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katsheadinclouds · 2 months

Text

Like a sun, shining late at night

Frankie Morales x f!reader

Summary: Frankie works in a coffee shop where you have been coming for the last few months. The crush from the first time he ever saw you is bubbling over on the hottest day of the summer.

warnings: Frankie and reader are in their twenties, small town vibes, pining, fluff, kissing, no use of y/n, reader has no pronouns and wears a dress, the picture in the header is just for the visual and isn't an indication of the reader's skin color. Not beta read.

word count: 9.3k

notes: Happy Frankie Friday! I wrote this for @secretelephanttattoo 's secret springs creative challenge and it's purely self indulgent. I'm graduating from university next month and the idea for this fic came from that. This also falls more in to the first week's theme, but I didn't have time to finish this until now. I hope you'll enjoy!

Dividers by saradika

”Frankie, can we switch, I need a break,” his coworker whines in a hushed tone, leaning against the wall. She has the gift of puppy dog eyes that she has perfected over time and uses only when absolutely necessary. No one can say no to her.

Frankie dries his hands on a too wet hand towel; the break doesn’t come a moment too late. He just finished cleaning the cabinets in the kitchen that’s more like a shoebox than an actual kitchen.

Their boss was right. Times like these, when waves of customers aren’t pushing in through the door, is the perfect time to clean. The narrow space of the shoebox-kitchen in a heatwave is an experience Frankie wouldn’t mind skipping though.

His skin is sticky and little droplets of sweat have formed into big splotches of wet fabric on his t-shirt, stretched across his shoulders and upper back. The electric fan in the cramped corner is barely functioning and begs to be replaced in a weather like this.

“The kitchen is all yours,” Frankie gives the damp rag to the younger coworker and sees her eyes light up when he relieves her from the front of the coffee shop. She might handle the humidity a bit better, at least she has enthusiasm to immediately push the damp cloth against the fridge door and find something to furiously scratch off.

Only a couple of tables are taken under the exhausted ceiling fan circling warm air in the cozy café. More people are sitting outside by small round tables under pastel striped umbrellas.

The pink lemonade they make daily from the boss’ recipe is sweating with ice in most customer’s cups, easing the effects of a seemingly endless spell of sweltering heat. The town center has fallen quieter as people are either enjoying their summer holidays by travelling or spending their time at the beach not too far away.

Frankie can’t blame them. Anyone would escape the temperatures in this weather. The ones who are brave enough to stand the scorch from the concrete and minimal shade from any dry trees lining the streets have made their way to cafes with cold drinks and ice creams. The amount of different fresh baked goods, bread and pastries, that are delivered daily have been cut in half just because people are more interested in something light and cold.

The sounds from the street flow into the coffee shop in waves through the open windows and door. Frankie says pleasantries to the few people who come and go and leave their tables for him to empty. He does a few turns outside to bring a straw for a child who dropped his to the ground and to wipe the artisan gelato off the table when someone accidentally knocked over their bowl.

There’s easy music playing from the speakers. They lull him into staring outside, at the people in their airy clothes and sun on their skins. There’s nothing else for him to do other than wait for someone to come in or leave.

The sweat that pushed through earlier sits against his temples and back like a second skin. It’s not going to dry until the sun has set and the night sweeps through the town with cooler air. He listens to the laughter from people sitting outside and the screech of seagulls somewhere nearby.

Some kids skateboard past the café, a few on rollerblades. Few cars drive towards the coast at a crawling pace, pumping out music that shakes the glasses on the shelves lining the walls, turning people’s heads, while some nod to the beat.

This morning, when Frankie got out of the shower with his hair still dripping wet and his skin too stubborn to dry even after toweling, he looked at a t-shirt hanging on the back of a chair. It’s still newly crisp and in need of a few washes. The neckline isn’t worn and stretched from overuse yet, like his usual clothes he wears to work. He has his t-shirts and jeans, and sometimes a cap that his boss always reminds him to take off.

That isn’t the case anymore. He pulled the new t-shirt over his head and decided today would be the day. If you were to come by the coffee shop, that is.

He leans against the counter, doodling on a piece of old receipt; another order of pink lemonade and a sundae. The customer is enjoying them under the shade of one of the pastel umbrellas while reading a book.

Frankie’s curls are enjoying the heat and humidity, the salty air blowing in from the coast making him look like he shouldn’t be standing behind a register in a coffee shop but at the beach by a lifeguard station overlooking the waves. They fluff every time the ceiling fan manages to flutter the air with something that resembles a cooler breeze. A strand tickles his temple, immediately remembering your fingers against his forehead. It was just a simple touch.

“There’s a dandelion seed…” you mumbled last week, when you reached for him over the counter. He was making your drink, focused on pouring the milk into the mug, when like you would’ve done it a hundred times before, your fingers caught the fluff and stayed against his temple a second longer.

“All gone,” you said and continued your story about painting a wall in your childhood home deep green, like nothing had happened.

Frankie drops the pen against the stone counter and touches his fingers against the spot where yours had been. His heart gives a thump and another, the thought of you like cotton candy in his mind.

Everything changed when you walked into the coffee shop with a canvas bag flung over your shoulder.

It was the end of March. The day was grey and windy and people were looking for comfort inside the warmth of the café. It looked like it would rain at any moment, the air even smelled like it. The first time this spring.

You unraveled a thick scarf from around your neck and stopped by the door to take in the café. You took note of the few empty seats and tables, most taken by people working or by those who were on their lunch breaks.

Frankie could only stare at you, with his head going blank, until you took a step forward and you smiled at him. A joyful, eye crinkling smile that comes out easily and stays on your cheeks for a long time.

There was something else to it as well. It wasn’t just the smile that left him dumbfounded. It was the way you lit up from inside first, your skin glowing, your eyes sparkling even on the grayest of days like you held stars in your soul. It was enigmatic, electric, magnetic. Frankie immediately wished to experience it again.

You made your way to the counter and asked Frankie what he’d recommend for lunch.

“You new here?” He asked when he had written down your order and given it to someone working in the kitchen that day. He got to making your drink, a mocha that you gracefully asked to be made with more milk and sugar.

“Oh no, I’m from here but I moved away for college. I don’t get to visit as often anymore as I’d like. But now my last couple of courses are online and I could come back home to finish my thesis.” You took a deep breath and laughed out of nowhere. “That must’ve been exciting for you to hear.”

Your brow arched with the edge of your mouth. He could’ve listened to you read the ten different tea options they had and then he would’ve asked you to repeat them. He would’ve still been hungry to hear your voice more.

“It’s okay,” he said and turned awkwardly from you to steam the milk to hide the blush that crept up to his cheeks. The heat of it burst in waves that showed up across his skin in red splotches.

The milk got done too fast. He thought of anything cold, anything mundane, that would make his blood stream calm down. Just another customer, just another damn customer, he repeated to himself.

He poured the milk gently on top of the chocolate syrup and espresso, folding the foam in on itself to make a pattern on top of the drink. He had made it hundreds of times before, a skill he was proud of, yet now his hand was trembling, and the lines got muddled.

The mug barely made a noise when he set it on the counter, even though his attention was on you eyeing the fat cookies on top of the display cases. You read each label of the options carefully; chocolate chip, white chocolate and cranberry, macadamia and walnut, raisin, triple chocolate, salted caramel, cinnamon and brown sugar, –

“I’ll take one of those lemon and blueberry cookies as well, please.” Your smile got softer when you turned back to him.

“I hope you enjoy it,” he could only say, unsure if he meant the café or the lunch you were about to eat. The cookie looked massive on the small plate he placed next to the coffee mug, reaching high with blue swirls. He was mesmerized by the spark in your eyes and the unsaid mischief in your voice.

You stood in front of him, quiet. Your brows rose slowly and the longer the silence stretched, the more you looked confused.

“Should I wait for the sandwich and pay after or…?” You finally asked and it got Frankie to shake back into action.

“Fu –,” he caught himself just in time to not swear in front of you, even though it made that beautiful smile spill onto your lips again, this time accompanied with a light giggle. His wish came true. Your laugh was just a tip he didn’t expect to get, much more valuable than money in that moment.

“You can pay now, I’ll bring the sandwich to you,” his mouth barely kept up with the words and the moment was over so fast that he wasn’t sure what he had actually told you. But you dug out your wallet and your card and he was tapping on the register to get the right amount charged which he checked twice before you paid.

You accompanied your generous tip with a soft thank you before you collected your drink and cookie off the counter. There was another customer behind you already, forcing Frankie to focus. From the corner of his eye, he saw you sitting by the windows, peeling your coat off and hanging it on the back of your chair.

You sat down and for a fleeting moment he could’ve sworn that you were watching him, still with that smile on your face. When he was done with the customer who came after you, you were already typing on your laptop.

You stayed for hours. So long in fact that Frankie’s shift ended, and other people came in for their evening shifts. You ate your lunch, got another coffee and the same cookie after a few hours, and then kept on sipping on the drink even when it had gone cold long ago.

Your brows were pulled together and at times you leaned closer to read something on the screen of your laptop. You wrote fast. Your fingers flew against the keyboard and at times you stopped just to keep your fingertips hovered over the letters before you kept on going. The sound got drowned out in the steady ambient chatter of the café.

You had a notebook next to you where you wrote a few words here and there. When the café was fairly quiet, he could hear you clicking your pen a few times, then tap it against the half-filled page. A soft, muffled rhythm against the paper.

You rolled your shoulders back and bent your neck from side to side. Every once in a while, you looked out the window, at the darkening day, and the first drops of rain against the glass.

After that day you became a regular at the coffee shop. Every Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday Frankie could expect you to come by. Sometimes you came in early and spent the whole day there. Some other days you came in later and left early, but every time you had lunch and then typed away on your laptop.

Some days you looked more tired than some other days, and some other times your smile was a little dimmer than the others. It still fell on your face easily, but it wasn’t as wide or as energized as he had seen on you usually.

When the days were getting warmer and the sun stayed hung on the sky a little longer, you didn’t come to the coffee shop for two weeks. Frankie was doing his shift, waiting to see you that Tuesday like he normally would. To hear you tell him about your weekend, to hear your voice at all.

His shift ended and you didn’t show up. It left him empty, like something was missing. You had become such a constant at the café that when you broke the pattern, the day seemed off. Maybe you were sick, down with a cold that everyone seemed to have as winter shook from the trees and sunshine forced leaves to bud on the branches.

Then you didn’t come by the next day either. With his coworker Frankie tended to the constant stream of customers who came and went steadily in and out the door. When there was a break, he could only watch the cookies that managed to stay crispy on the outside and fluffy on the inside. There weren’t many left anymore and your chances at choosing one were getting slimmer every time the door opened, and it wasn’t you who walked in. You didn’t.

When the weekend rolled around, there was a hollowness in Frankie’s chest. He was missing you, as terrifying as that was to admit to himself. He missed seeing you sit at one of the tables by the window where you could watch people as an escape from your work. He had never asked what your thesis was about, how it was going or what made you choose the topic. In that moment he regretted it.

Frankie missed the way you paid attention to what was happening around you. You listened to others, and you started to say hi to some of the other regular customers. Until he noticed you weren’t only paying attention to them but also him.

Sometimes he caught you staring, watching him do his job, follow his moves as he made drinks for customers, wrote down orders and listened to answers for his polite questions about how their day was going. In the beginning, you hastily turned from him in an attempt to not get caught even though he always already had.

He could see you smile when he entertained a toddler by making faces at her while her parents were choosing what to eat. Your brow furrowed and you shook your head when he listened to an older lady shamelessly hit on him.

