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thelightsandtheroses · 5 days

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This is so fun and I loved the group chat - so relatable if i was them 😂

Looking forward to reading more!

Delta Landscaping | Chapter 2

The Neighborhood Watch Begins

Series Summary: In this AU, the boys of Delta Force start a new business post-Colombia.

Series Masterlist

Rating: Explicit (18+) - not right away, but putting this here as a blanket rating

Word Count: 3.7k

Chapter Warnings: Two of the characters we meet in this chapter are widows, and there is a brief mention of how both of their husbands passed.

A/N: Thank you so much for all the love and amazing feedback on Chapter 1! It seriously tickles me that there are others who find this universe as hilarious and fun as I do.

Although the Triple Frontier boys are the stars of the show, I wanted to explore some of their neighbors’ stories as well. Who knows, maybe some of these characters may play a larger role down the line. One of the neighbors we meet in this chapter, Lucille, is particularly dear to me because she is loosely based on my late abuela.

Finally, one last thing before this chapter – we go slightly back in time from where we ended Chapter 1. This chapter starts a few weeks after Will and Benny move in. Ok, I’m done rambling now … back to Torrey Hills and the shenanigans of Mulefall Court. *cue the Real Housewives music bump*

“¡Mierda! I have more cilantro than I know what to do with,” Lucille says to herself as she grabs some cilantro from her herb garden. “Ay, Julio, I think I’m going to make the boys some food today. Sweet Francisco liked the frijoles I brought over last week and if I have time, I can make some empanadas. Benny practically inhaled them the last time I took them over,” Lucille chuckles to herself.

She had gotten better about not talking to Julio, it had been a year and a half since he passed, but every once in a while she would still talk to him like he was right there next to her.

Lucille and Julio Alvarez were one of the first residents to move to Torrey Hills back in the 90s. The pair saw every neighbor come and go from the block. Julio was the unofficial mayor of Mulefall Court, always inviting neighbors over to his house for get-togethers. And Lucille was the perfect hostess – the life of the party, who could carry a conversation with anyone with anyone, dance, and still manage to find enough time to put together a spread worthy of a Food Network cooking show.

Although they never had children of their own, the couple loved kids and quickly became pseudo-grandparents to the children on the block, including Megan’s son Connor.

Megan and her late husband Jacob moved to Torrey Hills when Connor was four. From the outside, they seemed like a perfect family – young, successful, good-looking, and happy.

Then, Megan’s life was drastically turned upside down one Saturday in January. Jacob went cycling early in the morning, a light mist resting above the ground. It was a weekend routine of his, to go for an early ride before he and Megan would take Connor somewhere fun like the zoo or aquarium.

Unfortunately, he did not make it home that morning. A distracted driver collided with him and he was pronounced dead at the scene. Suddenly, Megan found herself thrust into life as a single mother, trying to piece her life together while continuing to raise her son.

Lucille and Julio helped however they could – babysitting Connor when Megan had to unexpectedly work late or finding an excuse to take him on an adventure to the park or ice cream shop, any way to get him out of the house so Megan had some time to herself.

As Connor grew up, Lucille and Julio were right there. Julio, a former professional baseball player, was the one who taught Connor how to throw a baseball. He tried to influence the boy’s athletic endeavors and supported him in whatever he wanted to do, even though it did break his heart a little when Connor developed an obsession with basketball.

They celebrated birthdays, took day trips to Disney World, and Lucille and Julio were there the day Megan surprised Connor with the dog he had always dreamed of, a corgi he named Bucky after his favorite Marvel character.

The kindness, care, and compassion Lucille extended to Megan was reciprocated nearly a decade to the day after Jacob's death. After a quiet battle with cancer, Julio passed away peacefully with Lucille at his side. It was the first time in 50 years that Lucille had been away from Julio for more than a couple of days.

The couple grew up down the street from each other in Cuba, their families were longtime friends. They both immigrated around the same time, but lost contact. Julio came to the United States by himself ahead of his mother and spent a few years in Sacramento, while Lucille and her family went to Miami. After his mother finally came to the United States, Julio made the trip out to meet her in Miami. It didn’t take long for Julio and Lucille to find each other again and once Lucille turned 18, they decided to get married.

Megan and Connor stepped up for her while they were both mourning as well. They visited Lucille throughout the week, sometimes just to stop by to say hi, other times stopping by to cook a meal together, play board games, or watch the Game Show Network, Lucille always loved Family Feud.

Connor placed a lot of pressure on himself to not only be the man of his own home, but Lucille’s as well. Over the years, Julio tried to teach Connor how to do minor home repairs, to varying degrees of success. Without Julio, Connor took to YouTube and TikTok to not only learn how to fix things but also come up with little fun projects he could do to bring a smile to Lucille’s face, or Lulu as he called her. He taught himself how to make a planter box for her herbs as a surprise and tried his hand at mending her fence following a tropical storm.

Lucille and Megan went through a lot over the past 12 years experiencing a range of emotions from heartbreak to pure happiness. Also, over that time, the duo became the defacto neighborhood welcoming committee. Although they weren’t super close with every single one of their neighbors, they tried to extend some semblance of hospitality to everyone who moved in – including to the two handsome men who moved directly next door to Lucille.

Will and Benny were quick to befriend Lucille after she greeted them one day with a tray of lemonade and cookies as they were out working on their front lawn with their two equally handsome friends in tow. She found the boys were courteous neighbors, always asking if she needed help around the house.

Although she didn’t want all of the fuss, she would humor them by having them fix small things for her like changing a lightbulb or fixing a leak in her bathroom. She was careful to not give them too many jobs, keeping small tasks aside for her favorite neighbor and frequent visitor, Connor.

But, she was in awe at the complete transformation of 319 Mulefall Court from its sad, dilapidated look to a pristine, beautiful home any HGTV show would love to feature. And as much as she loved Connor, the boy oftentimes caused more problems than he fixed. So, when she was sitting on her front porch reading a book, she stopped Benny on his way home after a jog.

“Hola Ms. Lucille,” Benny waved to his neighbor. He had taken his shirt off during his run, tucking it into the waistband of his athletic shorts, so he quickly slipped it back on as he made his way up her driveway.

“I speak English, Benjamin,” Lucille snorted. She liked to tease him about speaking Spanish, but she was actually quite impressed with how much Spanish Benny actually understood. When she would kid with Francisco and Santiago, she found Benny laughing along with them, following the conversation. He definitely knew more than he let on, but was always a bit apprehensive about trying to speak, especially around his friends.

“Sorry, I have to practice when I can. I just … I feel like I’ve learned more living next to you these last few weeks than all the years I’ve known Fish and Pope,” he laughed nervously as he took off his hat and ruffled his hair.

“I’m just playing with you, mi cielo. Besides, those two probably just taught you all of the bad words,” she winked.

“You’re not wrong there,” he smiled. “Hey, when I was in the back yesterday I noticed another part of your fence that looks like it may need some mending. Want me to come over sometime this week?”

“Oh you don’t have to bother with all of that, it’s fine,” she waved him off.

“C’mon, I can’t just sit there and let you have a hole in your fence. Just, let me fix it.” He leaned against the railing on her porch.

She couldn’t resist the puppy dog eyes he was giving her. She had to give it to him, he was a charmer.

“Ok, but on one condition,” she raised her eyebrow as he nodded. “You have to have Connor help you. The boy could stand to have some nice young men to look up to and learn a thing or two from.”

Benny blushed. He didn’t feel like he was a person anyone should ever look up to, not with his past and the things he had done and seen. He didn’t quite know how to respond to Lucille.

She sensed a darkness flicker over the man in front of her. Although she had only known Benny for a couple of weeks, she always saw him as a happy-go-lucky, energetic, yet sweet and considerate man. But seeing how he reacted to her comment, she knew there was something that troubled him.

“Besides,” she decided to cut the awkward silence. “He spends too much time with me, and as hip as I am, I can’t quite relate to him all of the time anymore. It was easier when he was younger.”

“I gotcha, Ms. Lucille. I’ll talk to Megan about getting Connor over here with us and we’ll all fix the fence as…um…un equipo,” he smiled.

_______________________

The next morning on her walk with Bucky, Megan spotted Benny in the garage cleaning the lawn mower.

"Careful or we may all end up hiring you to do our lawns too!" She called over to him with a wink.

He was crouched down facing away from her, a wet patch forming on the small of his back from the sweat. He stopped what he was doing and turned around to see who was talking. Seeing it was Megan (and Bucky), he quickly got up, wiped his hands on a towel, and walked to the front of the driveway.

"Oh hey Mrs. Me- I mean, hey Megan! Ha, I figure you all already have people to do that."

“By people, you mean a 16-year-old who I pay in pizza rolls and video games,” she laughed. “By the way, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I like what you've done with the place, the flowers are really pretty."

Benny was proud of the work he and the boys had done, so any excuse to hear compliments made him grin from ear to ear.

"Thanks, it's been a fun…distraction. I like having projects, I’m actually going to help Ms. Lucille this week and fix her fence with the boys. Do you think that’s something Connor may want to help with? I heard he’s kinda handy. I don’t want to creep in on his territory…”

"Uh oh, are you going to make me the one to tell him there is some hot new competition on the block doing home repairs!"

Benny blushed and took his hat off briefly to comb through his hair before putting it back on.

“I think it’s nice that you want to help Lucille. God love him, but Connor tries to help but he isn’t as … skilled as you guys. He’s had to learn everything by himself.”

“I’m happy to teach him – I’m not a professional by any means, I leave that to my cousins,” Benny cracked a smile. “But I know my way around some tools, enough to be handy.”

“Yea, I think he’d like that. Since Julio passed, Connor doesn’t really have too many men to talk to besides his coach. I think he’d like to … I don’t know, talk with you guys? No pressure or anything, I’m not looking to impose.”

