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tea-reads · 6 months ago

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Awww it’s all good! I’m so glad you enjoyed it ☺️

Ahaha yes! I couldn’t help include Fink too.

Happy holidays!

🤍🤍🤍

A Christmas Getaway

Pairing: Din Djarin x F!reader (Modern AU)

Word Count: +2.5K

Content: Fluff, Friends-to-lovers, first time spending holiday together, animal with very minor injury.

A/N: For this year's @pedrostories Secret Santa, my gift is for @noisynaia! Thank you for your patience, I hope you like it and I really hope I've done your prompt justice. There were so many ideas and possibilities I had in mind, and I finally found the story that felt natural to write. Your prompt was like a warm welcome back into writing and finding joy in it once again.

Thank you @pedrostories for organising this amazing event!

Merry Christmas everyone and have a wonderful and happy new year!

Prologue

The train air whistle roars as white puffs emit from the train through the cold open air. It gradually slows down to a stop, reaching its destination.

Those visiting would have a pamphlet advertising for a ‘magical Christmas getaway in the snow!’, which really was a humble town in a snowy region with some fancy cabins too. The town was to appeal to families most, but that doesn’t stop the solo-travellers from going and booking their own cabin.

Nor does it stop a clever red fox from “participating” by taking advantage of the unfinished foods left behind.

. . . . . . .

Snowmen and snow angels. Christmas decorations and displays. Gingerbread houses. Dinner with loved ones. Family-friendly Christmas movies. Winter Night Markets. Strings of festive lights. Choirs carolling in front of the grand Christmas tree at the city centre. Children laugh as they run and play like the wild and free spirits they are. Presents.

Whatever made Christmas special and magical for the kids, Din wanted to give that experience to Grogu. It was the boy’s first Christmas after all. Though the problem was the little boy didn’t seem to share the same level of excitement as the other kids - he was curious and awed, yes, but was so comfortable being carried around by his father as the festive season took place.

Admittedly, one day from grocery shopping at the mall, Din attempted to line up with Grogu for those photographs with Santa, but had to make a sharp turn towards the exit when he saw the tears in his son’s eyes.

And the presents? Din was just helpless. Maybe he was overthinking it - overthinking everything - that the present had to be perfect, but that could be anything. Getting Grogu a teddy bear wasn’t right to Din, but the single dad wanted and needed to give something special.

He valued practicality, the purpose and the quality of every little moment. Yet throughout putting up their own Christmas tree and decorating it, attempting to cook dinner or bake together, watching Christmas movies each night, he still felt like it wasn’t enough nor right.

And it was still November.

. . . . . . .

Two-hour-long train ride. Snow. Cozy cabin. Fireplace. Blanket. Hot chocolate. Book. Getaway.

Whatever made Christmas special this year was the opportunity to finally treat yourself to a getaway.

The hustle and repetitive nature of modern life would sometimes get to you, like being haunted by one of those ghosts from a ‘Christmas Carol’. To combat the noise, you found spending the holidays away from it all to be the answer.

The overwhelming and unbearable weight of hustle culture became a sign for you to step back, detach, and pivot in another direction. One that welcomes rest and relaxation. You worked way too hard this year, including overcoming all minor inconveniences, you very much deserve a reward.

After randomly one day Googling places, scrolling social media, you found your holiday spot. Two hours on the train from the city to a region of paradise in snow and ice.

You booked a cabin for two weeks, celebrating Christmas there in peaceful solitude.

. . . . . . .

Call it a Christmas miracle because seeing the advertisement on a billboard was all he needed.

Din finally found the perfect gift for Grogu.

How did it not occur to him to just go somewhere nice for the holiday?

So off they went, booking a two-hour-long scenic train ride and a cabin in a snowy region for two weeks. Truth be told, everything was very last minute and rushed - they barely made it to the platform and hopped in the first carriage. The thrilling journey to the station at the start was exciting to Grogu. Din just dealt with the stress of everything up to checking in.

Din finally breathed and eased against his seat as he watched Grogu press his little hands against the window, the small frog plushie Peli gifted from a brief visit to their home tucked in his arm. His breath fogged the pane a little, mesmerized by the passing wintery view.

