs the shelves filled and maybe a few more touches.”

“That sounds nice,” he said, and you could hear him settling again, like he’d shifted into a more comfortable position.

“Yeah, I think it’ll be a great space. After that Julie said she was craving burgers, so we got burgers. Then I came home. I had a headache so I took something for it and stood under the hot water for a while. That helped. And now I’m here. TV on, lights off. Mr. Darcy’s asleep at my side. Very thrilling night.”

He laughed softly. “That’s good, though. That you’re okay. God, you have no idea how much I miss my bed.”

“Are you not sleeping well?”

“Not really. Jamie wears me out in the best way—he’s got me running around after him like I’m twenty again. I forgot how much stamina kids have.” There was a pause, and a sound like he’d scratched his jaw. “But even when I’m tired, it’s hard to actually sleep. I sort of just lie there.”

You frowned a little, your voice gentler. “You should go to bed early tonight. Take a hot shower. I know I sound like one of those people who don't get it but, that helps me. Maybe it works for you too?”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll do that. Although I need to know—how hot is this magical shower supposed to be? Because when you say hot, you mean skin-peeling, bone-melting hot.”

You laughed. “I don’t know, Francisco. Hot enough for you. Warm enough to trick your body into relaxing. And then don’t get stuck in front of the TV like you always do.”

“You’re watching TV now.”

“Yeah, but I don’t have trouble sleeping,” you countered, tugging the blanket higher over your chest. “The moment we hang up, I’m out. Like a light. I’ll sleep better than a baby.”

“Are you mocking me?” he asked, half-playful, but with just enough mock offense to make you laugh again.

“I would never.”

“Oh, I have screenshots,” he said. You could hear the grin in his voice. “You think I don’t, but I do.”

“Fake screenshots. Fabricated evidence.”

“Sure, sure. Who does nothing fears nothing—or something like that.”

You didn’t speak for a few seconds. The warmth in your chest had started to climb, spreading outward.

“Well,” you said, trying to keep your voice even, “go try to sleep, okay? I miss you. Call me tomorrow.”

It came out faster than you intended, like the words had been waiting behind your teeth for too long.

There was a pause on the other end. Not long, but long enough to make your heart jump once, then again.

“What?” Frankie asked.

“Get some sleep,” you repeated, more carefully this time. “Call me tomorrow.”

“No.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “No? What do you mean no? You’re not going to call me?” you asked, voice light, teasing. “Or you’re not going to sleep?”

There was a pause before Frankie answered. On the other end of the line, you heard the soft rustle of wind or leaves, and then the familiar sound of him inhaling. A breath in. Then a quiet exhale of smoke.

He laughed softly. “Sure, I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Ah, okay.”

“And I miss you too.”

You closed your eyes and felt the heat rush to your cheeks, your mouth curving helplessly. You were glad the lights were off, as if that could somehow protect you from how young and exposed you felt in that moment. There was something embarrassingly teenage about it—your heart beating a little too fast, your body betraying you.

You let out a soft laugh, not bothering to hide it. If he heard it, let him.

“Okay,” you murmured, “ now go to sleep.”

There was a beat of silence.

“You get really commanding sometimes,” he said, voice low. “But I’ll listen to you. Just this once, just tonight.”

“Mhm. Return to Ithaca, Odysseus.”

Frankie smiled, the corners of his mouth pulling up almost involuntarily. He could feel the heat rising in his face, and he didn’t bother to hide it. At his feet, Bambi was curled up, eyes lifted toward him, the whites gleaming like thin crescents in the low light.

“See you soon,” he said, voice low.

“See you soon, Francisco,” you said. Then the call ended—cut clean, final.

He stared down at the screen, thumb hovering over your name. Your contact photo was still the one he’d taken the day you went skydiving—your hair a mess, the sky swallowing the plane behind you, your smile too big for the frame. He remembered the way you had turned to him, half-nervous, half-thrilled. How he hadn’t been able to look away.

“If you keep grinning like that, it’s going to get stuck,” said a voice beside him.

Frankie startled. He hadn’t heard her come out. Luna.

She laughed, full and unbothered, and he stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray before tucking his phone into the front pocket of his hoodie.

Luna sat next to him, cross-legged, her shoulders brushing his lightly. She tipped her head back and looked up, at the sky.

“Jamie passed out like a log,” she murmured. “I’m guessing you’re wiped too.”

“A bit.”

She tilted her head to look at him properly, her expression gentle.

“You’ve got shadows under your eyes. I keep hearing you come down here after midnight.”

“Not me. Maybe the house is haunted.”

That made her laugh again. She let the silence settle for a moment before asking, “Did you tell her you’re flying back tomorrow?”

He exhaled, drawing a hand over his mouth. “No. I thought maybe—”

“Frankie.” Her voice was gentle. Not scolding, not pushy. “It’s okay. You need to go home. We’re okay here. All of us.”

He hesitated. “I told Jamie I’d take him to the museum.”

“You can take him next time.” She reached out, laid a hand on his forearm. “He’ll understand. He’s a tough kid. And honestly, he’s had the best time with you here. You’ve given him something special. I should thank you for that.”

He smiled, eyes fixed on the horizon like something might move out ther.

“It’s nothing. I .. I like it here,” he said, pausing. Then, quieter: “And sometimes I miss you. A little. You know that, right?”

Luna let out a soft laugh, folding her arms across her chest. “Do you? That’s news to me. You barely even call.”

Frankie turned his head, gave her a look that hovered somewhere between amused and exasperated. “The phone works both ways, Luna.”

“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.” She nudged his knee with hers, a teasing gesture. “Speaking of phone calls... how’s your girl?”

“She’s okay,” he said, voice neutral, almost too casual.

“Did you tell her Mom says hi? You know she’ll ask me if you did.”

Frankie laughed under his breath. “Yeah. I passed it along.”

Luna leaned back in her chair, stretching her legs out in front of her.

“Another reason you should head back. She’s waiting for you.” Her voice was light, but not unkind. She tapped him on the shoulder. “And you’re turning red, by the way. I can see it even in this light.”

“Jesus,” Frankie muttered, rubbing a hand across his face.

She ignored that. “Sofi wants to make a bet,” she said with a grin. “She says we should guess how long it’ll take before you pro—”

“Oh, my God.” He groaned, dragging both hands down his face. When he looked at her again, there was a faint plea in his eyes. “Please don’t.”

“Why not?” Luna laughed, unbothered. “We like her. That’s supposed to be a good thing, isn’t it? That we all like her?”

Frankie shook his head like he was trying to dislodge the whole conversation. There was something boyish in the way he looked down at the floor, something almost shy.

“Relax, I’m joking,” Luna said, her voice light, almost airy. “It just wouldn’t be as much fun teasing you if you didn’t turn that exact shade of red every single time.”

Frankie took a step back, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah, okay.”

She kept looking at him, her smile lingering. Then her gaze shifted—first to Bambi, who was lying at her feet with his tail starting to sweep rhythmically across the floor, then back to Frankie.

“How are things with her?” she asked. “Is she good to you?”

Frankie laughed quietly. He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flicking to the floor.

He knew what she meant. Not just the words, but what lived underneath them. Is she different from Rachel? That was the real question. Of course Luna would never ask that outright—she was too tactful for that, too soft in her own way—but he could see it in the set of her mouth, in the steadiness of her stare.

“She is,” he said eventually. “She’s better than I probably deserve.”

Luna tilted her head, frowning slightly. “What does that mean?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just looked away. “She’s… patient. With me. More than she needs to be. Sometimes I say things, or do things, and I know they don’t come out right. I confuse her. And still, she tries to understand me. Always.”

“And you don’t think you deserve that?”

“I think I can be difficult,” he admitted. “Hard to be around, sometimes.”

“Mm. That's not true.”

“I’ve been worse than usual lately,” he added. “But I can talk to her about it. She listens.”

He looked over at his sister, and she gave him this quiet, knowing smile. Frankie hesitated, the memory creeping up before he had a chance to decide whether or not to share it.

“You know,” he said, eyes flicking up toward the ceiling for a moment. “You know we didn’t get along at first. At all.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“There was this fight. Not just a little disagreement. A real argument. We were in the car. I was driving her home, and… I said things I shouldn’t have. I pushed too far. She cried. I could tell I was making it worse even while I was doing it, but I couldn’t stop. I think I felt—desperate, or something.”

He paused, shaking his head slowly, like he still couldn’t believe himself.

“We were talking about something, about her life, something that mattered to her, and I just bulldozed through it. She got out of the car and walked home in the dark. I left. I didn’t go after her. I went home and felt like absolute shit.”

Luna didn’t interrupt. She was still watching him.

He reached down, brushed his hand along Bambi’s back.

“A couple days later, I went to her place. I didn’t know what I was going to say, but I had to show up. And she was upset too. Not just about the argument, but everything that came before it. She told me I’d hurt her. Not just that night—over the years. And she was right. But then she asked if I’d forgive her too. She said she wanted to start over.”

He looked at Luna then, his voice softer. “And I told her, ‘Okay. Fine. Let’s try.’ And we did. But I still don’t know what she sees in me. I don’t feel like I’ve earned it.”

He stared ahead, posture still, his breath leaving him in a quiet exhale through his nose. Not quite a sigh. Something smaller. More contained.

Luna parted her lips, about to speak, but Frankie beat her to it.

“And I don’t mean it like a rational thing,” he said. “Not like a clear thought I tell myself—‘you don’t deserve this’—it’s not that. It’s more like... even when everything’s good, when I’m with her and I actually feel happy—I... I..." He stopped abruptly, as if startled by what he had just said. “I mean... like, like there’s this feeling underneath it. Like I’m doing something wrong by being there. Like I’ve stolen someone else’s seat.” He glanced at her, but only briefly. “Like I don’t belong next to her. Like I don’t deserve her.”

Luna didn’t move for a second. Then she tilted her head, the corners of her mouth pulled down in something between sympathy and disbelief. Frankie looked away again, eyes flicking down to the dog lying at their feet.

“And so I leave,” he added, voice lower now. “I pull away. I don’t mean to. I just… I don’t know how to hold it all without feeling like I’ll break something. And she never blames me. Somehow, she gets it.”

Luna closed her eyes briefly, pressing her lips together. When she looked at him again, there was a wrinkle between her brows.

“Why wouldn’t you deserve someone who’s patient with you? Who actually listens to you?” Her hand moved to his arm, light pressure just enough to make him feel anchored. “None of what you’re telling yourself is true. You know that, right?”

Frankie wanted to nod. He wanted to meet her eyes and say yes, he knew. But instead, his head tilted a little, the motion uncertain, unfinished.

She didn’t wait. “Well, you have to start knowing. Because someone made you believe the opposite. Someone taught you not to expect anything good. They conditioned you to settle for the scraps they gave you and convinced you that was all you’d ever get. And it wasn’t just one conversation or one mistake. It was years of it. Of being made small.”

Her voice didn’t waver, even as her fingers gripped his sleeve tighter. “Of course it’s going to take time to undo that. Of course it’s hard to believe anything else. But you can. And you have to. Because this—” she gestured, vaguely—“this doesn’t get to be the end of the story.”

Frankie looked at her, his face unreadable but not closed off.

“And I know it’s not going to be easy,” Luna said. “But you have to try. Because if what you have in front of you is something good, something that makes you better, you don’t just get to let it slip through your hands.”

She paused, watching him closely, like she was trying to gauge whether the words were landing where they needed to.

“Yeah, she’s patient,” she went on. “She obviously cares about you. But people have limits. You keep handing someone your doubt over and over again, eventually they get tired of carrying it.”

She exhaled, slowly, as if remembering something. Or maybe trying to forget. “It’s awful. That feeling of being with someone but not knowing where you stand. Wondering if they love you, or if they’re just staying because it’s easier than leaving for good.” Her gaze lifted, her expression hardening just slightly. “I’ve lived it. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”

She leaned in a little, her tone shifting—not cruel, but pointed. “So figure it out. Be brave about it. Don’t leave her sitting in the dark, trying to guess how you feel. If you do, you will lose her. Don't fuck it up.”

Something tightened in Frankie’s stomach. That peculiar mix of dread and longing. He wanted to explain—wanted to say, I’m not sure she’s even mine to lose. That whatever this was between you—this warm, electric, confusing thing—hadn’t been defined, hadn’t been claimed. It felt real, sure. It felt important. But you hadn’t named it. You hadn’t promised anything.

Still, he didn’t say any of that. Because the truth made the story more complicated, and right now, he needed it to stay simple. At least on the surface.

But she was right. He knew that in his bones.

“You’re flying out tomorrow,” Luna said, gently shifting the subject. “I’ll drive you to the airport. And after you’ve settled, you’ll call me. Let me know how you’re doing.”

Frankie gave a small nod, the beginnings of a smile tugging at his mouth.

“I will,” he said. “But answer the damn phone.”

Luna let out a laugh, rolling her eyes. “I always answer the phone.”

Frankie smiled—briefly, instinctively—but the expression faded almost as soon as it had appeared. A sharp, jarring sound echoed from inside the house. A thud. Deep and unmistakable, like something solid hitting the floor. Then a low groan followed, wounded and human.

Luna was on her feet in an instant. Frankie had already moved, pushing the door open, moving into the hallway with purposeful strides.

Just beyond the entrance, at the base of the staircase, Henry was slumped on the floor. His posture was hunched, arms hanging limply at his sides, one hand weakly pressing against the side of his head. There was blood—on his forehead, smeared across his cheek—but it wasn’t immediately clear where it was coming from. His eyes were wide, unfocused.

Helena knelt beside him, her voice hushed but panicked, her fingers carefully brushing hair away from his brow as she inspected the injury. From the edge of the living room doorway, Mai stood frozen, her hands clenched tightly in front of her. She looked like she wanted to move forward but couldn’t. Her skin had gone pale. She hated the sight of blood. Always had.

“Oh my God.” Luna’s voice cracked as she rushed over to Henry, already crying. “Henry—baby—what happened? Are you okay? Your head—”

Henry blinked, his mouth moving, struggling to find words. Nothing came out at first. He looked like he didn’t know where he was.

Frankie crouched down beside him, steady hands reaching to guide Henry’s chin upward, tilting his face gently into the light. His touch was careful, instinctive.

“I was coming up the stairs,” Henry said at last, voice uneven, breath catching at the end of each word. “I—I don’t know what happened. I got dizzy. Then everything just… went.”

