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“Well, that’s just great.”
You stood with your hands on your hips as your husband came in with an armful of boxes, soaking wet from the downpour that had started without any warning. He looked a little apologetic, as if he disliked being the bearer of bad news, but he couldn’t have done any more to predict it than you could.
“The forecast said cloudy,” you said, frustrated enough that you weren’t paying attention to where he was headed with the boxes and had to quickly move out of his way. “Sorry.”
“‘S ok.” He set the boxes on the kitchen counter with a huff and took his ball cap off to shake some of the water from it. “Is there anything else you want me to try and get?”
You looked out the front door that was still wide open, feeling a wave of discouragement at the torrential downpour that made the distance from the door to the covered bed of Frankie’s truck seem insurmountable.
“I guess not,” you said tiredly. Anything you tried to get would be soaked through by the time it got inside.
Frankie came over to you, and you fell into his comforting bear hug despite how damp his overshirt was. You put your arms around his neck and sighed.
“Not how I envisioned this night going,” you said. You had spent countless hours planning your move into your first house as Mr. and Mrs. Morales, and this had definitely not been on the agenda. Santi, Will, and Ben had helped you pack up into the moving truck earlier in the day, and they were coming bright and early tomorrow to help you move everything in. Your first night was supposed to be you and Frankie and everything you could move in without the boys’ help - not just the three boxes of kitchen things, two lamps, and one set of bedding you’d brought in before it started raining.
Frankie hugged you tighter. “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he said. “I know how it gets your feathers in a ruffle when things don’t go to plan.”
He wasn’t being unkind; he really did hate it when things didn’t go to plan for you. Though he was very nearly unflappable in any situation, your anxiety tended to get the better of you in overwhelming situations like this one. You tried to make yourself relax, and being held by your husband made it much easier to do than it would have been otherwise.
“It’ll be fine,” you said, as much to yourself as to him. “We’ll just... camp out. It’ll be an adventure.”
Frankie gave you a sweet smile and kissed your forehead. “Proud of you, baby.” He let you go to fish out a dry overshirt from the duffle bag of clothes you’d grabbed, and you basked in the glow of his compliment.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” you said, trying to have a positive outlook. “Instead of trying to move in furniture tomorrow when we don’t really have a feel for the space, we can - ”
A huge clap of thunder made both of you jump, and a second later you were plunged into darkness as your power went out. You couldn’t decide if panic or frustration was a more appropriate reaction.
“Frankie?” you called. An unfamiliar, pitch-black house wasn’t doing much for your anxiety.
“Right here, honey,” he soothed, his hand meeting yours in the darkness. As your eyes adjusted, you kept a tight hold on him, and almost felt a little hurt at the amused look on his face.
“What did you do to make the universe so mad at you?” he asked.
You gave him a shove, but your heart wasn’t in it. “It’s not funny.”
He chuckled. “It’s a little bit funny, baby.” He ran his thumb over your knuckles. “You just can’t catch a break, can you?”
“Apparently not,” you grumbled. All your positivity had faded with this most recent development. “Now we can’t even look at the places we can’t put things.”
He nosed at your jaw, giving you gentle kisses all over your face. “My poor baby,” he said, but he wasn’t making fun. “How can I help?”
You were quite enjoying his attention at the moment. “You’re doing a pretty good job right now.”
He breathed a laugh against your skin. “I thought I might be.”
You let him comfort you, and for a little bit, with his big hands holding you close to him and his scruff against your cheek with every kiss, you didn’t even mind the rain or the loss of power.
Then, something occurred to you. You gave his shoulder an excited slap.
“Hey!” he protested, though you knew you hadn’t hurt him. Frankie Morales was built of sterner stuff than that.
“I bet you didn’t know your wife was the smartest woman in the whole world,” you said, disentangling yourself from him even though you would have liked to stay right where you were.
Frankie watched as you went rummaging through the boxes marked for the kitchen, using your phone as a light.
“Sure I did,” he said. “But remind me why you’re the smartest woman in the whole world, and why I suddenly can’t kiss you because of it.”
You grinned as you held your prize aloft for him to see. “Because I put the emergency candles back where they’re supposed to go before we packed everything up.”
