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It was over.
Or at least, that’s what everyone kept saying. The reports were written, the testimonies recorded, the names cleared. Lance had delivered the final briefing two days ago — the Silva murders, the drug ring, Logan’s death, everything — tied together in a single, haunting conclusion. The mastermind had been arrested; the network dismantled. The seven teenagers who had been at the heart of the chaos were, in the official story, “valuable civilian informants.”
But peace didn’t arrive all at once. It came quietly, like a dawn that took too long to rise.
The city was gray and cold that afternoon, and the world felt oddly smaller now that the adrenaline had drained away. Franco sat by the window of a small café tucked into a corner of the old district — the kind of place with cracked tiles, worn wood, and the soft hiss of steaming milk. He stared at the raindrops sliding down the glass, his fingers absently tracing the rim of his mug.
The bell over the door chimed.
Jack stepped in, shoulders hunched against the drizzle, his jacket half-zipped, hair damp enough to curl slightly at the edges. He spotted Franco almost immediately. A small, tired smile flickered across his face — the kind of smile that said, we survived.
“Hey,” Jack murmured as he dropped into the seat across from him.
Franco smiled faintly, his eyes softening. “You made it.”
Jack huffed out a laugh. “Wouldn’t miss it. Though Liam nearly caught me sneaking out with his umbrella.”
That earned a real laugh, quiet but genuine. For a moment, they sat there, just letting the calm wrap around them. The café smelled of espresso and wet pavement. Outside, the world moved at half-speed — people rushing past with umbrellas, cars slicing through puddles, the air thick with the promise of new beginnings.
Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table. “It feels weird, doesn’t it? Like everything stopped moving the second we found out the truth. I thought I’d feel… lighter. But I don’t.”
Franco looked at him, the steam from his coffee curling between them. “Maybe that’s because the truth doesn’t fix what it breaks.” His voice was quiet, measured. “It just gives the pieces names.”
Jack nodded slowly. “Yeah.” He glanced down, then back up. “You’re still… you, though. That’s something.”
Franco’s lips curved slightly. “I could say the same to you.”
A small silence bloomed between them — not awkward, but electric. Jack’s eyes lingered a little too long on Franco’s, and Franco didn’t look away this time. The exhaustion of the last few weeks had stripped away pretense, leaving only what was real, raw, and unspoken.
Jack broke the silence first. “You know, when I first met you, I thought you were infuriating.”
Franco raised a brow. “Just thought?”
Jack grinned. “Fine. You are infuriating. But you’re also the reason we made it this far.” He reached out, fingers brushing the edge of Franco’s hand where it rested against the table. The contact was brief but grounding — like testing the shape of something new.
Franco’s breath caught, but he didn’t move his hand away. “That’s funny,” he murmured, a faint blush rising in his cheeks. “Because half the time, you’re the reason I thought I was going to lose my mind.”
Jack chuckled softly, and the sound warmed the cold edges of the day. “Guess we balance each other out, then.”
Franco tilted his head. “Maybe we do.”
The rain had stopped, sunlight beginning to pierce through the clouds. The café window glowed with soft gold, and the reflections danced across their faces. Jack took a sip of his coffee, then leaned back in his chair, studying Franco as though he were memorizing the lines of his face.
“So,” Jack said, voice gentler now. “What happens next?”
Franco looked down at their hands — still close, almost touching — and then up at him again. “Whatever comes next,” he said quietly, “let’s not do it alone.”
For a moment, the whole world narrowed to that table — the fading rain, the warmth of the mugs between them, and the unspoken understanding that after everything they’d been through, they had somehow found something worth holding onto.
Jack smiled — a small, knowing curve of his lips — and this time, he didn’t hesitate.
He reached out fully, fingers lacing through Franco’s.
Franco hestitated, as though he was mustering up the leftover courage, before muttering, in a volume that Jack could barely hear the words, “Do.. do you maybe want to.. go on a date?”
Jack chuckled. “I thought this was the date.”
Franco blinked, the words landing a second late. His ears warmed first, then his cheeks, then that familiar tight flutter in his chest like something unfolding too fast to stop.
“This?” he echoed, glancing around the café as if seeing it properly for the first time. The chipped mugs. The fogged glass. Jack’s hand warm and real in his own. “I mean. I didn’t exactly plan it.”
Jack’s thumb brushed lightly against Franco’s knuckles, absent, fond. “Yeah. Neither did I.” He smiled, softer now. “But somehow that tracks.”