“Okay,” Frankie said, nodding, reassuring. “You’re alright. Doesn’t look like anything’s broken. Just stay there, alright? Keep still.” He turned briefly to Luna, who was already pulling her phone from her back pocket, hands shaking.

“I’m calling an ambulance,” she said, more to herself than anyone else, her eyes full of panic and tears already streaking her cheeks.

Behind them, a small voice broke through the noise.

“Dad?”

Frankie turned. At the top of the staircase, Jamie stood barefoot in his pajamas, holding onto the railing. His face was pale and rigid with fear, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Jamie,” Frankie said, standing up, moving toward him with soft, cautious steps.

He reached the boy and tried to take his hands, but Jamie pulled back, sudden and stiff, his eyes still locked on his father’s crumpled form at the bottom of the stairs.

Frankie hesitated. He didn’t know what the right move was—whether to stop him or let him come down. Jamie moved first, stepping down without a word, and Frankie followed just behind, arms half-raised in case he needed to catch him.

When Jamie reached the landing, he froze. Then, without warning, he burst into tears. His small fists clenched and unclenched in front of him, twisting into each other like he was trying to hold something in—but it was too late. The fear and confusion had cracked through.

Frankie stood near him, his chest tightening, unsure if reaching out again would help or scare him more.

Then he reached out, his hand finding Jamie’s small shoulder. The boy flinched at first—just a reflex—but then turned and collapsed into him, his face pressing hard into the front of Frankie’s shirt. His small hands clutched at the fabric, fingers tightening as the sobs overtook him. He was trying not to cry, Frankie could tell, trying to swallow the sound down into himself, but it kept escaping in short, hiccuping gasps.

Frankie wrapped his arms around him without hesitation. There was nothing precise about the way he held him—just instinct and care, the way you’d hold something fragile that you didn’t want to break. He turned and lifted him off the floor, arms anchored beneath his knees and back, careful not to jostle him too much, carrying him upstairs like he was still the five-year-old who used to fall asleep in the backseat of the car.

Inside Jamie’s bedroom, the air felt smaller, quieter. Frankie set him down gently on the bed and shut the door behind them. For a second, neither of them spoke. The sound of Jamie’s sniffling was soft now, like he was trying to push the noise down deep inside himself.

Frankie crossed the room and knelt in front of him, his knees hitting the carpet with a muted thump. He reached up, cupping Jamie’s face in both hands, thumbs brushing the boy’s flushed cheeks.

“Jamie,” he said quietly. “Look at me.”

He did. His eyes were red-rimmed, lashes wet, mouth still trembling at the corners.

“It’s okay. Your dad’s okay.”

Jamie blinked at him, and Frankie could see the skepticism land instantly.

“That’s not true,” he whispered, voice shredded at the edges. “I know he’s sick.”

Frankie’s hands stilled. There were no words at the ready. No script. Only the sharp realization that lying wouldn't work. 

“I know.”

Jamie’s voice cracked in half. “Is he going to die?”

Frankie felt something pull tight in his chest. It was like his heart had been tied up in cloth and dipped in water—heavy, sodden, impossible to wring out. His eyes burned, and he blinked, fast and hard, willing it away.

“He...” He tried again, forcing steadiness into his tone. “He’s sick. But he’s getting help. The doctors are really good. Remember what your mom said? They're the best. She wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true.”

Jamie didn’t respond right away. He just kept crying, softer now, quieter, like his body was getting tired of holding it all up.

“But he got hurt,” he said, voice tight.

“I know. But that—” Frankie leaned in a little, pointing to his own forehead. “That was just a cut. Up here. It looked worse than it was. You remember when you fell off your bike? That scrape on your knee? All that blood? It looked huge, but it wasn’t. Just messy.”

He nodded, barely. His eyes didn’t leave Frankie’s.

“It was scary,” Frankie continued. “But it was only a scare.”

Jamie hesitated. “How do you know it’s just that?”

Frankie glanced down. The pads of his fingers were stained red. He curled them into fists and tucked his hands into his lap like they didn’t belong to him. Then he looked back up.

“Because I checked. With my own hands. It was bleeding, yeah, but it wasn’t deep. Just a surface cut.”

The boy searched his face, eyes darting between his mouth and his eyes, like trying to catch a lie midair.

There were two knocks at the door, and then it opened a beat later without waiting for an answer.

“Jamie,” Luna said softly as she stepped into the room. “Honey, are you okay?”

Jamie didn’t say anything right away. He rubbed at his eyes with the back of his wrist, his face still damp, expression uncertain. Then he gave a faint nod. Luna walked across the room and crouched beside the bed, brushing a hand through his hair.

“We’re going to the hospital, with daddy,” she said, watching his face closely, “but everything’s alright. Okay?”

Jamie looked up at her, then past her to Frankie, his mouth parting just slightly.

“Can I go?” he asked, barely above a whisper. The room fell quiet.

Luna didn’t answer right away. She glanced at Frankie—one of those looks that lasted less than a second but held a full conversation inside it—and then turned her eyes back to her son.

Frankie cleared his throat, adjusting where he knelt.

“Hey,” he said, reaching out and tapping Jamie gently on the calf. “What if we finally watch that movie you asked about yesterday? The one with the animals. Remember?”

Jamie’s eyebrows knit together, uncertain.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice thin.

Frankie shifted a little, resting one arm on the mattress.

“You know the one I mean, right?” he said, feigning confusion. “The movie with the animals and the board game... How was it called again? Tumanji?”

Jamie blinked at him for a second—then his mouth twitched, the ghost of a smile appearing.

“No,” he said, voice still a little hoarse but brighter. “Jumanji.”

Frankie snapped his fingers. “Ah. That’s it. I always mix it up with that other one. You know, the one where the guy gets stuck inside a board game and becomes a tomato.”

Jamie gave a short, surprised laugh, the kind that sneaks out before you remember you’re supposed to be upset. “That’s not a movie.”

“You sure? Sounds like Oscar material to me,” Frankie said, raising an eyebrow.

Luna gave him a look—half grateful, half exasperated—and smoothed her son’s hair again. Jamie’s body had relaxed by then, shoulders dropping just slightly, a flicker of lightness beginning to return to his face.

He turned to Frankie again. “Okay,” small but clear.

Thursday, October 17th

The morning passed quietly and the bookstore felt half-asleep. You spent most of it rearranging the same shelf three times, more for something to do than out of necessity.

Nancy stopped by before noon. She came every few weeks, always with lipstick on, her earrings matching her outfit. She was in her seventies—sharp as ever— with the kind of silver-white hair that looked like it had absorbed sunlight and kept it, somehow. You liked her. She had a warm, sturdy way of being that made you feel less alone in your skin. She always brought up Piero, her husband, who sounded like the kind of man who made tea before you asked and let you have the last cookie. They sunbathed on their patio every afternoon, she said, beneath a striped umbrella. She talked about it fondly, like sun and silence were sacred, like afternoons stretched longer when you spent them side by side with someone who knew where all your scars were and loved you anyway.

She told you she used to teach math but had always preferred stories. “Numbers are always perfect, but people are interesting,” she said once. She kept journals—dozens of them, she claimed—stacked in boxes in her attic. You told her you’d love to read one, just to see how someone like her had seen the world when they were younger.

Before she left, she narrowed her eyes at you playfully.

“How old are you, sweetheart?” she asked, leaning slightly over the counter.

“Twenty-nine,” you answered, your voice soft, the way it always was when someone surprised you with affection.

She smiled as if you’d given her the exact answer she was hoping for.

“I’ll bring you the one I wrote when I was your age. Maybe there’s something useful in it.”

Later, the stillness cracked open. A group of teenagers tumbled into the store like a wind you hadn't prepared for. They made a mess of the juvenile section, speaking too loudly, touching everything with the kind of reckless hands that had never had to shelve anything. You asked them more than once to be careful, using the voice you reserved for rules you wished didn’t need saying. One of them dropped a copy of The Perks of Being a Wallflower like it meant nothing at all.

They didn’t buy anything. They left the shelves in chaos. Normally, you would have accepted it as part of the rhythm of the place—books always moved, never stayed where you put them. But today it stung. There was something careless about their presence. Putting the books back felt like an apology you weren’t sure who to give to.

Later, a man came in asking for a book. He couldn’t remember the title, just that it was about a man, something existential, maybe something to do with murder, or exile, or the sea. You suggested The Stranger by Camus.

“No, no, not that one,” he insisted, shaking his head like you’d misunderstood him completely. And then he described The Stranger to you, again, nearly word for word.

You didn’t correct him. You just let him keep talking. Because some people need to arrive at the truth on their own. 

By the time the sign on the door read closed, your whole body ached with the kind of exhaustion that comes from quiet tasks performed for hours on end. You moved through the familiar routine almost without thinking—lights off, blinds drawn, register counted, the keys pressing cool and metallic into your palm as you locked up.

At home, you undressed slowly, letting your clothes fall where they wanted to, and stepped into the bath. The water climbed around you, and for a moment, everything felt still again. It was the kind of warmth that softened you, let the tension uncurl from your shoulders, made you forget how much your feet had hurt.

Afterward, wrapped in your robe and already feeling better, you padded into the kitchen with the light kind of optimism that sometimes appears when you're clean and your hair is damp and everything feels slightly reset. You opened the fridge, thinking about pasta or maybe something with melted cheese.

What you found was something closer to satire than sustenance: one pathetic lemon, the skin hardened like old leather, and a wedge of cheese in the kind of condition that made you feel vaguely judged by your own refrigerator. You laughed out loud—just once, flatly—then let the door close with a gentle thud.

You could’ve ordered in. Of course, that was always an option. But something about the quietness of the evening made you want to cook. Something comforting, something with cheese and butter or... bolognesa, but the really well done one, like the kind of meal Emma would send you videos of in the middle of the night with messages like we NEED to try this. So you got dressed, pulling on jeans and a nice shirt, trying to look like someone who might bump into someone they used to love at the grocery store, even though that wasn't true.

It was already six, the sky dipped in pale pinks and oranges, the air still a little bit thick. You moved quickly, maybe too quickly—partly because you were hungry, partly because the idea of dinner had already taken root in your mind and you wanted to see it through.

On the way back, your grocery bag hung from one shoulder, slightly digging into your skin. The sun was almost fully gone. You tilted your head back to look at the sky, letting the dark soft colors press into your mind.

You were still looking up when you reached your block. And then, without warning, your attention snapped downward. A figure. Familiar. Standing just outside your front door, hands tucked into his jean jacket pockets, head tilted slightly, like he’d been waiting a while.

You frowned, not quite alarmed but confused, and started walking faster, your footsteps picking up rhythm against the sidewalk.

He rang the doorbell just as you reached shouting distance. And then he turned.

“Frankie?”

His eyes found yours. He smiled, and something about it made you stop walking entirely, just a few feet away from him now. You adjusted the strap of the bag on your shoulder, your smile echoing his. For a second, neither of you said anything. You just looked at him. Like you were reading his face.

He looked different. That’s what struck you first. Not bad—just different. The tired kind of different. His eyes were glassy and faintly red around the rims, like he’d slept too little or thought too much. Maybe both.

You noticed it immediately.

He crossed the short distance between you and gently slid the bag from your shoulder without asking, his fingers brushing against your skin. You let him. You watched him in the soft dusk light—his profile, the quiet concentration on his face as he adjusted the weight of the bag—and something in your chest softened.

You stepped closer. Without overthinking it, your arms wrapped around his neck, your body leaning into his with a kind of quiet certainty. He held you the way he always did: arms snug around your waist, pulling you into him. He pressed a kiss to your cheek. You felt the heat of it long after his lips left your skin.

“What are you doing here?” you asked, voice low, your face turned slightly so you could get a clearer look at him. “I thought you weren’t coming back until the weekend.”

He smiled, barely. “Or sooner, I said.”

You opened the door and stepped aside so he could come in. The small suitcase in his hand bumped against the frame as he passed, and you watched him carry it up the narrow stairs, placing it just inside the apartment, next to the door. You realized then that he probably hadn’t even gone home. Most likely, he’d come straight from the airport.

You set the groceries on the kitchen counter, the plastic rustling against the marble. When you turned back around, he was standing beside the couch, looking at you as if he was trying to remember something important. Your smile hadn’t left yet.

“Well?” you said, stepping toward him. “How are you?”

That’s when it shifted.

His mouth twitched, a near-smile interrupted midway. His shoulders fell, not all at once, but in degrees, like gravity had started pulling harder. His eyebrows knit slowly, his whole expression beginning to slide. His eyes—always expressive, always easy to read if you knew how to look—began to shine. Not dramatically. Not enough that someone else might notice. But you did. Of course you did.

“Hey,” you whispered, reaching for him without hesitation, both hands cupping his face, your thumbs brushing lightly across the skin beneath his eyes.

He didn’t answer.

He just looked at you. Close up now, you could see it more clearly—how tired he was. His eyes rimmed with red, the faint trace of tears that hadn’t yet fallen. The kind of exhaustion that lived deep in the bones, behind the eyes, beneath the skin. And something more.

Then you pulled him into your arms again, tighter this time. He dropped his face into the curve of your neck, and you felt his breath catch slightly as he exhaled. You pressed your hands into his hair, threading your fingers through the messy strands, and held him there.

At first, his breathing came in short, uneven bursts. You felt it in the way his chest rose and fell against yours, in the way his arms clung to you a little too tightly, as if you might disappear if he let go. But you didn’t move. You just held him, one hand in his hair, the other splayed across his back.

Eventually, his body began to ease. Not entirely, but enough. His breaths evened out, becoming quieter, steadier. He pulled back just slightly, enough that your faces were no longer touching, and you tilted your head to look at him properly. He did the same.

Your eyes scanned his face. The sharp line of his jaw, the subtle crease between his brows that seemed to have taken up permanent residence. You reached up and brushed your fingertips along his cheek, a gesture so gentle it barely registered.

He kissed you. It wasn’t rushed or hard, but there was urgency in it nonetheless—like he'd been waiting to do it, or needing to. His lips met yours and you responded instantly, your mouth moving with his as the space between you disappeared again. You tilted your head and the kiss deepened. But then he pulled back, leaving your lips warm and a little dazed.

You studied his face, your expression shifting into something you hadn’t planned. Tenderness, yes, but also a quiet ache for him.