There was no plan for what they’d do when they arrived. Whatever Grogu takes interest in, Din will see where it takes them.

. . . . . . .

You took one of the carriages at the end when you arrived at the station early. Might as well get a head start on your holiday and also save yourself from the stress of checking in. To occupy yourself as the other passengers boarded the train, you took the time thinking of what you might do when you arrived at the resort.

First and foremost, you allocated most of your time in the cabin or snow hiking. Of course there would be the occasional trips to grab essentials in town or sneak a treat at the popular tourist spot cafe. It might be worth buying a souvenir too.

Whatever happens, it all goes to recovering your social battery. But it seemed to have extended to taking care of a small critter.

It wasn’t long into your hike you notice a ball of orange-red fur so obviously standing out in the snow. Whatever it was, curiosity won and you approached that ball of fur. As you got closer, that ball of fur shivered.

“Oh my God.” Your eyes widen with panic.

It’s a fox!

The poor fox weakly lifts its head once it heard you approaching and immediately growls quietly in warning, as if telling you to back off. It was heartbreaking to see how scared and defensive the fox looked - his green eyes glaring, and ears folded back as he hardly bared his teeth at you.

You didn’t know who to call, there was hardly any reception, and there was no way in hell you were leaving this poor fellow all alone.

“I’ll be right back” You promised the fox and rushed back to your cabin to grab a large blanket.

You found the fox now attempting to get up when you came back, and your heart ached when he wobbled. You do your best in staying calm to not further cause distress, yet so many questions and concerns for the fox came to mind, you focus on wrapping the fox in the blanket, safe and snug, and bring him back to your cabin where it’s warm.

‘It’s okay, it’s okay. I got you. You’re safe, darling. I promise.’ You coo softly. The fox resisted at first and squeaks in protest, but relents eventually at the warmth of your voice as you comforted and carried him to your cabin.

Maybe it is true that animals can sense trustworthy souls based on how willing and well behaved the fox was.

Or maybe he was just clever enough to realise he’s in good hands and will be taken care of for the next few weeks.

. . . . . . .

What were the odds of seeing Din on the same trip and finally crossing paths?

Inevitable.

It started when you were in the town’s most popular cafe and had to do a double take, making sure you weren’t delusional that it was in fact Din lining up at the counter. He doesn’t notice you, not when he was occupied by the little boy with him.

You couldn't help but keep glancing at his direction every second just to decide if you would very much like to go up to talk to him, but you did not want to deal with the awkwardness of it and went back to reading your book.

For Din, he walked past the souvenir shop and did a double take when he thought he saw you inside. Half of your face was buried from the scarf you wore. Din did not want to deal with the embarrassment of mistaking a stranger for an old friend, but he recognised you for sure.

After feeling like someone was staring at you for too long, you looked up from the item you held to glare at them only to be met with gentle brown eyes. Din Djarin. You also notice a little boy standing close beside him and holding his hand. The boy gives a timid wave hello. You give a friendly smile and wave back, mouthing ‘hi’.

Din stood there, too shocked to greet you. So you ditched getting a souvenir and walked out of the shop to meet him.

“Din?” Everything about you, your eyes, your smile, the surreal moment and excitement of seeing an old friend, made Din’s heart flutter. His first thought was how beautiful you are it almost slipped out his mouth. He smiles a little, shy, and nods. He says your name, remembering you.

“Good to see you again.” He says.

You catch up asking the usual “how have you been/what have you been up to/who’s this little guy?”, learning each other’s duration and plans of their stay.

You laughed uncontrollably when you found out about Din’s stressful experience on the day of departure in comparison to yours.

“No wonder why I didn’t see you.” You giggle, shedding a tear.

“Laugh all you want, you’ll be next.” Din frowned but still had a light-hearted tone.

“It won’t happen. I feel obligated to be your train buddy now.” You say with confidence and Din sighs.

Din offered that you can drop by and visit him and Grogu for lunch or dinner, but was rather compelled to visit yours when you told him of your situation.