And then one day you didn’t turn from him when he caught you staring. You stopped hiding your interest in what he was doing. Your cheeks caught the smile on your face and then you got back to your own work.

All those looks, all those smiles, made him want to say he was done for the day and come sit and people watch with you even if you wouldn’t have watched other people, only him.

The next Friday, after another whole week of not seeing you, Frankie didn’t have high hopes for you to show up that day either. It was possible that you had grown tired of the place, of the same sandwich you took every time, the mocha that you usually ordered twice, or the one or two cookies that you always got after careful consideration. Or maybe you were finished with your thesis. Maybe you had left the town again and he was wasting his days daydreaming about you.

The line was long, and the kitchen was overflowing with orders. Frankie had just finished typing one more and had it register in the kitchen when he lifted his gaze to find you standing in front of him.

You didn’t look like yourself. You held your canvas bag in a death grip on your shoulder and you were inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth, steadying your breath as best you could. You avoided looking at him and you hid under your clothes.

Your voice was sunken and without your usual animation, the fall and rise of your tone was gone. You didn’t make conversation. You didn’t ask how Frankie’s day had been or if anything unexpected had happened, like you normally did.

“I’ve just had a bit of a hard time lately,” you dropped the façade completely without actually saying anything. You only had to see Frankie’s face once to read the worry from the furrowed brow and the seriousness in his eyes.

His mouth was in a tight line, and he tried to understand you without asking you a serious question. He never had; he didn’t think it was his place even after weeks of friendly banter.

As he was preparing your order, your distress crawled under his skin as well. You opened the light jacket you wore over your sweatshirt, you flinched from the hiss of the espresso machine, and you stood there making yourself as small as you could.

In that moment he decided to get to know you better, to do something about the thump in his chest when you opened the door to the café and to the shivers that ran up and down his back when you stood close enough and he could smell your perfume.

So far, Frankie was harboring a crush across the café, a stolen glance here and a playful look there, an attempted flirty tone in his voice on questions that were too basic to incite any interest or a spark in the corner of his eye. You had captured him without you knowing it, and without him knowing what to do with the swell of happiness every time you were around.

You tried so hard to seem like yourself, but you were on autopilot. You ordered your usual coffee and sandwich. You stared at the foamy milk on top of your mocha. He put too much effort into his attempt at making the leafy shape perfect, only to mess it up and then mess it up even more when he wanted to fix it.

You didn’t say a word about it like you would have if it was like any other normal day. He noticed the short-bitten nails and cuticles on your hand when you paid for your order.

“I’ll bring it to the table,” Frankie told you, watched you nod once and drag your feet against the floor to your usual table. You sat there, staring out the window, your head tilted, and your mind elsewhere. Frankie took heavier steps than usual to alert you, but placing the sandwich in front of you still spooked you out of your head. You tucked your hands between your thighs and let the last bit of steam evaporate from your coffee and the grilled sandwich sit untouched until the fillings looked sad and undesirable.

There was finally a break in the flow of customers. Frankie’s head was buzzing, and his feet were tired. The breather couldn’t have come any later. Yet he didn’t take his break. Instead, he was drawn to observe you like you were a magnet to him. Whatever he was doing, he always made note of you. Something was missing.

“Could I get one of those big cookies?” A customer asked and it clicked instantly in what else was off.

“I didn’t order this,” you told him when he placed the thick chocolate chip cookie next to your laptop that you had managed to get out of your bag. He saw the screen; a text editor open with a margin full of notes and different parts of the text highlighted with red.

“it’s on the house,” he gave you a soft smile, hoping it would ease at least some of the anxiety that had made you look ill while reading through the document on your laptop. He wouldn’t have been surprised to see you burst into tears at any moment.

You thanked him without any sound actually leaving your throat before you got back to reading. He was bothered by the state of you. It made him turn on his heels and take those two steps back that he had put between the two of you.

“Can I ask you something?” He didn’t stop himself to consider before he asked the question, but it got you interested. You looked at him straight in the eyes for the first time the whole day and waited for him to continue.

“Why haven’t you ordered the chocolate chip cookie before?” The cakey cookie draws both of your attention to it and the question takes you by surprise.

“Because I knew I’d like it the most and wanted to save it for something special.” You picked it up and cracked a piece from it. Even Frankie could smell the buttery richness laced with the caramelly sweetness from the brown sugar the baker had once told she uses.

The chocolate was in big chunks, some broken, some sticking out from the piece between your fingers. Instead of taking a bite, like Frankie thought you would, you set the piece down on the small white plate and fixed your attention on him.

“I didn’t know you had noticed, or kept book of what I ordered.” The words came out like a question, but there was nothing for you to ask. You just stated the obvious.

It made the peaks of his cheeks blush instantly. How much more of a creep could he even sound like, asking you about your order. “No one’s ever noticed,” you said a little quieter. Your tone made it sound like you weren’t talking about the cookie anymore. The words held much more weight to them.

“I hope I didn’t overstep any lines, it’s just that you’ve become a regular here, orders are easy to remember after a while.” Frankie watched you break the cookie into even smaller pieces, some of the chocolate falling on the plate.

“It’s okay,” you assured, and a hint of your smile faded across your face. He would’ve missed it if he blinked but he couldn’t take his eyes off you. He never can.

“Tell me if you need anything else.”

You ordered one more coffee that day. You didn’t stay as long as you normally would, but when you closed your laptop, you looked a bit calmer. Your shoulders weren’t pulled to your ears anymore and you seemed to be able to breathe without much effort again. You seemed relieved. You waved him bye from the door when you left and the corner of your mouth rose just the slightest, telling him that you’d be okay.

The next time you came in, the next Tuesday, you opened the door and immediately when your gaze landed on Frankie, you glowed. You gave him a chipper, “Hello!” and ordered your usual mocha and sandwich, this time with the salted caramel cookie.

“So, how long have you worked here?” You asked him while he was pouring milk into the steaming jug. After that he gave you pieces of himself to you, answers that were insignificant in context, but they created an image of what he was like.

He told you that he hadn’t worked at the café for that long, but it was a job that he enjoyed. He took care of his mom, which made you ask if she needed to be taken care of. “She’s just getting older,” Frankie smiled to you. He valued his time with his mom, especially after his dad left when he was still young.

At the same time he gently asked you questions too, usually over the counter when he was carefully making your drink and hoping it would last a little longer every time so you’d have more time to answer.

When you came in, he continued the puzzle of you, collecting your words into his memory. How you moved out of the town when you felt the time was right, nothing really holding you back. You went far, but still came back to see old friends and family every few weeks. How you ended up wanting to come back for the rest of your studies, knowing this would be the last time before you’d need to properly start a career and wouldn’t have time to visit as often as you normally would.

There were moments when you would’ve probably spoken for a long time. About your plans for when you were done with your thesis, what festival you were going later this summer, what you still wanted to experience before becoming a full blown adult. “I don’t know why, but I want to go to the beach and have someone cover me in sand.” You laughed when you said that, shook your head and continued, “The problem is that I don’t want to be washing sand off me for a week after that.” It made Frankie crack up as well.

You would’ve told him anything. But then the mocha was ready and he had to set it on the counter and it cut you off immediately. It was like an axe to your words, cutting them short and making you laugh before you collected your thoughts and said, “We’ll continue from here the next time.”

As spring turned into warm early summer, the sun stayed up a little longer and the birds started to sing more as a sign of their little nests getting full, you smiled even more. There was levity in your steps, almost like you could’ve taken one last one and then flown away without looking back. You swapped your long sleeved shirts and jeans to tops and flowy, lighter pants and dresses. There was a glow on your face from the sun and when it rained, you welcomed it with open arms to enjoy the smell of summer arriving.

Every time you came to the café, you brightened Frankie’s day. Seeing you brought a smile on his face, warm richness to his voice, and his eyes always glinted when they found your brightness. You started to call him by his name and every time you said it out loud, he wanted to hear you say it more.

“Frankie!” You exclaimed when you reached the counter after standing in line for a moment. He had already seen you and you had given him a wave of your hand before you got back to tapping on your phone.

“Frankie!” You approached him when there was a break in the stream of customers coming in. You switched in which hand you held your empty water glass in every few seconds. He reached for it but you pulled it back.

“I wanted to ask you something,” you began and cleared your throat. “I have these tickets…”

“Hi, could I ask for something to be changed in my sandwich order?” A middle aged man wearing a pressed suit cut in and pushed you from the counter. You took a step back and gave him all the room he needed. Your shoulders deflated and you stood awkwardly, shuffling from one foot to the other. Frankie listened to the customer while his attention slipped to you.

“Thank you, and sorry,” the man apologized to you before he went back to his table by the corner where he had spread all his stuff.

“He was in a rush,” you joked flatly, staring at the glass in your hand.

“What did you want to ask me?” Frankie took in the nerves on your face and softened his voice. You avoided his attention as he tried to ease the strained energy between the two of you. Instead, you offered him your glass.

“Could I get some more of the raspberry and lime water, the container over there is empty,” you waved your hand towards the water station. Your voice was flat, admitting defeat.

Frankie wanted to know what you had in mind, what tickets you were talking about, he would’ve pushed for it. There was no chance for it though, the moment was over. You took your glass with a quiet, “Thanks,” and returned to your seat, burrowing your head in your work.

“Frankie, are you serious?” You once asked, when you saw the new cookie flavors. White chocolate and strawberry, lemon and raspberry, coconut and ginger, and one that you wanted to save.

“Frankie?” You asked with a lower voice when there weren’t many customers around. He leaned forward instinctively. “Can you watch my stuff for a moment? I have to go make a call.” You waved your phone in the air. He nodded, all words lost when he was lost in your eyes in the closer proximity. He came to collect your empty plate and wipe the few crumbs off the table, and then stood by all your stuff like that was his job.

“Hi Frankie,” you said with mischief in your voice when you leaned against the counter. You didn’t have to tell him your order anymore. He knew it like he was the one ordering it.

“The carnival’s this weekend.” You swallowed after stating the fact.

“That’s what I’ve heard.” Everyone knew the carnival season was starting, information about it was plastered all over the town.

He could see the question on your lips, how they opened and closed like you were about to say something. You wet them with the tip of your tongue. Your eyes flicked to the shelves and machines behind Frankie, too nervous to look him in the eyes.

“Are you going?” You tapped your fingers against the speckled stone counter.

“Yeah, with some friends.” Immediately the hopefulness drained from your eyes even though the smile remained.

“That sounds fun. I hope you have a good time.” Whatever you had really wanted to say, or ask, drifted from reach. He wanted to believe you had planned to ask him out but chickened out at the last second.

“Are you going?” He rushed to ask when you refilled your water.

“Maybe.” You bravely held onto the smile even though it was slipping, cracking to show the disappointment that was already lacing your voice. You still waved him goodbye before you left, but you rushed off in a way that he hadn’t seen before.

Frankie straightens his t-shirt against his shoulders and sips at his water bottle. There’s only a couple of people left in the café and closing time is ticking closer. His coworker clatters something in the kitchen, but soon she’s whistling again to the music that she can hear through the speakers.

You would’ve come already, if you were to come to the café today. A sweltering day like this, wasted in a café, didn’t seem like something you’d do. “I can’t wait to hang out at the beach and do nothing all day,” you once said and even the thought made relief flood your smile.