You reached up and brushed your fingers through the side of his hair.

“What happened?” you asked, your voice soft, your thumb grazing the edge of his jaw.

He let out a breath through his nose.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, but then paused. “I mean… I’m just tired.”

You didn’t believe him, not fully, but you didn’t push. You let your hand rest against his cheek, tracing light, absentminded shapes along his skin.

“We can talk about it later,” you said. “If you want.”

“I’d like that.”

You smiled, small and reassuring, and nodded. “Now tell me—are you hungry?”

He squinted slightly, the ghost of a smile creeping across his lips.

“Starving.”

“Good,” you said, patting his chest before stepping back. “Now I’ve got the perfect excuse to make something that’ll impress you.”

He didn’t say anything, just watched you cross the room.

About thirty minutes later, you were standing at the stove, carefully pouring the chopped vegetables into the pot where the tomato sauce had already begun to simmer. You’d pulled up a recipe Emma had texted you weeks ago—something she’d raved about that night she sent five voice notes in a row. 

The ingredients were simple—onions, garlic, bell peppers, crushed tomatoes, some ground meat you’d picked out after asking the butcher three separate questions, and just enough red wine to make it taste richer than it actually was. Still, there was a method to getting it right. Things had to be done in order, in the right way, or it wouldn’t come together. You were focused on that now, adjusting the heat beneath the pot until the bubbles at the surface softened. You stirred gently, watching the sauce thicken, hoping the meat would turn tender enough to fall apart with a fork. The pasta would come later, once the sauce had earned it.

The smell was already blooming through the kitchen. You leaned in, eyes fluttering closed for a second, just to take it in.

Then, the sound of a door opening, then closing again. The quiet shuffle of feet along the hallway.

Frankie appeared a second later, leaning into the wall next to you, one shoulder pressed casually against it.

“That smells really good,” he said, eyes drifting toward the stove.

You looked at him and smiled. He was wearing those soft gray-and-black striped pajama pants you’d seen once, paired with a plain white T-shirt that clung just slightly to his chest. He’d pulled them from his suitcase before heading into the shower.

“Thanks,” you said, eyes drifting to the damp patches forming on his shoulders. “Your hair’s still dripping. You’re getting your shirt all wet.”

“I can shake it out, if you want,” he offered, a grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. Before you could stop him, he tilted his head and gave it a little shake like a dog just out of the rain, droplets scattering into the air, some landing on your cheek.

“No!” you laughed, holding your hands up in protest as he moved a step closer.

He retreated, still grinning, and reached up to push his damp curls back from his forehead.

“I’ll dry off,” he said. “I just wanted to see what you were up to.”

“So impatient,” you teased, pressing a hand lightly to his stomach as he passed behind you. “How was the shower?”

“Hot,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Yeah, but don’t you feel renewed? Like your whole nervous system just reset?”

He tilted his face toward you, that crooked little smile still playing on his lips. “I’ll let you know after dinner.”

You rolled your eyes, even though he wasn’t looking. Earlier, you’d adjusted the water for his shower, turning the handle just right, testing the temperature with your wrist like you were preparing it for a toddler instead of a grown man.

“Not so hot,” he’d said, already pulling his T-shirt over his head. And then, as soon as the water hit his skin, he let out an exaggerated groan. Sure enough, seconds later came a low, satisfied sigh, like he'd just entered some kind of heaven.

You didn’t comment on it. But now, standing in front of him, you gave a soft shake of your head and said, “Come here,” brushing past him gently and catching his arm as you went.

He let himself be pulled, trailing behind you. You brought him into the bathroom and pointed to the closed toilet lid.

“Sit,” you instructed. He did.

Frankie looked at you with mock suspicion. “What are you going to do to me?”

His voice was cautious, playful, like he half-expected you to pull out a pair of scissors. You didn’t respond, just reached for a clean towel and began pressing the soft fabric into his damp hair, patting and squeezing gently, your movements steady but firm. His head dipped forward under your hands, shoulders relaxing a little as you worked.

“Look at you,” you murmured, a teasing edge in your voice, “like a child.”

He gave a snort in response, a quiet puff of breath.

“I hadn’t finished drying myself,” he said, his voice a bit muffled, like he was talking more to the floor than to you.

You didn’t answer. Just kept working. After a moment, you tossed the towel onto the edge of the sink and knelt to open the cabinet beneath it. Frankie stayed where he was, watching quietly now, as you pulled out a small hair dryer and plugged it into the socket by the mirror. You glanced back at him, holding it in your hand like a weapon.

“Bend your head a little,” you said, and he did, obedient.

The dryer clicked on with a soft hum, not too loud, and warm air began to rush over the back of his neck. You ran your fingers through his hair as you dried it, lifting and separating the strands, moving with a rhythm that felt almost instinctive. Your fingers grazed his scalp as you worked, massaging without thinking, just because it felt right to do.

After a few minutes, he exhaled slowly and said, “You’re going to put me to sleep.”

You smiled but didn’t stop. Instead, you nudged his chin up with the back of your fingers, tilting his head so you could reach the front. He opened his eyes, just barely, as if it took a real effort. You met his gaze briefly before moving your eyes again, concentrating on what you were doing.

He didn’t say anything else. He just looked at you. And you didn’t feel the need to break the silence.

After a while, you clicked off the dryer, the hum falling away like a thought slipping from your mind. The room felt quieter now, the only sound was the faint hum of the television playing in the living room. You wrapped the cord carefully around your fingers, looping it into a neat coil without rushing, then set it down on the cabinet.

You turned back to Frankie. He was still sitting, head slightly tilted, watching you in that unblinking way he had. You ran a hand through his hair.

“All done,” you said quietly, offering him a faint smile.

He stood with a soft grunt, lifting his arms above his head to stretch. The hem of his shirt shifted slightly, exposing a thin line of skin. You were just about to open the door when you felt his fingers wrap around your wrist. You turned, caught off guard, and he pulled you toward him in one fluid motion.

His hand came up to your face, cupping your cheek with a familiarity that made your breath catch. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief, tender, almost shy. Then, without waiting, he kissed you again, this time properly.

You smiled into it. That unconscious, reflexive smile that made your cheeks ache a little. He felt it and smiled too, the curve of his lips brushing against yours. You slid your hands up the front of his shirt, fingertips gliding over the fabric, settling on his shoulders. The cotton felt damp under your palms.

You pulled away, just enough to see his face clearly, to speak without your lips brushing.

“Your shirt’s still wet,” you murmured, your voice lighter now, teasing.

He gave a dramatic roll of his eyes but didn’t release you. His arms stayed around your waist, grounding you there. And for a moment, neither of you moved.

Apparently, you were a damn good cook. The kind that surprised even yourself. Because an hour later, Frankie was sitting across from you at the small kitchen table, setting his fork down with a soft clink against the plate. He reached for the wine glass with the same hand and took a sip, his eyes closing briefly like it really hit the spot.

The apartment was quiet, save for Al Green playing on the speaker in the living room—How Can You Mend a Broken Heart drifting across the place, soft and clear.

Dinner had been easy. No heavy conversations, nothing you had to tiptoe around. Frankie seemed lighter now, more himself, in a dry T-shirt this time. He told you stories from his days in Boston, sticking to the parts he liked, the positive ones, wich were a lot. He asked about Bill then, about how things were going at the coffee shop, and you gave him the short version. Not because you didn’t want to talk, but because there wasn’t much to say. And you didn't feel like talking about Bill.

Mr. Darcy took the dinner invitation too, hopping into the spare chair between you like he’d been formally seated. He spent half the meal squinting at the table’s edge, trying to sniff his way into a bite, before giving up and curling himself into a quiet loaf.

“This was amazing,” Frankie said finally, leaning back with a sigh, like his body needed to announce how satisfied it was.

And honestly, it had been amazing. The meat had turned out just the way you’d hoped. Tender, flavorful, melting on the tongue in a way that made you close your eyes for a second. The vegetables soaked up the wine and seasonings too. And Frankie had eaten like a really starving man, which maybe wasn’t far from the truth. You had no problem refilling his plate twice, then again when he scraped up the last of the sauce with a piece of bread.

You tilted your head and smiled. “I’ll accept that compliment. Graciously.”

He laughed, and then nudged your foot under the table with his, a quiet, almost instinctive gesture. You looked up just as a yawn slipped out of him, unfiltered.

“So, how’d you sleep last night?” you asked, raising your glass, swirling the last sip of red wine before bringing it to your lips.

Frankie paused. He didn’t answer right away.

“I didn’t,” he said eventually, with a small, apologetic smile.

You tilted your head again. “You didn’t?”

He shook his head, and his fingers began to move around the stem of the wine glass, drawing quiet circles. 

“Henry had an accident.”

You didn’t speak at first. You watched him carefully, expecting an explanation to follow, but it didn’t. He just sat there, eyes fixed somewhere near your hands.

So you shifted in your seat, and then you asked: “What happened to him?”

“He fell down the stairs,” he said. “He got dizzy.”

Your stomach turned. Frankie gave a faint nod, as if trying to convince himself more than you.

“It wasn’t terrible,” he added quickly, “just a few stitches. Nothing broken. But the fall was bad enough that they kept him at the hospital for observation. He hit his head.”

You winced, your mind catching on the small detail.

You remembered what Frankie had told you last week—about the tumor. A small mass, tucked inside Henry’s frontal lobe, as if that part of the brain had quietly betrayed him. It had started with the dizzy spells, sure, but then there was that evening—he’d gotten confused during dinner with some friends, blanked out while telling a story he’d told a dozen times before. Then the blurriness came, the sudden jolts in his chest, the racing heartbeat. Frankie had listed the symptoms without drama, just a steady recounting. The headaches had been going on for months, along with the exhaustion and his growing inability to concentrate. Tests followed, more than one. And more still to come. They hadn’t reached a decision about surgery yet. But they would soon. One way or another.

Frankie’s voice cut back in, quieter now. “Jamie saw him.”

Your gaze flicked to his face.

“On the floor,” Frankie continued, eyes fixed on the tablecloth, tracing the pattern with the edge of his finger like he needed something tactile to focus on. “Henry was just lying there, blood all over his face. And Jamie—he just cried. He asked me if his dad was going to die.”

You inhaled sharply, instinctively. “Frankie…”

You wanted to reach across the table and touch him. You almost did. But something held you in place.

He looked up at you then, and his eyes were watery but not spilling over.

“I didn’t know what to say, I felt like an idiot. Like some useless bystander in the middle of this thing that’s eating him from the inside out.”

You said nothing.

“I couldn’t lie to him,” he went on. “He’s just a kid, but he’s not stupid. And he deserves more than some empty reassurance. I couldn’t look at him and say, No, your dad’s not going to die, because how the hell would I know that? What if I said it and I was wrong?”

His voice cracked slightly, but he didn’t fall apart. He just looked at you, like he was still waiting for someone to tell him the right thing to say.

“What did you tell him?”

“That Henry had good doctors looking after him. And it’s true.” He gestured vaguely, his hand moving in the air like the thought couldn’t quite land. “But the feeling—it was awful. Just awful.”

You didn’t say anything right away. You reached across the table, your fingers brushing over the back of his hand in a soft, steady motion. He turned his palm upward, and his thumb found your fingers like it was second nature.

“He’s so little,” Frankie murmured. “Just ten. Still thinks the moon actually follows him when he walks home at night. He’s not supposed to know what it means to be scared like that. Not really. Not yet. He’s not supposed to be worried about things like this. He’s supposed to be, I don't know, riding his bike or forgetting to do his homework. Not standing over his dad wondering if he’s going to die.”

Your fingers traced over the curve of his knuckles. “I’m sure you were good with him. And I'm sure it helped him a lot to have you there with him. I don’t think that kind of presence goes unnoticed. Even at that age, kids know when someone shows up for them.” Your voice was soft, as were your fingers stroking his hand. "There are things that no one can protect him from, but you can be there for him. And I think he'll always be grateful for that, to know that his family was there. Whatever the outcome of all this."

Frankie didn’t reply at first. You saw something pass across his face—tiredness, maybe, or something more complicated. Then a faint smile tugged at the edge of his mouth, barely there.

“We watched a movie after they left for the hospital. Luna and my mom went with Henry. So it was just the three of us. Jamie, Mai, and me. We put on Jumanji.”

“Oh yeah? Does he like Jumanji?”

“He loves it,” Frankie nodded. “Though he didn’t make it to the end. Fell asleep halfway through. Mai and I just looked at each other and decided to let him be. I stayed on the couch with him till they got home.”

He glanced down then, his eyes landing on Mr. Darcy, curled up beside the table with his head resting on one outstretched paw.

“I didn’t sleep at all,” he added quietly. “Not when they came back, not even after I got into bed. I just laid there with my eyes closed, trying to feel normal. It wasn’t until eleven in the morning that I even looked at the time.”

He sighed, not dramatically, but like something heavy was pushing out of his chest. Then his gaze returned to you.

“I needed to come back,” he added. “I wanted to stay longer too—mostly for Jamie. But Luna said she’d take care of it. She’s good like that. She drove me to the airport. And the whole time, I was just thinking... I had to see you.”

The words settled into your chest with more weight than you’d expected. You blinked once, then again.

And suddenly, guilt crept in. You thought about how much time you’d taken earlier, moving through the kitchen like you had nowhere to be. You’d cooked like it was a weekend, like this was just another evening. You’d focused on simmering and seasoning and letting the wine reduce just right, and he—he had been running on fumes. Barely holding himself up.

He’d crossed the country running on nerves and zero sleep, and you’d made him wait for dinner.

Your eyes dropped to your lap, and your voice softened. “Frankie, I didn’t know. I would’ve—”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted gently. “Being here feels... good. Normal. And that helps more than you think.”

“But you must be exhausted. I’m sorry.”

Frankie smiled. “No, I’m okay. Honestly. I think that shower of yours worked some kind of miracle.”

You shook your head lightly, resting your chin in your palm, elbow anchored to the table.

“Oh, so now you believe in the healing power of water,” you said, with a faint smirk.

He laughed. “Between that and three servings of your cooking, I’m practically a new man. Almost.”

“Almost?”

He shrugged, a little dramatically. “Well, I’m sort of counting on you to escort me to bed. In case that part wasn’t clear.”

The comment caught you off guard and made you laugh out loud.

“Wow. Bold of you.”