His smile was amused as he watched you open the pack of six white candles that would burn for nine hours apiece, plenty of time for the storm to wind down and the power to come back on. You put a few on the counter, along with one in your bedroom and the en suite, and he lit them with the lighter he always kept in his pocket. Before long, the house that had seemed bare and frightening took on a warm and cosy glow.
“Kinda romantic,” Frankie said, pulling you close again. The whole “moving into your first home” thing had him feeling very tender and sentimental recently, and you didn’t mind how keen to cuddle it seemed to make him.
You were happy with your candles, though, and in a much better mood about how the night was going; you had a whole house to explore, and you had your husband to enjoy it with.
“I’ll make you a deal,” you said, running your fingers through his hair.
“What’s that?”
You smiled against his mouth. “You can romance me all you want, but - ” You pulled away and gave him a mischievous grin. “You have to catch me first!”
His smile was fondly exasperated as you went around to the other side of the counter, but he soon got into the game and chased you around the living room. The kitchen counter was your only means of defense, and once you were clear of it, you were no match for his size and speed. You broke into helpless giggles as he caught you by the waist and tickled you until you begged him to stop.
“Ok, ok, you win,” you laughed, breathless between kisses. “I didn’t think that one through, what with all your secret Delta force skills.”
He hummed in agreement. “That’s why I spent all those years training,” he said. “Just so I could catch you.”
You thought of another game. “Ok, how about this?”
He laughed. “What else do I have to do before I can kiss you, woman?”
You gave him an impish smile. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” You gave him one last kiss to tide him over before you pulled back from him.
“I’m gonna go hide, and if you can find me, I’m all yours.”
He grinned. “It’s not a big house, cariño. Does this plan of yours involve me finding you in less than a minute?”
“Wouldn’t you be the lucky guy, getting me into bed that quickly?”
He gave you a cocky smile. “Lucky? Oh no, honey. You should know better than anyone that I don’t need luck.”
You grinned. “Shut up.” You directed him to the far corner of the living room, where he obliged you and closed his eyes while he counted to fifty.
“Now, where to hide?” you said to yourself, using your phone as a light as you went through the rest of the house. You’d toured it a handful of times before you’d decided on it, but you didn’t know all the ins and outs. Down the hall from the living room and kitchen were a guest bedroom and bathroom, the master bedroom with an en suite, and an office space that Frankie had confidently said would be perfect for a nursery. You wanted to have kids too, but you figured it would be best to settle in a little before you started painting the walls a cheery baby color.
You decided on the walk-in shower in the en suite - a little predictable, but you’d put three doors between you and Frankie’s undoubtedly quick search of the house, and maybe he’d like to stay put and have shower sex by candlelight. You listened as he counted, his warm voice filling the house despite the sound of rain pouring outside.
“Ready or not, here I come,” he said, and you could hear the smile in his voice.
You thought you heard him go into the guest bedroom first, then maybe to the closet in there. You felt a strange sort of anticipation - it was only Frankie, after all, and the consequences of being found were something you were looking forward to. You heard the door to the guest bedroom close and waited for him to cross the hall into the master.
“Where are you?” His voice was closer, so he must have been in your bedroom.
You rolled your eyes, smiling a little. You wouldn’t make it that easy on him. You heard the closet door open and shut.
“No, really,” he said, and his voice was so startlingly different that a thrill of panic shot through you. You could count on one hand the times you’d heard his voice like that, and none of them were happy memories.
“Please come out,” he almost begged, his voice tight and strained and trying so hard not to be. You almost took the sliding shower door off the track in your haste to get out.
“Frankie, hold on,” you said, trying to make your voice carry. You practically ran through to the bedroom, dreading what you might find; as soon as you saw him, you felt a wash of guilt so profound it nearly took your breath away.
In the dim light of the candle flickering on the window sill, you saw he had one hand on the wall, leaning heavily against it; his other hand was tucked under the collar of his t-shirt, running his fingers over his collarbone to self-soothe. He looked frustrated and panicked, and his gaze was unfocused as he looked at you.
“Oh, Frankie,” you said, feeling like your heart had been torn right out of your chest. You started to move towards him and hesitated; you didn’t know if it would make it better or worse for you to be near.