Franco let out a breath that might have been a laugh. Or relief. Or both tangled together. “So… I didn’t just accidentally confess my feelings in the least dramatic way possible?”
“Oh, you absolutely did,” Jack said, deadpan. Then his eyes softened. “But I like that about you.”
The words settled between them, gentle and steady. Franco’s shoulders loosened, tension he hadn’t realized he was holding finally slipping away. He squeezed Jack’s hand once, tentative, like a question.
Jack answered by squeezing back.
Outside, the clouds had thinned to pale streaks, the city rinsed clean and quietly alive. Franco watched a couple pass the window, laughing under a shared umbrella, and something warm and almost frightening bloomed in his chest.
“So,” he said, clearing his throat. “If this is a date… I should probably ask what kind of coffee you like. For future reference.”
Jack’s grin widened. “Bold of you to assume there’ll be a future reference.”
Franco shot him a look, half mock offense, half hope. “Jack.”
“I’m kidding,” Jack laughed quickly. “I like dark roasts. No sugar. Pretend I’m tougher than I am.”
Franco smiled. “Noted.”
They finished their drinks slowly, neither in a rush to stand. When they finally did, Jack held the door open, rain-slick pavement glinting outside like a fresh page.
As they stepped out into the cool air, Franco hesitated, then spoke before he could overthink it. “Hey. I’m still figuring things out. I don’t really know what I’m doing.”
Jack adjusted his jacket, then met his eyes. “Good. Me neither.”
They started walking, shoulders brushing, hands finding each other again without discussion.
A left there, and then a right, and a few minutes walking straight, and they had found themselves infront of Franco’s room, too soon. The sky had settled into that soft post-rain blue, the kind that made everything feel unreal in a gentle way, the air still smelling like wet soil. The street was quiet. Too quiet, like the world was politely giving them space.
“Well,” Jack said, rocking back on his heels, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. “This is me not being smooth about goodbyes.”
Franco huffed a laugh. “You’ve been doing fine so far.”
Jack glanced at him, eyes lingering, something nervous and bright flickering there. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
There was a pause. A dangerous one. The kind where your brain starts screaming say something, do something, don’t just stand there like an idiot.
Jack solved it.
He leaned in and pressed a quick, warm peck to Franco’s cheek. Barely a second. Soft. Casual. Devastating.
Franco froze.
Just for half a second. Just long enough for his brain to completely short-circuit.
Jack was already stepping back, hands shoved into his jacket pockets like he hadn’t just casually rewired Franco’s nervous system. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all. “Impulse.”
Franco’s cheek burned. Not metaphorically. Physically. Like Jack had left a fingerprint made of heat.
“You—” Franco started, then stopped, because words had apparently packed their bags and left the country. He pressed his fingers to the spot, blinking. “You just… pecked me.”
Jack tilted his head, trying very hard and failing to hide his grin. “Yeah.”
On cue, Franco’s pulse decided to audition for a drumline. “You can’t just do that,” he muttered.
Jack raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
Franco opened his mouth. Closed it. Groaned quietly. “Because now I’m going to think about it. All night.”
Jack laughed, warm and unapologetic. “That sounds like a me problem you’re making into a you problem.”
“Damn Aussie,” Franco shot back, but there was no heat in it. Just breathless disbelief and something dangerously close to happiness.
Jack stepped closer again, just enough to lower his voice. “So. Second date?”
Franco swallowed. “Yeah. Definitely.”
“Good.” Jack backed away this time, walking down the path backward for a few steps. “Sleep well, Franco.”
Franco watched him go, still touching his cheek like it might disappear if he didn’t anchor it.
When the door finally closed behind him, he leaned against it, exhaled, and let a stupid, unstoppable smile take over. He didn’t move for a long moment.
The room was quiet in that way that only exists late in the afternoon, when the day hasn’t fully let go yet. Somewhere down the hall, a pipe ticked as it cooled. Outside, Jack’s footsteps faded, replaced by the distant hum of traffic and a barking dog that sounded far too awake for Franco’s current emotional state.
He dragged a hand down his face.
Get it together.
“Damn Aussie,” he murmured again.
He kicked off his shoes, dropped his keys into the bowl by the door, and made it three steps before his brain replayed the moment again. Jack’s lean-in. The brush of breath. The quick, confident peck like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Franco let out a strangled sound and pressed his forehead against the wall.
Unbelievable.
He shrugged out of his jacket and collapsed onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The familiar cracks above him looked different somehow, like the room itself had shifted just a few degrees off-axis. His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
One new message.