“Me?” he said, leaning forward like he had every right to be amused. “Come on, Shortcake. Don’t act innocent now. We both know you’ve been using me for my body.”

You burst into laughter again, covering your mouth with the back of your hand, trying to suppress the grin that had already taken over your face.

“Alright,” you said, rising to your feet. “Get up, I’ll take you to bed.”

From his seat, he didn’t move, just looked at you with exaggerated offense. “So you’re not denying it?”

You turned to face him, hands finding his shoulders, your thumbs brushing over the fabric of his T-shirt. He was warm under your touch, and his eyes flicked up to meet yours.

“Something tells me that even if that were the case,” you said, voice low, “you’d be completely fine with it.”

He chuckled, head tilting toward your hand. “Ha. You're right,” he said. “Got me.”

“Such a slut,” you muttered, rolling your eyes, though the smile hadn’t left your face. 

You turned toward the table, beginning to stack the plates absentmindedly. Behind you, Frankie stood up too, and without needing to say anything, he joined in, making quick work of the task. It took barely two minutes—your movements wordless but coordinated.

Then, before you could stop him, he was at the sink. You told him to leave it, that it could wait, but he shook his head, already reaching for the sponge.

“Bad manners,” he said over his shoulder. “Can’t just eat three plates of your food and leave you to clean up alone.”

So you didn’t argue again. Instead, you stayed beside him, leaning your hip against the counter, your arms crossed loosely over your chest. He told you about the day Jamie convinced him to climb a tree in the backyard, how he scraped his elbow and Jamie laughed so hard he nearly fell off the branch above him. Mr. Darcy circled your feet as he spoke, issuing small, dramatic meows, clearly under the impression that it was dinnertime for cats too.

Once the counters gleamed and the dishes were stacked neatly in the rack, the two of you drifted down the hallway in easy, familiar silence. Going to bed together didn’t feel like a decision, exactly—it felt like a continuation of the evening. Like the most natural thing in the world. He didn’t hesitate, didn’t ask what to do or where to go. He just followed you.

In the bathroom, you watched his reflection in the mirror as he brushed his teeth, his hair soft under the light, a slight crease between his brows as he concentrated. You stood beside him and picked up your toothbrush. Washed your face. Moved around each other without bumping into one another.

Later, you opened the quilt on your bed, fluffing the pillows absently. Frankie stepped into the room carrying Darcy in his arms like a baby, muttering something about him being spoiled. He set him gently on the mattress, where the cat immediately made a low-pitched grunt of satisfaction and curled up without ceremony.

You began to undress, turning your back toward Frankie out of instinct. And it was only when you felt the cool air touch your skin that you realized your face had grown warm. You weren’t used to this part—the exposed version of yourself, no lights dimmed, no rushed urgency to distract from the fact that he was watching you.

But he didn’t say anything. He just lay back on the bed with his arms folded behind his head, his eyes resting quietly on you, steady but unintrusive. You felt them on your back like sunlight through a window. Not harsh. Just there. 

You pulled the T-shirt over your head, the fabric brushing lightly over your skin as it settled around your torso and hips in soft folds. Then the pajama shorts slid into place. The air in the room felt nice against your skin.

You climbed into bed, moving across the mattress on your hands and knees until you reached his side. Frankie was already lying down, one arm bent beneath his head, eyes watching you as if he’d been waiting for you to arrive. You asked him to switch off the lamp on the nightstand, and he reached over to do it without a word. The room shifted into semi-darkness, shadows cast against the walls.

Then he asked if you could put something on the TV—just for a while, he said—and you didn’t argue. You reached for the remote, flipping through the titles.

“See?” you said, bumping your hand gently against his stomach. “You always end up watching something before bed.”

He smiled, the corners of his mouth curving upward without effort, and didn’t deny it. You let your head rest on his chest, the weight of you melting into him like it had always belonged there, your ear tuned to the slow, rhythmic beat of his heart. You scrolled through the options until you passed You’ve Got Mail.

“That one,” he said.

You turned your head slightly, gave him a sideways look. “Tom Hanks again?”

He nodded like it was the most obvious choice in the world, and you remembered—of course—the time he confused You’ve Got Mail with When Harry Met Sally, and how he still owed you a viewing of that one. You pressed play anyway.

The remote ended up somewhere between you both, half-lost in the sheets. You adjusted your position slightly, shifting until your hand came to rest against his stomach, the warmth of his body seeping into your palm. You tilted your head to look at him, just to make sure he was okay. His smile had softened, his features quieter now, the tiredness more visible around his eyes.

You leaned up to kiss him—just a small kiss, one that lingered more in feeling than in time. Then another, closer to the corner of his mouth, which made him exhale softly. You felt his hand move across your back, not hurried. His fingers settled in the space between your ribs and your hip, that narrow, delicate stretch of skin that always seemed to hum a little under touch.

You lowered yourself back down, head on his chest again, eyes turned toward the screen. Meg Ryan was typing, oblivious to the irony of her anonymous confidant being the man she resented most in real life. The small bookstore, the way she poured herself into it, the quiet sense of being edged out by something bigger and more impersonal—you understood it. You smiled faintly at a comment made by the woman who worked with her, something dry and sweet and accurate.

After a while, you noticed Frankie’s breathing had changed. It had deepened, evened out. You felt the full rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek. You looked up and found him fully asleep, his face softened in that way people’s faces only do when they’re truly resting, the tension drained from his brow.

You reached for the remote again and switched off the television. Then you adjusted your position without really thinking, curling closer to him, your arm draped across his middle.

Within moments, your own body followed his into sleep.

Friday, October 18th

You rolled onto your back, the sheets shifting beneath you, and laughter spilled from your mouth as Frankie’s teeth grazed your neck. Your hands reached for him instinctively, fingers weaving into the softness of his hair. He laughed against your throat, and the sound sent something warm crawling down your spine.

The alarm had gone off ten minutes earlier—seven a.m.—but it had hardly mattered. He’d been awake an hour before that. When you’d asked him why he hadn’t woken you, he said, simply, that you looked like you needed more sleep. So he got up, used the bathroom, then came back to lie beside you. Awake. Still. Waiting until you woke up.

Now his hands trailed across your stomach, and at first you laughed again, your body twitching under the softness of his touch. But the laughter thinned quickly into silence, replaced by something else. Something heavier, slower-burning. His mouth traveled from your neck to your jaw, the sharp little bites replaced by warm, open kisses. 

He adjusted his weight over you, settling into the space you made for him without question, your legs curling around his hips. Like your body already knew how this was supposed to go. You pulled him closer without speaking.

When he kissed you, it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t something you eased into. It was immediate, almost greedy—the way someone kisses after too much waiting, too much wanting. Your hands came together at the back of his neck, fingers tightening against the heat of his skin, and his tongue brushed yours, coaxing a response that felt like surrender. You kissed him back like you needed to prove something. He moaned into your mouth, deep and guttural, and the room was full of heat and breath and the wet, open sounds of two people lost in each other.

Then there was a soft thud beside you, something landing on the mattress with a little bounce. You pulled back instinctively, your lips parting from Frankie’s with a sound that felt too loud in the quiet. Both of you turned your heads at the same time.

Mr. Darcy had made himself comfortable on the bed, his front paws neatly folded like he owned the place.

You laughed under your breath, the sound caught somewhere between affection and exasperation. Frankie shifted back slightly, still close but no longer pressed against you.

“Close the door,” you murmured, your voice already taut with frustration and want.

Frankie let out a breath and peeled himself away from your body. You watched him move without meaning to, your gaze dragging to the unmistakable bulge pressing against the front of his pants. He reached for the cat, pausing with his hands hovering in the air, expression torn between hesitation and amusement.

“He’s going to be mad at me,” he said, eyes flicking toward yours.

“What?”

“Darcy.”

You sat upright, your body still tingling with everything unfinished, and let out a quiet laugh. “He’s not going to be mad.”

“Cats get offended. You know that.”

You rolled your eyes and got up, the air around you cooler now without him so close. You bent to scoop Mr. Darcy into your arms, your fingers sinking into his thick, soft fur. He didn’t protest. He never really did with you.

“I know,” you said, pressing a kiss to the top of his little head, “but I don’t think he’s going to take this personally.”

You stepped out into the hallway and set him down gently, giving him a fond stroke between his ears before straightening. When you turned back, Frankie was already waiting. He closed the door behind you with a quiet click.

You hadn’t even finished turning when his hands were already on your hips—firm, certain, hungry—and he walked you backward without saying a word. The backs of your thighs met the edge of the mattress, your balance faltering just slightly.

And then there was only him again.

You landed on the mattress with a soft bounce, sitting first and then rolling back, your hair fanning out over the sheets. Frankie followed, his body settling over yours with ease, like gravity made the decision for him. His hands bracketed your waist, grounding you there as his mouth returned to your neck—small, scattered kisses pressed into your skin.

His hands shifted, thumbs brushing lightly over your ribs before gathering the hem of your shirt and tugging it upward. You arched your back to help him, lifting your arms above your head as the fabric slipped off and disappeared somewhere behind him. His fingers moved without hesitation, thumbs hooking into the waistband of your shorts—no pause, no teasing—and he dragged them down in one swift motion, underwear and all, until the fabric was a memory at the end of the bed.

You laughed, the sound breathy and full of something that felt like disbelief. Your whole body buzzed, cheeks flushed and chest warm as your hands roamed over him—his arms, the curve of his shoulders, the warm plane of his stomach under his shirt. He kissed you again, deeper this time, his breath uneven and catching as he pressed his body to yours. The feel of his clothes against your bare skin made you restless, every second tightening something inside you.

You broke the kiss with a smirk. “So desperate.”

Frankie tilted his head slightly, a crooked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth, and it hit you low in your stomach—how much you wanted him right then, how much you liked watching him like this.

One of his hands slid along your waist, then down the curve of your hip and thigh, fingers firm against the softest part of you. He squeezed gently, just enough to make you bite your lip. His eyes stayed on yours, that maddening smile still tugging at his lips as his hand moved higher. He touched you where you needed him, his fingers slipping between your folds—just enough pressure to make your breath catch, to make your teasing dissolve into something quieter and hungrier. Your legs parted instinctively, your body answering before your mind could catch up.

He laughed under his breath. “And I’m the desperate one?”

You were about to say something back—some clever response—but you didn’t get the chance. He dipped his head and kissed your collarbones, his mouth hot against your skin. The kisses trailed downward in a lazy, almost reverent pattern, until he reached your breasts. He opened his mouth over one nipple, drawing it in with soft pressure, his tongue moving in slow, careful circles that made your back lift from the mattress. A moan slipped out of you, unrestrained, and you closed your eyes, your hand tangling gently in his hair.

He released you with a quiet pop, breath warm against your chest, and didn’t pause before continuing down, mouth brushing over your stomach, your navel, lower still, until he was right there, in front of you.

And you didn’t dare breathe.

You leaned back onto your elbows, your arms trembling just slightly under your weight, trying to keep yourself upright so you could see him. Your eyelids fluttered halfway shut, lips parted as if you might say something, though the only thing leaving your mouth were uneven, stuttering breaths. You were already unraveling, and he hadn’t even really started.

And still—still—he wore that fucking smile. That smirk that tugged at one corner of his mouth like he knew exactly how this was going to end and how badly you were going to fall apart in front of him.

You shifted beneath him, restless with anticipation, your hips tilting up on their own. Frankie’s hands gripped your thighs firmly, grounding you.

“Hold still,” he murmured, the grin vanishing from his face like a curtain pulled shut, his voice edged with mock severity. Like he was scolding you. Like you were misbehaving.

You were opening your mouth to say something back—something witty or obscene or both—but then his lips met you. Right there. No warning. No space for speech. Just him.

His mouth closed over your clit, his tongue moving in steady, broad strokes, soft but focused, like he was tasting you and thinking about it, like he could memorize the shape of you with his mouth alone. The air left your lungs in jagged exhales. One of your hands found the back of his head, your fingers threading into his hair, not pulling yet, just holding. Needing to touch him, to anchor yourself to something solid while the rest of you dissolved.

He devoured you like he hadn’t eaten in days. There was nothing hesitant about it—just his tongue, his lips, the heat of his mouth, working you with a pace that sent electricity firing down your spine. He kissed you, licked into you, sucked at the most sensitive parts of you like he was possessed by the need to make you come apart. A low sound came from his throat, something close to a growl, and the vibration of it nearly undid you. You cried out and your hips bucked, but his arms wrapped around your thighs, holding you in place, his grip unyielding but not rough.

And somehow—somehow—he still managed to be gentle. You were burning up. Every inch of your skin too hot, your thoughts too scattered to hold onto. You couldn’t take it anymore.

With a desperate sound—half-groan, half-command—you sat up and reached for him, grabbing his hair and tugging it back, not harshly, but with enough force that he lifted his head.

He released you with a slick, obscene sound. His mouth was wet, his lips flushed, and his eyes met yours—dark, gleaming, the kind of look that made your knees weak even though you were already lying down. His breath caught in his throat. His cheeks were tinted pink, heat radiating from him like a second sun.

You reached for his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric with something that felt like insistence. He didn’t resist. As you tugged it upward, he shifted easily, dropping to his knees on the mattress so you could pull it over his head. The shirt landed somewhere behind him with no ceremony. Then he placed his hands on your waist and pushed—not harshly, but with just enough force to send you tipping back against the pillows.

He stood beside the bed and undressed in one fluid movement, pants and boxers sliding down together, left pooled on the floor. Your breath caught—just for a second—and heat bloomed in your chest, rising to your face. The sight of him made your stomach tighten.

Frankie climbed back onto the bed, one hand wrapped around himself, moving with quiet pressure as his eyes drank you in. The way you lay there—waiting, open, flushed—clearly affecting him. His breathing shifted. His pupils darkened. For a moment, he just hovered there, like he was taking a mental picture.

Then he leaned down and kissed you. Not with hunger, not yet. As if he wanted to be tender before losing control.

But then he pulled back.

“Where are you going?” you asked, your hand reaching instinctively for his arm.

He glanced toward the door.

“Wallet,” he said. “I’ve got a condom in there. Just a second.”

You didn’t let go. “I’m on the pill.”

He paused. Just for a beat. His expression changed—something unreadable passed through his eyes before he gave you a half-smile, crooked and curious.

“I know. But are you sure?”

You nodded, your fingers tightening slightly on his skin.