“Frankie, can you come and help me a bit?” His coworker calls. Even though she was only supposed to clean the fridge, she has extended her task to include the cardboard boxes on the top shelves, with different types of napkins inside them. One is balanced against her chest, the other she’s barely able to hold on the shelf.

“I tried to wipe the shelf behind them but didn’t think how heavy they are,” she grunts as Frankie secures the box from her hand. “Thanks,” she sighs.

“And you cleaned the fridge already?” He asks, expecting to see the stuff inside it organized. The door opens to a fridge that looks incredibly like it hasn’t even been touched.

“I’ll get to it right away!” His coworker pushes the door back closed, and him out of the kitchen. “Thanks Frankie!” She hollers but doesn’t get an answer.

“Hi Frankie,” you say, in your strappy short sundress, sunglasses pushed on top of your head. Sweat beads against your forehead. Your skin glistens from the heat and the sun cream he can smell from far away. Sweet peaches.

You have a flower-patterned fan in your hand which you wave towards your face. The space between where your collarbones meet under your neck is wet with sweat trailing towards the neckline of your dress.

“Hi.” He combs his fingers through his hair and takes the necessary steps to meet you by the counter. The question he had on his mind for you this morning drains out of him. He can’t ask you out. He’s convinced it would be weird, it wouldn’t be appropriate. You would probably run away without a second thought.

“I’ve never seen this place this quiet before,” you wonder out loud. The cooler air that you fan against your skin wafts towards him with every push of your wrist. At the same time he can smell you more, that sweet sunscreen that takes him back to his childhood. The hot days when the sand under his feet was too hot, the sunscreen sticky on his skin and the salty water slipping into his mouth with every push of his arms.

“What can I get you?” Frankie asks, not wanting to assume you’ll go for your usual this time.

“Lemonade and…” You look at the cookies and stop in front of the one that you still haven’t tasted. “One of those triple chocolate brownie cookies, thanks.” You fidget with your dress while he pours plenty of ice into a takeout cup and drenches them in the tart lemonade. He chooses a cookie that looks the biggest and fattest.

“You’re not working today?” Frankie asks when he sees a smaller canvas bag on your shoulder and how it’s not bulging with contents as your usual canvas bag does.

“I actually finished my thesis.” You focus on digging out a couple crinkled five dollar bills and push them into the tip jar.

“Congrats.” What else is he supposed to say? His chest fills with disappointment. You said it long ago. You were here to finish your studies and now you’ve done it.

“Thanks.” The silence between the two of you stretches and teases the lines of discomfort. The look on your face matches the bittersweetness on Frankie’s face.

“You’re probably leaving soon then?”

You turn to look at the sweating cup on the counter and swirl your straw through the ice. You nod before you open your mouth, “Yeah, in a couple of weeks. I’m on holiday until then.”

“I’m happy for you,” and Frankie truly is. He saw how much you worked in the past few months. You’ve earned to have a breather before you’re thrown into work. “I hope you’ll come and visit again.”

“Of course.” You smile that genuine smile that is nothing but you. It’s the first thing that lights up your presence and the last thing he has seen in the past months when you’ve left through the door to go back home.

You take your lemonade and wrap your cookie in a napkin, leaving the plate on the counter, and head outside, under the shade of the sun umbrella. You watch people pass by and bask in the heat while slowly fanning your face and chest. The sun is finally sinking lower and the lower it gets, the faster the temperature seems to ease up. Frankie’s coworker finally emerges from the kitchen, just as it’s time to start closing up. You’re still sitting at the front while Frankie sweeps the floors.

“Hi!” He hears your cheerful voice say to someone. The edge of the broom clatters against one of the table legs, his attention on you and the small child you’re talking with.

Your muted voice carries into the café, the rise and fall of your excitement clear in your tone. You’re showing him something while his mom stands next to you, they’re both listening to your words intently.

Frankie continues sweeping, wanting to be done with work and get out of the sweaty cafe. The child’s high pitched inhale is clear and demands Frankie to look outside again. The air is full of rainbow colored soap bubbles. Some are smaller than the others but they all gleam in the golden sunshine.

The warm breeze carries them easily away from you before you blow on the soap bubble wand again and a burst of new bubbles escape into the air. The child follows the bubbles until they burst in the air. You offer the dripping wand to him, which he takes carefully into his small fist. He blows on it and the bubbles burst straight against your face. You pull back in laughter, wiping soap off your face.

“Frankie?” His boss calls for him, forcing him to meet her in the back.

The back alley is scorching hot, the sun trapped between the brick walls. Frankie drops the trash in the dumpster and takes his bike, the seat hot under his palm. This is the worst time to have his truck at the mechanics, and the only thing on his mind is driving with the windows down.

The air gets immediately cooler when he steps out on the street, the sun umbrellas closed and drooping in the light breeze. One of the seats isn’t empty.

“Don’t tell your coworker I stayed here even though she told me to leave.” You stand up and take slow steps to him. You take your sunglasses off and fidget with them, bathed in gold. You stop right in front of him and your smile pulls crows feet to appear next to your eyes.

Frankie is lost for words. Seeing you here, while he’s not in the café, is different, even though nothing has changed. Your closeness, the shy glances that you try to hide in the sun shining in your eyes while you don’t cover them with your sunglasses awakes those deep thumps in Frankie’s chest again. He’s even more confused when you put them in their case, and the case in your bag, no intention of shielding your eyes.

“Did you forget something?” Frankie’s voice is unsure, full of doubt on why you would’ve stayed after the closing time.

“I wanted to ask if you’re busy?” You swing your canvas bag next to your leg and wet your lips with the tip of your tongue. As he stands in front of you, he could swear it’s just the two of you on that street, bathed in the dark rays and the refreshing breeze that the day has been craving for hours. There’s salt in the air, blowing in from the coast.

“No?”

“Would you like to go to the beach with me?” Your voice shakes gently in a way that someone might mistake it for you being cold. Frankie’s heart flies heavily in his chest, the sound in his ears dizzying him into questioning if he heard you right. You beat him to it.

You switch your weight from one sandalled foot to the other and grab your bag with both of your hands. The uncertainty is back. You try to keep on smiling, but it falters the longer he doesn’t answer.

“Forget it—” You raise your hand in the air and are ready to wave it in the air to dismiss your question completely.

“Yeah, I’d love to,” Frankie snaps out of his reeling head, shutting you up in an instant. His hands sweat against the seat and handle of his bike. His mouth is dry and the pit of his stomach is filled with butterflies.

How long he has contained them, but you broke the jar with one question, filling him with the good kind of anxiety. He knows that whenever he gets nervous, he shuts down. Just like the first time he saw you, the first time you visited the café, his shyness takes center stage in how he acts. He gets quiet, his brain short circuits. No one else has been able to do that in a long time, no one else but you.

This time, seeing you standing in front of him practically radiant in the setting sun and by your happiness, he doesn’t want to lose any second of that to his reserved being.

“Hop on,” Frankie tells you gently.

“What?”

“I’ll ride us there.” He emphasizes the words by climbing on his bike, the seat still too warm even through his shorts.

“Okay,” you laugh and push your bag on your shoulder. Frankie offers you his hand, yours slotting with it like it has always belonged there. What he doesn’t expect is your other hand to land on his shoulder, holding on dependently as you swing your leg over the rear rack. You squeeze the muscle there, your fingertips digging into the tightness under his skin.

“Wait,” you say, and pull your hand back from his. Frankie misses the contact immediately, the imprint raising moisture from his palm. Your sandals scuff against the ground and the bike sways just a little as you find at least somewhat comfortable seat.

Your both hands are pressed against his shoulders, hanging from him awkwardly. Your hands are hot, gripping to him, and it makes his head spiral.

“Ready?”

“Mhm,” but you don’t sound sure at all. Immediately when the bike bumps on a crack in the pavement, no matter how much he tries to avoid them, you let out a sound somewhere between a screech and a yelp, your hands shaking and your balance flailing. Frankie’s feet are against the ground immediately.

“Okay, this won’t work. Wrap your arms around my middle, it’s more secure.” You don’t say anything for a beat, he only hears a light chuckle.

“More secure you say?” The meaning isn’t lost on him. You could understand his words in many ways, what wrapping yourself around him would imply, and apparently you stuck with exactly the one that suggests something else than riding a bike.

“You know what I mean,” his voice cracks with unintentional humor.

“Do I?”

“Yes, now just trust me.” You fix your chuckles and sigh out. Your breath fans against his back. You lower your hand from his shoulder, drag it against the muscle closest to his spine, and leave a trail of sparks that burst into goosebumps all over his body, every nerve ending awake and alert. Your hand rounds against the softness of his side, and over to his middle.

“Is this okay?” The question is full of uncertainty even though you’re trying to hide it under the smile he can hear in your voice. His confirmation gives you enough confidence to bring your other hand on him as well, tightly wrapping around him, securing you against him.

“You want to try again?” Frankie hears the drop in his voice and the slight tremble that your closeness causes. He can’t trust his voice at all, when you squeeze closer to him, your chest glued to his back.

“Yes.” You lift your feet off the ground and Frankie gets to pedaling.

You let out a squeak as the bike twitches into movement but relax against the broadness of Frankie’s back. The blowing breeze cools your skin and brings much needed relief for Frankie to keep his focus on the street and not in your hands that twine together around him in such confidence that it makes his stomach drop.

In the traffic lights you drop your feet against the ground at the same time as Frankie does and pull them back up when the light turns green. The salty water gets closer with every turn of the wheels. Streetlights flicker on and a deep blue mass swells across the sky behind you.

The sun colors the horizon in rusty yellows and oranges, the deepest parts already red that fade into the nearing night. Seagulls laugh somewhere up above, and the breeze turns cooler towards the sands that you’re already waiting to have under your feet.

You squeeze Frankie’s t-shirt into your palm, to hold onto him and to keep him close. There’s not much traffic around, some cars here and there, and the quieter it gets the more Frankie can hear the nerves talking to him in his head. For all he knows this could be a dream, after months of pining after you.

You gasp out loud when you see the sea. The horizon bathes in the last sunlight, wispy, blue and purple clouds swirled in like in the cookies you’ve been eating. Your hands untangle around Frankie and rest softly against his back. You’re pulling back, letting go, and the emptiness is already settling in with how he misses your touch.

Your feet brush up against the sandy ground and you’re off his bike, off him, drawn to the ocean. The metal chain clangs against a railing as Frankie locks his bike to it, eager to follow after you.

You stand in the ocean, the waves splash against your ankles, and you look like a vision. Frankie sits further back in the warm sand. His toes bury deeper in, and the remnants of the heat keep him grounded. He doesn’t care if it gets under his clothes and if he’ll find it for days to come. It’ll be a reminder of this night.

There’s a bonfire that crackles and sparks embers into the air, some people around it laughing. They’re making smores, the burnt smell of sugar wafting through the salt for a second. You point out a boat in the distance, the lights clear against the darkening sky. The waves crash in mellow waves against the sand, leaving white fine froth on it.

A fancy restaurant by the beach has a live band playing easy jazz, the sounds from the soft saxophone and the piano drifting towards the water. You stand in the foamy waves, watching your feet get devoured by the dark that ebbs and flows.

Frankie holds on to your bag and sandals and watches you against the rusty sky. He could watch you until it was completely dark and even then, he could make out the silhouette of you against the night sky.

“I’ve always loved the sea,” you say with your voice somewhere between a whisper and a soft sigh when you make your way back to dry land, like you were dreaming and wouldn’t want to break the spell or wake up. You don’t hesitate to sit next to Frankie, your thigh brushes against his.