He took his hand from his chest and reached out to you; you took his hand immediately and put your other arm around his neck. He buried his face in your shoulder and put his free hand on your back, crumpling the fabric of your shirt in his grip.
“You’re ok,” he breathed, and the relief in his voice was almost worse than the fear.
“Of course I’m ok,” you said, pulling him closer, trying to get a hold of your own unease. “You’re ok too, Frankie. You’re safe. I’m here.”
His shoulders hitched unevenly as he drew a shaky breath. “Sorry,” he managed, and even with that one word, you could hear how upset and guilty he felt. You held him tighter.
“No, baby,” you said. You ran your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck. “Frankie, it’s ok. You don’t have to apologize.”
Looking for you, hunting for you through a dark house - it had been enough to make you feel a little on edge, and you couldn’t imagine what it had triggered in him. You felt how unsteady he was as he held onto you like you were the only thing tethering him; you felt your eyes sting with tears.
“It’s my fault,” you said. “I can’t believe I was that stupid. I’m so sorry, Frankie.”
You felt him stiffen; he pulled back from you, still keeping you close but meeting your eyes with a clarity you couldn’t mistake.
“No,” he said firmly. “This isn’t your fault. You didn’t know any better, and I - ” His breath caught a little. “Christ. You shouldn’t have to.”
He released you, stepping back as bitterness and anger flashed across his face. You didn’t know how to help; you gave him space, wishing you could think of some way to comfort him.
“I don’t want you always worried about something like this,” he said, his voice taut with frustration. “I don’t want you thinking you have to plan everything so that I don’t lose my mind and start freaking out for no fucking reason.”
You knew he wasn’t angry at you, but Frankie was an imposing figure even when he wasn’t agitated. Even though you knew without a doubt he would never hurt you, you still felt yourself unconsciously try to make yourself smaller.
“I'm so fucking messed up that I can’t even - ” He tugged on the brim of his ball cap. “I knew as soon as I started down the goddamn hall that I couldn't handle it. Reminded me of every single fucking hallway I’ve gone down trying to - ”
He cut himself off before he said it, but both of you knew when he meant.
He rubbed the back of his neck, his anger seeming to give way to something more like grief and guilt and resentment.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. He didn’t meet your eyes.
He tried again. “I wish I wasn’t - ” He shook his head. “Sorry.”
You took a step towards him, but he didn’t let you get close; you tamped down the sting of embarrassment and heartache and wished you knew what to do with your hands. You crossed your arms over your chest and worried the hem of your shirt sleeve.
“I’m gonna go smoke,” he said. Without waiting for a response, he left you in the bedroom; the rain sounded louder as the door opened, briefly filling the house that seemed empty and unforgiving once again.
God, what had you done? Despite what he said, you should have known better - it was cruel and unkind of you not to. You were his wife, for god’s sake - you knew him, inside and out, and it had been foolish and careless of you to not think before you acted. Now, it seemed as clear as day that it had been ill-advised from the beginning, but you had been so caught up in what you wanted and how you felt; you couldn't believe you’d hurt him like that, intentionally or not.
You needed to talk to someone, to ask how to help your husband, to ask if you even could. Your hands shook a little as you pulled up Santi’s number on your phone and prayed he would answer.
He picked up after a few rings. “Hey there, sunshine,” he said, like he always did.
“Santi,” you said, a little hopelessly. He sounded happy to hear from you; you felt like you would start crying any second.
“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked. Santi had always been able to read his friends like a book, and you were no exception. “Everything ok with the move?”
You gave a helpless shrug. “Yeah, I mean - no, because it’s pouring down rain and we lost power, but that’s not what’s wrong.”
“Okay,” he said. He kept his tone calm, and you couldn’t have been more grateful to him. “Talk to me.”
You took a shaky breath; you glanced towards the front door, that seemingly insurmountable barrier between you and your husband.
“It’s Frankie,” you said, and your eyes filled with tears despite your best efforts. “I think I triggered him - I wasn’t even thinking, it was so stupid, I was just trying to do something fun but he got so upset and I didn’t know what to - ”
“Hold on, hold on,” Santi said, trying to parse your feverish babbling. “Slow down, honey.”
“Sorry,” you said miserably. You swiped at the tears that wouldn’t stop now that they’d started.
“That’s ok,” he said kindly. “Just take a deep breath.” You did as he said.
