Chapter Text
You jerk awake, suddenly sitting upright, your bare chest heaving in the dark room. Your head is pounding and throbbing violently, a painful consequence of the night of indulgence you can’t quite remember yet.
You look around in confusion, squinting as you scan the darkened room. Streaks of silver moonlight spill across the bed, giving just enough light for you to take in your surroundings. As your vision snaps into focus, you quickly realize you aren’t in your own bed, yet the bedroom is strangely familiar to you.
Your brain takes entirely too long to catch up to the present, until it finally registers that you are completely naked. You gasp quietly, clamping one hand over your mouth in shock.
You look over to your left to see Santiago rolled onto his stomach facing you. One arm rests above his head on the pillow as he sleeps peacefully, blissfully unaware of your inner turmoil. His dark, wavy hair is tousled, a stray curl brushing against his forehead. You stare at him for a few seconds, blinking rapidly, as you try to piece together the events of the night.
What in the fuck happened?
Then…reality crashes into you. Hard. Your heart roars in your ears, your breath seizing in your throat as reality suddenly snaps back into focus with a terrifying clarity.
Oh, my God….
Santiago.
You slept with Santiago.
The thought ricochets violently around your brain on repeat, an act of desperation as your mind struggles to make sense of something so unfathomable.
You carefully ease out of the bed, trying to avoid rousing him, as you swing your legs over the edge of the mattress and plant your unsteady feet on the floor. You stand up, eyes scanning the floor for your clothes, but it is still dark and your vision remains blurry. You walk slowly and unsteadily around to the opposite side of the bed, leaning over to look by Santiago’s side. There you find your black lace panties crumpled up next to his boxers.
“God…” you whisper softly to yourself, grabbing your underwear and quietly stepping into them, pulling them up your thighs and onto your hips.
Your search continues for the rest of your clothes. Out of the corner of your eye, you spot your black bra hanging haphazardly on the corner of the dresser across the room.
‘Jesus Christ,' you think to yourself, staring at it for a moment as if the lace itself somehow holds the answers as to how it ended up there, how you ended up here.
You quickly snatch it off and slide your arms through the straps, pulling it up and settling it onto your chest before deftly clasping it behind your back.
You continue your quiet search, bending over as you look for your t-shirt and jeans, when you hear Santiago suddenly clear his throat from behind you.
“Hey there, Starshine,” he says, his voice a deep, rumble laced with the remnants of sleep. His elbow is propped onto the pillow, his chin resting on his open palm as he watches you in soft amusement and flashes a bright smile at you.
“Fuck!” you exclaim loudly as your hand immediately flies to your chest to try to calm your sudden racing heart as it thuds a bruising rhythm against your ribs. “You scared the fuck out of me, Santi!”
“Sorry, sorry.” He lets out a breathy, amused chuckle. “Looking for your clothes?”
“Uh…yeah,” you say sheepishly, avoiding his gaze as your eyes dart around the room.
“Well,” he says with a slight grunt as he tosses the covers aside and stands up. “I think your shirt is behind the headboard.”
Your eyes widen as he stands in front of you, completely nude.
You feel the heat immediately rise up your neck and flush your face as your gaze inadvertently falls over him; his lean frame, warm, golden skin, the sculpted, defined planes of his chest and stomach, down to the defined v of his hips, and finally to his....
You clear your throat, eyes snapping back up to his face, as you swallow hard.
“O…oh…r…right…” you stammer, completely flustered. Glancing over, you finally spot your maroon t-shirt perilously dangling off the corner post of the headboard.
You nearly lunge for it as you quickly pull it off the bed and slip it over your head, roughly pulling the soft cotton down over your torso.
“So…uh…now I just need to solve the mystery of my missing pants,” you chuckle nervously, desperately trying to avoid looking directly at him as he stands fully naked in front of you. But even then, you still glance over and your gaze still drifts lower than it should.
Fuck, this is so awkward.
