The neon hum of the hotel lobby sign flickered, casting a sickly, sterile light over the marble floor. Frankie Morales stood there, his fingers twitching against the leather of his wallet, heart hammering a rhythm that felt less like adrenaline and more like a slow motion car crash.

Behind him stood the blonde from the bar, a blur of perfume and practiced laughter. She was easy. She didn't know about the demons in his head or the way his hands shook when the house got too quiet. She didn't know he was a man who had spent his life flying into storms only to realize he didn’t know how to land.

"One room," he started to say, his voice sounding like gravel under a boot. "King bed, one-"

But then, it hit him. Not a sound or a touch, but a memory that cut through the cheap whiskey fog like a flare in the dark. He saw your smile. Not the posed one from the wedding photos, but the real one, the messy, sleepy grin you gave him three mornings ago when he’d burned the toast. It was the smile of someone who saw every rough, broken piece of him and decided to stay anyway.

What the fuck am I doing?

The realization was a sharp blow to his gut. He wasn't just about to get a room, he was about to set fire to the only solid ground he had left. He was about to throw away years of trust, history, and a love he didn't even feel worthy of anymore, all because he felt a little numb inside.

"Actually," Frankie rasped, shoving his wallet back into his pocket. "Forget it."

"Frankie?" the girl asked, confused.

"Go home," he muttered, already turning for the door, his pace quickening into a desperate stride. "I’m a piece of shit. Go home."

The drive back was a blur of white knuckled grip and cursing himself out loud.

"Eres un pendejo, Morales. Un fucking hijo de puta-"

By the time he pulled into the driveway, the house was glowing with a soft, warm light that felt like a reproach. He walked through the front door, his lungs burning, and the smell hit him immediately, garlic, herbs, and home.

You were there, standing by the counter, setting a plate down. You looked up, a tired but genuine softness in your eyes.

"Hey," you said, glancing at the clock. "I thought you were staying late at the hangar. You're just in time for-"

Frankie didn't let you finish. He crossed the kitchen in three long strides, his boots heavy on the floor, and grabbed you. He pulled you in, his hands shaking as they cupped your face, and kissed you with a desperate, starving intensity. It wasn't the kiss of a man coming home from work, it was the kiss of a man who had just survived a wreck.

You gasped into his mouth, stiffening in confusion for a split second before your hands found the familiar leather of his jacket, pulling him closer, kissing him back with a concerned "Frankie? What’s going on?"

He pulled back just an inch, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hitched.

"I almost made the biggest mistake of my life," he choked out, his voice breaking. "I’ve been so far inside my own head, being a fucking coward, feeling like I didn't deserve any of this."

Before you could ask what he meant, he sank. He dropped to his knees right there on the kitchen floor, his large hands trembling as they moved to your waist. He leaned forward, pressing his face firmly against the soft, unmistakable curve of your rounding belly.

He let out a long, shuddering sob against the fabric of your shirt, his arms wrapping around your hips as if he were anchoring himself to the earth.

"I’m sorry," he whispered into the warmth of your skin, the vibration of his voice reaching the life growing inside. "God, I'm so fucking sorry. I'm right here. I’m not going anywhere. I’ve got you both. I promise."