“Alright. Now tell me what happened, from the beginning.”
You hid behind your free hand, embarrassed and upset with yourself. Santi was one of your closest friends, but you didn’t even want to admit to him how careless you’d been.
“Hey,” he said, seeming to understand your brief silence. “You can talk to me, you know that. Whatever happened - it’s not unfixable. I promise.”
You nodded, trying to gather your courage and composure.
“The power went out,” you said. “I found some candles for the kitchen, but the rest of the house is dark. I thought it would be fun if - god, it’s so stupid - I thought it would be fun to play hide and seek, you know - I left him to go hide, and he started to look for me, but then he - ”
Your voice caught. “He didn’t say anything, and I thought he was having fun too, but when he couldn’t find me, he - ” You felt sick just thinking about it. “He was so upset, Santi. He said it reminded him of - ”
Like Frankie, you couldn’t make yourself say it, but you knew Santi had figured it out.
“He was angry,” you said. “I didn’t know how to help him, and I just felt like I made it worse.”
You heard him sigh over the phone, and you tried to make yourself wait for him to speak instead of insisting he answer right away.
“He’s not angry at you,” Santi said. “I know it feels like he is, but he’s angry at - I don’t know, everything else. Himself. He’s not angry at you.”
“He should be,” you insisted. “I should have known better. I mean, I call myself his wife but I can’t even - ”
You huffed. “It’s my fault, Santi.”
“It’s not,” he said evenly, like he was more convinced of that than anything else. “It’s too many things to be your fault. The shit he’s been through - that’s not on you, and I know he feels that way too.”
You didn’t know if that was true.
“Where is he now?” Santi asked.
“On the front porch. Smoking.”
“Okay. I want to talk to him in a minute, but... I know this scared you as bad as it scared him.”
“It shouldn’t have,” you said, furious with your own incompetence. “I didn’t - I didn’t go through anything like what he went through, and I can’t imagine having to worry about - ”
You ran your hand over your cheek. “I can’t stop fucking crying, even though nothing happened to me, and I can’t even try and help him without botching it.”
“That’s not fair,” he said. “It happened to both of you, and just because you don’t know how to help doesn’t mean you didn’t.”
“Why didn’t he say anything earlier?” you demanded. Your guilt needed something to latch on to, and Frankie was the easiest target for your anger.
“It probably didn’t even occur to him,” Santi said, unperturbed by your outburst. “He probably didn’t even realize until he couldn’t find you that it would trigger him at all. It’s not his fault, and it’s not yours either.”
You felt the fight go out of you; you were left with a heavy, numbing remorse and a worse headache than you’d had in ages. You lifted the collar of your shirt to scrub your face, hiding from everything for a moment behind the fabric.
“Don’t beat yourself up about this,” he said gently. “I know how you get, sunshine.”
You breathed a tired, wobbly laugh. “Yeah.”
“It’s gonna be ok,” he said. “Frankie loves you, and I can tell you without a doubt that the way you love him does help, more than you know. You hear me?”
You took a deep breath. “I hear you.”
“Alright. Can you take the phone to Frankie?”
You almost dreaded the thought - you wanted Frankie to talk to Santi, but you were wary of even putting yourself close to Frankie for fear that you’d do something wrong, make him more upset.
“Sure,” you said. You went out to the front door; your hand hesitated on the knob.
“Hey,” Santi said. “Before you go - I love you, sunshine.”
You smiled. “I love you too, Santi. You’re coming tomorrow?”
“I’ll be there first thing, don’t you worry.”
“Okay,” you said, more to yourself. If things weren’t better by then, Santi and Will and Ben would be here. You and Frankie weren’t in this alone.
“Okay,” you said again. “Here’s Frankie.”
You opened the door and pressed the phone to your chest, muting the sound of the rain on your end for a moment. Frankie was sitting on the railing, a nearly-finished cigarette between the fingers of his right hand; he was rubbing at his collarbone with his free hand, looking out at the rain.
“Frankie,” you said cautiously, trying not to startle him.
He looked over at you like he hadn’t noticed you’d come out. “What?”
You bit your lip and tried to remember what Santi said - Frankie wasn’t angry with you.
You held out the phone to him. “It’s Santi.”