“I think we left those in the living room..?” Santiago offers up, sounding unsure himself as he turns and glances around the room.
You feel your eyebrows raise drastically as he turns around; your face now feels like it is fully on fire. When he turns back around to look at you, your eyes snap back up to his. You give him a quick nod and quickly head out to the living room, flipping the light switch on and bathing the room in a soft white light. You squint, blinking rapidly as your eyes adjust to the stark difference of lighting, before you spot your jeans lying inside-out at the foot of the couch.
As you pick them up, turning them right-side out and hastily shoving one leg at a time into the tight denim, Santiago appears behind you. He is now dressed in a pair of pajama pants, holding a pillow and blanket in one arm.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. He leans a shoulder against the doorframe and watches you carefully for a moment before dropping the spare bedding onto the couch.
“Yes, of course,” you lie, forcing a smile with a false lilt in your voice. “I just need to head back home. I have to get up early tomorrow.”
“You can stay here, you know…” he says tentatively, as if he is afraid of your reaction to the suggestion. “I think you should, actually. It’s late, we both drank a lot…”
“I can call an Uber,” you quickly interrupt, zipping up and buttoning your jeans before turning to face him. A look of worry briefly ripples like a wave across his face before quickly disappearing. He looks down and sighs.
“You know I would never pressure you to do anything you don’t want to do,” he responds carefully, clearly sensing your turmoil at this sudden and unexpected development between the two of you. “But you are safe here. You don’t need a stranger taking you home alone at this hour. Take my bed, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”
You stop short of grabbing your purse, your hand resting on the thick leather strap, as you weigh your options. Obviously, staying the rest of the night with Santiago is the better and safer option, even if it is painfully awkward. But the sheer, crushing weight of the night's emotional turmoil plagues you, and the urge to run far away is pulling at you with a magnetic force.
“Do you remember what happened tonight?” You ask suddenly, avoiding his gaze.
He clears his throat and shifts his weight slightly. “We met up with the rest of the guys at the bar as usual. Fish disappeared for a bit, was chatting up some blonde. Maybe he left with her?” Santiago pauses, his brows furrowed as he struggles to recollect the night’s events himself. “Molly called; Tom had to leave early. We got that third round of shots….that’s all I remember, honestly. I don’t even remember coming back here.”
You nod, swallowing hard as a lump forms in your throat. Frankie and the tall blonde..you do remember that part very well. How could you forget? The way she was giggling and touching his arm; the image is burned in your mind. Your heart thumps painfully against your ribs at the memory and you feel jealousy rising in your throat like bitter acid that you force yourself to swallow back down.
“That’s all I remember, too. Had too many shots...” you reason weakly to yourself.
Santiago gives you a look you can’t quite place as a muscle feathers in his jaw. For a moment it looks like he wants…needs…to say something but ultimately decides against it as he swallows the words instead.
“I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I should have been more responsible…”
You immediately hold up one hand, signaling for him to stop. “No, Santi. Don’t apologize. You didn’t do anything wrong. We both got carried away, drank too much. It was a one-time thing. But this doesn’t change anything, right?”
“Uh. Yeah…yeah, of course not,” his dark gaze shifts to the floor, expression unreadable. “It was just a one-time thing. Our friendship won’t change.” His voice drops an octave, carrying the weight of words too heavy to speak, but your mind is so preoccupied you don’t even notice. You nod absent-mindedly.
“I’ll stay here. But I will take the couch,” you insist.
“Good,” Santiago nods. “I…um, will make sure you’re up early. Give you time to go home and shower.”
You smile weakly at him. “Thanks, Santi.”
“I’ll see you in a few hours,” he gives you a small smile as he pads down the hall back to his bedroom, the door quietly clicking shut behind him.
You grab the spare blanket and pillow and collapse into the couch, trying to settle in to sleep for a few more hours. Instead, you find yourself staring at the ceiling as your mind reels.
Fuck. Fuck. This was NOT supposed to happen.
