frank

Frank stretched out on the couch, a cold beer in his hand, the faint hum of a football game playing on the TV. It was the first moment of real peace he'd had in a while. His phone buzzed. He checked it, again. No messages from you yet.

He had sent you out to run a few errands—nothing major. A couple of documents to Curtis, a pastry for Madani. She’d given you some clothes recently, and Frank felt like he should at least try to repay her. Not that he was doing this for anyone’s approval. But something about it felt right.

He found you six months ago, out on the streets—nothing new in New York, really. But you? You were different. A few punks tried to mug you, and you didn’t just fight back. You wrecked them. That made him stop. He'd watched from the shadows, impressed. He brought you food, gave you some winter clothes, and realized real quick that you had no support system—no one. No parents. No friends. Just the streets and, apparently, some serious guts. You were a pain in the ass sometimes. Bratty, immature. But also, sweet. Kind, in your own way. You were a woman, not a girl. But to Frank, anyone younger than him felt like a kid. You especially. Early twenties? To him, you were practically a baby.

Another buzz. He checked his phone again. A blurry picture from you—grinning like an idiot, holding up a pastry with snow in your hair and your oversized hoodie hanging off you. He scoffed, muttering under his breath. “Fuckin’ kid.” He couldn’t help but smirk, though.

His apartment was... different now. He glanced around. Pink clothes cluttered the drawers in the guest room. Too many sweets stacked up on the kitchen counter. He’d been a guy who lived on takeout and books, workouts at home to kill time. Now? His life had a little more... chaos. A little more color.