“What the fuck,” I mumble.
I groan and roll onto my back, trying to place where I am and then it hits me.
I’m not on a hotel bed.
I’m in Frankie’s room. And Frankie is still here.
I freeze.
Frankie.
She’s still asleep.
Curled into my side with one leg hooked loosely over mine, her arm draped across my stomach. Her cheek is pressed into my chest, completely unbothered by whatever musical number Zaza has decided the whole flat needs to hear.
Of course she’s used to this.
I stare down at her, taking her in properly. Her locs are spilling over my arm and pillow. Her face is soft in sleep, none of the sharp scowls she wears when she’s awake. She looks younger like this.
My chest tightens as last night hit me.
The memories come back all at once.
The clubs. The drinks. Frankie’s face after Benny said whatever he said. The heat in my chest when I realised he thought he could talk to her like that.
The bottle in my hand.
The sound it made when it connected.
The shock on Benny’s face.
Ha!
I don’t regret it. Not even a little.
Because I care about her.
That part isn’t up for debate anymore.
The idea settles in me fully now and it’s no pretending it’s just sex or convenience.
I care about her.
I care about how people speak to her, how they look at her, how they talk about her when she’s not around to defend herself.
I need to tell Zaza.
The thought comes quick and stays.
I imagine pulling Za aside and saying it plainly:
Look. Me and Frankie are seeing each other.
Because now ?I want to be with her properly. Take her out. Show up. Defend her openly. Not just in moments where things get heated or messy. All the time.
Frankie shifts in her sleep, her nose brushing against my skin. She lets out a quiet sound and presses closer without opening her eyes. Her hand tightens slightly in my shirt like she’s making sure I’m still there.
That does something to me.