Benny smiled, knowing there was a lot left unsaid. He hadn’t asked too much about either Megan or Ms. Lucille’s past, he just knew both women were widows. But he knew even less about Connor. From what he had seen, he seemed like a good kid, he clearly was if Megan raised him.

“Cool, well maybe between him and the guys and me we can get it done faster so he can go back to playing video games or whatever the hell else kids do these days,” he chuckled. “I’ll text you when we figure out which day we’re going to do it, we’ll probably need to make a Home Depot run or something so maybe he can come with us for that too?”

"Awesome, hey thanks. I think he’ll find it fun," she smiled back at him and turned to continue her walk.

"Wait!" He called, wanting to catch her before she walked away.

"I have something for Bucky, hold up."

He jogged back to the opened garage to a container marked "treats" and pulled out a Milkbone bar.

"This ok to give him?" He showed Megan the treat as Bucky perked up, his little legs going tippy tap on the pavement.

"Oh shit, now he's going to make a beeline here every walk," she sighed.

___________________________

Later that day, Megan and Connor came over to visit Lucille after she called saying she had some leftover empanadas, one of Connor’s weaknesses. As the duo walked towards Lucille’s, Megan took stock of the cars parked in the 319 Mulefall Court driveway, thanks in part to Connor who helped her identify the makes and models: a red Jeep Wrangler, a black TransAm, a green Colorado truck, and a white Volvo C70 convertible.

“Looks like it’s a full house over there, wonder if they’re having a party,” Megan nodded toward the driveway. “Speaking of, I was talking to Benny, he asked if maybe you wanted to go over and help the guys with a project at Lulu’s this week.”

“What project? She hasn’t told me anything needed to be fixed,” Connor looked confused.

“Oh, he mentioned it was something about her fence – I guess he can see it from his backyard. Could be fun for you to have some help? Could learn something…”

Megan hadn’t had a chance to broach the subject with her son and she was a little unsure how he would react.

Connor took a second before responding. “Y-yea, I mean. If they don’t mind.”

“Oh no, it was Benny’s idea!”

“Uh, ok. Yea, that’s cool.”

Megan smiled to herself, seeing her son walk with a little more pep in his step at the idea that the four older guys wanted to maybe spend time with him.

As they walked into Lucille’s house, they smelled more than just leftover empanadas. Megan rolled her eyes. She should have known better. Rather than just “a few of leftover empanadas” Lucille had made a whole spread.

“Wow, it smells amazing in here, Lulu!”

Lucille came from around the corner, wiping her hands on her apron with a big grin on her face.

“I just whipped up a few things, it’s simmering, and should be done soon. Ven mijito,” she motioned to Connor to sit down as she grabbed a plate. “I made empanadas de picadillo, you’re favorite.”

“Yes!” Connor eagerly sat at the table, as Lucille put the plate in front of him.

“Megan dear, would you mind coming upstairs with me? I’m sorting through some old jewelry and I was wondering if you wanted anything.”

“Uh, sure...” she knew Lucille was up to something because Megan hardly wore jewelry.

The two ladies made their way up the stairs and into Lucille’s bedroom, straight towards the two large windows that formed the corner of her room.

“Do you keep your jewelry in the window frames?” Megan snorted. She really had no idea what Lucille was up to.

“No tonta, something better is over here,” she motioned out of the window.

Walking over to the windows, Megan saw a perfectly unobstructed view into the next-door neighbor’s backyard where four men were relaxing and enjoying a chill pool day. She quickly scanned to see what they all were up to.

Frankie was by the grill, beer in hand. He opened the grill to flip some of the burgers and skewers, taking his signature hat off to wipe the sweat from his forehead. It didn’t look like he had gotten in the pool yet. He was wearing a plain white T-shirt with blue and green striped swim trunks and some flip flops. He was bobbing his head to the music playing from the bluetooth speakers perched on the porch.

Santiago was laying on a pool float in black swim trunks, a little shorter in length than Frankie’s. He had his sunglasses on so it was hard to tell if he was taking a nap or not, but he had one arm folded behind his head and the other one resting on his stomach.

The Miller brothers were throwing a football around in the yard. Will, dressed in just red swim trunks, stayed by the back porch near Frankie as his brother, donned in hot pink swim trunks and a black backward baseball cap, ran different routes across the backyard. After urging his brother to throw a harder pass, Benny bobbled it, resulting in the ball landing in the pool, splashing Santiago – who clearly had been taking a nap.

Lucille’s windows were closed, so they couldn’t hear what the boys were saying but it was clearly some good-natured ribbing. Santiago swam to the edge of the pool, pulling himself out of the water and then promptly chasing after Benny, tackling him in the lawn as they laughed. Eventually the two got up and headed back toward the porch, but as they passed the pool Santiago pushed Benny in – his final revenge for having his nap interrupted.

“How long have you been holding out on me Lulu?” Megan smirked, knocking her shoulder into the older woman.

“It’s a pretty nice show isn’t it.” she giggled. "Wait, what are you doing?"

"Taking a picture for Katie. I think she may have a crush on Will and what kind of friend would I be if I didn't report a discovery like this?" Megan smirked.

Katie was the newest member of the neighborhood until the Millers moved in. After her divorce, she packed her life up and decided to move to Florida on her own. She wanted to escape the cold and, more importantly, anything that would remind her of her ex. Since she worked from home, it seemed like an easy decision.

She originally had her sights set on 319 Mulefall Court and its expensive backyard. She didn't mind projects, but that house was a little too far gone for her so she decided on the other fixer-upper on the block, 323 Mulefall Court.

Megan liked Katie and quickly brought her into the fold, including the coveted neighborhood group chat. Though Megan didn’t date too often, she found herself going out occassionally with Katie, acting as her wingwoman. Megan also tried setting Katie up with her coworkers and friends of friends, but nobody ever seemed to catch Katie’s eye.

But, when Megan met Will she just knew she had to introduce him to Katie. They were both good looking, so she had no doubts there would be a physical attraction. For the little she knew of Will, he seemed to be considerate and respectful and although he was more reserved than his boisterous little brother, he had a quirky, dry sense of humor. Katie was also a bit on the quiet side, but she was a lot of fun once she felt comfortable.

Megan: *sends photo*

"This is going to be good … let's see what they say," she smirked, showing Lucille her phone.

"Ay díos mio. You all are too much!"

"I see David typing, I knew he would be the first one!"

David: Where are you, why didn’t you invite me, and can I come?

Tyson: 👀 ok, but seriously….

Olivia: Megan!! A warning next time, holy shit the kids had my phone!

Melissa: oh my…

Megan: 🤭 I just had to. This is Lucille's view.

Tyson: Damn, Ms. Lucille! I see you with a front row to the eye candy! 👏🏼

David: Is it just him out there or are the others there too? I'm trying to see the one that always wears the hat off. 🥵

Melissa: Which one, D? There are two who always have hats on.

David: The one with the dark hair.

Tyson: Jesus Christ, David. How many times do I have to tell you his name is Frankie?!

David: Yessssss 😍

Megan: *sends photo*

Megan: Just for you D! 😘

David: PAPI!! 😍

David: You're a real one Megan!

Megan: Katie?! Are you there? You've been quiet …

Katie: I don't even know what to say … 😂

Melissa: Oooo Katie, do you think Will is hot?!

Olivia: Oh, Katie! Please say yes. If I wasn't married I'd climb that man like a tree!

Katie: You guys!! Ms. Lucille is on this group chat!

Lucille: Mi amor, I have eyes.

David: Hell yes you do queen!!

David: So when can we come over?!

Katie: We shouldn't spy on them…c'mon…

David: Boooo

Megan: Well, I have thoughts. They’re coming over to fix Lucille’s fence this week. It wouldn’t be spying if we are already over here for a…happy hour? Also thinking we invite them to a pool party of our own. 😉

Melissa: I love that idea!! We are happy to host the party, we just finished the pool this week!

Olivia: Oh that would be awesome, anything to tire out the kids so they actually sleep.

Tyson: Yess! What a great way to get to know our neighbors … right? I mean, we want to make sure they feel verrry welcome here. 😜

Megan: It’s a plan!

Megan: *changes the name of the group chat to “Neighborhood Watch”

David: LOL! Wtf is Neighborhood Watch?

Megan: It’s for Olivia - that way when she sees this chat she knows there may be something not kid friendly on it lol

Olivia: 🤦🏾‍♀️ You all are too damn much!!

Megan: Ok, it’s settled. I’ll let you know when the guys are going to come over to fix the fence. When you're all here we can plan the party. Now, got to go! Lucille and I are going to get back to our view!

David: Ughhh of all days for us to go to the beach. Thanks a lot Ty!

Tyson: Love you too babe!

“This is going to be fun,” Megan said triumphantly over to Lucille who was just shaking her head as she was reading through the texts.

Next Chapter

A/N: We’ll learn more about the other members of the group chat throughout the next couple of chapters.

Let me know if you want to be on the tag list moving forward!! Apologies if I accidentally left you off. I added everyone below manually and may have missed someone … just let me know!

@goodwithcheese / @gemmahale / @trulybetty / @patti7dc / @periodtsparadox / @ramblers-lets-get-ramblin / @maggiemayhemnj / @mysterious-moonstruck-musings / @avastrasposts / @meveispunk / @chaoticfestninja / @beholdbebravethings / @casa-boiardi / @katw474 / @linzels-blog / @laughing-in-th3-purple-rain / @primosworld / @lynnchun / @anoverwhelmingdin /@lilmizmoz / @pedrit0-pascalit0 / @titlee78 / @noisynightmarepoetry / @legendary-pink-dot

#fic rec #triple frontier #rhoorl

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thelightsandtheroses · 5 days

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Rules! List 5 topics you can talk about for at least an hour without any preparation. Tag others to find out their topics.

Thank you so much for the tag @undercoverpena 🩷

Coffee - to misquote the Gilmore Girls, it’s a lifestyle. I don’t drink more than two cups a day usually but I am a coffee fiend and while some people baked bread in lockdown, I made lattes. I have at least three different coffee making apparatus in the house, including my beloved espresso machine. I often joke making people coffee is my love language.