Jack:
made it halfway down the corridoor before i realized i probably should’ve asked permission.
…u ok?
Franco snorted, rolled onto his side, and typed back.
Franco:
i survived. barely.
ure lucky i like you.
The reply came almost immediately.
Jack:
noted🫡
also for the record? totally wldve done it again
Franco groaned into his pillow, the smile there whether he wanted it or not.
He stared at the screen, then typed slower this time.
Franco:
next time, dont aim for my cheek.
There was a pause. Long enough for Franco’s heart to start doing unhelpful things. Long enough for him to think if that was a good idea to send that message.
Then:
Jack:
nxt time, you won’t have to tell me twice.
Franco locked his phone, dropped it onto his chest, and laughed quietly to himself, the sound shaky but real.
Jack didn’t make it very far before he slowed down.
Okay. That was a lie. He made it exactly to the end of the corridoor, just like he said, then stopped under a streetlight that buzzed faintly like it had opinions. He stared at his phone, then at Franco’s front door in the distance, then back at his phone again.
Idiot, he thought fondly. Absolute idiot.
He lifted his fingers to his own cheek, mirroring the spot he’d kissed, like that might somehow balance the universe. It didn’t. His heart was still doing laps.
He hadn’t planned it. That was the thing. No internal countdown, no pep talk. One second Franco was standing there, a little unsure, a little soft around the edges in a way Jack didn’t see often, and the next second Jack’s body had decided, yep, this feels right.
Apparently his Australian impulse control had clocked out early.
The buzz in his pocket startled him. Franco’s reply.
I survived. Barely.
You’re lucky I like you.
Jack laughed out loud, earning a weird look from a woman walking her dog. He typed back without thinking too hard, thumbs moving on muscle memory more than courage
Noted.
Also, for the record? Totally would’ve done it again.
He slipped the phone away and started walking again, rain-slick pavement reflecting the city lights like a thousand little alternate endings. His shoulders felt lighter than they had in weeks. Months, maybe.
Then his phone buzzed again.
Next time, don’t aim for my cheek.
Jack stopped. Again.
Oh.
He stared at the screen, the grin spreading slow and unstoppable. Something warm settled in his chest, steady and certain. He typed carefully this time, like he was placing something fragile exactly where it belonged.
Next time, you won’t have to tell me twice.
He sent it, then exhaled, long and deep, like he’d been holding that breath since the café.
As he headed back to his room, the city felt different. Not safer. Not fixed. Just… possible. For the first time since everything had gone to hell, Jack wasn’t bracing for the next disaster.
He was thinking about coffee. About second dates. About Franco’s laugh when it caught him off guard, and the way his hand had trembled just a little before settling into Jack’s like it had always known where to go.
Jack shook his head, smiling to himself.
“Yeah,” he murmured to the empty elevator. “I’m in trouble.”
And for once, he didn’t mind at all.
Jack slept terribly.
Not in the bad way. In the vivid, half-waking way, where his brain kept replaying small moments like they were important footage. Franco’s pause before asking about the date. The way his fingers had hesitated, then held on. The quiet bravery of it all. Jack woke up sometime before sunrise with the certainty that this, whatever this was, had already rearranged him.
He lay there staring at the ceiling of his apartment, listening to the city stretch awake. A tram rattled past. Someone upstairs dropped something with dramatic commitment. Meanwhile, Liam in the other room was snoring quite loudly, having no care whatsoever. Jack smiled into his pillow.
Idiot. Again.
By late morning, he found himself at the market near his place, hands in his pockets, walking aimlessly between stalls. He bought bread he didn’t need. Fruit he wouldn’t eat in time, that Liam would just eat carelessly. He checked his phone too often and pretended he wasn’t hoping.
Then, like the universe had a sense of timing it didn’t deserve, his phone buzzed.
Franco:
So. Hypothetically.
If someone wanted to see you again today.
What time would work?
Jack stopped walking.
A guy selling flowers watched him grin at his phone like it had just confessed something. Jack cleared his throat, nodded awkwardly, and stepped aside before typing back.
Jack:
Hypothetically speaking?
Any time after three.
And I’d be stupidly happy about it.
The reply came slower this time. Deliberate.
Franco:
Good.
Then be stupidly happy at six.
Jack laughed, low and helpless, and typed one last thing before locking his phone like it might explode.
Jack:
It’s a date.
For real this time.
He stood there for a second longer, breathing it in. No chase. No crisis. Just anticipation, bright and a little terrifying.