He grimaced, like talking to his best friend was the last thing on earth he wanted to do, and he didn’t much appreciate you making him do it. He put the cigarette out on the heel of his boot and took the phone from you.
“Hello?” he said, tired and exasperated. He ran a hand over his face.
You went back inside to give them a chance to talk privately. Through the window, you could hear the muted tones of Frankie’s voice; they were speaking in Spanish, and you didn’t know enough to try and parse it even if you’d wanted to.
You looked around your small, dismal house; even the warm glow of the candles didn’t seem to make it any more comforting. You stood in the living room for a minute, trying to figure out what to do with yourself. Any other night you would have just gone to bed, wondering if Frankie would climb in next to you or decide to sleep on the couch, but you didn’t have a bed here yet - or a couch, for that matter. You crossed your arms over your chest at the sudden chill you felt and wished things had gone much differently.
You apparently hadn’t had the foresight to pack a sweater in the grab-bag of clothes, and the only thing long-sleeved was one of Frankie’s soft flannel overshirts. Any other time, you wouldn’t have hesitated to wear it, and might have given your husband some ribbing about how it looked better on you than it did on him. You left it in the bag and paced aimlessly, wondering if Santi was having better luck than you at easing some of Frankie’s pain.
Mostly to occupy yourself, you fished a pot out of the box of kitchen things and set water to boil for the stray pack of ramen you’d found with the emergency candles, of all things. If moving had proven anything, it was that your kitchen was in dire need of some organization. You had thought you and Frankie would start on getting your new kitchen set up tonight, but that didn’t seem likely.
The front door opened just as the water began to boil, and you couldn’t help a shiver as the cold, rainy air gusted in before Frankie closed the door behind him. The candles guttered and sent shadows dancing over the walls. Neither of you said anything for a moment, and Frankie put your phone on the counter.
“Are you cold?” he finally asked. His voice was much gentler than it had been earlier, perhaps even a little sheepish. You didn’t know why, but you blushed.
“A little, I guess,” you said. “The rain is...”
You trailed off, not sure what you had been meaning to say in the first place. You bit your lip and tried to figure out the timer on your new stove.
You heard him rummaging through something, and you almost jumped when you felt him behind you. He put the overshirt you’d wanted earlier over your shoulders, leaving one hand on your arm while the other brushed over your hair very gently.
You suddenly felt like crying again; your throat ached and you had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay.
He brushed your hair to the side and kissed the back of your neck, feather-light.
“I’m sorry.”
You held your breath, willing yourself not to cry. He kissed your shoulder, and your breath caught like the beginning of a sob.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he said, and his voice was so sincere and heartsick that it almost hurt you to hear it. “I know I scared you. I was scared too, and I took it out on you and I shouldn’t have. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
He slowly wound his arms around your waist, giving you time to pull away from him; you leaned back against him and felt him relax, like whatever had been pulled tight in him had finally been allowed to loosen. He nuzzled against your neck and breathed you in deeply.
“I love you,” he said. “More than anything. I can’t believe you put up with somebody like me.”
You turned in his arms to face him; he kept his hands on the small of your back and kept you close to him.
You reached your hand up and touched his face, felt his scruff under your fingers, felt the way his pulse beat right under his jaw. Steady and warm, like he always was.
“I love you,” you said. Your voice was dull with crying and washed in relief. “I love you, Frankie Morales. Every bit of you, no matter what. I wish I knew how to love you better, how to - ”
He kissed you before you could say any more, tender and apologetic and full of love.
“No, sweetheart,” he said. He kissed your nose, your cheeks, your temple. “You’re the only reason I’m not broken in a million pieces, you know? You’re the only thing that keeps me together.”
He leaned his forehead against yours. “I love you. I’m sorry I’m such a screwup.”
“Don’t say that,” you said firmly. You held his face in your hands. “I love you. You are not a screwup. None of this is your fault.”
You kissed him, tenderly, and felt how much he needed it.
“I’m with you no matter what, Frankie,” you promised him, like you had on your wedding day and like you would every time he needed reminding. You smiled a little. “You’re stuck with me now.”
He gave a watery laugh, and the sound was like music.
“Thank god,” he said, and meant it.