“Thanks for coming here with me, I didn’t know if you’d want to.” It’s easy to lose himself in you. In the gentleness of your voice. Now in the warmth that pulls him in closer to you, searching for more contact with you.

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know, I guess… I guess I’ve been scared that I’ve read you wrong.” You swallow and lick your lower lip between your teeth. He might not be the only one who has been shy this whole time. Your confidence comes and goes, sparks every few moments and then gets replaced by a timidness that holds you back. You can’t face him. You can barely let your voice be heard over the lapping waves and the music from the restaurant.

“How do you think you’ve read me then?”

“That maybe…” You stop yourself. You play with the hem of your dress. The fabric bunched against your bare thighs. “I’ve been a bit scared to be forward, maybe, just because I wasn’t sure what you thought of me. That maybe I was reading the signs wrong, it wouldn’t be the first time, you know. That maybe, possibly, you might… I don’t know…”

Listening to you try to wade your way to the point through the waves of your nerves is endearing, while it’s also pushing Frankie to smile. His crush for you is pulling it out of him with the heat that spreads from his chest up to his neck and cheeks.

“I mean I’ve been wanting to ask you out for a while,” You finally admit and the crush he has been holding onto blooms into a garden. “And I wasn’t sure if you’d say yes but I had to ask. I had to know if maybe… you would’ve wanted to ask me out as well.” The words are out. You drop your hands and everything you wanted to say is now out in the open. It doesn’t erase the butterflies that flutter somewhere between the two of you, but finally having the truth out does bring out a safe peacefulness, something he can lean on.

“Hmm,” he hums out a breath. Words have left him completely. The warmth of your skin close to his is reminder enough for him to keep his head focused, his eyes on you and his heart from flying from him. He moves his leg just a little to get it pressed against yours. You’re waiting, your eyes on him, your body turned towards his.

“I wanted to ask you out the first time you came to the shop.”

The words take you by surprise. A smile spills on your lips. You try so hard to contain it, but hardly manage to keep yourself from laughing out loud.

“Why didn’t you?” Your eyes are tearing up, either from the breeze or the release of nerves. One lands on your cheek. Frankie is quick to reach his thumb out and catch it. The tear rolls down to his palm, heavy and beautiful, leaving behind a streak that gleams in the last rays of the sun. He closes it into his hand and spreads it onto his skin with his fingers.

“I’ve never been good at seizing the moment or being brave. I didn’t want to be a creep.”

“So, you’ve let me be a creep? Watching you work, coming in every other day?”

“But you’ve been working.”

“My thesis has been done for a while. If I was there only for that, I would’ve stopped coming about six weeks ago.” Laughter bursts from you and Frankie in disbelief. The more you laugh, the more the indifference he convinced you were feeling reveals to be plain blindness.

You press your forehead against his shoulder, a gesture he doesn’t expect but also isn’t surprised by. You’re in his space, on him, never breaking a boundary, but wanting to absorb him as much as you can.

“What have you been doing then?”

“Applying for jobs, reading different forums and articles, sometimes nothing.” He holds his hand out and like earlier, yours fits against it like it belongs there. It’s not just a simple touch anymore though. It’s revelation of what you’ve been hiding. It’s hope for something to come out of it. Whatever will happen might just be a short fling. Or maybe it’ll be the beginning of something Frankie hasn’t had before.

Frankie takes you home. The energy is different as the night has fallen above the town. The air has turned balmy promising a mighty thunderstorm in the coming days. It doesn’t stop you from pressing yourself against his back, sticking to him with your arms around him. He doesn’t mind it, neither do you. You only push in closer and hold on tighter.

“Thanks for the ride home.” You fix your dress and stand in front of him. Your eyes drift to his lips, and you wet yours.

“Sorry for the uncomfortable seat, I’ll have my truck back next time.” Your reaction is worth every word. The soft smile, the drop of your gaze, the hand that reaches for his and twines with his fingers loosely swaying back and forth.

“Next time,” you repeat back to him, the words hanging as a promise in the air. They’re wings to his heart that soars into a fast beat, excited for whatever’s to come and nervous of the same prospect.

“I better get going.” Your eyes still flit to stare at his lips.

“I’ll wait here, make sure you get home safe.”

“The door is right there.”

“I’ll still wait.” You reluctantly let go of his fingers and take a step back, then another before you turn from him. Frankie rests his hands on his thighs and waits. You dig your keys out and stop. Maybe you don’t want to say goodbye just yet.

The sound of your sandals against the concrete is loud in the quiet. You have a new kind of bravery in your steps when you come back.

“Would it be completely inappropriate if I kissed you?” Frankie’s heart is in his throat. He shakes his head, giving you permission to step even closer.

You lean in but you don’t rush into it. You bring your hot palm against his cheek, and further in to tangle your fingers into the hairs at the base his neck. Your first move is to press your forehead against his and take a breath.

Your chest rises and falls steadily when you close your eyes. He presses all the details of your face into his memory from such close proximity. Your lashes, the faint lines next to your eyes, the plumpness of your cheeks, the curve of your mouth which you breathe a heavy sigh from. Your nose nudges against his, as a final sign for him to throw away his insecurities.

Your lips press against his slowly, so soft it leaves room for so much more. Your kiss is a breath and Frankie needs to chase it to keep his lungs filled. It’s easy to deepen the kiss, to have your lips slot with his, to feel the tip of your tongue tease his bottom lip just to test how he reacts.

You press in closer, just to get Frankie to pull you in even more. The bike under him wobbles as he moves to hold you closer, from you pressing your weight against him, yet somehow, he’s the most secure he’s ever felt in anyone’s embrace. A sighed out moan vibrates in your throat and your hand tugs at the curls on his head. And then it’s over.

Too soon, yet just at the right moment. He wants more, his body craves you, and the blown out pupils in your eyes under the orange street lights is enough to tell him that he’s not the only one. You lick the moisture from your lips, the signs of his mouth from around them, and pull your hands back. The smile that he has learned to want to see appears again, this time with the heaviness of unadulterated lust on your skin. You’re an ember in front of him.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” you pledge and give him one more soft touch of your lips against his. Frankie doesn’t want to let your lips go and chases after them with the kiss still on his lips. You giggle and pull away.

Frankie’s hand slides from the back of your thigh, right under the hem of your skirt and slips off your skin with heat etched onto it. His fingertips are sensitive from holding onto you so tightly, from wanting to have you.

You give him one last look from the door, and you fix your dress on the thigh he was holding. Your own fingertips brush against where his hand was resting, excited and like it was his place to touch. He hears your tender laugh accompany the wave of your hand, before you disappear from view. He brushes his fingers through his hair with the hand he held you with, the scent of your sunscreen tattooed on his palm now forever etched to his memory.

#secretsprings #frankie friday #frankie morales x reader #frankie morales x female reader #frankie morales x f!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales fic #frankie morales fanfiction #frankie morales fanfic #frankie morales #frankie catfish morales #frankie morales triple frontier #pedro pascal characters #pedro pascal character fanfiction #pedro pascal character fanfic #pedro pascal character fic #katsheadincloudswrites #like a sun shining late at night

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heygerald · 2 months

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Falling Without A Harness - Chapter 10

AU where Tom Ryder is still an asshole, just not a psychotic one. When Parker gets to spend some more one on one time with Tom, she's left wondering how it's possible that no one else can see him the way she does. Maybe, rose colored glasses aren't so bad after all.

Read the story here: prev / next

Three weeks pass without much fanfare.

Tom, as it turns out, actually does live quite a busy life as an A-list celebrity, and when he's not recording a new paid advertisement or championing photoshoots, he's flying from one state to another to do appearances on various talk shows. It's weird going so long without seeing him—weirder even when Parker thinks about how shortly they've known one another, yet how he's somehow become a part of her routine—and though they share an occasional text message here or there, for the most part she doesn't hear much from him.

She's disappointed, but also understanding, and so rather than sit around moping about the lack of Ryder in her life, Parker uses the time to focus on tackling Melissa's ever growing list of renovations in her bookstore. The last of the shelf liners get pasted, the paint is finished, half of her tacky posters are replaced with thrifted decorations and the other half are spruced up with wooden frames. She adds a coat rack by the door, buys a new welcome mat, and even gives some life back to the tattered reading chair thanks to the cleaning underworld of YouTube.

It's a lot of work, definitely more than she had originally envisioned when propositioned by the teenager, but when it's all said and done...

Well, it's worth it.

Parker has never been so in love with her shop as she is now. She comes in early to straighten her latest arrivals, and hangs around late to sweep underneath the shelves. She's always loved her little shop—it's the only thing in her life that has ever, unequivocally, been hers—but it's better now; now it's something she can take pride in showing off.

And showing off she does. The throng of customers increases throughout the weeks. Not enough to add a couple more employees to her roster, but enough to add a modicum of business to her days. Melissa has somehow enlisted half of her high school to stop through; teeny-boppers hoping to catch glimpses of Tom, and young boys hoping to gawk at the teeny-boppers. Plus, she's been dropping flyers off at Crave Cafe on the daily that seem to be drawing in tourists and retirees alike.

It's not quite success, but it's close.

And damn if it doesn't feel good.

"What are you all smiley about?" her brother asks as if specifically trying to ruin said good feeling. "You look like you're high. Are you high?"

"You look like you're high all the time," she rebuts with a bite of her sandwich.

"That's—I have small eyes, you know that. It just looks like I'm squinty and red when it's too bright," he says in that upsettingly righteous tone of his. It's an excuse she's heard before, and when Parker arches a brow at him, he huffs. "It's—blame Mom! I didn't ask to look like this."

"Aw, Mom doesn't look like an idiot, Colt. That's all you."

His features flatten, deadpan eyes. "Ha, ha, ha. That's hilarious. Soooooo hilarious that I almost forgot to laugh. Almost as hilarious as the first time you made that joke. When was that—the seventh grade?"

She smirks around her straw, and Colt sinks in his chair to cross his arms.

"I was just trying to make conversation," he says, waving his arms around at her. The movement scares off a nearby pigeon, and she watches its flight with languid eyes. "Trying to be nice, see what's new in your life or whatever, but you just had to take it too far."

"That's you being nice?"

"Always have to take it too far," he continues, ignoring her to shove some fries into his mouth. They're sitting at a picnic table outside, a sun umbrella with bright red stripes propped open above their head, the beach in the near distance swelling with the smell of saltwater and taffy, and despite his demeanor, Parker sports a blithe smile. It's a nice day; too nice to be truly bothered by her petulant child of a brother. "Next time, you can buy yourself lunch."

"Oh, hit me where it hurts," she jokes. He shakes his head at her, more fries gone, and all it takes is her offer of an onion ring for Colt to be smiling too. "I'm just happy with how works going. We finished painting, finally, and I think I hit a record for customers this week."

"Yeah?"

"I mean, I think most of them still have braces, but I'm not complaining. If I hired Melissa a few months ago I might have been rich by now."

He makes a face at the mention of her employee, and Parker rolls her eyes. Only Colt would have beef with a high schooler.

"I suppose I can pop in after this, give it a look. See if it's up to par."

"I forgot you were an expert. Where'd you go to school again? Was it Carnegie Mellon? Or Pratt?"

Colt shakes his head at her teasing, but there's no love lost between the siblings. They argue about arguing about arguing. It was pretty much a natural response at this point in their lives. And though she was arguably better at it than him—Colt had a real problem with being tongue-tied, wit was certainly not his forte—every once in a while he gave as good as he got.