Six hours later, Jack would knock on Franco’s door again, heart thudding, pretending he wasn’t already halfway gone.
And this time, he had a feeling the kiss wouldn’t stop at the cheek.
Jack stepped into the apartment, still buzzing from the text exchange, and froze in the doorway when he saw Liam sprawled over the kitchen table, pencil in hand, papers scattered like a small battlefield. Liam’s brow was furrowed in concentration, but the corner of his mouth twitched in recognition immediately.
“You’re… grinning,” Liam said, tilting his head. “Like an idiot. And not your usual ‘messing with someone online’ idiot grin. Real, full-blown, can't-stop, dork idiot grin.”
Jack blinked, then shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Maybe I am. Hypothetically,” he said, voice a little too high.
Liam leaned back, arms crossed. “Hypothetically? Jack, your cheek muscles are seriously worried about the amount of exercise they’re getting. What’s going on?”
Jack laughed, which sounded more like a bark than he intended. “Nothing. Just… nothing.” He knew he wasn’t convincing. Liam raised an eyebrow.
“Nothing?” Liam repeated. “You don’t text like this ‘nothing’. Your phone’s been glued to your hand all morning.” He gestured vaguely at Jack’s pocket, then smirked. “Wait—Franco?”
Jack coughed awkwardly, spinning the conversation. “So… New Zealand. Your trip. How was it?”
Liam leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head, eyes sparkling with that mix of mischief and fatigue only Liam could pull off. “Oh, you know. Family, sheep, actual grass that isn’t city rubble. Pretty relaxing.” He laughed softly. “Honestly, I almost forgot what quiet sounded like.”
Jack nodded, but his grin kept threatening to break free again. “Sounds… nice. You didn’t miss us too much, huh?”
Liam gave him a pointed look. “You’re grinning like an idiot. And don’t think I didn’t notice. Did something happen while I was gone?”
Jack tried to look casual, leaning against the doorframe. “Uh… nothing. Just… uh, caffeine, maybe. Too much coffee. You know how it is.”
Liam raised an eyebrow. “Jack. Please. That grin says otherwise. Spill.”
Jack hesitated. His fingers flexed nervously, his mind running through a dozen ways to explain without actually explaining. “Fine. Hypothetically… if someone went on a… date yesterday, it might have involved a café, rain, and maybe a kiss.”
Liam whistled low. “Ah. I see. That explains the grin.” He leaned forward, eyes twinkling. “Franco, right?”
Jack froze. “I—uh… it’s complicated.”
Liam snorted. “Complicated. Yeah. Classic excuse. Alright, I’ll leave it at that for now. But don’t think I won’t be asking again.”
Jack breathed out a silent sigh of relief, grateful Liam had turned back to his homework, leaving him alone with his thoughts—thoughts that were still very much focused on Franco.
Jack flopped onto the couch, staring at the ceiling, fingers twitching as if they could reach across the city and touch Franco’s hand again.
“Damn it,” he muttered quietly. “That’s all I can think about.”
And Liam, blissfully unaware, muttered something about overdue assignments and New Zealand sheep. But Jack wasn’t listening. Not even close.
Jack spent the next few hours in what could only be described as “anticipation hell.” He tried keeping busy—cleaning his apartment, rearranging the bookshelf for the tenth time, even making a pot of coffee he didn’t really want—but every half hour he found himself checking the clock. Three became four, four became five, and by five-fifteen, he was pacing like a cat in a too-small box.
Finally, six o’clock hit. Jack grabbed his jacket, checked his reflection in the mirror, and muttered, “Not a disaster yet… probably.”
By the time he reached Franco’s room, the street was bathed in the soft glow of the evening, the city’s usual hum quieter than usual, as if it, too, was holding its breath. Jack had rehearsed a dozen entrances in his head. None of them mattered. His confidence melted the second his hand hovered over Franco’s doorbell, for longer than necessary, before pressing it.
The door swung open almost immediately. Franco stood there, hair slightly mussed, cheeks flushed—not from exertion, Jack decided—and an expression somewhere between nervous and amused.
Jack’s grin was instant. “Hey.”
Franco’s eyes flicked down, then back up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Hey yourself. You, uh… brought your confidence this time?”
Jack shrugged, hands shoved in pockets. “I brought my best Australian charm.”
Franco raised an eyebrow. “Dangerous.”
Jack stepped aside to let him out. “Only when necessary.”