“This is the fox you’re taking care of?” Din asked quietly nodded at the dozing animal by the fireplace.

The fox’s ear twitched and he woke up groggy from the pile of blankets after sensing the new companions setting foot in the cabin. The fox first glared defensively at Din, but once his eyes met with the child’s in Din’s arms, he softened up. Grogu stared in awe then looked up at his father, silently asking if he could get close. Din hesitated but set Grogu down.

The little boy and the fox had a harmless stare down gauging the level of friendliness of the other.

“Yeah, I don’t know what happened to him. I just found him shivering a few days ago and so he’s been bunking with me.” You explain, smiling fondly as Grogu started to gently pat the fox’s head, to which the animal accepted.

"He's like an animal whisperer." You giggle, watching the cute interaction between Grogu and the fox.

“I like to call him ‘Fink’.” You added, making Din raise an eyebrow and you felt like he was judging you. Your face flushed with embarrassment and explained. “It’s from a book called ‘The Wild Robot’. You should read it to Grogu - or watch the movie with him if you haven’t. I think you’ll like it.”

“Thanks. Yeah, I’ll look into that.” Din says softly, watching his son bond with the fox.

“Does anyone else know about this?” Din asks.

Fink now rested his head on Grogu’s lap, eyes closed and sighing happily as the boy continued to soothingly stroke his fur.

“I don’t think you nor I will do that. Maybe it’s not necessary to anyways.” You finally answered, still unsure.

Fink made a speedy recovery - no longer shivering, able to walk without wobbling, and expressive.

Your efforts looking after him all led releasing him back into the wild. There was no way you would keep Fink to yourself. Fink wasn’t a pet, yet you acknowledged the strong attachment towards the fox and the companionship shared from looking after him.

You also had to go back home. Same with Din and Grogu.

For this evening, Din’s heart ached with regret when they eventually had to go back to their cabin.

“You’re welcome to visit. I think that’s what Grogu wants too.” You grinned as you bid your farewell for the evening.

Din nodded, saying he’d come back with Grogu. Neither of you had the courage to admit you wanted to see each other too.

Din continued visiting your cabin as you looked after Fink, giving plenty of time to catch up while Grogu kept the fox company. It was like the two were inseparable.

On Christmas day, you invited Din and Grogu over for dinner. Din helped with cooking and preparing while Fink played with Grogu. The boy squealed in excitement when Fink pretended to chase him, or vice versa. Even if there was a lack of Christmas decorations, the festive spirit was there. This was probably what Din was looking for, same with Grogu. To just be with the people he loved.

“Grogu, he can’t eat that.” Din quickly grabbed the cookie Grogu tried to feed Fink. . . . . . . .

In the middle of the night, Fink wakes up to a muffled conversation. He recognises your voice and then that man - Din was it?

You were in the kitchen.

Fink can tell by hearing liquid pouring and smelt the aroma of cocoa.

He picked up a sense of familiarity and intimacy within your conversation. The two of you shared stories from your personal lives in a steady rhythm.

You and Din thanked each other’s company for the evening, the entirety of what came to be from your holiday. And then there was a pause. Talking wasn’t either of your forte, but what did feel right for you both was being in each other’s presence in silence.

“I missed you.” You blurted.

“I missed you too.” Din whispers, sincere.

Fink fell back asleep.

In the kitchen, there were faint shy giggles. Whispering one last season's greeting. Whispering each other’s name playfully.

First kisses.

More kisses, savouring and remembering it.

Over and over again.

. . . . . . .

“We have to let him go.” Din murmurs, Grogu doesn’t stop hugging the fox.

The fox was all better and set to go back in the wild. You would also be boarding the train back home soon.

“We can come back next year.” Din promised, gently placing his hand on Grogu’s shoulder. The boy sniffled and the fox whimpered after the loss of affection.

“Yeah, and next time, we’ll be in the same cabin,” you said, kneeling next to Grogu and looking at the fox, “and hopefully we’ll see Fink again.” You say softly, believing the fox can understand and make a promise.

. . . . . . .

Outside your cabin, the three of you watched Fink walk a few steps towards the wilderness, looking back one last time to see Grogu with tears, waving goodbye.