"Yeah, well, you're successful, I'm successful. I guess it's a family trait. Glad to hear the store is doing well, though. I was worried I'd have to pay your rent for Christmas again this year, and, well... I really didn't want to."

"Magnanimous as ever," she joked with a sip of her soda.

"What? Three years in a row? I'm not Santa Claus. I do have a life, and I've been eyeing this really nice mountain bike lately."

She furrowed her eyebrows. "Since when do you mountain bike?"

"Since—well... shut up. Can't a guy have hobbies?"

"Why can't you ever have a normal hobby? One that won't end up with you in the emergency room or on my couch for three weeks."

He rolled his eyes to jab some fries in her direction. "That was once, and it was a hernia. It had nothing to do with my hobbies. Besides, you read for fun. I'm not going to take criticism from someone that can't even walk up the stairs without hurting herself."

"I can!"

"Oh, can you?"

Parker flung an onion ring at him, only to have it backfire when Colt victoriously stuffed it into his mouth. She probably should have seen that one coming. She half considered throwing her phone at him next, but it was at that moment that their waitress stopped by to check on them, and by the time she'd left Parker didn't feel so inclined for violence.

A good thing for her brother considering he quite literally needed his body functioning for work.

Speaking of, "how's work for you going? When's filming start?"

He tilted his head to the side. "Not for a bit, but I've been working on some stunt coordination with Dan and the other guys already. This sci-fi movie is really stepping it up from the last one. I've already had to learn a couple new moves."

"Like what?"

"Rolls, jumps, fighting sequences, jumping out of a moving car. That sort of thing."

Parker considered that, before frowning. Suspiciously, she narrowed her eyes at him. "What exactly is this movie about again?"

"NASA," he said around a bite of his burger, as if that explained anything. It didn't; not in the least, but before she could badger him some more he finished the last of his food with a belch. Any thoughts evaporated at the disgusting display, and she waved the air in front of her a grimace. "Now, I gotta go see a man about a goat."

"That's not the—"

He was gone before she could correct him, and when the door inside fluttered close with a fwap, Parker just settled into her seat with the shake of her head.

"Idiot," she said, stealing a sip of his beer now that he wasn't around to guard it. Colt got like a dog when it came to his food and drinks, and despite him always asking for some of her food, she rarely got the same treatment in return. Thoughtfully, she took another sip, adding, "bastard," just because it felt warranted.

She was almost done her own sandwich when the table shook beneath the buzzing of her phone.

You gotta get up, gotta get out, gotta get gone before...

"Hello?" she mumbles through a mouth full of onion rings, phone tucked into the crevice of her shoulder as she wipes the grease off her fingers.

Only her brother would sniff out the greasiest restaurant on this side of LA for a casual lunch.

"Are you—are you eating?" a judgmental voice asks; as if he can see her slumped at the table, stuffing her face, and sucking down soda like it was nobody's business.

Parker immediately sits up straighter, swallowing the remaining food with a grimace, before lying, "no, of course not. That's rude and gross and, you know, totally not what I'm...."

Subtly, Parker glances around the patio. There's a couple sitting at her left, a family at the table on the far right, but other than that there's not a soul to be seen besides the occasional tourist trying to catch the bus. Certainly no Tom Ryder to be found spying on her from the bushes.

"Er, what's up buttercup?" she says, then immediately cringes at how overly causal that question was. What's up buttercup? she mouths to herself. "You don't—that's—what are you doing?"

The line is quiet for a moment, but she swears she can hear Tom shaking his head at her in the interim. But, when he speaks, he sounds no more scornful than normal. "I just got back from New York. Well, got back this morning, anyways. I just woke up from a nap."

"Oh, right! You were on Fallon last night."

"You watched it?" he asks, and this time, he does sound smugger than normal. Though, she supposes his usual levels of smugness was already more than the normal person. Tom Ryder really did love to brag about himself; even more, he loved when other people bragged about him.

"Don't be ridiculous," she tuts, shaking the ice in her drink as she sips it. She tries her hand at scornful as well, but it comes across teasing and light. "Even I draw the line at late night television. Melissa was talking about it this morning."

"Oh?" he hums. "And what'd she think?"

"That you looked even dreamier than usual. And then something about barking, but, honestly, I was a little too afraid to ask what that meant so do with that what you will. Was it fun?"

"I guess. Fallon isn' t so bad. The time difference is killer, though."

She hums, not having any idea what it would be like to travel back and forth across the country multiple times in a few days, but imagining that it likely did suck. "Kudos to you for being awake at all. I think I would have just slept all day, and then been awake all night, and then the cycle would continue until I died from caffeine overdose."

He laughed, and Parker chewed on her straw to keep a stupid smile from splitting across her face. "Maybe that's a reason why you're not famous."

"Right. The only reason I'm not famous," she teased, and when he snorted, she didn't bother to hide her grin. It's a good thing she wasn't at home or she might be lying on her bed, twirling some hair, and kicking her feet in the air like a lovesick idiot.

Speaking of idiots—she glanced towards the door and sighed in relief when her brother was still nowhere to be seen. It wouldn't be long, now, as he had a habit for bad timing.

Knowing this, she asked, "listen, could I call you back later? I'm out with Colt right now and I swear to god he's like a baby when I'm not paying attention to him. Unless you want to be put on speakerphone, that is."

Tom scoffed. "You ever consider getting him a babysitter?"

"He's not up to date on his vaccinations," she joked with a dramatic sigh. "And the kennel stopped taking him after he bit that other dog."

Tom laughed again, and it felt like a victory. Especially since he had called her, and here she was asking to call back later. The guilt didn't have any time to fester, however, before he was moving on. "Well, listen, I thought maybe since I was back in town that we could, er, get dinner. Have dinner, I mean, at my place."

"Oh," she said, so thrown off by the offer that she didn't really know what else to say. She quite literally hadn't stopped thinking about getting lunch with Tom on set a few weeks back; it had been so nice, so fun, to just hang out with him—no Gail, no Colt, no drunken executives or paintball warfare to distract them—just him that she had already planned on accompanying Colt onto set as often as she could manage in hopes of doing it again. She hoped the fact that he was offering meant he enjoyed it too. "Oh! Yeah, sure! That sounds great."

"Great," he echoed. "My place? After you get off work?"

"Sure," she said, nodding a bit too enthusiastically given the fact that he couldn't see her through the phone. Her thoughts drifted to work, and immediately she wondered if she could close early or talk Melissa into pulling a double. "Do you want me to bring some more books? I know you already got the role and everything, but I could bring some more recommendations for you to talk about tonight. Or you could just explain to me the plot of the movie because I'm honestly so confused about it already. Actually, I think I still have some napkins in my purse..."

She shifted through said purse, rattling through a mess of tampons, coins, bobby pins, receipts, and collection of rocks that she thought looked cute but never knew what to do with as Tom cleared his throat across the line.

"You don't need to—" he started, before sighing. As if he there was a bigger picture here that she wasn't quite seeing. Parker, too enthralled in why she had four different buttons in her purse didn't even notice. "I'll just see you later?"

"I'll text you when I get off work."

"Alright," he said. "It's a date."

And then, before Parker could question whether that was just a colloquial saying he used from time to time, a joke, or the reality of what this whole thing was going to be, Tom hung up.

She stared at the buttons in her hand, dial tone buzzing in her ear.

In perfect timing, her brother flopped into the seat across from her, and snatched a onion ring off of her plate. He swept his gaze from her plate to her phone to the buttons in her hand.

"What's wrong with you?" he asked.

"Er," she said, wondering the very same thing, before slowly dropping said phone and buttons back into her purse. "Nothing. Just... nothing."

Colt took that in, thought it through, and then pointed to her plate.

"So, uh, are you going to finish that?"

---

Parker doesn't get to give the date versus dinner conundrum much more thought over the next couple of hours due to a constant flow of customers, deliveries, and teenagers. She thinks the sudden business might be penance for taking a long lunch with her brother, made even longer when he insisted on hunting down some iced coffee after their meal, and when she does make it back to the shop Melissa is so relieved that she practically melts on her feet.

And though the teenager does agree to stick around for a double shift, Parker finds that she's too occupied to sneak out early anyway, and by the time she gets a moment to catch her breath she's already running late.

There's no time to fix her hair or grab a change of clothes, just as there's no time to do anything about the smell of old, papery books clinging to her besides drive with the windows down at a speed likely to get her a ticket. That, of course, only seems to frazzle her braids even worse than they started the day with, and by the time she's parking in Tom's driveway, she looks likes she's just finished an eighteen hour shift down at the docks.

Please let him have gone blind, she thinks while hastily taking out her braids with paper-cut laden fingers. It's a mess of tangles and knots due to her driving, however, and by the time it's straightened out she's running even more late than she originally was.

Hoping out of her car, Parker doesn't think of anything as she rushes up the steps, knocks a hasty staccato, rocking on her feet with a wayward glance down at her dirty sneakers that certainly don't belong walking on real wood floors.

Please don't throw up, she thinks next, stomach in her throat.

Please—

Any thoughts are silenced when the door swings open, and Tom Ryder is suddenly there.

She's speechless as she takes him in; dark slacks, a white tee, jean jacket with a gold chain that catches in the light, freshly clean sneakers that put her dirty ones to shame. He looks good in the way that he always does; polished and shiny, Hollywood and new, but his hair is airdried and lacking gel, his beard freshly shaved, sleep lines dotting the skin along his cheeks.

He looks good, but he also looks comfortable and soft. Natural, in a way that she's never seen him look before.

"...hi," she says dumbly.

Tom's gaze, having been taking her in the same way that she was taking him in, snaps back up to her face, and with a characteristic eyeroll and huff, he echoes, "hi. You coming in or...?"

"Oh, right."

Parker flushes but enters, and his house seems so different than the last time she was there that she cranes her neck to gander. Without people flush wall to wall she's able to see the character of the house better, taking in the hues of orange and yellow paint, the shiny brown age spots on the wooden floor, taupe pillows and white fuzzy blankets sprawled messily across the couch. ESPN is playing on mute, music drifting from the kitchen, a mess of protein powders and vitamin bottles scattered across the marble island in addition to dirty pans.

A reminder that he's a person as much as a celebrity, and Parker smiles at the thought.

"Where should I put my shoes?" she asks.

He blinks at her, already halfway back to the kitchen. "What? Just wear them."

Parker glances down at the muddy soles of her sneakers knowing just how many questionable places they've walked through, and with nothing more than a glance at the too white couch she bends to untie them. Tom rolls his eyes a second time, and she scoffs in response. "What? I'm not trying to mess up anything here. I can't even imagine what you're cleaning bill must be like."

"You're not going to mess anything up," he says. "And if you do, it doesn't matter. I have maids for that shit. You really think I clean this whole place myself?"

She tsks, imagining how nice that must be. "Ooh-la-la, look at me, I'm Tom Ryder and I have maids and—" she mimics, only to slip on the first step she takes in her socks. "Okay, that's humbling. It's like an ice skating rink in here. What kind of polish do they use? Pine sol on crack?"

"Do you really think I have the answer to that?"

"Something fancy, I bet," she continues, head on a swivel as she ambles closer. Even the ceiling looks free of cobwebs. "You should give your maids a raise. Very nice, Ryder. Very nice. Consider me impressed and a little scared of their ability."

"I'm glad you're impressed," he drones, clearly not caring in the slightest, but she wiggles her eyebrows at him anyways, and Tom bites back a smile. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving."

"Good," he nods, pulling a wine glass down for her. "I made paella."

