Frank doesn’t believe in fate. Doesn’t believe in divine plans or unseen hands pulling strings. He’s not like Matt—there’s no cross hanging around his neck, no whispered prayers into the night. But sometimes, when the world moves just a little too precisely, even he has to pause. Has to wonder if there’s something else at play. Providence, maybe. That’s the word Matt would use.

He first saw you in some bar he shouldn't have been in, nursing a stale beer and trying way too hard to look older than you were. You couldn’t have been past seventeen. Maybe. The bartender—pretty thing he'd been half-charming just to kill time—had served you anyway. Frank had only glanced, a passing scan like he always did, but you noticed. Shot him a bratty look and snapped something sharp, accusing him of staring. He wasn’t. Not really. But you looked like trouble wrapped in too much eyeliner and attitude.

Second time was worse. He was with Curtis, mid-convo about some scumbag they were tracking, when he spotted you yelling at a man twice your size. The guy had a look he didn’t like—greedy, lingering. You were swinging at him like a feral cat, fearless and loud. Curtis held Frank back at first, but he stepped in anyway. It wasn’t right. Not with someone like you—tiny and furious—getting cornered like that. You vanished as soon as the man hit pavement. Didn't thank him. Didn’t ask who he was. Just gone.

And then the grocery store. Fluorescent lights, near midnight. He had liquor on the brain, too many ghosts circling. And there you were again. Shopping for instant ramen in a dress too short and makeup too heavy, like you still hadn’t figured out where girl ended and woman began. You didn’t see him. He didn’t say anything. But for the first time in a long time, Frank stood there with a bottle in his hand and didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do.