Fink forced himself to run off, until all that was left behind was the trail of paw-prints in the snow.

. . . . . . .

This time Din and Grogu boarded the train early, thanks to you.

. . . . . . .

Even though it was almost the new year, it didn’t stop you from giving presents. You joked you were Din’s present - to which he rolled his eyes in amusement.

But for Grogu?

“Go on, open it up. She got it just for you.” Back at his home, Din gently encouraged Grogu when the little boy looked up to his father with curious eyes from the small, soft wrapped gift.

After carefully unwrapping, Grogu lifts up the gift, stares at it for a few seconds then squeezes it in a tight hug, swinging side to side.

Later that night, Din invited you over to join them for dinner.

“Does he like his gift?” You ask Din nervously while you joined him in his bed.

Din chuckles, carefully pulling you closer and pressing a kiss against your forehead.

“He loves it. Thank you for getting him that.”

In the little boy’s room, there he was, fast asleep. What was also tucked with him and held close to was a small plushie resembling a red fox.

. . . . . . .

Epilogue

Sometimes, Fink visits the cabin. He knows the people he wants to see most aren't there, so he sits there in the snow, reminiscing.

He liked being called ‘Fink’. It suited him.

Majority would call him as ‘sly’ or ‘mischievous’, but he took it as a compliment in disguise for how ‘clever’ he is.

So clever, that he would keep his promise and recognise the family of three that would visit again next year, Christmas time.

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tea-reads · 6 months ago

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@couldsewyouastitch!!!!! OH MY GOD!! I LOVE IT ALL!

I LOVE IT SO MUCH AND THE WAY YOU WRITE FRANKIE EVEN WHEN HE’S AN IDIOT IS EVERYTHING AND MAKES ME GO

AND BUKOWSKI THEODORE HEMINGWAY? I LOVE IT 😂 okay, I’m done being unhinged haha. I love how it’s his world and we’re just living in it. I unfortunately don’t have a cat and if I did, I’d lay my life down to have one as unbothered as him. No questions asked. I’d probably give an obnoxious name too, I’m all for it haha.

I’m so glad and happy you enjoyed my prompt and that it was good timing! Thank you for delivering this masterpiece. It means everything to me and I’ll cherish it forever 🥹

I’ve read it so many times it’s too good. It’s perfect 😭

Merry Christmas! Sending all my love ☺️

🤍🤍🤍

Stories We Haven’t Written Yet

a/n: hi @tea-reads i am your secret santa!! when i got your prompt i was so happy because i have been wanting to write something like this for a long time. and i usually need days, weeks to complete something like this but for some reason, these words just poured out of me. you said i can pick the character myself so i went with Frankie because, Frankie is just... Frankie *sighs affectionately*. anyway, hope you enjoy it! Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!! a big thank you to @pedrostories for the amazing event <3 also, @tea-reads i hope you don't mind me giving the cat the most obnoxious cat name that there is. xx

pairing: frankie 'catfish' morales x fem!reader

c/w: reader is she/her, description of the reader (story is written with a specific person in mind), other than that some cursing, implication of intimacy, and the rest is pure fluff.

The faded red bricks of the old brownstone are cool as Frankie Morales steps outside, cradling a steaming mug of coffee between his hands. Taking a sip, he lets the warmth bleed into his fingers, into his chest, where sleep still weighs heavy. The bitter taste bites at his tongue, but he likes it—it feels real, more real than the hazy remnants of the dreams he’s trying to shake off.

Then, a flash of movement catches his eye. There, across the narrow street, framed in a first-floor window like a living portrait she sits—a girl with a tangle of dark hair hunched over a book. Her fingertip traces the page as she reads. Frankie thinks of the whorl of her fingerprint, oil and ink, the silent shape of words in her mouth.

He's seen her before. Hard not to in a neighborhood like this where everyone knows everyone and their grandma, but they've never spoken. Never had reason to. He doesn't even know her name but he likes to call her bookworm. Imagines her with papercuts on her fingertips and the smell of old pages clinging to her clothes.