He kissed you, gently, cautiously; you kissed him back and held him close. A few tears fell down your cheeks; you were relieved and happy and so in love with him that you didn’t know what to do with it.
“Hey,” he said softly. “No more crying, pretty girl.”
You reached up to wipe away your tears but he got there first, his big hand cradling your face, his thumb running over your cheek to catch them.
“You alright?” he asked. Wanting to know if you needed more time, if you were still hurt. You put your hand over his and leaned into his touch.
“I missed you,” you said. You weren’t sure it made any sense - after all, you’d been apart only for a little while, and even then, he’d only been outside. But the emotional distance, the worry you felt for him, the hopelessness you’d felt trying to help him - you missed him, and you were glad he was with you again.
He kissed your forehead. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I missed you too.”
You rested in that for a moment, letting it shore up the cracks in your heart; all was forgiven between you, and nothing else needed to be said. You were his, and he was yours, and sometimes it took a little heartache to remind you who held your heart together in the first place.
After a moment, you circled a hand around his wrist.
“Let’s just... give into the fact that we have no power and we’re in a brand new house that’s kind of creepy in the dark,” you said.
He chuckled. “Okay.”
You sighed. “I know I started it, but we have plenty of time to be a rambunctious, fun-loving couple when we’re not going through a very stressful night. Right?”
“Right,” he agreed. “And later, when we actually have furniture and lamps and everything, I’ll play any kind of game you come up with. As long as it’s not hide and seek.”
You gave a dry laugh. “Yeah. No hide and seek.”
He gave you a chaste kiss. “But for right now, it’s just you and me and a house with no power.”
You nodded, tipping your face up towards his. “Sounds perfect to me.”
He kissed you deeply then, taking his time; when you needed something to brace against, he kept you from leaning back right onto the hot stove and picked you up by the waist to put you on the counter. Your ramen bubbled away as Frankie stood between your knees, his hands on your thighs; you held his face in your hands and kissed him as though you would never get enough of him.
“Your ramen’s about to boil right through our nice sauce pan,” he said after a few minutes. You hadn’t even heard the timer go off.
“Whatever,” you said, breathless. He let you kiss him a few more times.
“Can I turn it off before we burn the house down, honey?”
You gave an exaggerated sigh. “I guess.”
He let you keep a hold of his hand while he quickly turned off the stove and moved the pot to another burner, and then he was standing in front of you again, looking at you like you’d hung the moon.
“I love you, Mrs. Morales,” he said. “I’m the luckiest guy on earth to be your husband. Even if you do overcook your ramen.”
You breathed a laugh and put your arms around his neck as you leaned close to kiss him again. You tipped his hat back so you could kiss all over his face while his hands roamed over your thighs and waist, tenderly kneading into your skin.
“Frankie,” you said, breathless from his kisses.
He hummed against your neck. “What is it, querida?”
You felt your whole body warm as he kissed down your neck, sweet and messy and patient. It was your first night in your first home, and you loved your husband and wanted him deeply.
“Take me to bed,” you said, brushing your fingers through the soft curls that stuck out from under his cap. “Take me to bed or lose me forever.”
You could feel his smile against your skin. “I would, honey, gladly - but you might have noticed we don’t have a bed.”
“Let’s make one,” you said. “I brought in the bedding and blankets and everything - we’ll just be like a couple of pioneers making love on an old bearskin rug.”
He scrunched up his nose and laughed at the thought. “Mm. Musty.”
“Come on,” you said with a laugh. He helped you off the counter and awaited your direction on the bed-making, accepting the pillows and blankets you gave him to hold as you unpacked them. Like you did most mornings when he didn’t leave very early for work, you made your bed together: this time, a warm and comfy pallet on your living room floor.
Like the romantic he was, Frankie put some soft classic rock on his phone; he took you in his arms to slow-dance with you as Bob Seger started to play.
“She was lovely, she was the queen of my nights,” Frankie sang, pulling you close, “there in the darkness with the radio playing low.”
You rested your head against his chest, listening to the warm sound of his voice and the steady beat of his heart. The rain still poured outside and the candles still cast shadows on the wall, but the storm and the darkness and the emptiness of the house all seemed to fade when you were with him. There in your husband’s arms, warm and safe and loved, you knew this new house you shared with Frankie was already home.