"You made it? I change my mind, I'm not hungry at all, " she teases, accepting the glass from him. It's a hefty pour of red wine—not necessarily her favorite—but Parker doesn't doubt it's expensive and some sort of collector's edition so she keeps that to herself. Tom seems so used to just giving people things instead of asking for their preference that she tries not to be too miffed about it.

He shoots her a deadpan look, betrayed only by the amusement in his eyes. "You think I'm going to poison you?"

"No, I think you're going to force feed me some sort of seaweed, or, like, lemon grass salad under the presumption it's good for me."

"Seaweed is good for you."

"For facials, maybe," she rebuts with a sip of wine. It is good, just dry, and Parker takes reminds herself to drink it slowly. Tom doesn't seem all too amused by her teasing, however, and she reminds herself that food seemed to be a touchy subject with him. Still, her stomach is despairingly empty, and she's thankful for the music just so he wouldn't hear it growling. "Just tell me there's some sort of meat and I'll be happy. And not, like, tofu. I don't care what PETA says that stuff tastes like cardboard."

"Are you so poor that you're eating cardboard now? That's disgusting."

"Tom Ryder thinks poor people are disgusting," she echoes with a smile, and she can tell just from the look he shoots her that he's amused. "Who should I sell that to? TMZ or Perez Hilton?"

He shakes his head at her but moves towards the patio, and with nothing else to do, she follows on socked feet. "Hilton is a tool, you'd get more money if you went to TMZ," he said, playing along. "Anyway, you don't need to worry about that. I'm not eating seaweed on a cheat day, and travel days are always cheat days. Plus, it would just be wasted on you."

It's an playful insult, and even if it wasn't it's not one she would care about, and so Parker sips her wine with an indifferent shrug as he continues.

"Anyway, I made paella. The salad is on the side."

"You made—?"

Her scathing retort comes up empty when they step out onto the patio, and Parker is met with a table flush with food. There's a large steel pan of paella in the middle, a heaping of bruschetta on the side, brussels sprouts and green beans in a beautifully printed dish on one side, a large serving of salad on the other. There are placemats, linen napkins, fancy silverware, and a bottle of chilled water in the middle.

Parker stops short.

Tom, already seated, gives her an odd look. "What?"

She knows there's a more tactful way to frame it, but the first and only thing that comes out of her mouth is a rushed question of, "is this actually a date?"

He blinks at her, before pouring himself some more wine. He's calm, collected in his movements, but his shrug is stiff. "It's dinner."

"A dinner date," she corrects.

"It's dinner," he reiterates, glancing back at her before immediately glancing away. Clearing his throat, Tom shifts in his seat to stretch an arm over the back of his chair; a catalogue worthy pose with the dark sky of LA behind him. "It's a date. What difference does it make? Have you never been on a date before or something?" he asks in a tone she can't quite place.

Teasing, but serious. Cocky, but hesitant.

Yet, Parker is too distraught to think about the paradox that is Tom Ryder, and instead throws her hands up. "Okay," she announces. "I'm leaving."

"Wait—what?" he asks, standing with a screech of his chair as Parker turns on her heel. She makes it two steps before turning back again, head feeling like a nest of squirrels as she tries to put her thoughts in order.

"I can't—Tom—honestly! I'll be back in, like, an hour. Maybe. Probably not. Is there an outlet near here? Oh, they'll all be closed. Okay, maybe two hours then. Or maybe we could just reschedule to, like, Monday night so I have time to—"

"Parker, what the fuck are you going on about?" he interrupts her derailed train of thought. It's an innocent question, well-meaning, but honestly the fact that he doesn't know pisses her off.

She gestures at herself with a wild flap of the arms.

"Look at me! Look at you!" Her jeans are ripped and tattered, cut in places where they weren't originally intended, and faded on the butt from years of use; her sweater was found at a yard sale (five dollars, but she haggled for three) and the tank-top beneath was stretched at all the wrong spots. Even her socks—why did she insist on taking off her shoes?—were mismatch shades of orange. "I can't wear this on a date! Our date! A date with you looking like that! I mean you just got back from New York! How do you look so good?"

Tom let out a sharp breath, color returning to his cheeks. "Jesus, Parker, I thought.... you look fine."

She didn't buy that for a second, and crossed her arms at him haughtily. "You're literally always telling me my outfits are awful. I could have, like, gotten a skirt or worn a dress or something, anything, other than this. Jesus! And I forgot to wash my face this morning—"

"Parker," he said again. "I don't give a fuck. I like what you're wearing."

She raised a brow. "Really? This? You like this?" she challenged, arms thrown out so he could get a better look at her ensemble. Tom's gaze flickered down then up again, and his mouth quirked at the side. She stabbed a finger at him. "Ha! See? I knew it. I look like Chucky. Or, the bride of Chucky, or whatever—I never watched those movies. The doll reminded me a little to much of our cousin, and I didn't feel like trying to unpack that."

He clipped his smile, coughing into his hand. "You look nice."

"Don't patronize me."

"Fuck, you're so annoying sometimes."

"I'm leaving."

"Alright, alright. I think the outfit is awful. You look like a scarecrow. But that's how you're always dressed, so you shouldn't change that just for a date. You could throw a stone in Hollywood and hit somebody with no sense of style. At least you dress like that because it's who you are, and not just an attempt at getting attention. There's not many people around here like that, you know; genuine," he said slowly, and although it was an insult, Parker oddly felt better at hearing it. It was less nice and complimentary and more cocky and rude, more like him. And she wouldn't want him to change that for her either. "Now, are you going to be normal? Or, you know, normal for you. I'd like to eat before the paella gets cold."

She shook her head at him with a sour look. Part of her didn't want to give in to the asshole—not when he was mocking her, and certainly not when he was showing her up on a date—but the other part of her didn't want to leave. She wanted to stick around, eat his food, laugh and talk and joke just like they were doing.

In defeat, she slinked back towards the table. Tom made a show of pulling out her chair with a smirk so cocky it could kill. "I'm not going to get salmonella or something from this am I?"

"Colt told me about how you set the kitchen on fire while trying to bake him a birthday cake," he snarked in that self-righteous way of his, sitting himself. "I'd cool it on the shit talking. You're not exactly Gordon Ramsay yourself."

"Oh my god, that was one time and it was an accident!" she cried in her own self-righteous way. He didn't buy her excuse, however, and when Tom laughed at her, she gave up. Huffing, Parker waved a hand at him impatiently. "Whatever. Just pass me the paella already. I'm starving."

---

Dinner has long since gone cold as they talked, carried inside and stuffed unceremoniously into the fridge upon Parker's worries that the food might spoil. Tom hadn't been all that concerned about it, and she suspected he likely wasn't. She doubted that he had to worry about any sort of household chores living in a place like this, but he had worked too hard on cooking it, and she was too poor to ignore it, and so under her pestering everything had been moved inside when they did. Their first bottle of wine is long forgotten as two more sit on the table between them. There's a few waters there as well; both half-drank, and dripping condensation onto their wooden coasters. They've moved from the outdoor patio to the inside living room—the couch a much more comfortable alternative, though with an arguably worse view of the twinkling LA landscape—and Tom's jacket has been shed along with his sneakers as they volley questions at one another.

Parker's enjoying the activity a little too much; carefully prying into the life that belongs to Tom Ryder, and it seems that Tom, rosy-cheeked and smiling more than she's ever seen before, is in too good of a mood to mind.

He's answered more questions about himself tonight than she thinks he ever has on any of his talk shows, and she's told more stories about her and Colt getting into trouble than is probably appropriate for a date. But neither mind the other, and as the night just gets darker around them, they've yet to get bored.

And they've discussed quite a lot of topics.

"What would it take, then, for you to shave your head for a role?" Parker muses at one point in the night with deviously arched brows. Her head is just starting to feel heavy, a sign that she's teetering past tipsy, and she makes sure not to rush the latest pour of wine he's given her as she swirls it around the glass with careless movements. "Like, you get the role of a lifetime, maybe—oh, maybe a Nicholas Sparks movie, gut-wrenching love story, that type of thing—but your character has to shave his head."

"Shave my head?" he asks, his own head heavy and propped on a crooked elbow as he thinks. "No bald cap, I'd have to shave it."

"Completely."

His head tilts left, then right, before he shakes it. "No way."

"Seriously? Not for a really good role?"

"No. A wig? Sure. Bald cap? Fine, I've done worse for roles. But there's no way in hell I'm shaving my head," he says with a laugh and a shrug. "There's just no way."

"Not even a little? Just a bit. It'll grow back."

"No fucking way! Do you know how many gigs I get just for my hair? I'd have to give up my campaign with Old Spice. I love them."

"You love Old Spice? Seriously?" she echoed, nose scrunching in disbelief, but he either hasn't heard her tone or is ignoring her judgment, and Tom takes another sip of his wine with a confident shake of the head.

"No way, not happening. My hair is everything, you know. Tom Ryder without hair is... that's ridiculous."

Parker tilts her head, squinting one eye as she tries to imagine him bald. But it's too difficult to do, which brings her to the startling realization that he's right. His hair, gorgeous no matter the color, is part of him. It'd be like seeing Taylor Swift without her red lipstick or Dwayne Johnson without his tattoos. One doesn't go without the other. Still, the idea is funny, so she pesters, "what if it was a Spielberg movie?"

That has him pausing, but only for a moment. When he shakes his head, she can't help but laugh at his dedication. "Still not worth."

"That's—Spielberg isn't worth it?" she cries. Parker doesn't pretend to know a lot about the movie industry, but even she knew which directors were worth something and which weren't. Only Tom Ryder would refuse a chance at making history for the sake of his vanity. "You're crazy."

"It's my brand," he sniffed with a laugh of his own. "It'd be bad marketing to just shave it all off. I'm not just an actor, you know. I'm also a businessman."

She's sure that's true, but Parker doesn't care for the argument, and so she thinks hard for a moment. Snapping her fingers, she tries again. "Okay, what about Tarantino? Pulp Fiction is your favorite—you said that yourself."

He made a face. "Well, yeah, it's my favorite..."

"So...?"

He glanced at her, before a hand snaked up to his head to softly rake through his hair, as if testing the worth of it. He did that a lot, a nervous tick she had noticed, and as they sat together it was messier than she'd ever seen it before; slept on, air-dried, with no gel to perfectly coif the blonde tufts. And yet, she wished he wore it like that more often. "I mean... nah. Still couldn't do it."

His answer didn't surprise her in the least, but it was still so ridiculous, that she tipped her head back to laugh at it, cheeks splitting open for the grin that came. "You're crazy. Actually psychotic, Tom. You wouldn't work with your favorite director if you had to sacrifice your hair."

"I like my hair."

"I do too, but, come on! Tarantino?"

"It's not easy to have nice hair. I've worked on it for years to get it how I like it," he said, and then as if he she was suddenly a suspect, Tom narrowed his eyes at her shrewdly. "Do you not like me hair or something?"

Another absolutely ridiculous thing for him to say, and if Parker wasn't aware of how deep his insecurities ran, she would have mocked him. Instead, she gave him a patronizing smile and a pat on the shoulder. "Of course I like your hair."

"Then why are you trying to get me to chop it off?"

"Just trying to see what your limit is," she defended with her palms held up, as if she really was a suspect. He didn't buy it for a moment, but he gave up easily. Parker rolled her eyes at him. "Big baby. I'. just trying to figure out what is crossing the line in Hollywood. You get paid for acting gigs, so where's the line at what you will and won't do for a lot of money if it's required for a role?"