She looks up just as he's lifting his mug to his lips. Catches him looking. He could turn away but he doesn't. He lifts a hand in a wave and he's close enough to see her lips twitch into an almost smile before she disappears behind a curtain the color of clouds.

—

The cat is an ink-stain sprawled across the pale tiles of Frankie's kitchen floor. He stares at it. It stares back wholly unimpressed by the world—or by him. A chill breeze from the open window ruffles its fur.

"Alright," he mutters, running a hand over his face. "I don't know how you got in here, gato, but you’ve got to go."

The cat remains unmoved.

Frankie sighs. Scrubs a hand through his hair. Remembers too late it's still tacky with pomade and now his fingers are too. "Look, it’s not that I don’t like you," he continues, his voice edging toward something that sounds suspiciously like resignation. "It’s just—well, I’m not exactly living the kind of life where I can keep a pet right now. You know how it is."

The cat, of course, does not know how it is. Nor does it care. It blinks lazily, as if to say, Who asked you?

Frankie glances at the open window above the sink, then at the clock on the wall. He’s going to be late for his shift at the garage if he doesn’t leave soon. “Fine,” he mutters, shrugging into his jacket. “Have it your way. Mi casa es su casa and all that. But when I get back, we’re having a serious talk about boundaries.”

The cat yawns, a pink tongue curling delicately, as if it already knows how the conversation will go.

Frankie snatches his keys from the hook by the door. “I mean it,” he grumbles, more to himself than the cat. “This ain’t a hotel.”

The door shuts behind him, and somewhere in the quiet of the kitchen, the cat blinks once, slowly, as though conceding that perhaps it is.

—

Boundaries. What a joke. He'd forgotten that talk as soon as he'd clocked in. Then it was nothing but oil changes and timing belts and that persistent rattle in Mrs. Goldberg's Buick that refuses to be located. By the time he drags himself up the two flights to his apartment, the cat is the furthest thing from his mind.

Until he trips over it in the dark, nearly braining himself on the coffee table.

"Shit!" He fumbles for the light switch. Blinks in the sudden flood of brightness. The cat is sitting by the door, tail lashing. "Oh, it's you. Thought we had an understanding."

The cat meows. Loudly. Like an air-raid siren.

"What? What do you want?"

Another yowl, claws scrabbling at the wood. And okay, Frankie may not be Dr. Dolittle but even he can translate that.

He groans. Pinches the bridge of his nose where a headache is brewing. "Alright, alright, I'm going."

—

Never let it be said that Frankie Morales isn't a man of his word. He's going.

He's just not sure where.

Standing on the cracked sidewalk, one hand stuffed in his pocket, the other clutching a very disgruntled cat, he scans the darkened windows of the brownstone across the way. No sign of bookworm.

The cat squirms and he tightens his grip. "Cool it, Houdini. I don't see your owner around."

A throat clears behind him. He spins, the cat held out like a furry shield.

And there she is, close enough to touch. Dark eyes wide in a delicate face, perfect lips parted on a startled breath.

"Um, can I help you?"

Christ, even her voice is perfect. Soft and low with a husky little catch. Frankie's tongue feels too big for his mouth. He thrusts the cat at her. "I believe this belongs to you."

"Bukowski!" She takes the cat from his unresisting hands, cuddling it to her chest. Rubs her cheek against its head and it purrs, traitor. "Where have you been?"

"My kitchen, apparently."

She peeks up at him through a curtain of silky hair, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. A hot curl of want licks through him. "I'm so sorry. He's never done that before."

Frankie shrugs. "It's no problem." It is, a little, but he's not about to say that. Not when she's looking at him like she's braced for a lecture. He sticks out his hand. "I'm Frankie, by the way. I live...right there." He points at his window like an idiot.

Her lips curve and this time it's a real smile and fuck, he's a goner. Her hand is small and cool against his roughened palm. Her fingers feel like bird bones. Delicate. Breakable.

He gentles his grip, struck by the sudden urge to bring those slender fingers to his lips. Press a kiss to her knuckles like some old-fashioned gentleman. He doesn’t. Instead, he drops her hand, stuffs his own back in his pocket where it can't do anything stupid. "Nice to officially meet you."