For the next few hours you mostly stare up at the ceiling, your mind racing. You keep trying to piece together the fractured memories of the night, but the few pieces you have refuse to align in a way that makes sense. The fact that you ended up in Santiago's bed is unfathomable.
You know the night started like every other get-together; Friday nights are strictly reserved for catching up with the guys at the bar. That’s how it has always been for the seven years you’ve known them.
Normally you and Frankie are glued to each other's sides, sharing inside jokes and the banter you love so much. But last night was different. He was quiet. Reserved. Glued to his phone and mostly silent before he walked off to order more shots.
The blonde…
‘Maybe he left with her…’
Santiago’s words suddenly sit like a heavy weight on your chest; a real and tangible thing that feels as if it is crushing and drowning you all at once.
Did he go home with her?
You can't recall him coming back to the table. You had made a point to avoid looking at him at the bar, turning away to face Santiago, Will, Ben, and Tom, as you took shot after shot to drown out your feelings, to ease the undeniable yet unaddressed ache residing deep in your chest.
“Fuck…” you groan, a thick wave of nausea washing over you; a sickening cocktail composed of too much alcohol and the unbearable thought of Frankie hooking up with a stranger at the bar. Touching her, kissing her…
You close your eyes tight, the room suddenly spinning and making you incredibly dizzy. Your skin feels hot, and you roughly toss the blanket blindly to the bottom of the couch with a heavy groan.
“Hey, it's 8:30,” Santiago's soft voice suddenly startles you. Your eyes snap open, and you realize you must have finally fallen asleep at some point before the sun rose.
“Oh. Thanks,” you say hoarsely, your throat sore and mouth parched as you sit up slowly and rub your eyes. You let out a pained moan as you swallow what little saliva you have in your mouth, immediately struck with the intense sensation of razor blades slicing the inside of your throat raw. “God, I feel sick…”
You stop mid-sentence as you look up at Santiago. He is standing by the coffee table, holding a tray of eggs, toast, and hash browns, accompanied by a large white ceramic mug and a bottle of ibuprofen.
“I figured the hangover was going to be brutal,” he says, looking a bit pale himself with dark shadows under his tired eyes. “I thought this would help.”
He carefully places the tray on the opposite side of the couch before disappearing back into the kitchen. You notice the soothing aroma of peppermint immediately fills the air as you pick up the mug.
“Peppermint tea,” he calls out, as if he could see you inspecting the liquid in the mug from the other room. You take a tentative sip, sighing in relief as the tea coats the soothing ache in your throat. He returns a moment later with a cold bottle of water, placing it on the end table by the couch before sitting down on the loveseat across from you.
“You didn’t have to do all this for me… “
Santiago frowns slightly, leaning back. “I wanted to.”
“Thank you,” you say appreciatively, giving him a small smile. You carefully pull the tray onto your lap. The smell of food does not seem remotely appetizing, but it doesn’t turn your stomach either. You take a small bite of toast and chew it slowly and carefully.
The silence that sits between you is palpable. You take another bigger sip of tea, swallowing the warm liquid as it quells the nausea currently sitting like a brick in your stomach.
“I didn’t even hear you in the kitchen,” you chuckle, taking another bite.
“I tried to keep as quiet as possible. I was hoping you could get some rest.”
You nod, swallowing a bite of eggs. The taste is revolting, but you force yourself to eat more.
“Did you eat, too?”
“I did.”
The silence once again sits heavily in the air between you.
“Are we going to talk about what happened last night?” You suddenly blurt out, laying your fork back down on your plate and wincing. You know that now is probably not the time to discuss it, but you can’t stop yourself.
You see Santiago tense slightly, sitting up straight.
“We…probably should. But we don’t have to right now. Unless you want to.”
“I do,” you reply, suddenly feeling nervous.
“Okay,” he says quietly, resting his hands heavily on his upper thighs. “Okay. We can talk now.”
You pick up the water bottle, cracking the lid open, and take a few long gulps before grabbing the ibuprofen and shaking a few out. You quickly pop them into your mouth and swallow another gulp of water to wash them down. You take a deep, steadying breath before looking up at him.