They walked together through the city streets, the air crisp, carrying the faint scent of rain from earlier. Silence settled between them—not uncomfortable, but easy. Comfortable. Electric in its simplicity.
After a few blocks, Jack finally broke it, voice quieter than usual. “You know… I’ve been thinking about that kiss.”
Franco’s step faltered just slightly. “Yeah?”
Jack nodded, cheeks faintly red despite the dim light. “Yeah. About how I didn’t want it to just… end there.”
Franco’s laugh was soft, teasing, but there was a warmth behind it that made Jack’s chest tighten. “So?”
Jack stopped walking, reached for Franco’s hand, and held it like he’d been holding it in his mind for hours. “So… maybe we can… try it again?”
Franco tilted his head, expression playful and daring. “Maybe we can.”
Then Jack leaned in. This time, there was no hesitation, no cheek. Just the press of lips that was soft, claiming, and entirely, unapologetically him.
Franco responded instantly, hands threading through Jack’s hair, pulling him closer. The world shrank to the press of bodies, the hum of the city fading into irrelevance.
When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, Jack rested his forehead against Franco’s. “Okay,” he murmured. “Yeah. Definitely okay.”
Franco smirked, eyes sparkling in the evening light. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Jack grinned. “I know. And I’m counting on it.”
They walked on, hands clasped, hearts lighter than they had been in months, and for the first time in a long time, neither of them wanted to stop.
“YOU KISSED HIM?! FINALLY!!” Liam exclaimed. Jack was now at home, wondering why the hell he had given in and told Liam what happened in the date.
Jack pinched the bridge of his nose, leaning back against the couch like the weight of the entire world—or at least Liam’s enthusiasm—was pressing down on him. “Liam,” he groaned, voice low and urgent. “Please tell me you don’t plan to cheer like a bloody sports commentator every time I breathe near Franco.”
Liam didn’t look apologetic. In fact, his grin widened. “Mate, this is historic. You finally—I’ve been waiting for this for weeks! Weeks!”
Jack’s hand twitched toward the phone. “Weeks. I. Don’t. Want. To. Hear. About. It. Or—”
“Or what?” Liam interrupted, leaning forward like he was about to ignite a bomb with words alone.
Jack waved a finger, deadly serious. “Or I call Isack and tell him you like him. And trust me, that’s going to be… catastrophic.”
Liam froze, one eyebrow shooting up. “Wait. You wouldn’t—”
Jack’s grin was sharp. “Try me, mate. I’m deadly serious.”
Liam let out a slow, suspicious laugh, but Jack could see the gears turning behind his eyes. He’d pushed too far. The smirk said it all.
Jack groaned, flopping back into the couch cushions, hand on his forehead. “Why did I tell him in the first place?”
“Because you’re an idiot,” Liam said, shrugging with complete innocence. “But a happy idiot. That’s progress.”
Jack muttered something incomprehensible under his breath, secretly grinning despite himself. “Happy. Yeah. Terribly, dangerously happy.”
Jack stared at his phone for a solid thirty seconds, thumb hovering over Franco’s contact. His apartment was quiet, the kind of quiet that made your thoughts too loud. Liam was passed out on the couch, blissfully oblivious, leaving Jack alone with his nerves and a small, stubborn grin.
He finally pressed “call.”
Franco answered on the second ring, voice warm and slightly sleepy. “Jack?”
Jack cleared his throat, trying not to sound like a teenager about to ask a promposal. “Hey… hey, Franco. Uh… you free to talk?”
“Yeah, what’s up?” Franco said softly, and Jack’s chest did that annoying flutter again.
Jack took a deep breath. “So… um… about us.”
There was a pause on the line, just long enough for Jack to panic internally. “I mean, I was thinking… maybe we could… make it official? You know. No hypotheticals. No maybe-laters. Just… us.”
Franco’s laugh came quietly, gentle and fond. “Official, huh?”
Jack nodded, though Franco couldn’t see him. “Yeah. I mean, I like you. A lot. And I figure… it’s about time we stop pretending this is some… casual thing.”
Another pause. This one made Jack want to crawl under the couch. “Jack,” Franco said finally, voice low and teasing, “you do realize you’re officially the cutest idiot in the city right now, right?”
Jack grinned, leaning back into the couch. “I’ll take it. So, what do you say?”
Franco’s voice softened. “You know what? Yeah. Let’s make it official. I want us. No excuses, no holding back.”
Jack’s grin turned smug. “Okay, yeah. Because I was already planning to monopolize all your weekends anyway.”