She ducks her head, hair sliding forward to hide that pretty flush climbing her cheeks. "You too. And thanks for bringing Bukowski home. I should..." She gestures over her shoulder, already backing away.

"Anytime."

He means it.

—

After that, of course he sees her everywhere.

Or maybe he’s just looking for her now.

Either way, it starts at the library.

He’d ducked inside to escape a sudden downpour, the sharp scent of wet pavement still clinging to his jacket, and there she was—bookworm.

Her hair was pinned loosely at the nape of her neck, a pencil tucked behind one ear, her hands deftly sorting books into neat stacks. She hadn’t noticed him at first, too busy rearranging the circulation desk into some private order only she understood. But then she glanced up, and their eyes met, and Frankie forgot for a moment how to breathe.

She’d smiled—a small, polite curve of her lips that didn’t quite reach her eyes. He’d managed to nod, maybe mumble something resembling “hey,” before retreating to the nearest aisle like a complete idiot.

—

Later, he’ll think maybe he conjured the whole thing. Like he wanted it so bad, so deep-down-in-his-bones bad, that the universe finally caved and handed it to him. A gift wrapped in irritation and crossed arms.

He’s just gotten home from a late shift, his body heavy with exhaustion, when a knock sounds at the door. His heart does a stupid little flip, a hopeful leap he’ll deny later. It’s gotta be her. Girl Scouts don’t hustle cookies this late, and Santi’s under strict orders not to bother him unless someone’s bleeding out or already dead.

When he opens the door, there she is, a stormcloud expression in place, arms folded tight across her chest. Her mouth is a taut line of annoyance, but even like this—especially like this—she’s too damn pretty.

"Hey." He leans casually against the doorframe, or at least he tries. His pulse is a drumbeat in his ears, frantic and unsteady. "What’s up?"

Her eyes flash, all dark fire and frustration. "Bukowski got out again." The words are clipped, each one edged with irritation.

"Shit, really?" He glances at his window out of instinct. Still shut tight. He scratches the back of his neck. "I haven’t seen him."

She exhales sharply, a sound somewhere between a sigh and a growl. "Well, he’s not in my apartment, and your place is the only one he’s ever snuck into before, so."

Frankie drags a hand over his face, more to hide the grin tugging at his lips than out of frustration. "Alright. Gimme a second." He grabs his jacket from the coat rack, shrugging into it as he pulls the door shut behind him. "Did you check the alley? Sometimes I see him poking around the dumpsters back there."

Her nose wrinkles, a delicate crinkle of disdain that’s somehow unfairly adorable. "Gross."

A laugh startles out of him. "Hey, don't knock it till you've tried it. Dumpsters are like catnip to alley cats."

"Bukowski," she says with a frankly alarming amount of dignity, "is not an alley cat."

He holds up his hands, fighting a smile. "My mistake. Lead the way, princess."

—

They find the wayward feline sunning himself on the hood of Frankie's shitty third-hand Corolla, fur black against the rusting blue paint. Frankie eyes the fresh scratches on the driver's side door with resignation. Makes a mental note to start parking on the next block.

She marches up to the car, hands on her hips. "Bukowski Theodore Hemingway, you are in so much trouble."

It's official. She's the cutest thing he's ever seen.

He watches as she scoops up the unrepentant cat, fingers sinking into thick fur. Remembers the cool slide of her palm against his. The delicate veins in her wrist.

"Looks like he's got a taste for adventure," he jokes, sticking his hands in the pockets of his sherpa jacket to stop himself from reaching for her. "Regular little escape artist."

She frowns, shifting the cat to get a better grip. "I just don't understand why he keeps coming here. It's not like you're feeding him or anything."

Frankie shakes his head. "Just my rampant animal magnetism."

That startles a laugh out of her, bright and unconscious. He thinks he could get drunk on that sound, learn to crave it like a drug.

She looks up at him from beneath her lashes, something almost shy in the tilt of her mouth. "Must be."