“I don’t want our friendship to end up fucked up because of this.” you start, but he immediately holds up one finger to stop you.
“It won’t,” he promises, but you aren’t convinced.
“We fucked, Santiago,” you state bluntly. The words hang heavily in the air between you, still a shock you can’t quite absorb yet.
He inhales sharply between his teeth. “Yes, apparently…”
“And you think that won’t change things?” You quickly interject, your voice pitching higher than you mean for it to.
“We don’t have to let it change anything,” Santiago insists.
You let out a quiet scoff at that.
“You really think that things won’t be different after this, Santi? Our friendship won’t be different? And what about…” you pause mid-sentence and look down at your half-eaten tray of food.
Santiago studies you, leaning all the way back into his seat, but he remains silent. The look on his face is a silent coaxing to continue.
“I…just don’t want things to change,” you finally finish, your hands now resting on the tray and fidgeting uncomfortably.
“With us, or with Frankie?” Santiago asks, his dark eyes focusing on you with a sharp intensity that betrays his usual easy-going demeanor.
You nearly choke on your saliva as you look at him wide-eyed.
“What are you talking about?” You try, unconvincingly, to pretend you have no idea what he means. You can tell that he doesn’t believe your weak attempt to act confused by his question.
Before he can respond, Santiago’s phone vibrates loudly in his pocket.
“I’m sorry, hold on…” he grunts, leaning over as he pulls his phone out of his back pocket. He looks down at the bright screen and lets out a low, humorless chuckle.
“What a coincidence…” he murmurs, looking up at you as he answers the phone. “Hey, Fish. What’s up?”
Your body goes completely rigid as you sit up straight. You can faintly hear Frankie’s deep voice coming through the speaker and your heart starts to beat a bit faster.
“Yeah, I’ve heard from her today…” Santiago says, his dark gaze lifting to meet yours. “She’s fine.”
“Me?” You mouth silently, pointing to yourself.
He nods, balancing the phone on his shoulder as he leans his head over to hold it in place, standing up and heading into the kitchen.
“I don’t know. Yeah, I'm sure she's okay. Maybe she fell back asleep?” He presents the lie as a possible explanation as you hear the clinking of his breakfast dishes at the sink.
You continue to pick at the food on your tray, taking a few more measly bites and quickly swallowing them down. You tell yourself to not eavesdrop, but can’t help listening in on Santiago’s side of the conversation.
“I think so. Yeah, sure. Uh-huh. Okay. Talk to you later,” you hear him set his phone on the counter before coming back in the living room.
“You should text him,” Santiago says quietly. “He was worried about you last night.”
“You didn’t tell him.”
Santiago’s eyes narrow, his brows knitting together. “Of course not. Why would I do that?”
You shrug your shoulders haphazardly. “Why not?”
“Because it’s not anyone’s business,” he states matter-of-factly.
“The guys will find out, and everything will be weird.”
“I’m not telling anyone,” Santiago gently reminds you. “They won’t ever find out.”
“I just don’t want this to ruin our friendship, or my friendship with them. And this is the kind of thing that can and does ruin friendships,” you say quietly. Tears suddenly spring to life in your eyes, slipping over your lashes and falling down your face, trailing hot and fast without permission and without any forewarning.
“Hey, hey,” Santiago immediately closes the distance between you as he sits on the couch. He moves the tray from your lap and sets it down on the coffee table with a resounding thud, reaching for your hands.
“Stop,” he says gently, not unkind but firm. “That won’t happen. I swear to you. You know how much I care about you.”
“And you know how much I care about you, too.”
“I do,” he nods. His hands gently cover yours, his thumbs tracing soothing circles over your knuckles. “I’m sorry this happened. I never intended…”
“I told you last night; you do not need to apologize.”
“I do. I wasn’t responsible enough, I should have protected you better. I failed you.”