“Yes. Unless you’ve been with someone else in the last two weeks.”

He let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “You think I have that much game?”

“So no?” You were smiling already, because you already knew the answer.

He grinned, then settled over you again, the heat of him returning like a tide.

“What do you think?” he said, voice close to your ear. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“There hasn’t been anyone else these past two weeks?”

“No. No one.”

“Good,” he murmured, pulling back just enough to look at you. “You’re dirty, you know that?”

You let your head fall back, a breathy laugh slipping from your lips. Frankie was still looking at you and his hands shifted on your thighs, guiding your legs open. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he settled between them, his body warm and solid and so unbearably close.

He lined himself up with you, the pressure unmistakable, and stayed like that for a second longer than necessary. His eyes didn’t move from yours. You felt the first inch of him press in, a careful tease of sensation, then retreat. Then again. Your breathing stuttered, lips parting as he rocked forward one more time, deeper this time—until he was all the way inside you.

The stretch of him made you gasp. Your arms went around his shoulders instinctively, anchoring yourself to the firm heat of his body. He buried his face in your neck, not kissing, not speaking, just breathing against your skin like he needed that closeness just as badly as you did.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You felt him in every part of you. Your legs curled around his waist, the tension in your muscles easing as you adjusted to him.

Then he started to move. Gentle thrusts at first—unhurried, almost reverent—but they built gradually, gathering heat with every motion. You felt your breathing pick up, a soft ache forming deep inside you, the kind that was only ever satisfied by more.

Frankie pulled back just enough to look down, eyes trailing over where your bodies met. Your own gaze followed his—tracing the sweat on his chest, the flex of his arms where they braced beside your head, the slight furrow in his brow, the pink flush creeping down his neck.

Your heart thudded hard against your ribcage, a wild, fast rhythm that echoed through your whole body. The sound of his hips meeting yours—the sharp, wet cadence of it—wrapped around you like heat, made your hands tighten on his back, your legs press harder into his sides.

“Harder,” you whispered, your voice shaky, breathless. “Faster.”

His eyes met yours again, and something lit behind them—something raw and dark and beautiful. He didn’t answer, just gave you what you asked for. His pace shifted. The thrusts turned deeper, rougher. The bed hit the wall behind you in time with every movement, and your body arched up to meet him without thinking.

Little cries spilled out of you, rising and falling with each motion. Your skin felt too tight for your body, your chest too small to contain the rush of feeling inside it. Every nerve ending sparked to life under his touch, under the way he pressed into you like he couldn’t get close enough.

You weren’t thinking anymore, not in words. You were all sensation and sound. The slap of skin, the creak of the bed, the heat of his breath on your neck as he sank his teeth into your skin—harder this time, almost too much.

“Don’t stop,” you said, not even sure if it came out as words or just sound. “Don’t stop, please.”

He didn’t. His rhythm didn’t falter. You felt the world tilt around you, narrowing to the shape of his body over yours, the pulse between your legs, the wild flutter of something huge and inevitable building inside your chest.

“Yes,” you breathed—maybe out loud, maybe not. It didn’t matter.

His skin was flushed and slick against yours. Your nails pressed into his back without thinking, dragging down the slope of his spine. He made a sound in response—something caught between a moan and a gasp—and then he lifted his chest from yours, just slightly, like the heat had become too much.

His hands framed your face, but his hips kept moving, pulling you with him. His eyes dragged down your body, like he needed to memorize every inch of you, and you reached for him, one hand curling around his arm, the other flattening against his stomach. The muscles jumped beneath your touch, taut and flexing with every movement.

Something was building low inside you, quiet at first. But then his hand slipped between you, his palm resting on your belly like he wanted to feel what you were feeling from the outside. And then—his fingers. His thumb circled your clit with an unsteady rhythm, the pressure sending a hot jolt through you so fast it knocked the air from your lungs.

A choked cry tore from your throat before you could hold it back. Your hands gripped his arms instinctively, like if you let go, you'd float away entirely.

Frankie thrust deeper, harder. Your body moved in sync with his, like there was no boundary anymore between where you ended and he began. The feeling in your abdomen swelled and then you were falling into it. Your mouth opened in a soundless gasp, your whole body locking around him as the orgasm ripped through you in pulses that felt too intense to contain.

“Fuck,” he groaned, and there was something raw in his voice, as if he couldn’t hold himself together either. “Where—oh, fuck—”

He dropped his forehead to your shoulder, his hips still working, but messier now, rougher. His breath stuttered as he came, and you felt it—the warmth spilling into you, the throb of it, how every part of him seemed to stutter and collapse in the same breath.

You wrapped your arms around his back, your legs still spread beneath him, your chest rising and falling against his. He didn’t say anything, didn’t move for a long moment, except to breathe. You both did. And then, finally, gently, he pulled out of you.

You exhaled at the loss, an ache already beginning to take shape where he’d been. But then he kissed you. Softly, his lips brushing yours with a sweetness that made your heart clench.

Was it wrong—was it selfish—to feel this sense of quiet satisfaction? To think, even for a second, that you were glad he was back, alone, with you? That he was here, in your home, within reach, surrounded by your things. That you had him to yourself, even if just for now.

Frankie let himself fall beside you, his body heavy with leftover heat, the curve of his chest rising and falling in uneven rhythm. He hadn't caught his breath yet. Neither had you.

You turned toward him and propped yourself against the curve of his shoulder. Your hand found the line of his jaw, fingers skating gently across the stubble there.

“Well,” you said, “looks like you slept really well.”

A low sound caught in Frankie’s throat—half a laugh, half a hum—and he let his eyes close for a moment.

Thirty minutes later, you were both in the kitchen. You sat across from each other at the small breakfast bar, twin cups of coffee resting between your arms. Your hair was damp but not dripping, his too, curling faintly at the ends after the shower.

Darcy was chewing noisily near your feet, tail brushing across the floor every so often. Frankie was absorbed in something on his phone, his brow drawn together in focus. You sipped from your cup while scrolling the morning news, the headlines half-forgotten as soon as you read them.

Then your phone vibrated in your hand.

Santi.

You glanced up, your expression shifting. Frankie looked up too, a flicker of recognition passing across his face. You lifted a hand slightly to let him know it was fine, and picked up.

“Hey, Santi?”

The noise on the other end told you he was outside.

“Hey,” he said, his voice a little rushed, “how are you? Are you at the bookstore already?”

You checked the time. Almost nine. “I’m good. Not there yet, though. Why?”

“No reason. Just wondering.” A beat. “What’s going on?”

You leaned back slightly. “Not much. What’s up?”

“I talked to Frankie early yesterday. I think he got back.”

You flicked your eyes up to the man sitting across from you, who looked especially focused on not looking up just then.

“Yeah?” you said. “That right?”

“Sort of. I thought he was coming in today, but whatever.” You heard the soft thud of a door closing on his end. “We’re heading to Will’s cabin with Yov. He and Benny are going early. Since Fish is back already, I thought maybe we could head out this afternoon. Before dinner. It’s only about an hour away. What do you think?”

“Oh. Yeah? What time?” 

Across the table, Frankie raised his eyebrows in your direction and tilted his head slightly, a question embedded in the movement. You met his eyes for a second and bit down gently on the inside of your lip.

“Around six. Maybe a little after? Could be seven,” Santi said.

“Yeah, I—um—yeah.”

“If it doesn’t work for you, that’s fine. Maybe you’ve got plans or something.”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then found your voice again. It came out lighter than you intended. Too eager, maybe. “No, it’s not that. I like the idea. Six works. That way I can get a few things packed and maybe close the bookstore a little early.”

“Perfect,” he said, the smile clear in his voice. “I’ll check with Frankie just to be sure.”

You hesitated. “It’s okay. I’ll be ready then.”

“Good. That’s good.” He paused, and the background noise on his end seemed to quiet for a second. “I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah. Bye. Take care. Love you.”

His reply came faintly, like he wasn’t quite near the phone anymore. “Love you, too.” And then, the call ended.

You set your phone down on the counter. The screen darkened. The room filled back up with the sound of Mr. Darcy still gnawing at his breakfast and the soft hum of the refrigerator. You looked across the counter at Frankie.

“What was that about?” he asked, eyes narrowed slightly with gentle curiosity.

You opened your mouth to answer, but his phone buzzed before you could speak. It vibrated sharply against the surface, and when you both looked down, Santi’s contact photo was lit up on the screen. Determined.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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[hoshinasblade]

you are so close to gaslighting yourself into thinking that maybe, just maybe you have already told hoshina's mom in the past what your favorite tea is.

the problem with that thought is today was the first time you met the mother of your boyfriend.

you denied it in your head - for all you know, perhaps mrs. hoshina is just really a good at guessing. that, or you are going batshit crazy.

because at that very day, people you have met for the first time - people who may be friends with hoshina soshiro but are practically strangers to you - seem to be aware of small details about you.

captain ashiro complimented you on your blue dress after shaking your hands, saying it's obvious why it is your favorite color, emphasizing how it brings out the intensity of your eyes. even okonogi, who you know works directly with the third division's vice-captain, had a specific joyful aura on her friendly face as she offered to hang out with you in the future, mentioning how she is a fan of true crime documentaries too and suggesting in the same breath that you should try the pudding sold in the headquarter's cafeteria.

you could have let all of that go if only you did not blush like a teenager after hoshina's own older brother called you by your childhood nickname during family dinner.

"i'm sorry." hoshina's hand found yours, his thumb drawing patterns on your wrist. he knows you'd been on edge since morning, and although this is entirely your idea - meeting his friends and his family in one day - he wouldn't blame you if you're overwhelmed.

"they did their research on me or something," you tried to laugh the nerves away. it didn't work.

"ah." hoshina suddenly looked guity. " that. well -" he stopped for a moment, gathering his wits, choosing the right words to say. "i mean, it makes sense that everyone who actually knows me would know about you, really."

you wanted to joke as a response; you wanted to say that he's talkative and tends to yap for hours about stuff he loves so yes, people around him would naturally know things about you. but then you caught yourself because this is yet another confirmation of what hoshina soshiro had been telling you for months now - that you are someone he loves.

you did not know being known could feel this sweet.

"huh. do you reckon i can extort them for information about you next time?" this time it was your turn to grab hoshina's hand, and with your forefinger, you traced three little words on the warm skin of his palm.

[author's note: hello guys, i know i haven't been posting a lot anymore, but i am thankful to everyone who still remembers this blog - yes i can read your asks, yes i see that you've tagged me in a fic, yes i checked my notifications in this blog every now and then. it might take me long to respond most of the time so apologies in advance but please know that i appreciate all interactions from everyone.

also i dont need to remind you but i don't tolerate copy-pasting or reposting any of my works anywhere. i read a lot from here too, and other writers can attest to this as well - we know if a line or a paragraph from any of our works is copied and/or reworded. ]

[thefirstknife]

Category 10 even in Rite of the Nine for me personally. There's little engrams to interact with at the start of the zone when you load in. When you load in for the first time, you only get one and then I assume when you pick up the collectibles (so 2 this week) you get another two. There's three little cutscenes in total.

The first one features the Nine giving us a message that swaps between the Emissary to start and then goes to Orin asking us for help:

The Emissary brings you a message from The Nine. The put forth a challenge to the Lightbearers - A begrudging implement, a worn tool! Guardian, please - We ask: make known your value, so divided gods may wield you in time.

We didn't even notice that it's multiple cutscenes at first, we thought we'd just be able to rewatch this one, but the second one is different. It features various landscapes with the Vex architecture and mysterious text from the Nine, including a special symbol at the end. The text formatting and the symbol are representing one of the Nine. They're finally identifying which one of them speaks in which way and with which planet they're connected. This one is Venus:

So the Nine associated with Venus speaks in all caps no punctuation (ignore the elipses, they seem to be present either way) and have this symbol. This is the entry to the Vault of Glass btw, therefore easily identified as Venus. Intrigued by what looks like the tentacles from Heresy. Maybe it's not but it looks that way to me. Full text:

CALIBRATE LET US STOKE THE EMBERS GRASP YOUR LIGHT LIKE SHADOWS ON CAVE WALLS SUMMONS UNHEARD WHY LIMIT YOURSELVES TO SUCH TRODDEN PATHS ALLOW US TO UPLIFT

The third we got was Earth:

EDZ, Cosmodrome, speaking in small caps no punctuation, this symbol: Earth Nine. Full text, elipses included for this but I think they can be ignored for the specific formatting of how this one speaks (we have to see details when they get to the Nine that use dots and pluses and minuses in their speech):

cherished...little motes...i swaddle out...of...fondness... our...symbiosis forever...conjunct...but... decay...decay...i cannot...hold... the rot...the spilling...of neutrinos...back please...come...

Very interesting differences between them! What excites me is that we'll see others. However, from what it seems it looks like we can't get all if they're unlocked through the collectibles in the dungeons, because there's only 6 collectibles. The first cutscene was for free and it didn't feature a specific Nine. So at worst we can only get 6 of them speaking. Possible others might get unlocked in some other way that isn't the collectibles? There's 9 spots where they're positioned, so all can fit, just no idea how we'll get the ones not tied to the collectibles.

What's even more interesting is that it starts with Venus. They confirmed definitively in the reveal stream that the Nine are 8 planets and the Sun. Obviously we only have 2 so far so we don't really have a pattern but it's quite the coincidence that it goes Venus and then Earth, rather than some other bizarre order.

Also, not to use merch as lore, but the Rite of the Nine shirt shows all of the 9 symbols for them and these two, for Venus and Earth are 2nd and 3rd, aka where they should be. So the 1st symbol should be Mercury and I assume the Sun will be the last. So the cutscenes starting with Venus means that the first one was skipped and like. It makes sense. The planet is gone. This would also confirm that the Nine that's missing from the Division lore tab is indeed Mercury and also that it won't have a cutscene, unless the order is completely screwed up after starting with Venus and Earth.

I'm super excited to finally being able to match all the individual Nine to their own formatting type and symbol and planet. Can't wait to see how many of these we're going to get and if we'll get all or not. Are the rest going to be in order or not? Is Mercury entirely skipped because it's missing? Are there going to be only 8 cutscenes then? I need to know this right now.