Triple Frontier - I think this one is self-explanatory

TLOU - as is this one, but I can, and have, spent a long time discussing my thoughts about the show, game and wider world (not part 2 though, not part 2) in fact we could widen this and say the dystopian/post apocalyptic genre as a whole maybe?

Books - I love books and have been a voracious reader since I was really young. I read a fairly wide range of genres, but I always have a soft spot for a romcom. I like reading both a physical book and ebook and I do have StoryGraph if anyone wants to be friends there.

Skincare - I used to be a real skincare girlie, I’ve toned my personal routine down a lot more now but I am the person people in my family go to if they’re not sure what to do about skincare routines. Also while a lot of the tiktok skincare isn’t my thing, I have to say the LRP Cicaplast is lush.

No pressure tags: @joelsgreys @iamskyereads @burntheedges @tightjeansjavi @pastelnap @celestianstars @saradika @wyn-n-tonic @trulybetty @lavendertales

#ask games #get to know lolabee

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thelightsandtheroses · 6 days

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#another reason to hate Fox

#not pedro pascal #911 #loving this so much - good for the cast

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thelightsandtheroses · 6 days

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I love this idea so much and I am loving the fic so far. There are so many great moments building between Dieter and the reader - I particularly really enjoyed the exchange over Bluetooth. And I think Dieter needs someone who can be honest and real with him so I’m excited to see where it goes.

You write the reader’s neurodivergence really well - the anxieties and uncertainties and also how Dieter’s gradually picking them up as he gets to know her.

Can’t wait to read more!

bright lights - part i [dieter bravo x neurodivergent!f!reader]

summary: Dieter Bravo is a man so complicated that his personal assistant needs her own personal assistant just to keep up with his demands, and that’s where you come in. Part time, flexible hours, and a free place to live—you can’t imagine a more perfect gig. You don’t even mind the budding crush you have on Mr. Bravo; that is, until your boss falls ill right before awards season, leaving you to pick up the slack. Making Dieter’s appointments is one thing, but being in charge of him seems like an impossible task. Especially when you think he might have a crush on you, too. chapter rating/warnings: M [some slightly lusty thoughts from both parties, dual POV, sensory issues, Dieter is a menace but he is respectful, angst-ish, descriptions of insecurity and feeling misunderstood, relationship confusion, descriptions of food in kind of a sexy way, reader has some named favorite things, I think that's it for now] wc: ~ 7.1k a/n: please go to @ezrasbirdie-updates to be notified of updates! all my love always tp @starlightmornings and @haylzcyon for reassuring me this isn't garbage and betaing. here it is! we're getting set up now, so there's quite a bit of exposition on their relationship and and how/why reader does some of the things she does. I wrote this for the neurospicy girls (gn) but I'm hoping people of all neurotypes gives this little story a chance. I've had so much fun getting to know them so far, and I hope you will, too<3

masterlist | series masterlist | dieter bravo masterlist | next

The tag on the back of your shirt scrapes the top of your spine every time your head swivels. You hate this shirt for this exact reason, yet it lives in your closet just to taunt you on laundry day when every tagless piece of clothing you own is soaking wet because you have, once again, forgotten to put the clothes in the dryer.

Every couple of weeks you tell yourself you’ll wash it and donate it; give it to someone who doesn’t hate the feel of a jagged fingernail scratching the base of their neck, but somehow it sneaks its way back into the closet to offer itself as a last resort.

It’s possessed; you’re sure of it.

Were it ugly, you might be able to get rid of it more easily, but it’s not. It flatters you, sitting perfectly at your waist with a neckline just low enough to show a work-appropriate amount of cleavage. It’s perfect for a first day at a new job where you’re not sure what clothes you can get away with yet.

Especially a job like this.

Part-time personal assistant to the full-time personal assistant of Dieter Bravo is not a job you’d ever anticipated, but your cousin’s best friend, Christina, was desperate when she’d asked and you were desperate for steady income.

You aren’t close to Christina, but she’s one of the only people you know out here, so you’d crossed your fingers and hoped she wasn’t getting you involved with a pyramid scheme or some cult. The whole thing still seems too good to be true.

She wouldn’t tell you who you’d be working for until you’d signed about a dozen NDAs and a one-year contract. As you’d signed your looping signature over and over, you thought, maybe, some of this is a red flag, but what else do you have to do for the next year? Go back home?

You’d moved out here to make movies, but quickly figured out you’re not built for this industry. The very last thing you wanted was to go back home to a bunch of I-told-you-sos from your parents. At least this gig got you a free place to live in the form of a guesthouse that’s twice as big as the apartment you’d been renting month to month.

You’re even allowed to use the pool.

Not that you will ever be using Dieter Bravo’s pool.

You know very little about the man himself, other than him being a famous actor. He won an Oscar for a movie you found to be a little on the nose, he has an ex-wife he met on the set of some dinosaur movie that was never released, he’s been to rehab twice in the last three years, and he’s infamous for being difficult to work with. Most of this, of course, is according to gossip websites and supermarket tabloid headlines.

The difficult-to-work with part, however, seems true enough.

“He needs a lot of attention,” Christina’d told you when you asked what exactly you’d be doing. “And I need help getting very basic shit done around here. You try going to the bank for the man while he’s having yet another midlife crisis.”

“It can’t be that bad, can it?” You’d laughed.

“It can and it is.”

“Why stay?”

Christina hadn’t answered at first, and you’d worried you’d gone too far—you’d always had a bad habit of asking questions out of sheer curiosity that were, sometimes, wholly inappropriate.

She’d pursed her lips and taken a sip from the to-go cup in her hand. “He pays better than anyone else in this town, and gave a stipend for my own personal assistant when I threatened to leave. And he’s…not so bad. He’s very sweet, most of the time. Just, you know, a huge baby. Sometimes he needs a bit of a firm hand to keep him on track.”

Christina was never someone you’d have described as firm. Ambitious, hard-working, organized, sure, but she’s also squishy like a lightly toasted marshmallow. You’d said nothing—you learned in your teen years people absolutely did not want to be corrected about their perceptions of themselves. If she thinks she’s a firm hand, you won’t argue.

Just as you manage to get that accursed tag laying in a direction that bothers you least, Christina arrives at your front door.

“Good morning,” you chirp, determined to be in a pleasant mood on your first day. “Watch the boxes! I’m still getting unpacked.”

“Good morning,” she replies, taking in the front room of your new living space. “Settling in? How do you like it?”

“It’s great!” You say, and she raises her eyebrow like she doesn’t believe you. “Really. It’s way bigger than where I was living. And I don’t have a roommate.”

“You had a roommate in a place smaller than this?”

“The living room was technically my bedroom. And it’s really pretty roomy when there’s no one to share it with.” You don’t hold her skepticism against her, but the guesthouse is more than enough for your needs. One bedroom, one bathroom, a kitchenette, and a living room with a view of the magnificent pool is paradise in comparison to where you’d been. The kitchenette only has a sink and microwave, but you’d made do with less in college.

You’ll put up with a lot for zero dollars a month rent.

And it’s nice, too. No leaky faucets, no shoddily installed locks, no insane charge for parking. And best of all, it’s all yours. You’re the luckiest girl in the whole world right now.

So you absolutely cannot be in a bad mood at all, even if it’s starting to feel like someone’s driving a pocket knife into your spine.

Satisfied (if a little unsettled) with your answers regarding your previous living situation, Christina leads you into the main house for a tour.

You’d moved most of your things into the guesthouse over the weekend and have yet to see even a peek of Dieter Bravo.

As you cross the courtyard to the main house, the pristine pool water sparkles in the sun, so bright you have to squint. “Is he here?” You ask as you trail behind Christina like a baby duck.

“No,” she says, checking her watch. “He should be back sometime this morning if his flight is on time, which it was the last time I looked. He was at a wellness retreat all weekend.”

“What kind of wellness retreat?” You ask.

“Tantra,” she says, unlocking the large sliding glass door that leads into the kitchen.

“I didn’t realize he was with someone,” you say, taking in the sheer size of the place.

“He’s not,” Christina says, and you decide you don’t need to ask anymore questions related to his whereabouts.

Christina flicks on the overhead lights, despite all the sunshine pouring in the floor to ceiling windows. It takes a moment to take in the open floor plan and fifteen foot ceilings. Everything is immaculately clean, almost antiseptic with its gleaming surfaces. It’s all black or white or both, and it doesn’t go at all with the man you’ve seen splashed across magazine covers.

Color. You’d expected more color.

Christina sets her things down on the large kitchen island and motions for you to do the same. “He’s never down here,” she explains, gesturing to the room at large, and it makes more sense now. Why customize a space you don’t spend any time in?

You’re suddenly a lot more curious about this man with his enormous industrial kitchen and dark marble floors and gray oversized sectional.

Christina leads you upstairs into a long hall with tall windows on one side and half a dozen doors on the other. “All the guest rooms are the same, so don’t worry about them. Heidi comes to clean a few times a week. There’s the gym and sauna, another bathroom, and then his room is all the way at the end here.”

She either doesn’t notice you peeking into the open door, or she doesn’t care.

That’s where all the color is. You catch a glimpse of deep purples and burnt oranges and midnight blues, discarded tubes of paint and an easel in front of a big window, and a black, velvety couch that your fingers itch to reach out and touch. You control yourself, though, as Christina shows you the upstairs living room.

“This is so much for one person,” you observe, and she nods in agreement.

“That’s just how it is,” she shrugs.

“I bet the electric bill is nuts.”

Christina grins over her shoulder as you follow her back downstairs. “Lucky for you, you get to keep track of those things.”

“What does that mean?” You ask.

“One of Dieter’s peculiarities is that he doesn’t trust the automatic payment systems, so you get to handle all that! That was part of one of the NDAs, remember?”