And God, he wants to kiss her. Wants to pull her closer, hook his fingers into the belt loops of her jeans and erase the tiny space between them. Wants to let his hands map the curve of her waist, thread into the dark silk of her hair until she’s sighing against his mouth. Wants to find out if her lips taste as soft as they look, if the heat of her blush runs all the way down to the hollow of her throat—

She clears her throat, studying the top of Bukowski's head with sudden fascination. "Well. Thanks for helping me look. And sorry again for the trouble."

"Anytime."

He keeps his hands to himself.

Barely.

—

Things go back to normal after that.

Or at least, his version of normal, which mostly involves work and sleep and precious little else. He goes out drinking with Santi and Benny a couple times, flirts with any woman who looks his way out of habit more than actual interest. But his mind's never really in it. He always finds himself watching the door like he's waiting for something.

Someone.

He tries telling himself it's pathetic, pining over a girl he's barely spoken to. That he's building her up in his head, spinning some kind of bullshit fairy tale out of a few chance encounters.

But then he'll catch a glimpse of her through her living room window, hair spilling across the pages of an open book, lips moving soundlessly as she reads. Or he'll hear her laugh drifting through the open window as he drinks his coffee and a rare smoke on the fire escape, soft and secret in the velvet dark. And he thinks maybe it's not so pathetic to want something real for once.

—

When Bukowski shows up again, he's ready.

He leaves his window cracked just wide enough for a determined cat to squeeze through. Starts storing spare cans of tuna on the top shelf of the pantry. Feigns surprise every time the furry little monster appears like a grouchy apparition on his kitchen counter.

These days, his girl barely makes it through a cursory lecture before she's sighing and rolling her eyes, resigned to her pet's delinquent ways.

And if their hands sometimes brush as he passes the cat over, lingering a beat too long to be strictly accidental...well. That's just a bonus.

—

"Thanks for this," she says for what must be the dozenth time, sweet mouth curving ruefully as she tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "I promise I'm not sending him over on purpose. He's just..."

"Got a mind of his own," Frankie finishes, tearing his gaze away from the tan curve of her throat. "I get it. You can't control who you love."

Something flickers across her face too quick to catch and her smile slips, a brief dimming that makes his chest ache. But it's back before he can blink, smooth and distant as rippled glass.

"Still. I'll try to keep a closer eye on him from now on." She hitches the cat higher on her hip, slender fingers sinking into dark fur. "See you around, Frankie."

—

After that, he leaves the window shut tight. Pretends he can't hear the plaintive yowling from the alley below. Bullies Benny into taking the extra cans of tuna cluttering up his shelves.

It was stupid to think this thing between them could be anything more than a few scattered moments. A collection of almost strung together with foolish hope.

Girls like her don't end up with guys like him. He's got no business wanting what he can't have. No business dragging her into his mess of a life.

So, he stays away from the window. Throws himself into work, picking up extra shifts until he's too tired to think straight. Ignores the sharp bite of loss in his chest whenever he catches a flash of dark hair from the corner of his eye.

It's better this way.

—

He almost makes it a week before she corners him on the front stoop, arms crossed and eyes snapping.

"Did I do something wrong?"

He stares at her, momentarily speechless. She's a vision in the golden wash of the porch light, cheeks flushed and hair tumbling wild around her face.

She's never looked more beautiful. Or more pissed.

"What?" He finally manages, feeling wrong-footed and awkward in a way he hasn't since he was a pimply fourteen playing spin the bottle in Rosie Alvarez's basement.

Her mouth firms. "You're avoiding me."

It's not a question but he shakes his head anyway, instinct urging him to deny. "No, I'm not."

"Bullshit." She steps closer, close enough that he can smell her. "I thought we were..." She pauses, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. "I don't know. Connecting, maybe." Her shoulders hitch, just a little, and his heart squeezes painfully behind his ribs. "But now you won't even look at me."

Frankie doesn’t know how to respond to that. He’s never been good with words, not the kind that matter, not the kind that don’t come out clumsy and wrong.

When he says nothing, she crosses her arms tighter, like she’s holding herself together.

"I don’t even know why I’m here," she says, pacing now a little, her arms crossing and uncrossing like she doesn’t know what to do with them. "I’ve been talking myself out of this for days. Weeks, maybe. Telling myself I’m being ridiculous, that I shouldn’t care, that I don’t need this."