Also, for doing the collectibles you get the lore book! It's two collectibles per dungeon so first two are this week in Spire of the Watcher. However, you can just get the collectibles on each character to unlock the whole lore book. This is definitely a bug because when I got to my other character, that triumph was labelled as unfinished despite me finishing it on my main. Either way you can get the whole lore book this way. It's definitely something else. Difficult to read and process, deals with Orin and her wrestling with the Nine. A lot of chatter from the Nine.

I did not expect this much lore from this, I was cautiously optimistic, but this is incredible. After all these years, being able to properly identify all of the Nine is huge. Getting some answers about them and how they function also, as well as the question of what's going on to the Nine that's associated with a planet that was eaten by the Witness and not returned.

[somehow-a-human]

Deciphering the Angelic Language

DO NOT ASK NEIL ABOUT FAN THEORY

Oh boy, I'm finally tackling a post on this! I haven't seen a ton of discussion about this or progress and I think that's because it's very complicated. I've done a bit of work on it and I'm hoping by sharing here we'll be able to combine our brainpower and make some more progress!

SO! Let's get into it shall we?

Let's start with what we've been told about the Angelic Language:

An SFX team member said that the pillars in heaven "don't translate into words" (so maybe it translates into something like hex? ASCII?)

A speaker at Ineffablecon confirmed that the language "contains meaning and can be decoded"

According to the Chapter 6 VFX Breakdown video, "The creative team broke down the symbols into an alphabet of about 140 runes"

I'm going to start with that last bullet point. An alphabet of about 140 runes, which math-wise narrows down what type of alphabet we might be looking at. Specifically, I think it might point to Consonant/Vowel Pairs, which gives you 126 characters, then add in numbers and punctuation, you've got about 140. That's my best guess anyway.

The next thing i did was look at the Heaven CCTV footage of Gabriel FRAME BY FRAME to analyze the runes on the screen in these scenes. I think this is the best place to start for a number of reasons, first of all, being that the CCTV footage seems to only use a subset of the runes that don't include and modifications like extra dots or ticks. I consider them base runes.

Secondly, the runes cycle through a lot of changes here so it's a great place to look for patterns, and find patterns I did.

I found 4 sets of runes that cycle sequentially through a repeating pattern. Okay I'm going to do my very best to explain this.

The above we will call set A

The above we will call set B

The above we will call set C

The above we will call set D

The runes on the CCTV will *almost* always follow the sequence of their set, and when they reach the end of the set, they're marked with one of the following first two sequences below which I'm referring to as "indicator runes" after which they either repeat the same set or a different set.

The only time the runes change in the middle of a sequence is when they're denoted by the third row indicator runes before the change occurs.

So there does at least seem to be some pattern to the runes, at least when it comes to the ones used in the CCTV footage. These however are only about half of the total number of runes, the other half are derived from these initial ones, and have additional tick marks and dots added to them to add some sort of meaning and differentiation.

These screen grabs are from the Chapter 6 VFX Breakdown video, and during the lead in to these animations I think I can also say that the language is probably read right to left, as that's the direction the runes scroll in on the screen.

These scenes are also shown with a certain glowing overlay, so I'm wondering if when we can figure the language out, if there is an interesting message here to be read as well.

Anyway! If you have any other info or this has sparked any ideas about the language for you please let me know! I will continue to play with it and update when I have anything of note! :)

[solomams]

12. Haunting

Prompt list by @obeymetournaments !!

Mammon and my mc Paula holding each other after waking up from nightmares. That day haunts each of them.

Drabble under the cut. Spoilers for OG OM lesson 16. Mentions of death.

Can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe.

"Mammon," She tries to call out, but nothing comes out. Her vision is blurry and dark.

She can make out a cow print pattern. Fangs. Hear laughter, gleeful and loud.

Her weak attempts to claw at her attacker's arm do nothing. Her movements are getting sluggish.

Not like this, not like this.

I don't want to die. I'm afraid.

Mammon.

That's her last conscious thought before her vision gives out. In the next moment, she feels herself being cradled against someone's chest.

She feels warmth against her face and neck. Moving is impossible. Every inch of her body hurts.

She can hear someone begging, pleading, bargaining. Who..?

"Paula, Paula, please. C'mon, hold on for me, ya? Do that for Mammon. I'll fix this, I promise-"

"Mmnf..?"

"Shh, shh, I'm here, I'm here, I got ya. J-Just hold on, okay?"

Blinking is practically impossible, yet she manages. She can make out white hair, tan skin, and her favorite shade of blue. Paula smiles. Tries, at least.

Mammon hiccups, unable to hold back the sob as he brushes her hair away from her face. It's matted and clumped now. His smile back is strained.

It's hard to keep her eyes open, let alone keep them focused. The room feels like it's spinning. Is it spinning? She can't tell anymore.

Her ribs protest with every breath she takes. There's a subtle wheezing sound. Is that her?

She wonders why Mammon looks so worried now. His mouth is moving but she can't hear a thing. She can't keep her eyes open anymore.

Sorry. She tries to say. She doesn't get to find out if she was successful, because in an instant, she's scrambling to sit up in her bed.

Bed. Room. Tree. Lanterns. Blanket.

Paula grasps at her own neck as she takes in lungfuls of air. She can feel herself trembling.

"Nightmare. Not real, not real," She wheezes to herself. Table. Vines. Window. Focus, focus, focus. Bedroom. Safe.

Safe?

She rolls onto the floor in a mess of pillows and blankets, and it takes everything in her to stand up and stagger towards the door.

Door. Metal. Cold. Focus. It wasn't real.

She doesn't know when she started crying, but she can feel the tears on her cheeks. Blurring her vision as she uses the wall as a guide.

Wood. Smooth. Left foot. Right foot. Keep going. How she survives the stairs, she won't question miracles.

Once at the top, a glance up has her almost tripping over her own feet. A figure at the opposite end of the hall, frozen in place.

"Paula?" A voice croaks. Timid and in disbelief.

Mammon? Mammon Mammon Mammon. Safety.

She takes a step or two towards him, but he covers the distance between them in no time. One second she's about to collapse, the next she's being squeezed to death. Figuratively this time. She stiffens up all the same.

"M-Mammon?" Paula says, seeking confirmation for what she already knows. Hearing it helps as much. Warm. Strong. Cologne. Safe.

Safe. She's safe. She's sure she is. Relax.

"Here, I'm here, treasure," Mammon says, pressing his ear against her chest. Thumpthumpthump. Too fast, but there.

It takes her a moment, but Paula wraps her own arms around Mammon, burying her fingers in his hair. Soft. Fluffy. Shampoo that smells suspiciously like hers. She's not shaking anymore.

"Can I? P-please," Mammon fiddles with the end of her shirt. He needs to feel. Needs to check. Needs to make sure.

Paula nods after a moment. It's not the first time he's asked. Not the first time they've found each other like this. Maybe the third.

It's only the nights Lucifer makes them sleep in separate rooms. Usually if there's a quiz soon. Yet, they always end up in each other's bed by the end. More so now than ever.

Raking her shirt up once he has confirmation, he feels. Feels the lack of wounds, lack of scars, the warmth beneath his fingers. Presses his thumb into her side, making her squirm. She grips his hair tighter.

It's like a ritual at this point.

Thump, thump, thump.

"Still here..."

"Yeah, I'm still here..."

He rubs circles against her skin. She loosens her grip on his hair. Her heartbeat continues on. It doesn't stop, not for a moment.

"Real?" She murmurs, pausing to wipe away the last of her tears. Even rubbing away Mammon's.

"Real," Mammon confirms. It's as much for her as it is for him.

They stay like that for a while. Holding each other. Reminders and reassurances.

"Bed?" Paula mumbles, bringing it up first for once.

"Yeah. Let's go," Mammon says, reluctantly untangling himself. It's only temporary. By morning, it'll be hard to tell who begins here and who ends there.

Mammon blinks when she grabs his hand. Like he's her lifeline. But by the look she gives him, he might be. He wonders how much she relived tonight.

He decides not to push it. Only squeeze her hand back, and leads her back to her room. This time, they'll be together.

No more memories turned nightmares to haunt them.

But hopefully, one day they won't need each other to get past it. Hopefully, one day, that awful day will be but distant memories.

[vikenticomeshome]

Cyberchase on Pixter Console (part 2/?)

I wasn't sure that I was going to be able to make a sequel to my first post about the sole Cyberchase console game. Back then, I only had a low-quality scan of the manual. It told us plenty about the different mini-games on the cartridge. However, the screenshots were all monochrome.

But now...I have the cartridge. It's gotten a bit scuffed over the past ~20 years, but all of the kids managed to avoid hair, face, and brain damage. One thing that doesn't come across in the scan is that the white ring and white writing have a rainbow shimmer effect in person.

I have a working Pixter console to play it on.

Unfortunately, there is no video output, so any pictures or video that I make will involve pointing my phone camera at the screen. Now, I am aware that the MAME project is working on an emulator for the Pixter console, and they have confirmed that they have dumped data from the Cyberchase cartridge. However, their emulation is still in too early of a state to be able to play the game. Maybe someday, then the emulation is ready, I can give you direct video and screenshot capture from the emulation.

Anyway, while I won't be taking video for everything, I decided to get the animations used for the title screen and intro. I don't believe these have previously been made available online. Given that the Pixter is out-of-style, these animations may not have been seen in years. Now, even at the highest volume setting, the phone's microphone doesn't pick up the audio very well. Therefore, I had to record the audio separately, mute the audio from the phone's microphone, and then combine them together. Please watch to the end, as there is an animation that happens if you stay on the menu for too long.

Alright, I'm going to use screenshots to explain the rest of the game. There are other animations, and I may make a follow-up post to show them.

So, we get our title screen, with recreations of our kids that could be rendered on the Pixter's screen.

We get a shot of Motherboard during the intro.

Then we get our menu of five games: Poddle Sort, Bridge Break, Cyber Jam, Scramble and Drawing.

The login page is for up to four stored profiles. All of these profiles were on the cartridge when I found it. I haven't overwritten one to make a profile for myself yet. Not sure when these were last touched.

The first game, Poddle Sort, involves sorting Poddles into different trucks based on their shapes. We're trying to get them back to Poddleville, which is confusing. I thought Poddleville was the name of the entire site.

We get this cool computer graphic to tell us which level we are on. The first three games have three levels apiece, which increase the difficulty.

When you complete a level, you get a "level jump," which features the Cybersquad jumping.

The second game, Bridge Break, features an animation of Buzz and Delete breaking a bridge.

In order to repair the bridge, you need to work out the pattern to figure out which planks go where.

The third minigame, Cyber Jam, features an animation of Matt getting stuck in traffic. Hacker ruined the traffic lights.

This is a classic puzzle called Klotski. You need to move the other vehicles out of the way to get Matt through the exit.

The fourth minigame, Scarmble, features an animation with Jackie. She loves creating Cyber creatures, apparently. That's a bit terrifying.

You can make a little guy. He even has a little animation when you're done.

The final game, Drawing, is a simple drawing program. You get several backgrounds to choose from. They are all based on backgrounds from the show, remade to be rendered on the Pixter.

We get the Dracula's Castle from Castleblanca.

I'm not sure what site this is from. It doesn't look like anything we see on Kalamoor during "A Day at the Spa". Maybe its a shot from Solaria during "Snow Day to be Exact", after the Sunisphere was stolen and the site started to freeze over. It could be Penguia, but I doubt it, as Penguia didn't come around until "Penguin Tears" in mid-2005. Penguia would have been pretty late to be included in this game. I wonder if this was just an original piece of winter-themed art, since there weren't many winter-themed sites at the time.

We get that forest where the tall, blue bunny, one of the Lucky charms of Cyberspace, lives.

We get another place that I don't recognize.

We get this shot from Solaria.

I'm pretty sure this show it from Sensible Flats.

I don't immediately recognize the site from this shot.

We get a shot of Motherboard's control panel and screen from Control Central.

We get a shot of the Northern Frontier.

We get a shot from Poddleville.

We get the bridge from The Hacker's Grim Wreaker ship.

And finally, we get this establishing shot of Cyberspace.

That's all that I have to say about this game for right now. I may do a follow-up where I try to capture the transitional animations.

[quartings]

Legends Z-A Thoughts and Theories!

Okay, I was pretty quiet on my opinions for Scarlet and Violet, but I'm confident enough to be very pleased and optimistic for this! Legends Arceus was the strongest Pokemon game we had in a decade, and to see them continue this, bring back Megas, and take an extra year to hopefully make it non-buggy? Makes me so so excited!

On Megas:

It's a bit of a surprise to see Megas back, but honestly? Not too much of a surprise. Even ignoring the inevitability of Kalos remakes, Megas are the only gimmick Pokemon kept around in their spinoffs. It was in Mystery Dungeon, Shuffle, Smash Bros, Pokemon Go, and probably more I'm forgetting! So it was always in the back of Gamefreak's mind and I'm glad it's truly back again!

With Gens 8 and 9 bringing back cross-gen evos, I think they'll focus on only giving Megas to three-stage lines, to not quash the potential of 2nd stage Pokemon getting regular evolutions. So starters and Pokemon like Flygon can get Megas since they can't evolve further, but Pokemon like Tropius and Chimecho probably won't, in case they get evolutions in Gen 10 (That then get Megas)

I also don't think we fully grasp how many more Pokemon can get Megas now, too. Barely any of Gen 5 and 6 had Megas (Seriously only 2 Pokemon between the 228 Pokemon in those gens) and we've had THREE more generations since then!!

Note: We went from wanting a Dunsparce evo, to wanting a Dunsparce Mega, to getting Dudunsparce with mixed fan reception. Now I'm going to be a selfish deluded clown bitch and get my hopes up for a Mega Dudunsparce.

Speaking of starters and Megas, do we think we'll get a mish-mash of older starters for this game that then get Megas (Say, Piplup, Snivy, and Scorbunny) or will we get Megas for the three Kalos starters?

Megas may mean Mega Stones return as held items, and held items weren't in Legends Arceus- new gameplay advancement?

Legends Arceus gave us 7 new Pokemon (most of them cross-gen evos) and a dozen new regional forms. Do you think we'll still get regionals this game, or will the design team be focused more on making new Megas instead?

On the world:

It's been confirmed the whole game is only in Lumiose City- how big is the map?? Hopefully we really do get lots of sidequests, biomes for wild Pokemon, and traversal options.

When is this? We're redeveloping Lumiose City, but are we in the past developing it into its current state, or are we in the present/future developing it into a new solarpunk city? Or neither, and this is a "Paradox" game set in a timeline which doesn't quite match ours?