“No,” you admit. “I didn’t look that close at most of them. I’ve just decided I’m never telling anyone about any of this, ever.”

“Fine by me,” Christina says as she hands you a list. “Start with the phone calls and work your way down. When you’re done with the list, you’re free to go unless he needs something specific from you.”

The best part of this whole gig, though, is that it’s part time. You get your work done, you get to go. You’re both technically on-call, but she assures you that Dieter is surprisingly good about not abusing that privilege.

You just need to figure out what to do with those hours. And, possibly, with the rest of your life, but you’re trying not to focus on that right now.

That first morning is full of phone calls you hope no one answers, confirming appointments and interviews and reservations. Christina doesn’t tell you what she does, but she looks very busy and very serious, so you try not to bother her unless you absolutely must.

You’re scratching at the tag again when the front door opens and Dieter Bravo is there, talking loudly on his phone and followed by a man in a suit carrying some heavy-looking bags. Dieter seems agitated, but you can barely understand what he’s saying—you’re too busy taking him in.

It’s not that you’ve never met a famous person before. This is Los Angeles. It doesn’t make it any less interesting when it happens, though. If it’s all the retinoids or massages or your own internal biases, you have no idea, but they always seem to glow a little brighter than regular people.

Maybe it’s all that tantric wellness, in his case.

Christina stands up, holding her iPad as she waits for Dieter to finish his conversation.

“Tell them whatever you have to. I want that part,” he says, handing the man with the bags a wad of cash and waving him off. “Thanks, man.”

His eyes land on you as he hangs up and he raises his eyebrow as if he’s not expecting your presence at all. A nervous smile spreads across your face, and you hope it looks more natural than it feels. Meeting new people is such a harrowing experience—you always want to make a good first impression, but it’s an exhausting task.

Christina doesn’t introduce you right away.

In fact, Christina doesn’t introduce you at all, too busy going over a checklist of to-dos and reminders that she makes him repeat back to her even as his eyes flick back to you, this awkward presence invading his home.

Eventually he gives her all of his attention and shakes his head as he does exactly as she asks, as if he finds the whole thing ridiculous and only does it to keep her happy. You swallow all of the questions you have about this dynamic, no matter how interesting you might find it.

“I had a great time, Chris,” he says to her when she’s finished. “Thanks for asking about my trip.”

She quirks her mouth and lets out a barely-audible laugh. “Sorry, Dee,” she says. “How was it?”

Dee.

“I already said,” he says airily. “It was like two hundred degrees, and you don’t like it when I talk about my di—”

“No, I do not,” she says, and you desperately want to know what the end of that sentence is. He grins at her again, twisting the gold rings on his fingers and popping his knuckles. His low, raspy voice makes the hair on your arms stand up and sends a pleasant tingle down your spine.

“And who’s this?” Dieter asks, finally acknowledging your presence.

Christina introduces you and you hold out your hand, expecting a quick handshake, but he covers yours with both of his and cradles it between them. They’re soft and warm and big, and he’s so much friendlier than you’d expected.

Maybe you should look into tantric wellness.

Eventually he heads upstairs, muttering about needing to get the plane energy off of him.

“Did that go okay?” You ask Christina when he’s safely out of earshot.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him be that nice to anyone new,” she says, bemused. “He must be in a really good mood.”

You nod in agreement and look back down at your list, contemplating the implications of this information. You decide he’s definitely just gotten laid a lot this weekend, and who wouldn’t be in a good mood after that?

“So you don’t like when he talks about his dick?” You ask Christina, who bursts into laughter. “What? Does he do it a lot?”

“Oh my God,” she says. “I don’t know why that was so funny, I’m sorry. Okay, yeah, Dieter is very…open.”

“So I’ve heard,” you say.

“But he’s not creepy. Or he’s never been with me. But it’s more of a ‘Don’t talk about your penis in front of the new girl’ thing, you know?”

“I can understand that. You guys seem friendly,” you tell her, and she nods.

“Even when he’s a little insane he’s still a good dude. And he’s insane a lot, you know. But if something makes you uncomfortable—”

“I don’t get uncomfortable easily,” you shrug.

Unless it’s this fucking tag, but you don’t tell her that.

But maybe you shouldn’t have spoken so soon, because when Dieter comes back down a while later still damp from the shower in a pair of linen pajama pants and no shirt, you feel like you’re going to swallow your tongue. You put your head back down and focus on your last two tasks, until you notice movement in your peripheral.

You look up and smile, and he is very, very close to you. Okay, so personal space isn’t really his thing, you guess. Noted. But he smells very nice, like cinnamon and clove cigarettes.

“Are you okay?” Dieter asks, and you try to quell your unbidden panic. What could you have possibly done already?

“Um, yes sir. I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

“You’re scratching your neck a lot,” he says.

“Am I? I’m sorry, it’s just my…this shirt has this tag that bothers me,” you explain, mortified that he’s already caught you doing something weird.

He nods and walks off, and you try not to be alarmed at the abrupt end to the conversation and turn back to your work. You’re just about to call his groomer when he shuffles behind you, pulls the tag tight, and snips it off before you can say a word about it.

“There,” Dieter says, grinning and holding the offending tag up between his thick fingers. “Better?”

You have no idea how to react to this.

More importantly, you don’t know how you’ve gone this long without just cutting the damn thing off yourself. How has it never occurred to you that you can just cut off tags?

“I…thanks?” You squeak. He beams at you, turns around, and leaves.

Christina chuckles. “There he is,” she says.

“Does he destroy people’s belongings often?”

“Less so these days,” she sighs. “But he’s not usually trying to be helpful.”

After you get back to the guesthouse that evening, you glance at yourself in the mirror. Without the scratchy tag, you really do like this shirt.

You’re the most interesting person Dieter’s met in years.

He’d prepared to be annoyed with your presence the second he walked through the door; he was already annoyed with himself for agreeing to this arrangement in the first place. But Christina keeps him on track and out of trouble, and it isn’t like he has a family to spend that money on instead.

He’d made sure of that.

It turns out that immediately marrying someone he met in a high-stress clusterfuck isn’t the best way to secure any kind of longevity, and honestly, he just hadn’t been ready.

And when Anika, just a few days after her twenty-ninth birthday, told him with tears in her eyes that she didn’t think this would work anymore, he didn’t fight it. Why would she want to stay with such a fuck-up? And why would he force his presence on her one second longer?

He knows he’s a lot—that’s why he hadn’t argued when Christina asked for some help. But it meant sharing his space with some stranger, some person he’d never met despite Christina’s suggestion.

“Just hire someone,” he’d grumbled. “I don’t care.”

But then you smiled.

It wasn’t an L.A. smile; one of those veneered things that doesn’t quite reach the eyes. It was imperfect, a little lopsided, skittish enough that his usual cool indifference toward new people melted away.

It could have been all the wellness from the retreat still buzzing in his veins, but he doesn’t think so. There’s something different about your aura that softens him.

And then there’s the fact that you are completely unfazed by him—unimpressed by him, for that matter. Even Christina was a little starstruck when they met, and she still caters to him more than is probably good or healthy for him.

What else can he do at this point? He’d made his own reputation over the last twenty years, for better or worse.

But you?

There is no reverence in the way you speak to him, no higher pitch in your voice to soothe him like he’s an angry toddler. Granted, you don’t speak to him much, only when he addresses you directly, but your short, clipped answers only intrigue him more.

Hopefully Christina doesn’t notice his sudden penchant for hanging out downstairs when he’s home. He just really likes to observe you.

He uses the word observe purposefully in his head; it’s much less creepy than “watch” or “obsess,” though if he’s honest with himself—which he is not—both could apply.

You don’t like it when there are a lot of people in the house, or when the overhead lights are on. You run your fingers over the marble countertop and chew your lip when you’re on the phone, especially if the call is taking longer than it should.

You shake your leg when you’re concentrating, or click a pen over and over and over. That one drives him a little nuts, that click-a-click-a-click, but he regrets asking you to stop the moment he does. It’s the first time your indifference to his existence vanishes, grimacing as you drop the offending pen.

“Oh my gosh, I am so sorry, Mr. Bravo. I don’t know what I was thinking. It won’t happen again,” you say in a much higher pitch, your voice so shaky he wonders if he’d been gruff without realizing.

“It’s okay, really,” he protests. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

That doesn’t seem to help. “R-right,” you stammer, smiling awkwardly. “I’m being silly, it’s—you’re right, no big deal. Okay. I’ll…get back to work.”

But you gather all your things and retreat to the guesthouse, shaking your head as you walk away, and he doesn’t know what to make of it.

The next day you don’t have a clicky pen, and you bite your nails instead.

He really hates that, but he says nothing.

It’s not till the end of the week that you approach him all on your own for the first time, just after he gets back from an interview with GQ and he’s stuck his head in the fridge searching for something to eat.

“Um, Mr. Bravo?”

He turns, surprised to see you now right in front of him, the closest you’d been since your first day. You flash that nervous grin, and he can’t help it—he reaches out and squeezes your shoulder.

“You can call me Dieter, you know,” he says. “What’s up?”

Your eyes flicker to his hand, but you don’t pull out of his grasp. “I just wanted to say sorry for being, like, so weird about the pen thing. I was having a bad day, and it was so unprof—”

“Consider it forgotten,” he says, peering over the top of his sunglasses at you. “We’re just getting used to each other, yeah? We’re gonna annoy each other sometimes. Don’t worry so much about pleasing me, for God’s sake. Just be you.”

He squeezes your shoulder again and your nervous grin is replaced with a pleased smile he’s never seen before. “Okay,” you say brightly. “I’ll try.”

And finally, finally you relax.

You talk more, you laugh more, you join in on conversations. He even finds himself missing you when you’re not around.

This is going to very quickly become a fucking problem.

His favorite thing, he thinks, is your lack of patience for him. Sometimes, you’re almost mean.

And don’t ask him why it makes him hard. It just does.