“No. We both drank too much. It was both of us.”
Santiago sighs in resignation; it is clear he knows the back-and-forth won’t go anywhere, but the guilt sits clearly on his face in a way that you can see.
“Let me take you home,” he says after a few moments of silence, giving your knuckles one last firm, soothing stroke as he stands up.
“Okay.”
You stand up, grabbing your purse as Santiago gets his keys. Once you slip your shoes on, you head outside into the blinding morning sunlight and climb into the passenger side of his car. He gets in and shuts the door, sliding the key into the ignition and turning it. The engine roars to life as he slips his seat belt on.
After clicking your own seat belt into place, you open your purse and pull out your phone. As you tap your screen, several notifications pop up on the illuminated screen.
3 missed calls.
4 text messages.
All of them from Frankie.
You tap to open your texts. The first one was at ten last night.
Cat🐱🐠: Heading home early. Have a good night and be careful.
You swallow hard as you read the next message, sent at midnight.
Cat🐱🐠: Can we talk?
Frankie wanted to talk….at midnight? Your thoughts immediately start spiraling.
‘Did he not go home with the woman from the bar? What did he want to talk about at midnight?’
Your thumb scrolls up on the text thread to read the next message, sent at six this morning.
Cat🐱🐠: Morning, Biscuit. ☀️☕️
You scroll once more to see the final text that he must have sent right before he called Santiago.
Cat🐱🐠: Did you get home okay? Let me know.
You stare at that last message for what feels like an eternity. Your thumbs hover over the keyboard and shift their position repeatedly as you try to figure out what to say. Finally, you start typing your reply.
Got home okay, thanks.
The word ‘sent’ disappears quickly, replaced a moment later by ‘read’. The three gray dots pop up and animate as Frankie starts typing a reply, but soon disappear. Then they pop up again. You watch intently as he types, holding your breath. After a few minutes his message finally appears.
Cat🐱🐠: Can we talk whenever you’re free?
You type a quick response back.
About what?
Frankie types much faster this time.
Cat🐱🐠: Last night. I was a dick, and I’m sorry.
Your brows raise slightly as you text him back.
It’s fine.
The three dots appear once more. He types for a bit, stops, and then starts typing again. This time takes longer, as if he’s struggling with what to say and how to say it. Finally, the text pops up.
Cat🐱🐠: No. I was in a bad mood. I wasn’t up for a night out. It’s why I left early. But I wanted to talk about it.
You can’t help yourself; you have to ask the question that has been torturing your thoughts all night and morning.
Did you go home alone?
The message is immediately marked as ‘read’. You wait for the three dots to appear again.
They don’t.
It looks like you have your answer.
After a few agonizing minutes of staring at the screen, waiting hopelessly for a response that clearly isn’t coming, you click your phone off and drop it back into your purse. You slump back into the passenger seat, suddenly feeling exhausted and hollowed out.
Santiago glances over at you briefly before his eyes return to the road. “What is it?”
“Just Frankie apologizing for being an asshole last night before apparently taking the woman from the bar home.”
“And that bothers you,” he says. It isn’t a question but stated as an obvious fact.
“No, of course not. He can do whatever he wants,” you respond quickly, but the bitterness you feel seeps into the tone of your voice.
“Hmm,” he responds, wholly unconvinced, but ultimately says nothing more about it.
The rest of the ride home is suffocatingly quiet. Once you’re back at your apartment, you reach over and give Santiago a hug and thank him. He tries apologizing again but you refuse to let him continue to shoulder the blame alone. You know he’s worried about you, and you promise to text him later.
Once you reach your front door, unlocking it and stepping inside your quiet apartment, you let yourself finally, fully fall apart. You lean back against the door, sliding down to the floor, and start to sob.
Suddenly your phone rings, muffled inside your purse. You quickly wipe the tears from your eyes before you pull your phone out. Through the blurry haze of your remaining tears, you see Frankie’s photo on your screen.
You take a deep, shuddering breath, and swipe to answer.