This doesn't have to be an isekai (as in, we don't have to be time travellers again per se), just keep that in mind!

The "Z" in the logo represents Zygarde, with the black color and green hexagons. So who's the "A"? It's green with green scale/leaf patterns on it. What does it represent? The "Chaos" to Zygarde's "Order"? Is it a 5th Zygarde form or is it a whole new Pokemon?

Meta thoughts:

This further confirms my theory that Gen 9 will last until 2026, where they announce Gen 10 on that year's Pokemon Day for their 30th anniversary, and that's great! I'm glad they aren't overworking themselves too much compared to Gens 6-8.

On them "skipping" Unova remakes: I don't see this as skipping. We've been long overdue for a Z version since Kalos is literally the only Pokemon region to only appear in one release (no third version, no remakes, no sequels, no ultras, no DLC). So we're simply making up for the "deficit" of a third version here, and we can go back to focusing on Unova remakes for Gen 10.

Do you think we'll get any final updates to SV to tide us over until the next LegendZ trailer around August? Maybe a small DLC, mythical reveal, or free update?

Pokemon Adventures skipped the last Legends game, so they'll probably skip this one too? I'm fine either way- at least by skipping it, they won't be too rushed and stressed, and they'll actually have the time to flesh out SV and catch up with ORAS/SM/USUM/SwSh in the full volumes.

But on the off chance they do adapt Legends Z-A, do you think we'll get dexholders named Z and A??

Note for the future- the Yoasobi Pokemon song BiriBiri has a part where they namedrop all the game titles- one part has the lyrics "ABC to the XYZ". Long shot, but if Legends Z-A does indeed have an ABC theming, this could be a crazy bit of either coincidental or intentional foreshadowing!

[spin-birdie]

kinktober day 9: spanking

prompt list

word count: ~680

pairing: tav/astarion

rating: explicit

additional tags: generic/unnamed tav, cam streamer au, premature ejaculation, a bit of humiliation kink peppered in there

"How many was that? I need a number, Astarion."

Tav's voice is firm and uncompromising, but it's hard to conjure a number when their palm is caressing his battered, oversensitive ass. The stinging pain coupled with the soothing pattern of Tav's fingers is a sensory cocktail that'll be his undoing sooner rather than later.

"How many?" Tav repeats impatiently. "Don't keep the viewers waiting."

Astarion stutters and squirms, trying to get his brain to reboot. "T-T-Twenty…four?"

He knows he got it right when Tav spanks him again. The slap itself is drowned out by Astarion's scream of pain, and he can't contain the whimper that slips out afterward.

"Twent-ty-five…"

Another slap, harder than the last. "Very good," Tav purrs.

"Twenty-six!" Astarion gasps.

His erection, trapped between his stomach and Tav's thigh, is starting to get painfully hard, now. Every slap jolts him forward, which causes his cock to rub against Tav's trousers. The friction is painful, but he's drooling precum regardless. His body shakes from the strain of staying still.

Tav reads a message from the live chat, but it goes in one ear and out the other. He's too strung out to chance a look at chat for himself. With their audience, it would either be a lust-destroying bad joke or a lascivious comment that would make him come too soon.

"Almost there, are you ready?" Tav asks, kneading Astarion's buttocks with their nails until he chokes on a sob. They don't get any kinder; one, two, three, four heavy smacks. Too fast to even try to count aloud. The second makes him gasp, the third makes him scream, the fourth comes this close to buckling his elbows.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck-- Gods, nhhuugh…"

Tav chuckles wickedly. "Those aren't numbers, darling. How many are we up to?"

"T-Twenty… Uhh… Twenty…twenty-- no-- Thirty…o-one?"

He feels a hot flash of shame as the words leave his lips. He's completely lost count, and the way Tav tuts with disappointment is the only answer he needs.

"So close, my love," they tease. Their nails dig into his bruised flesh hard enough to make him shriek, hips bucking involuntarily. "You know what that means…"

Astarion's resolve cracks, and he releases a broken sob. "No, please, I can't… I ca-an't last that long," he begs. Tears finally fall from his eyes when he blinks, which only fuel his humiliation.

"Colour?" Tav whispers.

"Uh…g-g… Green," Astarion replies, almost too quiet, even to his own ear. Tav has to repeat him, but his nod of confirmation assuages their concerns.

Their dominant mask slips back on effortlessly. "Then it's a shame it's not up to you, darling. Let's get a poll rolling; chat, what punishment does he deserve? Reset the count? Maybe…cage him?"

His cock throbs hard enough to force a grunt of pain from his lips. Tav's fingers toy with Astarion's ass, caressing, kneading, parting it to run a delicate finger over his entrance…

"Maybe slip a toy inside this time around?"

Tav's suggestion is enough to make him writhe uncontrollably, embarrassingly wanton noises tearing themselves from his throat.

"Oh?" Tav grins. "Maybe not. Our dear pet seems to like that idea far too much," they giggle.

With a frantic "Fucknonononnnnuuughhh!" Astarion loses all control. Humiliated tears pour down his face as he comes, grinding helplessly against Tav's thigh. He sobs openly, muffling himself in the bedsheets, and sounds as ruined as he feels.

Tav, the smug prick, just laughs when they realise what's happened. When they speak, even without looking up, Astarion can hear the sharklike grin on their lips.

"Okay, okay-- new poll. Cancel the other one. New poll: how do we punish our dear pet for coming without permission?"

When Astarion risks a glance at the livestream, chat's moving too fast for his eyes to catch any one message. The viewers who aren't just meming on him are shocked and delighted at his pathetic display, and each suggested punishment is crueler than the last.

"I don't know about you guys," Tav continues, "but I'm thinking a new count, the cage, and a prostate toy would be a delight to watch…"

Astarion can only weep.

[the-indigo-symphony]

It really is concerning that I've now seen multiple "call-outs" based on information that not only isn't given a proper source, but based on what I can figure out, may be sourced from bad actors impersonating and spreading lies about the victim(s) of these call-outs in question. Please remember to always verify if your sources are trustworthy by asking questions such as:

Is this information up-to-date? Was it posted recently enough to probably still be accurate, or has enough time passed that we may have discovered new information on the subject that contradicts or elaborates on this?

Who posted it? Do they have the experience and/or qualifications to know what they're talking about? Can I verify that they are who they say they are? Are they sharing this information second- or third-hand? Are the publisher and author the same? If not, could the relationship between the publisher and author have influenced the text? Have the author and/or publisher published reliable information in the past? Have they published unreliable information in the past? Do they make a habit of either? What patterns can you find in their texts?

Does this sound realistic? If not, am I willing to accept it if I find enough evidence to confirm things really are that strange? If so, am I jumping on the bandwagon too quick due to my emotions (ex. an accusation against someone gets you too angry to stop and think if it's true)? Should I take a step back and revisit this later with fresh eyes? Can this be corroborated by other sources?

Why was this posted? Was it just to share this information? Was it to get people united against a specific, designated enemy? Was it to warn others about something? Was it for a project? Was posting it part of someone's job? What was the base of the information – a social media post? An experiment? A personal experience?

What biases may be present in it? What assumptions does the author make? Does any of it feel like an overreaction, or like someone jumped to conclusions? Am I meant to take it seriously? Is it a joke, or something taken out of context? How would I feel about it if this were in a different context? What is the actual context?

If all this seems like too much for you, don't worry – the base of all this is the CRAAP test, which is a method of determining if information or a source is trustworthy and reliable in what it says. These are simply some of the questions to ask that go along with CRAAP; you don't have to ask every single one of them, but you should at least consider some of them.

Again, please remember to verify your sources. Unfortunately, you never know when some information you come across is going to be false – I mean, hey, can you confirm I'm telling the truth about what the CRAAP test is? If not, you should probably go check by looking it up and using some of the very questions I've listed above to confirm the sources you find are reliable! Good luck out there, and if nothing else, make sure someone doesn't have a known record of being impersonated before you take any claims about them at face value.

[titanicfreija]

Squirrelly

Thomas watched his young roommate pace, mentally calculating how much heat she was generating by the change in temperature as she moved toward and away.

So far, neither Ghost nor Guardian noticed the pattern. Thomas, home and audience every time, couldn't miss it.

It was always the crucible. She would go in too hard, drain herself until she could hardly remember how to breathe, then come home and build back up.

~

Once she recovered, she struggled to get her momentum back. Sometimes it was discouragement, sometimes it was anxiety, but she would freeze up and stay home.

Freija home with the crucible calling would put her in a state Thomas referred to as "squirrely", where she was hypervigilant and ready to run, and in this particular Sunbreaker's case, feverish in the way a volcano coming out of dormancy might be. She'd escalate until someone could give her enough of a kick to just go.

This run took two recovery days before the buildup started, and Day Three of the buildup had Thomas wondering how much of their apartment was heat-resistant.

"You are going to work the climate control to death," he told her, testing her mood.

"Am I?" She looked toward the device on the wall, then at her hands as if she could see how hot she was. She eventually realized that was silly and gave a cautious poke to the closest wall before she snapped her hand away. Thomas didn't look so he couldn't confirm the scorch marks he expected. "Sorry," the Titan mumbled, lowering her head between her shoulders.

"When are you going back into the crucible?" he asked, hoping that making it sound obvious would help.

"The crucible?" she asked, blinking at him.

"Yeah. You need to go, you're going to melt the windows." He folded his hands over his belly. "Or at least take your heat wave outside, but you really need to go shoot something. Go clean out some Hive nests on the moon, the Vex out of Nessus, I think it's Mayhem in the crucible right now. Just something. You are going to burn the entire apartment to a crisp without a single flame."

The silver Guardian looked at her hands again and frowned, pouting at the Warlock. "Sunny's out and about."

That was an easy fix and she knew it. "Exactly why aren't you going?"

It shouldn't be so annoying, but this was the third time she had done this very thing, it was practically annual. And she still hadn't even noticed. He rocked to his feet and strode across the apartment, and he took her shoulders between his hands, and he guided her to the door.

Freija didn't resist initially, only leaning her weight against him, but she eventually planted a heel, effectively becoming a brick wall. "I worked the anxiety back up," she admitted. "I'm scared."

"It makes perfect sense that someone would be scared of deliberately placing themselves into the line of fire," he agreed, taking his time in the playful pushing war now that she was coming clean. "But you have to go. You know you love it, you know you'll forget all about the fear once you get in there. Go tell Shaxx you need some encouragement. I'm about to line up with Stasis just for the duskfield, you are a living heating element." She let him push her to the door and kindly opened it for them. He steered her into the hallway where he gave a playful shove. "Go before you spontaneously combust!" She took her own weight and turned to face him. He showed her his reddened palms before he shook and blew on them. Not horribly burned, but he certainly felt like he pulled a dish out of the oven barehanded.

"Sorry," she said again, lowering her head bashfully. He pushed her shoulder and she let the force turn her around, and she shuffled down the hall. "Thank you."

The warlock had to use his sleeve to touch the still-hot doorknob. "You're welcome. Don't come back until you've gone through a few matches, please. You're becoming a fire hazard for this entire side of the barracks."

@annieruok94

@wolvereaux

[pseudo-hero]

Superman #7 Discussion and Predictions for Superman #8

*Spoilers Ahead*

Sooo if you haven't been keeping up with the current run of Superman titled comics (Dawn of DC Superman)—you should. It's so good. Too many reasons why to list.

Now with that being said: My mushified-by-Clex brain saw a preview of issue #8, thought about what's been implied by previous issues and then started thinking some more about that one old but gold Kon-El character trait/plotline and how it may effect the future. The one that DC hasn't wanted to talk about in-comic, for a while.

I...I think this next issue may be leading up to Konner finally being re-solidified as the confirmed offspring of Clark and Lex—and possibly even more. So much of Superman comic media recently, this run included (even despite Lex's usual fuckery present from the beginning) has come across, to me, like they really are going to give Lex a real, no taksies-backsies redemption. One that—even if it's not permanent—will be as unforgettable as his "rebirth" was.

(Above Images from Superman #7 [2023])

This on its own would be phenomenal, but could also (if true) help pave the way for DC/writers to acknowledge Kon's direct origins in a comic, in the present day. I also feel that they would most likely redo the reason for why Kon was created by Lex in the first place, by giving us a different, (hopefully) less toxic explanation. (But Lex's past with Superman staying messy in that regard would be nice, too, I guess.)

The explicit confirmation of Conner Kent's biological parentage is very important to me because the problem I have at this point, isn't just that a lot of people are denying what it is that makes Konner their son; it's also that I can't even tell anymore if that's how he was created, due to confusion caused by all the post-flashpoint/Perpetua/Dr. Manhattan/Rebirth/multiverse-resetting-madness. (But if anyone knows a recent comic/panel where it's straight up said how this version of Kon-El was created, please @ me.)

It should also be noted that Superboy (It feels so weird to still be calling him that, now. Damn it writer(s)...) said that he felt a "connection" to The Chained. One they both felt and which is apparently related to their powers.

(Above Images from Superman #7 [2023])

So this leads me (and by the looks of it, at least a few others) to believe that The Chained (real name "Sam/Sammy") may turn out to be a third father to Konner! Or, perhaps the template they based Kon's powers on, which would easily explain why they have the same abilities. I'm kinda hoping the connection is no more than the latter. Otherwise it comes across as more predatory than if it had just been Lex and Clark's DNA, because it appears in the issue #8 preview that Lex was already a full-grown (balding) adult when Sammy was a little boy.

(Important Side Note: Does this version of Conner even know who his progenitors are?? Does Clark even know??)

(Above Images from Superman #8 [2023] Preview)

I have some questions and theories about how that's possible as well (the Lex-clone-plotline from the 90's is still "canon", I guess?) but I'll just stop here on that.

Moving on: Most/all of the remainder of Lex's family has now shown up in his hospital room. That is, his somehow-still-alive mother and his daughter! (No sister present though, unfortunately. I hope she's doing well now and not in a coma or itching to harm her brother.) Why would that be the case if they weren't planning a big plot that centers on family, possibly regarding who is and isn't a part of the Super Family (Clark's family)? Action Comics to me, also has similar themes in it that have family at their core. (And both comic runs are technically connected.) Looks like a pattern to me and I don't think that's an accident.