“You always keep those in?” He asks as you help him pack, referring to the wireless earbuds you’ve worn every day since you started about a month a half ago.

“Yep. Why?” You ask, looking up from folding his clothes.“You have a nail appointment in like twenty minutes, by the way, so put some pants on.”

He looks down at the chenille robe that’s come undone and gives you a sheepish grin. “Sorry,” he says.

You just shrug, having gotten more than used to his resistance of wearing real clothing in his own home. Or anywhere, really, but he’s been very careful not to accidentally flash you.

Dieter doesn’t miss the way your eyes dart over his bare torso, though.

Maybe you’re not that unimpressed with him.

“That bluetooth shit’s terrible for you,” he says. “It’ll scramble your fucking brain.” You stop what you’re doing and turn your entire body toward him, lip curled as you assess him.

“What makes you say that?” You ask, and he…doesn’t know, really. That’s just what he’s heard. It’s just what everyone’s told him—the EMF waves, or whatever.

“The, um, EMF waves?” He says, and your expression doesn’t change.

“The EMF waves.”

“Yeah, you know, the brain-scrambling waves. The radiation.”

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve heard in a long time,” you tell him after a pause, going back to folding.

This might be the meanest you’ve been to him, and he’s torn between amused and a little hurt. As he flounders, searching for a comeback, you stop folding again.

“Um, I’m sorry,” you say, setting his favorite t-shirt into his designer luggage. “That was harsh. Filter’s not working too well today.”

“But you do think I’m stupid?” He asks, needling at you just a little until he sees the way you’re twisting your fingers and shifting back and forth on both feet.

“No! No, I meant—well, okay, I meant what you said was not correct and I should have just shut up. So I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay,” he says. “I am stupid sometimes.”

“No!” You look positively distressed. It’s the pen incident all over again. “It’s just—do you know what non-ionizing radiation is?”

“I mean…no.”

“You know how there’s, like, wi-fi and a microwave in the house and you use your cell phone all the time?”

“Yeah, but—”

“There are two types of radiation, right? So what you’re thinking of is ionizing radiation, which is produced by nuclear power and all that shit. Very bad for you, should be handled with extreme caution by professionals only. Non-ionizing radiation is in, like, everything. Electricity, bluetooth, wi-fi, UV rays, it’s in everything.”

“Uh huh,” he says.

“So there’s a difference, right?”

“What’s the exact difference?” He asks, finding himself genuinely curious.

Maybe he should have checked.

“I don’t know, dude, I’m not a scientist. All I know is that if I keep my little bluetooth earbuds in, I don’t get nearly as overwhelmed about life, and it probably won’t give me cancer any faster than the microplastics we’re all swallowing on a daily basis. But I’m sorry I said it was stupid.”

He shakes his head. “No problem,” he says. “You’re smart.”

You shake your head, too, running your fingers over the velvet. “Not that smart.”

You’re close enough to him on the couch that if he wanted to, he could lean over and kiss you. Lucky for both of you, he’s past running off perfectly good assistants by thinking with his cock.

“Put some pants on,” you say again. “Before Christina gets here and yells at you.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says.

Forget anything about a budding crush. This crush is in full bloom.

All those pretty petals fell off during a panic attack of how absolutely fucked you are if you didn’t get it under control fast, too, and you’d walked yourself through it, assured yourself you’d get past it, there was no problem here, it would be okay, and by the next morning? Crush crushed.

And then that asshole had the audacity to smile and say good morning and all those petals of desire bloomed even larger.

Where was the cool, aloof movie star you’d been promised?

It would’ve been one thing if he just ignored your existence—you could’ve just resented him like you would anyone else you worked for—but no. He’s hellbent on being adorable. And maybe even being your friend.

He’s not quite as needy as Christina’d made him out to be, either. He just really, really needs that firm hand Christina doesn’t actually have.

You have it, though. And you have no problem using it.

Lately, Dieter’s been busy shooting some romcom twelve hours a day. You’d expected more afterparties, more poolside noise, more hedonism-prepared yourself for it, actually. He’s only thrown a few ragers here and there, most of which last into the next day, and you’ve offered to call a car for more than a few barely-dressed people trying to sneak their way out of Dieter’s bedroom.

You always refrain from asking if they had a good time, but you never refrain from asking Dieter the same question when he stumbles down the stairs in one of those robes you’re so envious of. He always gives you a cheeky smirk, and you roll your eyes, and it’s cute and flirty and you have to scream into a pillow when he goes back upstairs.

But now filming’s done and he’s had a few weeks off, and after he spent a week in New York visiting a friend, he’s home a lot.

Like, a lot.

Doing yoga in his very tiny boxer briefs, watching movies in his very tiny boxer briefs, even arguing with his agent or his manager or his PR rep in very. Tiny. Boxer briefs.

He’s been doing a lot of arguing lately. You try not to eavesdrop, but it’s not your fault his voice echoes in this cavernous first floor.

“Where’s all my food?” He demands after he stomps down the stairs to find a squeaky clean refrigerator.

“Christina threw it all out because it all went bad because you never eat here,” you tell him. “She’s getting groceries now.”

“But I’m hungry,” he whines, and you loathe how endearing you find it.

“So order something,” you say.

He’s in front of you so quickly you almost topple off your seat. “Can you do it?”

“What do you mean? You don’t know how to use DoorDash?”

“I’m bad at it,” he says, and you don’t bother to hide your incredulity.

“You can’t be bad at DoorDash,” you argue, rolling your eyes.

“Please?”

You sigh at his big brown eyes and his trembling bottom lip that you want to swipe your thumb across. “Fine. But I’m getting something,” you say.

“Of course, babe.”

“I don’t love that nickname, Mr. Bravo,” you say, and he scowls at your continued insistence on formality, but boundaries like that are the only thing keeping you sane right now.

“Sorry, sorry. Sweetheart?” He asks earnestly, and you can’t find it in yourself to be annoyed.

“Sweetheart’s better than babe, I guess,” you sigh. “What do you want to eat?”

“Eggslut,” he says, and you burst into laughter.

“Do you really want that or did you just want to say the name?”

“Have you had Eggslut?” He asks as you shoot a text to Christina asking if she wants anything. She does not, thank you very much, but she will be back in about an hour. “Because if you had you would know it’s not a joke. I want the Fairfax sandwich, please.”

Why does the “please” make you shiver?

It takes a few minutes, but you find a sandwich that isn’t a textural nightmare and add it to the little cart right below Dieter’s monstrous pile of caramelized onions and scrambled eggs sandwiched in a buttery looking bun.

“It’ll be here in an hour,” you tell him.

“I’m gonna starve, sweetheart,” he exclaims with a dramatic fall to the shimmering black floor, flinging his arm over his face. His robe flops open, but he doesn’t seem to notice. You peer down at him, shamelessly taking the opportunity to run your eyes over his broad, bare torso.

“Might freeze to death, too,” you observe dryly and he chuckles, looking down at his hard nipples.

“Maybe. Ugh, there’s gotta be something to eat around here,” he whines as he gets to his feet. You turn back to your task, and he leaves you in peace to rifle through his cabinets.

Eventually, he finds a bag of Skittles and pours them into a bowl, which is very weird, but he’s a weird famous guy, so you just let him do his weird famous guy thing without comment.

“I don’t like the red ones,” he says, apparently to you. “Can you pick them out?”

He cannot be serious.

“No,” you say.

“Why not?” He demands.

“Mr. Bravo, I want you to tell me that you, a forty-seven-year-old man, cannot pick out the red Skittles. That you not only need me to order your food, you also need me to pick the red Skittles out of your bowl.”

“Well—I mean, what are you even doing right now?” He asks, and he seems to realize it’s a mistake as your nostrils flare out and you spin in your chair to glare at him.

“I’m filling out your health insurance renewal forms. Do you like having health insurance?” You ask.

“Yes,” he says, still holding his little bowl in his ridiculously large hands.

“So you either pick out the Skittles yourself, or you finish the forms. Which one?”

“You’re mean sometimes,” he says, but there’s no real conviction behind it. You shrug—you are a little mean sometimes.

“And you’re a big baby sometimes,” you say, but he doesn’t pout. He grins at you instead, scooting close enough that you can smell yesterday’s cologne and the weed he smoked before he got out of bed.

“What’s the health insurance stuff?” He asks as he starts to pick out the red Skittles. You eat them one by one as you explain how HSAs work.

By the time the food arrives you realize you’re having fun. You move from the kitchen to the living room after he begs you to watch a movie with him, ignoring your sly suggestion of Hunger Strike.

“Well, what movie are we watching then if we can’t watch anything you’ve been in. Star Wars?”

“What’s your favorite movie?” He asks.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

You don’t like answering these types of questions—you’re always worried that you’ll give the wrong answer. Which, okay, it’s not a test, it’s an opinion, but sometimes when something means too much to you and the other person hates it, it feels like a judgment on you. And you are so very aware that for the most part that’s simply not true, but you can’t help the way your brain works.

“I do!” He says.

You think about lying, but you don’t think he’s lied to you even once. And you really, really don’t want to lie to him.

“Okay, but you’re gonna make fun of me.”

“Am not.”

“It’s Moulin Rouge,” you say, and you wait for him to laugh or ask “really?”

But he does neither.

“Cool. You know, Ewan and I used to party a lot together,” he says, scratching his beard. “Mine’s Back to the Future III.”

“Yeah?”

“Mmhmm,” he says, dumping hot sauce all over the scrambled eggs and sucking the excess off of his thumb.

“I’ve never seen any of them,” you tell him and he turns to you, squinting.

“What? We gotta watch them,” he says.

“I don’t think Christina—”

“I’ll handle Christina,” Dieter says confidently. “I need your assistance in watching these, okay, I don’t like watching movies alone.”

You sigh. “And if I say I don’t want to?”

He gives you the biggest, roundest eyes and sticks his lip out, pouting in a way that should be absolutely unbecoming for a man his age. And damn him, it works. “Please?”