"Easy," he shrugged. "The line exists as shaving my head."

She blew a raspberry at him. "I'm serious!"

"So am I!"

"Well, what if—ha! okay—what if you got to work with Tarantino and made, like, a million dollars."

He blinked at her. "You think a million dollars is a lot?" he deadpanned.

Parker waved her hand at him flippantly, dismissing that comment with a disgruntled eyeroll as she adjusted on the couch. They had started with a full cushion in between them, but over the night, they had both been moving towards one another without meaning to—stars in orbit—and as she pulled her legs up underneath her, Parker's knee pressed against his.

But he didn't mind like she worried he might, and when he stretched an arm over the couch back behind her, Parker continued.

"Alright, thirty million dollars. You would do it for thirty million, wouldn't you? Rich or not rich, thirty million dollars is a lot of money."

His brow lifted higher, and she hesitated.

"...right?"

He laughed at her, bending forward to pour more wine into his glass as she smacked him on the shoulder. "Seriously? Yes, that's a lot of money. I'm not that rich."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, excuse me, Mr. Money Bags. So? Would you?"

He hummed, popping the cork off the bottle to pour out the rest of it. She waited impatiently as Tom then took a long swallow of the fresh pour, really dragging it out.

"Tom!" she whined.

"Okay, yes. If I got to work on a movie with Tarantino and got thirty million dollars, yes, I would shave my head," he finally admitted, looking both pleased at her irritation and troubled by the concept. He sat back while lifting a hand to run through his hair. She watched him tug on a few strands as if reminding himself it existed and when he caught her watching, Parker swung a hand up to hide her smile. Rolling his eyes, he tacked on, "but... it'd have to be a really good role. A starring role. You know? Not just some side character, something that is actually worth it."

"Worth more than thirty million dollars?"

"A lot more."

"You really love your hair," she said, then, as if only to be obnoxious, gave a mock gasp as she clutched a hand to her imaginary pearls. Tom spared her a look as if he knew what was about to come, but was amused by it nonetheless. "Oh my god, your hair is your superpower, isn't it? That's where you get all the swagger and rizz from."

"Rizz? You're spending too much time with Melissa," he commented blithely.

But Parker was on a run, and she wasn't about to let his sour commentary stop her, and so she continued with an air of dramatics that Hollywood would appreciate. "All this time I assumed you were a Bruce Wayne—you know, rich, sad, rich—"

"You said rich twice."

"—rude, egotistical, awful with women—"

He sat up. "Hang on a minute, awful with women?" he echoed in bewilderment, but Parker just continued as if he hadn't said anything at all.

"—the type of hero who gets his superpowers just from being, you know, insanely rich. But, really, all this time you've been like Superman. Good looking, obsessed with wearing glasses that you don't actually need, but with a real superpower. Your hair is totally your kryptonite, isn't it?"

She finally glanced at Tom, only to find him shooting her an unimpressed look. "That doesn't make any sense."

"What? Sure it does. It's what makes you so... you know, Tom Ryder."

"Are you saying my hair is the source of my power or my greatest weakness? Because kryptonite is his weakness. You know, the one thing that can kill him," he said as if it was obvious.

"Well—alright, your Achilles' heel or whatever," she threw her hands up with a huff. Of all the times that he didn't know what she was talking about, of course he would be a closeted comic book geek. "I bet if I cut it off, you would just fall over and die."

Tom rolled his eyes, setting his glass down on the table. "Do I need to hide my scissors?" he asked.

"Scared?"

"Of you? Well, yeah, I'm starting to be."

Parker laughed at his deadpan tone, and something smug curled his mouth as he laughed as well. She always knew that he was a bit of an attention whore, liking when other people were praising him and following him around like puppies, but the smug look didn't much feel like that. Instead, she was starting to get the distinct impression that Tom liked making her laugh in the same way she liked making him laugh.

Proud to be able to do it at all.

Parker bit her lip knowing that her face was flushing a deep red, both from his attention and from his jokes, and she took a moment to set aside her wine glass. The last thing she needed to do was spill some red wine on his expensive white couch, and knowing her history of spilling things that shouldn't be spilled, it was a miracle that she hadn't already done some damage.

"Do you want some more?" he asked, mistaking her reasons.

"No, I shouldn't. I still need to drive home," she said. Then, she glanced at the couch with a worried gnaw of her lip. "Besides, you may not care about this couch, but I do, and red wine is just a disaster waiting to happen."

"It's had worse."

"Oh, I'm sure, but not by me."

"You don't have to worry so much about that," Tom told her with a shrug and a gesture around them. "It's just a couch and you already know that I have maids."

"Well, yeah," she hedged. "But... it's still your stuff, and it's nice stuff, and I'm not trying to ruin it just because you can afford to replace it. Maids or not. What kind of logic is that?"

He shrugged again, utterly unconcerned. "This is, like, my third couch this year."

"What?"

"I have people over a lot," he explained as he ran a hand over the smooth material himself. "Shit happens when you're drinking. If it gets fucked up, I just get a new one."

She frowned. "Yeah, but, still... Accidents happen but I'd be furious if my friends ruined three of my couches in a year. That's just... Do you really not care when people wreck your house?"

Tom glanced at said house for a moment, gaze sweeping over the lavish furniture and expensive decorations before returning to her. He looked so innocent as he just said, "it's just stuff. Freddy and my boys are constantly fucking something up. You know how it is when I throw a party; people get drunk. I have an interior designer on speed dial to replace whatever gets ruined. You should have seen this place after my birthday last year."

"Yeah, but..."

"It's just stuff," he reiterated.

And that much was true. It was just stuff.

In one way, that was a good viewpoint of life. Things were just things, and they could easily be replaced. But as Parker sat there on the couch, feeling how comfortable and soft it was, examining the wooden pegs and beautiful details, she couldn't help but feel offended on his behalf. Things were just things, sure, but she would never go over to someone's house and not care about whether or not she ruined their things. Money or not, that was just shitty behavior.

Certainly not the behavior shared between friends. The idea that he would invite people over—friends, supposedly—that would trash his stuff without caring at all was so off baffling that she could only blink.

"I guess," she said after a moment.

As if he sensed her discomfort, Tom nudged her with his elbow, and when she blinked up at him, he was wearing a troublesome smirk. "Besides, women like my stuff."

Parker felt blood rush her face that didn't have anything to do with the wine, and his smirk widened at seeing it. She couldn't let him off that easily, however, and so she feigned disinterest. "Oh, really? They like this stuff? Hm."

"Oh, come on, it's nice. Just admit it."

"Well, I suppose the couch is okay."

He huffed, shaking his head at her. "Yeah, sure, okay. This couch was featured in Vanity Fair."

She stuck her nose up. "Oh? I don't read Vanity Fair, so I'll have to take your word on it," she continued to dig in, satisfied with the way his smirk twitched at the edges by her goading. "But I guess that's supposed to be a big deal, yeah? Not too bad, I guess."

"Not too bad?" he echoed incredulously, his earlier smugness gone, replaced by incredulity. It never ceased to amaze Parker how easy it was to push his buttons. "Come off it. It's a good couch. George Clooney has the same one in his house in Lake Como."

She poked a cushion, pinched the material between her fingers. "Hm. I would have thought he would get something... I don't know, classier."

"Classier?" he deadpanned.

"Like real leather. Or, oh, you know I read on Buzzfeed that some really rich people don't even have couches nowadays. They just stand all the time, and if they really need to sit, they have super big beanbags. Like, giant. Heard they're all the rage."

He huffed. "Fuck off."

"I mean, I'm not sure if they're in Vanity, they're kind of underground, you know," she continued, getting far too much enjoyment out of teasing Tom. He didn't seem all that amused from where he sat next to her, and she leaned closer to pinch the material of his shirt next. "And this? I mean... Tom. Seriously, I don't want to step on your stylists' toes or anything, but a white tee? Are you Kevin Bacon?"

His eyes grew wide as he swatted away her hand. "This is Armani!"

"Are you sure? Fake brands are a thing, you know. You have to check the stitching, the material, the tags. All of that. It's easy to get it wrong nowadays."

"Parker—"

"It's a whole scam. You might not be able to tell, but I have a great eye for detail. Plus, I've been getting scammed my entire life—I mean, the pink tax? What even is that?—so I'm pretty familiar with the concept."

"It's not—I'm not being scammed!" he exclaimed, swatting her other hand away as it tugged on the back of his shirt. He was fully scowling. Clearly, not pleased with her joking, and as she exploded in laughter, he lifted a brow at her crossly. "You think you're funny?"

She poked her teeth with her tongue, giggling. "I think I'm hilarious."

Tom hummed, eyes jumping over every inch of her face, and the moment his mouth curved into a devious smirk, Parker knew that he was up to something.

"Tom—"

She wasn't quick enough to get away, and all it took was for Tom to wrap an arm around her waist before she was being bodily hauled towards him as though she weighed nothing. She shrieked—never having been one for manhandling in all the years Colt forced it upon her—but despite trying to get away from him, she found herself sitting across his lap, an arm barred across her back to prevent her from going anywhere.

The same hand that was previously poking fun at the quality of his clothes was now firmly fisted into the soft material of his shirt.

"You're going to judge my clothes when you're wearing this?" he asked while pinching her sweater with his free hand. On the back patio, it hadn't seemed so out of place, but now that they were inside, surrounded by expensive bottles of wine and his collection of movie props in glass cases along the wall, it was impossible to ignore. "It's awful, Parker."

She swallowed, trying not to seem too flustered by the abrupt decrease in distance. "I got it at a yard sale."

"You should have put it out of its misery."

"Hey!" she cried, a soft punch into the hard muscle of his shoulder. He didn't seem all that surprised, and his smile crooked further as his palm spread wide against her back. "I like this sweater, jerk. It has character."

"That's what they say about ugly things in vintage stores."

She narrowed her eyes, only a hair's breadth away from him now, but refusing to let him win this argument just because he was looking at her like that, holding her, mouth coiled into a damning smile as if he could feel the way her heart was beating faster. "Just because something is ugly doesn't mean it shouldn't be loved."

He huffed. "No one actually believes that."

"Well, I do," she corrected him. "And I've had this sweater for five years, and I just so happen to love it."

"You've had the same sweater for five years?"

That's what surprised him? "Of course I have," she blinked, thrown by his surprise. "I can't afford to buy a new one every time I want to. I just... you know, take care of my stuff. Ugly or not. I mean, every once in a while I accidentally shrink something in the wash, but I do my best to make stuff last. Are you going to judge me for that too?"

It was a joke, but Parker didn't need an answer. She could tell just from the soft look in his eyes that he wasn't judging her. Just... looking at her.

The kitchen lights were off, the balcony ones too, and the only light in the room came from the fireplace and the small chandelier over the stairs. It cast glittering lights around them, highlighting everything that shined in the room—glass, picture frames, awards, props, and screens—yet somehow Parker swore that he shone brighter than all those other things; as if he was made to be in the spotlight.

At this distance, she could make out the miscolored flecks in his eyes; not just blue but golden and brown and hints of green that were always absent in his airbrushed ads. She could just make out the tired rings beneath his eyes, the crease of his mouth, the tiny curve of his nose, the wayward tufts of hair that he'd mussed wrong at one point in the night.

All a sign that he was human, he was no different than her.

Not really, anyways. Not in a way that mattered.

He blinked at her, and though Parker would never know for sure, there was something in the depth of his features that made her think he was realizing the exact same thing. And as the thought passed between them, their movements synched, and as she leaned up, he leaned down.