(Above Image from Superman #7 [2023])

Side Note: Lois is there for the ride, too, and her reaction is my reaction to this! Seriously, what is happening right now?? And although Teen!Lena has only just arrived to the scene, I think she's already a fave of mine. Love her enthusiasm (probably snark-flavored) and that choice of lipstick and eye shadow.

(Above Image from Superman #7 [2023])

(Those Brainiac-originated dents on her head are definitely related to the role she's going to play in the next arc. I just know it.)

So Lex, having survived his attempted murder (Or whatever that scene was back in issue #5... they didn't even bother to make sure he was dead!) is the spur for all this drama (along with Brainiac, too, it seems and I guess others) and in the preview for next issue, is seen being contacted by watch. Guess who the caller is and what it'll most likely be about?

(Above Image from Superman #8 [2023] Preview)

Praise be to this long-running, amazing Superman story!! Hope it stays entertaining and well written!!

Side Note: Seriously?! Why the choice to change Lex's gorgeous watch and its fantastic color scheme from issue #3 (where Superman gifted it to him)?! Assuming it's the same watch, at least keep it matching Superman's costume/uniform like before!! (I like the gold on it here, though.)

Bonus!:

Do these two happen to remind you of anyone or anything, reader?

(Above Image from Superman #7 [2023])

No? How about now?

A-ha! No way that's not an intentional reference!!

Thanks for reading!! 😁

[reasonableapproximation]

After the third time that I got out of the bath to find lots of water on the kitchen floor, I noticed the pattern.

(In my defense, it wasn't obvious how it could have got there. The layout is sort of |h. where | is the bath, the vertical of the h is the wall between the kitchen and the bath, the leg of the h is a cupboard, and the . is where the water was, in front of the cupboard. The bit of the kitchen directly adjacent to the bath wasn't wet, and the cupboard didn't look wet either. But for some reason there's wood on the floor of the cupboard, and some kind of plasticy fake tiles on the wood. So it was just seeping through the wood without seeping up through the tiles.)

By this time we'd told them that Ally had moved out and they'd taken them off the tenancy agreement. So I emailed the property management company, and they let their contractors know, and the contractors called Ally to find out when was a good time to come.

(I guessed they'd done that when they called me and asked "do you still live there?" and then Ally confirmed it when we spoke a few weeks later, our first significant interaction since they'd gone into the hospital. They said it hadn't bothered them.)

Anyway, the plumber came. In between when I sent the email and when the plumber arrived I also had a shower, which didn't get water on the kitchen floor.

The plumber took off the side of the bath to discover that the pipes were just completely disconnected, so that explained it. I probably could have figured that out myself if I'd taken the side off, but I'd figured it would be all gross under there if I did that, and there probably wouldn't be much I could do myself, so I hadn't wanted to. In hindsight I could have used the knowledge to not take a shower.

He vacuumed up the water and put new pipes in. He got me to help with the connections because he couldn't reach around the shower screen to get a hand on both sides. It took us a few tries to figure out how the overflow was supposed to fit together, and then it was hard to screw in - I think the hole in the bath itself wasn't smooth, so it went around jerkily and I didn't know if I'd tightened it as much as I could. I kind of figured he'd do it a bit more after I left the room, but idk if he did. He said to leave the side off for a few days so it would dry properly.

After he left I had a bath and then looked underneath. It seemed wetter than I thought I remembered, but I wasn't sure. I got a space heater to help it dry.

After a few days it seemed decently dry, so I filled the bath to overflowing and, yep, still leaking. Emailed maintenance to get them to send someone again.

A different person came and replaced the shower screen (with a new one that's fixed in place so it's even more awkward to reach around) and the silicone around the tub. I think the previous guy had let them know that those wanted doing. I asked about the overflow and he took another look at his work order and yep, that was there too. He took the cover off and gave it a couple of twists, I think loosening it but not much and I felt too awkward to say anything. He said he'd put silicone around the rubber seal.

He left the side of the bath on and I didn't feel like taking it off when I had a bath the next day. But I just did so today, confirmed it was reasonably dry before bath, small puddle after bath.

Sigh. I've asked them to send someone a third time.

I know this isn't something that's super easy to test - the first guy could have tested by filling the bath to the overflow, but that would have taken a while, and the second guy couldn't because the silicone needed to dry. Still, feels like it shouldn't be that hard to get a good seal?

I know that "hey please send someone to fix my leaky bath, the last two guys did not quite succeed" is a totally reasonable ask, but I (a) don't like feeling like a bother and (b) half expect my landlord to raise my rent next time it's up for renewal anyway, and this seems like it makes it more likely.

(When we told them Ally was moving out they wanted an updated employer reference for me. I was the only official tenant, fully responsible and liable by myself for rent, with Ally a permitted occupier. So I hadn't expected that to be necessary, but I guess for all they knew Ally had an unsteady income that they were helping me out with. Since we moved in in 2019, my salary had gone up 35% or 55% depending on whether they sent the most recent reference before or after applying my most recent raise. And rent's only gone up once, by 10%. So I won't be surprised if they decide to try to get more out of me at the risk I decide not to renew; and the more I ask them to send people to do things, the more likely that seems.)

[juliasgoodusername]

Ley Lines Map for All the Gansey-core Girlies

Have you ever wished there was an interactive map that not only graphs the ley lines described in TRC, but also has layers full of possible spiritual points, arranged in loose categories and sloppily curated by sheer force of mental illness?? Okay baby here you go:

FAQ under the cut 😘

Was this necessary?

Genuinely it was not. My investigations uncovered that Maggie Stiefvater does not really care about geography, nor does she remain consistent about the ley lines, so I can't even really say that it's book-accurate.

Example 1 - There are multiple understandings of ley lines. Some are circles, patterns, connect the dots, etc. but TRC goes with the definition of "perfectly straight" lines "that crisscross the globe" (The Raven Boys Chapter 2, Chapter 15). One of the big three lines connects Boston to St. Louis (The Raven Boys Chapter 22). And the main line also passes through Boston (see example #2)! But half of all the Pynch drama in Call Down the Hawk specifically blames Boston/Harvard for not being on the ley line. Hello?? It's on TWO of them!

Example 2 - Maggie makes it clear that the connection between D.C. and New York, which also connects to the UK and Pilot Mountain, is the main line that Glendower's squad traveled on (The Raven Boys Chapter 7, Chapter 22). The weird part is how after defining this line, all of Adam's ley line adventures place it directly along the Shenandoah National Park/Blue Ridge Mountains (Blue Lily, Lily Blue Chapter 2 + many other quotes I don't feel like looking up). There's no way to connect the DC-Pilot Mt line to Shenandoah, but I can totally see how Maggie Stiefvater would think it connects when looking at a flat map.

So yeah. It doesn't really matter, but thanks to my research we can CONFIRM that it doesn't really matter. You're welcome.

So why did you make this?

For fun...it wasn't exactly worth it. But by sharing it with y'all, hopefully no one else will make the same mistake.

What about line #3?

The third line never has specific connection points in the books so I basically made it up :) but I narrowed it down to 2 candidates, with my chosen line based on Ronan's mention of the "Pando thing" in Greywaren's epilogue.

How did you decide on/find points?

Honestly it was a lot of vibes. You can read in the description of the map how I started from certain resources, like all the stuff in the books, and other people's Google maps. My big discovery was realizing that UNESCO World Heritage Sites covered a lot of territory between history and nature, but before that I was literally googling things like "strange places Kentucky" and pouring through articles. If a place seemed weird and magical, I added it.

Yes this took forever. Easily 3x as long as the 300 Fox Way floorplan, if not longer.

Is this map complete?

I had other ideas for things I should add to it but I got tired, so nah.

You've put down everything from urban legends to alien sightings, but why don't I see many hauntings on the map?

Blatant author bias; I firmly don't believe in famously haunted houses! The vast majority of "haunted" places operate as tourist attractions, so if I took them at their word I'd have to also log Disney World for being the most magical place on earth, wouldn't I? Also Re: I got tired.

Can I copy this map / add to it / use it for reference?

Please please please please

I found a typo

I bet you did! I'm not even proof reading this post bestie.

[swallowsshit]

Some pokemon thoughts

My friend @dumpsterfiresons sent me these videos in the hopes of eliciting some thoughts from me on them:

I would suggest finishing the Scarlet/Violet before watching them. Similarly, to understand my thoughts on them please watch the videos first. Lets put my thoughts under a cut. I should warn that this is not entirely coherent.

Okay, Points of similarity brought up in the videos:

Crystalline structures

Light

Responsible for region's Gimmicks

Came from somewhere other (Ultra Space, legit actual space, something else maybe)

A few points of timelines lining up and possibly being connected to one another

Points not brought up:

2 of them have confirmed second forms, the third we know too little about but can suspect a second form based on evidence.

Things that also come from space:

Deoxys (Has multiple forms, brain appears to be a crystal structure according to Bulbapedia)

The Elgyem line (No multiple forms but possible gem like structures)

Minior (Multiple forms, mineral form)

The Cosmog line (Acknowledged in videos)

Solroc and Lunatone (Mineral)

I am fascinated, though, by the connecting line between all the space pokemon I could find (Leaving out the creation legends, though from what I can tell they all have their own private pockets of reality, and Dialga literally appears to have a diamond in it's chest. Pearls aren't created the same way crystals are, so Palkia is disqualified despite literally being the legendary of space, likewise Giratina's only points of similarity are coming from somewhere other and causing Alphas.)

I really hope I'm not barking up the wrong tree by finding this thread because it would legit be so cool if they pull in Deoxys to this whole mess. It's story sounds so similar, but on a smaller scale and much more recent, to what was described for Eternatus and Disk pokemon. It's literally a mythical that rode in on an asteroid. I would love some lore for Solroc and Lunatone, but that's more of a stretch as they don't have legendary/mythical status.

The connection to wishes brings us something else though:

"Jirachi: Wish Pokémon" "Jirachi hibernates for extensive periods, forming a protective crystalline shell as it sleeps." "Two yellow streamers flow from Jirachi's back, resembling comet tails" "The anime further reveals that Jirachi's awakening is linked to the Millennium Comet and that its third eye has the ability to absorb the energy Jirachi needs for hibernation." [- Bulbapedia: https://bulbapedia.bulbagarden.net/wiki/Jirachi_(Pok%C3%A9mon) ]

For Lore reasons it makes sense that we don't see Jirachi much, which is sad. I am fascinated by the implications of a connection though. I want there to be a connection here holy hell. We don't know much of Jirachi's origins, we only know it's established pattern, and since that pattern takes so long to complete we can assume Jirachi has been around for longer then reliable records because how else would we know it's that consistent. Jirachi's head looks like a star. Jirachi looks baby. Jirachi, a creature that only wakes up for 7 days every thousand years looks baby. I wonder if the broken remains of Jirachi Crystal Shells have any effect on the local ecosystem. Perhaps an origin for at least some rock/ground types?

What would happen if you carried Jirachi in it's crystal shell into Area Zero? Putting that much wish power in one place is probably unwise.

I wonder which space pokemon most closely resembles the Millennium Comet and if you could artificially wake Jirachi up that way. Would that be wise? Would that hurt Jirachi? Would that evolve Jirachi as pokemon evolution comes from energy they have either stored or drawn from an outside source and waking Jirachi up early would lead to it having spare reserves? What happens then? Is Jirachi the first extra-terrestrial pokemon? Is it drawing the others closer?

Many questions, not many answers.

[ophelia1231]

Tsumugi Aoba x Reader

birthday gift from ex-boyfriend

Synopsis - today is your birthday But no one came to celebrate for you other than your ex-boyfriend Tsumugi Aoba.

Theme – ex-boyfriend,birthday,nostalgic,parting again, sad ending :(

word count – 626

You are a good person who always works hard. even on your birthday You still work hard and don't ask for many gifts from the idols you work with, especially from the Unit Switch you are producing. However, many acquaintances and Yumenosaki student came to happy birthday and gave little gifts.

Even so, it's bad for you. No one is available this evening for your birthday party. No one promised and confirmed that would go because of their hard work.

You buy a small piece of cake. from the convenience store as your birthday present instead of waiting for others to celebrate with.

But someone enters your room. He rang the doorbell for a moment. you happy to see someone come. You got up and opened the door.

But you'd be shocked when the person you were waiting for was Tsumugi. The idols of the units you produce. And he's the ex-boyfriend you broke up with last month.

He smiled as gently as he did when he was still your sweetheart. You remember his smile and warmth like a microwave from him. Tsumugi was just as busy as everyone else. but for the old love and the unforgettable relationship So he takes his free time to come here and be with you.

" What's up, Producer-san? my favorite ex-girlfriend. "

Tsumugi said softly. His face was adorned with his iconic smile and glasses.

You feel guilty when you see him treat and talk to you like this. You don't think you should leave him at all. But it's too late to start over.

Why is it so hard to apologize?

Tsumugi handed you a box wrapped in a beautiful pattern. Its weight is light. The young man smiled and spoke in a gentle voice.

''Happy birthday. I intend to make this gift for you. after break up We don't have a chance to talk face to face again. If you miss me, please look at my gift, producer-san ~''

You can't wait to open the gift box from Tsumugi. When you unpack it, you find a thin notebook.

You slowly opened the notebook. and almost sobbed again at the sight of the old days of you and Tsumugi. Since his 3rd year in Yumenosaki That's when you started dating him. and has a small caption A daily diary written about you. Ironically, the day this paper stopped recording was the day you had a really serious argue with Tsumugi.

when opening the next page you couldn't find any messages. And possibly this is the end of this diary. The day you broke up with Tsumugi

You turned to look at Tsumugi and your eyes filled with tears. He smiles to you in status ex-boyfriends and idols you produce.

You realize and think it's not too late to start over with this guy.

'' Tsumugi-kun, can you become my sweetheart again? I'm sorry for the past.'' You said while sobbing.

''Sorry, I used to love you very much. But it wouldn't be possible. Because now I have a new girlfriend. And don't blame her at all. it's my fault But we will be friends and i forgive you Producer-san''

You almost collapsed. This birthday is a lonely day. Even if you want to get Tsumugi as a birthday present But when he meets a good person You don't want to be a third person to interfere with their love.

You just smile at him reluctantly and say congratulations.

Before Tsumugi tells you happy birthday. hope you are very happy. he is very worried about you But when you say it's alright He finally said goodbye to you and left the room. Leaving only a small cake, silence, and a diary that was a gift from Tsumugi.