He wins, eventually, because of course he does, wiggling with excitement. “Not now, though,” he says. “Gotta make a night of it.”

“A night of it?”

“I mean, yeah. I’m not watching all of them on a shitty little TV,” he says, gesturing to the eighty-five inch flatscreen hanging on the living room wall.

“We might have different definitions of shitty,” you say.

He shrugs and brings the sandwich to his mouth, and there is no reason for you to watch him do this, but he’s just so…interesting.

That’s what you tell yourself, anyway.

Everything he does is a little sensual, somehow, like he really wants to enjoy every single experience as much as he can. Even biting into a sandwich, he closes his eyes and moans softly at the taste, and it probably shouldn’t be sexy. People moan at how good food tastes all the time.

You don’t—not in front of people, at least, because you have been far too aware of your every move for the last thirty years of your life, but some people do.

The tendons of his neck flex as he chews, eyes rolling back, his lips shiny with butter and grease, and you try not to think of him looking exactly like that between your legs.

Jesus Christ, when’s the last time you got laid?

You shake your head and busy yourself with your own sandwich and try to eat as normally as possible, only peeking a little to watch him suck all the grease off his fingers.

About halfway through your meal, Christina comes in with the groceries, and you leave your half-finished sandwich on the table to help put them up, happy for an excuse to stop ogling a man who’s just trying to eat.

“I got your green juice, Dee,” she calls, and he waves a hand in acknowledgment. “What’s he doing down here?”

“No idea. He’s been chatty this morning. Wanted me to take the red Skittles out for him.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you about that. He doesn’t like the red dye.”

“Figures. I mean, I didn’t do it. I told him he was a grown man and could figure it out.”

“What?” Christina asks, dropping a bag and giving you an incredulous glare as your smile falters. “Babe, I know you’re still getting used to everything, but if he tells you to do something, do it.”

“Oh, um, he seemed fine? I was filling out his health insurance forms and wanted to get them done. And I ordered his food. I didn’t think it was a big deal,” you explain, your eyes flicking over to him as he finishes the last of his food.

“Okay, well, he’s probably just being polite because you’re new, but I’m telling you not to do that again, all right? Whatever he wants, you give him. That’s the deal.”

She doesn’t sound angry, exactly, but you want to curl in on yourself and crawl into a hole until this mortification passes. Your cheeks go hot, your throat closing up with embarrassment at being scolded.

“Yes, absolutely. Sorry about that,” you say, clearing your throat. “Won’t happen again.”

“What won’t happen again?” Dieter asks, choosing that exact moment to set his trash on the counter. Rather than telling him to throw it away, you grab it, eager to give yourself something else to do.

“Nothing, Mr. Bravo, just some paperwork stuff,” you lie, humiliated at the thought of having misread the relationship.

He frowns as you bolt past him, to pick up your half-eaten sandwich and throw it in the trash. “Thanks for lunch—uh, breakfast, sir,” you stutter. “I’ll just go get the rest of this done.”

You’re acting so weird—you know it, they both know it, and you cringe when he asks to talk to Christina as you leave through the back door with the trash bag in hand. For the rest of the day you replay the whole thing in your head from start to finish, trying to figure out why you’d felt so comfortable talking to him like that.

Later that night, all you can do is go over every interaction you’ve had with him over the last few weeks.

He would’ve told you, right?

Like with the pen? When he didn’t like the pen, he told you. But then you’d been so weird about the pen, and maybe he didn’t want to upset you again.

Sometimes you wish you could just explain yourself.

“Sorry I’m such a freak, I thought we were friends because I’m bad at judging how close I actually am to people. I forgot this was a work thing and we’re not really friends, you’re just being nice. I forgot people are just nice sometimes to get through the day. Also, I think I’m a little in love with you. It’s bad, man.”

You chuckle to yourself as you imagine what face Dieter might make. Your contract would definitely be terminated, and you’d probably be one of those stories famous people tell when they go on talk shows.

So you’ll say nothing. You’ll fish out that proverbial mask and put it back on because the last thing you want is your actual personality ruining everything. You’ll do what Christina said, give him whatever he wants, and try not to fool yourself into thinking you’re anything other than a boredom-killer for him.

He’s not your friend.

He’s not.

Dieter still doesn’t know what happened between you and Christina. He usually appreciates her assuring him that everything is fine and if it’s not fine, she’ll make it fine, but you haven’t really been the same since.

And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t asked.

“If it’s about the food, I didn’t mind getting her something to eat,” he’d said, but Christina just told him not to worry about it.

“She’s just a little odd,” Christina’d told him. “But she’s doing a good job otherwise, you know, she’s just bad with social situations sometimes.”

Dieter hadn’t understood what she meant—you hadn’t done anything wrong.

And you’re completely different now.

You don’t listen to music anymore or correct him when he’s wrong about something, and he’s checked. He’s been wrong on purpose at least four times now, and you just nod and say, “Oh, how interesting.”

And maybe worst of all, you do everything he asks of you. Every single thing. To his shame, as little of it as he has, he takes advantage of this because it’s the only time you’ll get close to him. Lucky for him, you can tie a tie. He can also tie a tie, but you don’t need to know that.

He steps out from his room and calls your name. “Can you come help me?” He asks.

“Be right there,” you chirp.

“Can you tie my tie?” He asks, holding it in front of him with a doleful pout. He has a brand appearance tonight, some overpriced cologne deal that’ll pay Christina’s salary for the next few years, and a tie, for some reason, is required.

“Of course, Mr. Bravo,” you murmur, stepping softly into his bedroom. He can feel your nerves rolling off of you.

“Thanks for the help,” he says, standing in front of the mirror. “I never have been able to get the hang of it.”

“No problem. I went through this phase in middle school where I wore ties and tank tops and big baggy cargo shorts,” you say, and his breath hitches at your little confession.

“That’s fucking cute,” he says.

“Mmhmm,” you say, a smile playing on your lips. You seem calmer up here, away from Christina’s watchful eyes. “I was very cool.”

“Bet you listened to a lot of stuff on vinyl,” he teases.

“Who says I don’t still? I like the scratchy noise it makes,” you offer, looping the tie around his neck and standing so close he could wrap his arms around you and bury his nose in your hair.

“Very, uh, what’s that movie—the one Zooey’s in,” he says.

“Five Hundred Days of Summer? God, I forget you know all these people I just watch on TV,” you giggle.

“Yeah,” he says. “That one.”

“I like that movie,” you say, a dreamy look on you face. “I like that it turns the whole manic pixie dream girl thing on its head.”

“You’re a little manic pixie, you know,” he says.

“Yeah,” you say quietly, finishing the knot. “I know.”

“That’s what I’ll call you,” he says. “You don’t like babe or sweetheart, right? I’ll call you Pix.”

You cock your head at him. “I don’t hate that,” you say. “But you could just call me my name.”

“Nah,” he says. “Then you’d just be like everyone else I know, Pix.”

Christina yells from downstairs that their ride is there, and he smiles regretfully.

“Thanks for the help,” he says. “You’re doing great, you know. With all this.”

“Thanks, Mr. Bravo,” you murmur.

“You can call me Dieter, you know,” he says.

“Sure,” you say. “You’re late. Go.”

And he does, just because you told him to.

dividers and support banner by @saradika-graphics

#fic rec #Ezrasbirdie #dieter bravo

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thelightsandtheroses · 6 days

Text

Thank you so much for including my fic here 😘

Sanctuary update - new works and authors added ⋆｡°✩

random fics of the day ⋆｡˚

Consuming internet content is your own responsibility. Most of it is 18+, also mind authors’ notes.

If you'd like to recommend a fic - welcome here, or tag me :3

by @schnarfer — Nicest Thing — Joel Miller

by @selfcarecap — Backseat — Javier Peña

by @burntheedges — Passing Notes: Dance , Passing Notes: Tease — Joel Miller; Passing Notes: Vent — Din Djarin

by @futureman — come clean — Joel Miller

by @chiriwritesstuff — The New Girl in Tinseltown — Dieter Bravo

by @studioghibelli — the old man and the sea — Joel Miller

by @toomanystoriessolittletime — six sentence fics: Marcus Moreno — Marcus Moreno; Rain Confessions — Joel Miller

by @penvisions — buckles and barley — Jack Daniels / Whiskey

by @mrsmando — like real people do — Joel Miller

by @joelsdagger — talking body — Joel Miller

by @papurgaatika — Nothing Fucks With My Baby — Joel Miller

by @joeloverture — snowbound — Joel Miller

by @javiscigarette — Emergency Contact — Frankie 'Catfish' Morales

by @itsokbbygrl — Make Me Sweat. — Javier Peña

by @sp00kymulderr — closer to light — Javier Peña; Starlit — Ezra

by @creedslove — LONGING — Javier Peña

by @strang3lov3 — Play Stupid Games — Joel Miller

by @604to647 — Mi Galleta — Pero Tovar

by @joelscruff — one of your girls — Frankie 'Catfish' Morales, Will Miller; forget my charms — Dave York

by @joelsgreenflannel — with you i fall down — Javier Peña

by @proxima-writes — cruel summer — Joel Miller

by @thelightsandtheroses — when the rain washes you clean, you'll know — Javier Peña

by @skbeaumont — Just a Graze — Joel Miller

by @fake-bleach — feels so right — Joel Miller

by @djarinmuse — Despoliation of the Flesh — Din Djarin

by @chronically-ghosted — iron and charcoal — Pero Tovar

by @secretelephanttattoo — Afterword — Marcus Moreno

by @undercoverpena — up sky, low high — Frankie 'Catfish' Morales

*smooches*

#fic recs

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thelightsandtheroses · 7 days

Text

As a fic writer, i need every reader to know that:

I don’t care if your comment is coherent. I know what you mean and i love you

I don’t care if you ramble. I read every word and i love you

I don’t care if you leave a comment on a fic from four years ago or leave comments/kudos on like ten of my fics in one go. This isn’t IG, pls stalk my AO3. I love you

I don’t care if you mention the same thing in your comment that four other people have already mentioned. It’s actually really useful to know what resonated with people and I love everyone who takes the time to tell me they liked a particular turn of phrase

I don’t mind if your comment is super long or just a couple of sentences, i love them all

I love you

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thelightsandtheroses · 7 days

Text

Secret Smile PSA

Secret Smile is a fic that means a lot to me; I love both Javi and Blue in this fic, I've been rooting for them since day one and I'm proud of a lot of their story I've told so far.