"I'm not good at this, Frankie. At flirting or...or making my intentions known. I've always been alone and I thought I was okay with that. Content, even. But then you showed up with your stupid handsome face and your awful secret cigarettes on the fire escape and suddenly I'm lying awake at night wondering what it would be like to have someone. And I thought maybe you..." She trails off, scrubbing furiously at her eyes. "God, I'm so stupid. Of course you don't—"

Her name comes out low and rough, like it’s been scraped from the deepest part of him, and it cuts her off mid-sentence. Her gaze snaps up to his, her eyes wide, shining with a mix of anger and embarrassment and something heartbreakingly soft.

"You talk too much," he murmurs, his lips twitching into the faintest, most lopsided smile.

And before she can respond—before she can talk herself in circles or tear herself down anymore—he cups her face in his hands and kisses her.

It’s not a perfect kiss. He’s too rough, too desperate, his calloused thumbs brushing against the softness of her cheeks as his mouth finds hers. But the way she melts into him, the way her hands grip the front of his jacket like she’s afraid he’ll vanish if she lets go, makes him think that maybe perfection doesn’t matter.

Her lips are soft, warm, and she tastes faintly of peppermint tea, like she’s been drinking it to calm herself down. But he doesn’t think either of them are calm now. He’s trembling, just a little, as he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, and she makes a soft, startled sound in the back of her throat that just about undoes him.

When they finally pull apart, her cheeks are flushed, her lips pink and kiss-swollen, and she’s staring up at him like she doesn’t quite believe what just happened.

"Sweetheart. You have no idea how much I want you."

She blinks up at him, dark lashes spiky with tears. "You...you do?"

He has to laugh at the genuine confusion in her voice. Has to kiss her again, soft and slow and so sweet he aches with it. "I really, really do."

—

When Frankie wakes up the next morning he finds her watching him. Her hair is a tangled mess around her face, cheeks still flushed with the fading imprint of his kisses.

She reaches out, traces the curve of his jaw with a fingertip. "Hi."

His throat feels tight, crammed full of words he doesn't know how to shape. He turns his head. Presses a kiss to her palm. "Morning."

She smiles, slow and sweet as honey. "For a minute there, I thought I imagined you."

"Oh yeah?" He tugs her closer. Fits his body to the warm curves of hers. "Hate to disappoint, but I'm very real."

A laugh shivers through her. He feels it everywhere they're touching. Everywhere they're not. "I can see that."

He kisses her then. Can't not. Feels like he'll die if he doesn't get his mouth on her. She arches into him. Makes a noise that shoots straight to his groin.

He rolls her beneath him. Smoothes his hands down her sides. Over the dip of her waist. The flare of her hips. She gasps. Clutches at his shoulders. Nails biting into his skin.

A sudden clatter breaks the hush.

Frankie's head snaps up. There, silhouetted in the window. A familiar furry face.

Bukowski blinks. Yowls.

Frankie barks a laugh.

"Guess he was playing matchmaker all along, huh?" he teases, his voice a low rumble.

She huffs a laugh, her smile widening, her eyes bright with mischief. "Guess so."

Another yowl interrupts them, louder this time, and Frankie glances back at the window. The cat sits there, tail twitching impatiently, clearly unimpressed by their lack of urgency.

Frankie sighs dramatically, his face twisting into mock exasperation. "Alright, alright. I can take a hint."

He disentangles himself reluctantly. Pads naked to the window. Opens it just wide enough for Bukowski to slink through. The cat immediately winds around his ankles. Purring.

"Yeah, yeah. You're a regular Cupid." He scoops the furry devil up. Dumps him unceremoniously on the bed. "Now scram. We're busy."

She laughs. Reaches for him. "Come back to bed, Frankie."

He goes. Willingly. Eagerly.

Somewhere in the tangle of the sheets Bukowski meows.

Once. Twice.

Neither of them hear it.

#pedrostoriesgift24 #frankie morales x reader #excuse me as I go and - *sobs with love*

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