This kiss wasn't like the first one; that one had been hard, knocking the air out of her lungs and the thoughts from her brain in a single fell swoop. It had felt rushed; brought on by a moment of excitement and laughter, but lingering in sloppy kisses as if they were teenagers given only a moment of privacy before they would be found out by the English teacher. An absurd thought, that wasn't actually so absurd when the sound of laughter or chatter would drift up to their little patio from the party happening down below. Maybe that's exactly what they had been, just two kids pretending the rest of the world didn't exist, kissing like there wouldn't be another chance.

But this?

This one started slow. Just the gentleness of his lips on hers, the feeling of his hands slowly tugging her to his chest until there was no room left between them. It was hesitant in how her hand skated up his chest, his shoulders, and into his hair. Featherlight, as if afraid to touch, before becoming more confident. His mouth tasted like wine and rhubarb as she kissed him, the smokey flavor of a stolen cigarette chased by the berry-sweet flavor of her chapstick as he chased the delicate curve of her mouth.

Hesitant became familiar as the kiss evolved, nervous became excited as they realized they weren't going to be interrupted or chased away. The kiss turned harder as he shifted their bodies on the couch, pillows knocked to the floor as they became a jumble of laughter, and just as her skin had started to feel like it was on fire, hands nothing but a jumbled mess of firing neurons as they skated around the back of his neck, catching on his gold chain, before a gentle tug on his locks as all thoughts ceased to make sense—

You gotta get up, gotta get out, gotta get home before the...

Thoughts came back, and the pair froze with matching looks of horror.

Tom blinked at her with wide blown eyes. "Is that your phone?"

Parker glanced over her shoulder finding said phone face up on the table, vibrating a steady rhythm on his glass table as the song played aloud for them to hear.

Of course it was her brother's fucking face flashing across the screen.

"...I'm actually going to kill him this time."

"Colt?"

"Colt," she repeated irritably. Tom blinked at the ceiling as Parker glared at the phone, willing it to stop entirely, but neither wanting to move in fear of shattering the moment entirely. "It'll stop eventually," she said awkwardly.

What if I'm late? Gotta big date...

"What the fuck is your ringtone?" he asked, breath tickling her skin.

Parker flushed for more reasons than one, and cleared her throat. "Harry Nilsson," she said, but that didn't seem like an adequate answer, and as the stanzas continued, she added with a nervous chuckle, "uh, it's from a Netlix show. It's not the theme song, but there's a scene where Nadia—er, the main character—she keeps dying, you know—like an endless loop sort of thing—and this is always the song that's playing when—oh, it stopped."

They blinked at the phone screen, and together the pair let out the breath they had been holding when it finally went black.

Parker turned back to Tom, somehow more nervous than she had been before. "So—"

He kissed her before she could ramble, a good thing for them both considering just how much she could ramble, and as if they hadn't stopped at all, her entire body melted back into goo beneath his touch. It wasn't hard to pick up where they had left off, not when he held her so close, when his chest was burning hot as she skated across it with timid hands, when his owns hands skimmed beneath her sweater to leave tingling trails down her spine, or when he ducked closer, sealing away any last inch of—

You gotta get up, gotta get out, gotta get gone before the morning...

She winced, and Tom glared at the phone so sharply she thought it might shatter. Too cowardly to look herself, she let her head fall against his chest as she asked, "is it...?"

"Colt? Yeah."

She groaned.

"Can't you just turn the fucking thing off?" he asked, and though it was a logical next step, the thought of what if had her hesitating. He noticed immediately. "What?"

"Well, I am his emergency contact." That logic didn't seem to matter to Tom at all, and Parker let out a great huff as she stretched for the phone. "He could be, like, dead or something! What kind of emergency contact would I be if I didn't pick up?"

The hand that had been under her sweater fell against her thigh with a thud. "If he's already dead, then there's nothing you can do about it," he snarked.

"Dying, then," she corrected tartly. When that didn't earn her any compassion, she tried puppy dog eyes. "Just thirty seconds."

Tom flopped against the cushion behind him with a sour look, and she rolled her eyes at his petulance. "Honestly, I can only handle one child at a time," she muttered, much to his annoyance, but he wisely didn't respond as she lifted the phone to her ear, hitting the green talk button. "Hello? This is Parker."

"What—of course it's Parker. Who else would it be?" Colt said, and the fact that it was Colt and not some hospital administrator had Parker relaxing.

Just as quickly she tensed in annoyance when she realized that this was very likely not an emergency. "Colt, is, uh, something wrong?"

"Wrong? Why would something be wrong?"

"Because... you just called me twice in a row. That's, like, something is wrong textbook 101."

"Oh," he said as if that had never occurred to him. And considering the fact that she had never had to call him in the middle of the night for a medical emergency was probably to blame for his ignorance to the situation. "Well, no, nothing's wrong. What are you doing?"

"Er, just, you know," Parker hedged, glancing anywhere but at Tom. "Just... hanging out. Drinking some wine."

"Nice. You want to go to the movies?"

Parker's eyes rounded. "W—what?"

"The movies! I feel like it has been forever since we went to the movies, just the two of us. You know, for something that wasn't a premiere, anyway, and I still haven't seen the new Alex Garland movie, so I figured we could go together."

Parker, baffled, grabbed Tom's wrist and twisted it until she could read the very expensive Rolex sitting on his wrist. He looked perturbed by her manhandling of him, but Parker didn't even notice as she huffed, "it's—it's late! What movie theater is even still open right now?"

"The one on Beumont Ave. I'll swing by your place, and we'll be just in time for—"

"No!" she said, louder and more forcefully than necessary. The line went silent as she blinked, and as Tom arched his brows at her, Parker waved her free hand around in the air in a vague gesture that he clearly wasn't able to interpret. When he opened his mouth to make what likely would have been a scathing comment about her ability to stay calm under pressure, she clapped the hand over his mouth instead. "I, uh, can't. Not tonight. Sorry. I actually have to, uh... I just can't."

"What? You just said you weren't doing anything."

"Well, technically, I'm not doing anything."

"Then, what's the problem? I'm like fifteen minutes away from your place. Just wear sweats, or whatever."

"Colt—"

"Jody can't make it, though, so it'll just be us."

"Colt—"

"That's cool, though, you know, I don't have to do everything with Jody. We used to hit the movies all the time, just the two of us, before, and I already bought some gummies from the gas station, so make sure you bring a purse so we can sneak them in. I'm definitely feeling popcorn. Maybe some—"

"Colt, I'm not going to the movies with you!" she blurted out, and the second she did so, Parker's shoulder sank in disbelief at her tactlessness. But—to be fair—she was a little overwhelmed in the moment, tipsy on expensive wine, with Tom Ryder staring up at her like that. Not to mention the fact that the moment he kissed her, her brain elected to take the rest of the night off. As if he knew he was the problem, his mouth curved into a wolfish grin. She shot him a glare. "Don't even start with me."

That caught her brother's attention.

"Are you—are you with someone?"

Tom rolled his eyes at the question, clearly put up with Colt's needling, and he tried to grab the phone from her. But Parker was quicker than he was, and in a better position to evade, and so she stretched onto her knees as high as she could as his hand tangled in her hair. "I'm, stop that! I mean, technically, yes."

"Well—what the hell, Park? Who are you with?"

"...that's none of your business," she said whilst swatting Tom in the chest when he tried to make another grab for the phone.

"Just hang up already!" he hissed at her.

"I will! I am! Just—give me a second!" she hissed back, as her brother's voice droned across the line. "I really can't talk right now, Colt."

"Oh. Oh. Sure, of course you can't, since you're all so busy having secrets now apparently. I mean, I thought we shared all our business with one another, but fine. Be that way," he groused, clearly hurt by her evasion, and as Parker twisted out of Tom's reach once more she prayed for a meteorite to come crashing through his ceiling. "But, just for the record, when I go on dates, I tell you about them."

"Yes, and I've told you before that I really wish you didn't do that."

He huffed, then huffed again. "Well, sorry."

"Can I just call you back tomorrow?"

Another huff, then a scoff. "Sure. Fine, Parker. Whatever."

"Colt—"

"No, no, it's fine! Go have your date, have fun or whatever. I mean, I go on plenty of dates that I don't tell you about, too. So, yeah, I guess we both do have secrets."

"Colt—"

"Just, you know, don't do anything you don't want to do and if he asks—"

"Oh my god!" she shrieked, misery at an all time high. "I'm hanging up now!"

"But—!"

The dial tone echoed in the empty room around the pair, and only when Parker felt like the humiliation of it all had faded enough for her to operate normally again did she dare a peak towards Tom.

"Did he just totally kill the—?"

"Yup," Tom said. "Killed it, stomped it out, and threw it in the river. I hate your fucking brother."

"Yeah," she groaned, letting her head tip all the way to the side until she was flopping off of his lap and onto the empty cushion. She brushed some hair out of her face with a grimace. Tom didn't look much better, and she watched him sink deeper into the couch with a miserable frown of his own.

Silence sat between them, thick and suffocating.

He fiddled with his watch as she counted seconds in her head, and when she got to thirty, Parker gave up entirely. "Do you... want to watch some tv?" she asked.

Tom looked surprised by the suggestion, and his gaze flickered over Parker; as if assessing how serious she was. "You don't want to leave?"

"Why would I leave?"

He didn't answer that, and his refusal to say anything was answer enough. Parker considered the course of events this evening; the food, the wine, the flirting before moving onto the couch, the kissing...

She suspected this was usually how dates went for him, just like she had a strong suspicion that his dates probably treated him in the same way his friends treated his things; without respect, and with a single purpose in mind. But she saw more in Tom than a single purpose, and so the thought of leaving hadn't even crossed her mind. Clearly, though, that wasn't a reaction he was expecting, and she fiddled with her hair timidly.

"Do you... want me to leave? Because, I was thinking I'd hang around a little longer."

Something flickered across his features as he stared at her, and as if he hadn't even thought he had a say in the matter, when Tom relaxed into the couch, he had a small smile curling his lips. "Do you watch House of the Dragon? I'm a couple weeks behind."

"I watched Game of Thrones, but haven't seen any of it yet."

"Want to watch it now?"

"You don't have to start over," she said, watching the little box drift back to episode 1 with each click of the remote. "Just tell me who is fucking who, and I'm sure I'll catch up."

But Tom wasn't having that excuse, and as he gathered up some pillows and a blanket, he tutted at her. "May as well just rewatch it. I've missed half of this season, anyway, so it won't hurt to go back and refresh a little."

"You don't mind?"

He tsk-ed, rolling his eyes in that judgmental way that he did—as if he couldn't believe she would ask something so stupid—and for some unbeknown reason to her, Parker didn't mind one bit. He wasn't acting like she was stupid, just the idea that he wouldn't want to do something as simple as rewatch a tv show for her was. And when he lifted an arm with an expectant look allowing her to snuggle against the warm plane of his side and wrap her legs with his, Parker accepted that maybe it was a stupid question.

After all, she's starting to think that there's very little she wouldn't do for Tom.

It was nice to know that he might feel the same about her.

And when she woke up the next morning to sunlight streaming in through the windows, wrapped up in Tom, surrounded in every way by his essence, to find the celebrity A-lister drooling on his white Armani shirt...

Well, Parker couldn't help but smile.

Maybe Superman was a little more human than people realized.

#falling without a harness #tom ryder #tom ryder imagine #tom ryder x ofc #original female character #oc #the fall guy series #the fall guy imagine #the fall guy #colt seavers

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