Originally, I planned to extend Secret Smile beyond s3 for several chapters. I was going to explore their more domestic dramas, the potential trouble with Blue's brothers and family and how they reach their happy ending in my mind.

Recently I've had to do some soul searching and trying to understand why everytime I open the document, I feel a bit queasy.

A lot of this is down to me and is self-inflicted, the personal associations I've assigned to this fic and their stories, ones I can't remove now and are tied in anxieties and superstitions. I'm ready to close this chapter and that means some changes to Secret Smile, it means closing that fic door too and to do that with peace.

I don't want to leave them without an ending so I wanted to say there is going to be an epilogue soon, a way to try and tie some of those strands together and give them an ending they deserve.

#my fic: secret smile #fic: secret smile #javier peña x reader

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thelightsandtheroses · 7 days

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Me: I will write LGL and YHIM this weekend .... enter CIWYW Frankie brain rot Me: oh

#less words than i'd like but i have mentally plotted lots for both ciwyw and secret smile

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thelightsandtheroses · 9 days

Text

this is your reminder to write down those random lines that pop in your noggin at random times of the day. in your car listening to that song for the hundredth time— write it down. laying in bed at 2 am— write it down. rewatching the show/movie for inspiration— write it down. whether you’re actively writing that chapter that’s been giving you a headache or plotting out that little thot you’re super excited about. jot it down in your notes app. leave yourself a voice memo. scream it to your bestie on discord. WHATEVER YOU DO, WRITE IT DOWN AS SOON AS IT HITS YOU!! YOUR FUTURE SELF WILL THANK YOU

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thelightsandtheroses · 9 days

Text

The flirting and relationship here is just so lovely - this fic is like a balm on a stressful day, it’s just sweet and kind and i love them so much! There are so many details I liked that both were so cute but also made it feel real and natural, the socks, the meal, and your dialogue is always on point.

And Frankie, I see you there with your little thot-shots for your insta and that little sheepish smile when rainy calls it out 🫠

Frankie and Rainy may beat Javi and Reader in LNT for me, by the way, their relationship is just goals and there’s this lovely feel to the fic.

I always enjoy catching up on this one, babe!

9. breath of fresh air

frankie morales x f!reader | chapter nine of do me yourself

summary: a meet-cute in a hardware store? impossible, out of the question. except, that's exactly what happens. a need for screws leads you to a broad-shouldered, brown-eyed man who you're sure is about to change your day, never mind your life.

wordcount: 3.3k chapter warnings: frankie calls you 'rainy' (paint-related from chp.1) no other descriptions or name used. no use of y/n. an: this one is called jo kicked her feet mid-writing and editing.

prev chapter | series masterlist

key: frankie is in bold, you are in italics

Baby, where are you?

I’m coming now just needed to get some plants.

If you’re the forest on wheels coming towards me line up somewhere else.

Wow, that's mean, Morales.

I am. But also, that’s a fuck load of plants.

It is and we’re going to have so much fun naming them.

Surrounded by unopened boxes, and paint tins that are due to be put on the wall, you both sit cross-legged on the floor of your soon-to-be office floor.

It's hard to stop it, the smile which spreads across your lips. The scent of fast food flows from your ripped-open bag and his neatly opened one, as you watch him turn his cap backwards and dig a hand into the paper bag as he pulls out a sauce pot.

Of course, he still finds a second to glare at the plant behind you.

“It’s up for debate, but french fries might be the way to my soul.”

Dipping his own into the sauce, he smirks. “What’s the other contender?”

You, you think.

It's there, threaded inside of you. Sewn in now. Stitched so deep into you that he’ll be remembered forever, no matter what.

Meeting his eyes mid-chew, the word you reverbing around your skull. Echoing. Practically marking itself against any surface space it can in there.

“Your mouth.”

Choking, his hand is quick to cover his mouth, eyes alarmed, quickly filling with tears as he continues to hack. Sliding his drink towards him, across the floor of the project that brought him here today.

“You can’t…” he begins, taking another mouthful, “Do that to me.”

Smirking, you grab another handful of fries. “From the gleam in your eyes, I say you like it.”

“I am not gleaming.”

“No? Damn, I’m disappointed.”

Rolling his eyes, he nudges you with his foot—your eyes glancing at the dinosaur-covered socks for the twelfth time since he’s been here.

“Luca has good taste in socks.”

“You’re telling me,” he replies, “I also have Batman ones, some cartoon ones and ones with flowers on.”

Smiling, you continue to chew. “Which ones are your favourite.”

Scrunching up the paper your food came in, you throw it into the bag. Watching him take a final bite of his own as you smirk.

“It’s the flower ones, isn’t it?”

“Definitely the flower ones.”

Laughing, tongue peeking between your teeth, you lean back on your hands, legs outstretched. “Saving them for a special occasion?”

Nodding, he takes another slurp of his drink, feeling his eyes drag up and down your legs. “Thought I could wear them for when I woo you later on this week.”

“Yeah? You want to model your socks for me, Morales.”

“Dinner and a show I heard is the perfect date night.”

Wiping his hands on his napkin, he stares at you—clean hand on your ankle, massaging it.

“You keep doing that, and we won’t be building furniture.”

Groaning, he sighs. All deep, layered with confliction—until he whispers it: after. It’s low, practically dragged through the gravel of his voice by the time it reaches your ear. Heat spreading through your stomach, not able to tear your eyes from him, just thankful that he does when he goes to stand.

A moment of reprieve, a chance to collect yourself.

That is, until he stretches out his hand, sliding yours into it as he pulls you up to stand. For a moment, just paused—staring at him, a tuft of curls poking through under the rim of his hat.

“I told you how handsome you are,” you say, arms sliding around his neck, leaning close—just enough, to press your mouth to his. “Cause you are.”

Biting the edge of his lip, he smirks. “I’ve got a utility knife in my pocket.”

“Oh?”

Brows lifting, grinning, Frankie pulls you closer. “You into that?”

“On you? Fuck yeah.”

Your lips glide over his, tasting the salt from his fries and the onion from his burger. Not caring, not as you hold him close, keeping him flush, deepening it until he clutches your jaw, walking you both back, kicking a box.

“Fuck.”

Almost laughing, you smirk. “We should…”

Tongue swiping over his lip, Frankie nods. Gaze unmoving even as you step back, bending to tidy the wrappers and bags as you glance back periodically.

“What?”

Shaking his head, he shrugs one shoulder, eyes widening as he smiles. “Nothing. Jus’… hurry back.”

It leaves your lips breathlessly, the word sure. It flows through the air to him, before you leave the room, before giddiness swallows and smothers you up. A grin not easily wiped by your knee connecting with the cabinet as you skid into the kitchen. Dousing your hands in cold water, hoping the temperature will touch your cheeks and cool them.

Thinking of him waiting near the checkout—broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his worn

You do. Almost skidding in your kitchen when you throw the trash away, pausing at the sink to wash your hands, before you’re casually walking back. Doing so, just in time to see him slide that knife along the flat-pack furniture, unboxing the drawers—staring at them all crouched wearing a furrowed expression with an IKEA pencil behind his ear.

And you’re glad he doesn’t look up at the doorway, because it gives you a minute, to lean, head resting as your heart skips a step, feeling all large and full and full of happiness. A feeling, one surging up inside of you—full of lightness and truth—swirling around your breath and trying to form into words.

But, then he looks at you. Lifts his chin, the biggest brown eyes smoothing out to look at you—and you’re sure the words are going to rip out of your throat. Forced to greet the air, and burn themselves into it.

I really like you, Frankie.

I really, really do.

Each letter swallowed back, sight dropping to the knife he holds back—an act you’re apparently quite into from the way you feel the heat in your stomach, a little ripple of want starting to stir as you slowly edge your way into the room. Listening, hanging onto his words as he offers suggestions of how the two of you can do this.

It’s why it makes sense, at first, when he asks if you’d begin building the drawers while he begins the carcass. His toolbox he’d brought in with him opening, pulling various tools you’re not sure were listed on the instructions.

It continues to make sense until you realise you began constructing the drawer, incorrectly. A disappointed voice ebbing, beginning to nip. It breeds in doubt as you study the paper again, and again. Mouth opening and promptly shutting as you try to make heads or tails of what should be a very easy thing.

But that means confessing you’re about as hopeless at building as you are at the rest of the DIY project.

Peering at the instructions again, you try not to sigh. Try not to let a heavier exhale escape through your nostrils, and possibly showcase your growing anxiety-brewed annoyance.

Because you hope he’s not having you build drawers because it’s easier. Because he views you as this hopeless thing that can’t be taught. Even if, in some ways, that assumption would be correct. You just hope that it isn’t pity or any other negative connotation that has begun popping into your mind and bursting behind your eyes in sorrowful falling dark-hued confetti.

An increasing need to prove yourself rising, flooding you as though it wishes to drown you. Making it hard to swallow, never mind breathe—eyes glancing down as they begin to burn with worry, with annoyance and a lot of other emotions you’re struggling to handle—

“Hey,” he says, soothing—hand cupping your cheek as you're tilted up from diagrams to his eyes.

The ones that soothe, that calm—that feel like a safe place.

“Hi.”

Slowly smiling, he strokes your skin. A thing you’re not sure you’ll ever tire from. Not ever. Not as long as his eyes remain as kind and full of warmth.

“I was calling out for you.”