Franco laughed, light and warm, and Jack felt like he’d just swallowed sunlight. “Fair warning,” Franco said. “You’re going to have to earn that privilege.”
Jack snorted. “Challenge accepted.”
By the time they hung up, Jack was practically vibrating with happiness, his grin permanently stuck on his face. Liam stirred on the couch. “Everything okay?”
Jack glanced at him, smirking. “Better than okay. I just made it official.”
Liam bolted upright instantly. “FINALLY. About time, mate!”
Jack shook his head, laughing, and muttered, “Yeah, yeah. Save the yelling. I’ve got a date with happiness now.”
And for once, Jack meant it. He looked at Liam, finally catching his mischievous grin, and groaned immediately before the words even left his mouth. “Wait. No. Stop. Don’t even think about it.”
Liam was already pacing, hands animated like he was rehearsing a speech. “Oh, I am thinking about it. Someone has to give Franco the Shovel Talk. You know… the rules. The responsibilities. The—”
“Liam,” Jack cut him off sharply, sinking back into the couch like he was shielding himself from a grenade. “No. He doesn’t need the Shovel Talk. He doesn’t need… your version of the Shovel Talk.”
Liam tilted his head, grinning like he’d already made his decision. “Mate, it’s tradition. He’s officially yours now. That means he gets the talk. Don’t worry, I’ll be gentle… mostly.”
Jack buried his face in his hands, groaning again. “Oh God, why did I think telling him to ‘make it official’ was a good idea?!”
“Because you’re an idiot in love,” Liam said cheerfully. “And also, let’s be honest, he’s probably going to enjoy it.”
Jack peeked through his fingers. “Enjoy it? Liam. He’s going to run screaming from the city.”
Liam waved a hand dismissively. “He’ll come back. They always do. Trust me. By the end, he’ll be quoting me in your next argument.”
Jack squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I’m doomed.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Liam said, grinning like the world’s most gleeful villain. “But that’s why you called me, right? To make sure he’s properly briefed on how lucky he is to deal with you?”
Jack sighed, defeated but secretly grinning. “Yeah… I guess.”
Liam clapped his hands together. “Perfect. I’ll draft the Shovel Talk for Franco. Don’t worry, mate. He’ll survive. Probably.”
Jack groaned one last time as Liam started pacing with even more energy. “Oh God, what have I done?”
Somewhere in the back of his head, Jack knew this was going to be ridiculous—and absolutely worth it.
Franco was halfway through brushing his teeth when his phone buzzed on the counter.
He glanced at the screen.
Kiwi
He frowned, rinsed his mouth, and picked it up.
Kiwi:
hi.
Franco blinked.
That was… ominous.
Franco:
Liam? What’s up, bro?
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Reappeared. Franco leaned against the sink, already sensing chaos approaching at speed.
Kiwi:
so you’re dating jack.
Not a question.
Franco:
…yes?
A full ten seconds passed. Franco stared at the screen, toothbrush forgotten.
Then his phone exploded.
Kiwi:
cool.
just so we’re clear
if you hurt him
like even a little
emotionally, physically, spiritually, metaphysically
i will find you.
Franco straightened. Slowly.
Kiwi:
i dont care how nice you seem
i dont care how good you kiss
i will end you.
Franco choked on a laugh he absolutely should not be having.
Kiwi:
jack is terrible at asking for help
he pretends he’s fine when he’s not
so if you make him feel small
or unwanted
or disposable
you’re dead.
Franco pressed his lips together, shoulders shaking.
Kiwi:
that’s the shovel talk.
have a nice night. 🥸😎😌
Silence.
Franco stared at the phone for a long moment, then stared at the string of misplaced and misused emojis, then typed carefully.
Franco:
…noted.
for the record, i like him. a lot.
also please tell him you threatened to kill me. i think he should know.
The reply came instantly.
Kiwi:
oh i will.
welcome to the family. 🤪
Franco locked his phone and burst out laughing, head tipping back against the bathroom door.
“Aggressively protective,” he muttered. “Right.”
A second later, his phone buzzed again. This time, Jack.
Jack:
Did Liam text you.
Franco didn’t even hesitate.
Franco:
Yes.
I think I’ve been legally warned.
There was a pause. Then:
Jack:
I am so, so sorry.
Franco smiled, warm and unbothered, and typed back.
Franco:
It’s okay.
Honestly?
Kind of sweet.
Jack was probably groaning into a pillow.
Franco, meanwhile, felt oddly… reassured.