“I’m so—“

“Wondered,” he continues, interrupting, burying your apology before it meets land and plants itself, “If you wanted a go at helping me build this bit.”

Swallowing, both the emotions that remain fizzing and the worries, you smile. “You sure? I’m not… this isn’t something I’m good at.”

“That’s why I’m helping. To teach you, right?”

Nodding, you grin when his lips find your forehead, helping you up before grabbing something from his toolbox. If newer, shinier than the one you’d seen him using—a colour as close to the one you’d said was your favourite.

“Did you buy me a tool, Butterscotch?”

Scratching the back of his head, he tries not to blush. A thing you can tell from the way he averts his eyes, and pink creeps up his neck. “Yeah, it was nothing. Just thought it be easier for you to have your own.”

“My own… prodding device?”

Shaking his head, his eyes land on you. “It’s an electric screwdriver.”

“Of course it is, I was testing you.”

Snorting, he grabs a piece of wood, bringing it between the two of you. “I almost believe you.”

You think Harry would hire me even if I know absolutely nothing about hardware or tools?

To annoy me, most probably. You doing okay?

Not really.

They want more tweaks?

Yeah. I don’t mind making the changes, but wish they’d been more clear from the beginning. So I don’t feel like a failure.

You want me to call in half an hour? Can try and make you smile.

You make me smile effortlessly. But no, it’s okay. I’m going to enjoy a shower and have an early night. Sleep off my bad mood and rest my muscles from building all that furniture the other day.

You goof.

A goof who has your toolbox and her own electric tightener.

That will sound so wrong to anyone else.

Especially if I tell them it goes with my bedside power tools.

Are they what I think they are?

Maybe.

Fuck. Put thoughts in my head now.

Do I look hot?

Always. Will you message me in the morning?

Of course, baby. Try not to dream of me.

Impossible, baby.

Just got out of the movies, was able to eat half the popcorn tub before a jump scare made it mysteriously land on the floor.

Do butter-caked fingers have anything to do with it?

No. I believe the leading cause was a mean friend picking a movie that they knew would scare me. The jury is still out on whether I could have saved the popcorn if properly notified of the jump scares.

You both have fun though?

Yes, a lot. Even if I won’t sleep for a week. I’m excited to see you tomorrow. I’ve missed you.

You’ve missed me?

Try not to grin too much, Morales.

Too late for that, Rainy. I've missed you too.

I've missed butter-SCOTCH fingers.

Can tell me how much later, if you want?

Do you want to phone sex with me, Morales? I think I'd rather make you wait till tomorrow when I see you.

Now who's mean.

It’s hard to avoid the smile on your face, even in the fogged-up mirror. Water dripping down your neck, collecting in the towel wrapped around your chest as Frankie presses his lips to your hairline.

“You feelin' clean, baby?”

“I don't think what we just did in your shower could constitute as cleaning, Butterscotch.”

Smirking, skin radiating heat, Frankie tips your chin up, mouth sliding back over yours like he had done when the two of you had stepped under the shower. The intention innocent, until hungry eyes raked over bare skin.

"Robe's on the back of my bedroom door, baby," he whispers, leaving you to finish drying in his bathroom.

As though it’s normal, routine.

Your toothbrush beside his—the products you’d packed in your overnight bag on the side of the counter.

It's a thing that makes your teeth bite down on your lip and your fingers retraced the path he drew against the suds on your skin. Thinking about how the water fell down along his jaw, ran down between your bodies as he hiked your leg up—

You jump when a clatter pulls you to the present. Heart fluttering, body resting against the side of the basin as your breath dances with the steam. Even if he's rooms away, you hear him singing.

It travelling, calling to you.

A soundtrack to you re-dressing as you hang the used towel on the hook, sliding some clean clothes on, before padding out to wrap the robe around you and grab his t-shirt from the bed.

With each step to the kitchen, you're aware of how your body smells of his body wash. A scent you wish your skin only ever smells like now, if it can’t be his aftershave. Just so you could have a piece of him, a thing to go with the texts, phone calls and video chats when the two of you find moments in between the busy.

There's no need for that tonight, not as he’s cooking for you.

Shoulder resting against the door, you find yourself not wanting to announce your arrival. Just take in his frame, how his back is to you, allowing you to watch how his muscles flex along his bare back as he grabs a knife from a drawer.

“You know, if you posted this kind of video on your Instagram, I think you'd beat that one where you're showing people how to paint wood."

Glancing over his shoulder, you hold the top up. His face shifts into gratitude as he drops what's in his hand and takes it from you. Simple, a very nothing thing that his face seems to show the opposite of.

He fidgets uncomfortably, the shyest smile trying to appear. “Shut up.”

“While you were very informative about preparing the wood before beginning in that video, I think I know how you got one hundred thousand views in a weekend.”

Smirking, he folds his arms. “Because you watched it on repeat while you missed me?”

“No,” you grin, watching him run his tongue over his teeth to stop himself from smirking. “You like to do a little thot-shot.”

“A what-what?”

Licking your lips, leaning against the wall, watching his fingers run up and down his bicep, arms still folded. “You wipe your face with the bottom of your t-shirt, Morales. Showing off your… physique.”

“Mierda.”

“You look very good. Had to watch it myself a few times, to be sure.”

His eyes dart away, a sheepish smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“I mean it,” you add. “You look really good, Frankie.”

Stepping forward, you kiss his cheek. The heat from it warms your lips as you try to hide your grin. Instead, pulling out a stool from under his island and sliding onto it, elbow on the worktop, you rest your chin. Watching him turn, facing back to the ingredients and pans.

That's when you spot it. The loose curl that has fallen over his forehead as he leans forward. It just hanging there. Slowly beginning to sway as he resumes chopping and slicing.

“What're you making me?”

“Special asado tacos.”

It’s hard to suppress the whimper in the back of your throat as your stomach rumbles, his chin lifting—brow raising as you try to clear your throat.

“Sounds delicious… what makes them special? Is it the chef?”

Smirking, he shakes his head. “It’s a family recipe. So, I hope I don’t fuck it up.”

“I doubt you could, right? It’s in your bones.”

Shrugging, he stares down at some paper—his pinky flattening it, before he brushes the chopped peppers into a pan and grabs something else.

“I don’t make it often.”

“How many times have you?”

Pausing, he doesn’t look up. Just stops his knife over the skin of the vegetable.

“Frankie. Is this the first time you’ve made it?”

“No,” he answers. Quickly, red rising up his neck. “It’s just… the first time I’ve made it for someone.”

Licking your lips, you smile—fingers outstretching over his counter, it cool under your touch. “Oh, you like me, like me.”

Smirking, he continues to chop and dice, shooting glances at you. “Maybe.”

“I think you do.”

The precision he cuts with makes you almost forget your teasing—your own name, even. The quickness of it, the perfect way they’re all cut. It’s enough to make your thighs press, a new competency unlocked it seemed—as though you were both collecting and becoming aware of them all at once.

Distantly, you hear your name. Briefly aware as you flick your gaze up, of the concern etched there—the sudden silence damning.

“Hm?”

Grinning, shaking his head as he slides the chopped food away. “I said, what makes you say that?”

Sighing, all deep—almost soothing, you smile. “Well, you named all my new plants with you.”

“I did do that.”

Nodding, you roll your lips as he uses his little finger to trace down the recipe in front of him.

“And you didn’t judge me for the fact they all needed a name.”

Casting a glance your way, he both frowns and smiles simultaneously. “Baby… I’d… I’d never.”

“I know,” you say, encased in confidence, sitting up straighter, “Because you like me.”

Shrugging, he begins moving around, collecting ingredients—the back of his hand brushing over his forehead. “Maybe you’re on to something.”

Humming, you shift on your stool—watching. Finding it hard not to keep your eyes on him, not as he moves around confidently, capably, sprinkling things in and adding pinches of others.

It isn’t until he seems more content, that things are doing what they’re supposed to, do you slip from the stool. Moving towards him, sliding between him and the worktop as your fingers brush over his cheek—an act so similar to the shower, before his hand slid between your thighs and made you struggle to stand.

“I like you too,” you whisper.

His eyebrows raise at the suggestion, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. “Is that so?” he asks. “Well, guess if we both like one another, that means I am allowed to ask something…”

Sucking in air through your teeth, you scrunch your nose. “I don't know, do you think you're allowed?”

Pinching your side softly, he smiles. “I wanted to ask... what we are, what are we?”

Narrowing your eyes, you roll your lips, fingers continuing to twist his curls around your nails. “What do you want me to be?”

Shrugging, he smiles—eyes slowly crinkling, all slow in the way they eventually narrow, mouth parting, basking you in human-made sunshine.

“You want me to be yours?”

He groans, it vibrating through you, hips rolling against his as he presses you to the counter. Body somehow humming, even after earlier.

“Want to be mine, Francisco?”

His hand grasps your hip more intently. “More than anything.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

Nodding, you tug him closer too, bodies flush, little space between the two of you. “All yours.”

His nose slides against your cheek, before his forehead rests on yours. His eyes almost blend into one large brown oasis—almost.

“Now I’m your girlfriend, do I get extra privileges?”

Frowning, he steps to the side, stirring the cooking food—one hand on your hip, as though not wanting you to move.

“You know, show me how to use your power tools?”

Snorting, he rolls his eyes. “You say mine like others are different.”

Smirking, looking at him with the most innocent eyes you can fake, taking his hand in yours. “They’re different from mine.” Frowning, he stares for a second, seemingly baffled. “Mine aren’t used to build things, rather… make legs shake and make me cry out your name.”

You hear his swallow, as well as see it.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he lies, stirring again. “Jus... Y’just incredible.”

Picking up a piece of pepper, you smile—all wicked. “Oh, I know. And aren’t you lucky I’m yours?”

THEY'RE BACK, GOD I'VE MISSED THEM. next week, we enter a spicy chapter (muhaha) and a nice little announcement about them too.

NEXT CHAPTER ->

#fic rec #undercoverpena #frankie morales

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