Chapter Text
“Like the echoes of our souls are meeting
You say those words, my heart stops beating
At times I can’t move, at times I can hardly breathe
When you say you love me the world goes still, so still inside
And when you say you love me, for a moment, there’s no one else alive”
It’s well past midnight and, by all rights, Fran should be exhausted. Instead, she lays alone in her bed and stares at the ceiling in the dark, smile still bright on her face, giggles escaping in sporadic bursts. She’s just so happy. Elated, ecstatic, giddy.
He said it. He finally said it. Maxwell Sheffield told her, Fran Fine, that he loves her… And he didn’t take it back.
She’s been waiting for this for, god, it seems like forever, and today, at long last, he’d been ready to tell her, had flown halfway across the world to do so. No heat-of-the-moment reactivity, no life-or-death scenario; just him, and her, and those three words. His face, so serious and adoring at the same time, words calm and sure, and he’d repeated it over and over at her behest. He’d called her darling, he’d told their family. No secrets, no hiding, just the truth, out in the open for all to know.
No, it wasn't quite shouting it from the rooftops, but still, it was more than enough. More than she sometimes feared she’d ever get from him.
More than she herself has ever given him.
Oh, my God.
She hadn’t said it back.
Hasn’t ever said it at all. It’s just such a foregone conclusion in her mind, such an irrefutable truth, a constant of her existence: Wake up, love him. Eat, love him. Shop, love him. Sleep, love him. Breathe, love him.
It just is, all the time. So obvious that it went without saying, literally. She, who wears her love for him on her sleeve—in her mind, in her eyes, in her heart—forgot to wear it on her lips.
She spares an irritated moment to wonder if perhaps he’d have said it sooner if she’d ever thought to spell out her own feelings to him, but it doesn’t matter, she can beat herself up about that later. Nothing else matters now, nothing except the fact that she hasn’t told him.
Maybe he knows, but he doesn’t know.
She has to tell him. Now.
The shockwaves of realization propel her into near-frenzied action, one leg already off the bed, the other stuck tangled in the sheets. She hops and kicks until it’s free, making it halfway to the door before remembering she’s clad only in her oversized Queens College t-shirt, panties, and a pair of wool socks bunched up to her calves, hair loose in curly disarray, with not a stitch of make-up to speak of. It doesn’t matter. That’s how imperative this drive is, she can’t even be bothered to care if he sees her less put together than he ever has. She staggers to her closet and gropes blindly for the nearest robe, tripping over her own feet twice on her mad dash to his room.
She knocks quietly on his door, pressing her ear against the wood, but hears no response. Cracking the door open she peers into the darkness and can just make out his sleeping form in the subdued light of the streetlamps filtering through the cracks in his drapes. She steps inside and closes the door, wondering if perhaps she should let him sleep. He did fly halfway across the world just to turn around and fly right back hours later, he’s gotta be exhausted. But... He’s lying on his stomach, back to the door, one arm extended towards the empty side of the bed, as though reaching for someone.
Nope, it can’t wait—she can’t wait—hopefully he won’t mind being woken for this.
She circles around, leaving her robe draped at the end of the bed, and slides under the covers, inching closer until she’s beneath his outstretched arm. He must feel her presence there because his arm curls around her body, draws her close, close, closer, until she’s tucked right up against him. He nuzzles his face into her hair and hums. He’s so warm and soft, she could easily fall asleep like this. But no, she has a mission.
“Max,” She whispers into his neck, loving how the stubble on his unshaven jaw scrapes rough against her skin.
His arm tightens, then, “Fran,” His voice is nothing more than a dreamy sigh. He’s still asleep. For a moment, love threatens to choke her, breath hitching against tears. He knows her, or at least wants her, even in sleep. God, the enormity of this feeling; it swells up in her chest, her throat, her heart is wild beneath the cage of her ribs.
She wiggles until she can reach his face, prompting a sleepy grumble, “Max,” She says again, “Wake up for me.” She presses gentle kisses to his chin, his nose, cheeks, lips. He hums again. Boy, is he a heavy sleeper, or what?
Her teeth graze his lower lip and her tongue flicks out against his top one, eliciting a moan. He turns suddenly, pulling her with him, and she finds herself half on top of his chest as his mouth moves against hers, lethargic and lingering, still mostly asleep, likely dreaming.
Fran kisses him back with intent and feels him coming awake gradually, knows when he reaches full awareness by the way his hands tighten at her waist, dragging her even further atop him, mouth slanting across hers purposefully. He moans again and his body arcs beneath hers. She pulls back to watch his eyes flutter open and clear, coming to focus on her.
“Hi,” She offers a sheepish smile. He trails one hand up her side and brushes her hair back from her face.
“Miss Fine,” There’s humor in his gentle admonishment, “What exactly are you doing in my room, in my bed, in the middle of the night?”
Her guilty attempt to slide out of their intimate position is thwarted by his arms locking tight, keeping her in place.
“Not that I’m complaining,” He continues, “This is, quite literally, a dream come true.” His grin is infectious, “Actually, strictly speaking, it’s hundreds of dreams coming true—thousands.”
The love punches through her again and she’s breathless with it. This open admission of wanting her, dreaming of her, here in his bed is almost enough to distract her, to tempt her into leaning back down and kissing him until she’s made his every dream a reality.
He really does love her.
Her forehead creases and she opens her mouth but words have somehow deserted her, lost in a swirling tide of near-painful adoration. He props himself up on an elbow, concern etched across his face in response to her uncharacteristic silence.
“Fran, is something wrong? Are you okay?”
“Yes—I mean no—I mean…” She huffs out a breath and tries to organize her thoughts, “Yes, I’m okay, technically. But also, something is wrong. I’m sorry I just barged in here and woke you up, but I was laying in bed and I realized I never—I can’t believe I haven’t—I didn’t… I just needed to come and talk to you. It couldn’t wait, I…”
“Fran,” He interrupts her disjointed explanation softly, “It’s alright, take a breath. I don’t mind that you woke me up, or that you’re here. Just the opposite, in fact. Now, what did you want to talk to me about?”
She closes her eyes and drops her forehead to his, breathes deep, mentally wrangling her turbulent emotions. He strokes her hair and waits. He’s been waiting just as long as she has to hear these words. He deserves to hear them.
Fran pushes herself up, resituating so that she sits straddling his waist, and ignores the desire she can see, even in the darkness of the room, brewing in his eyes at her position. She plants her hands on his shoulders and locks their gazes.
It’s time. It’s well past time.
A deep, fortifying breath, and she’s ready to go on.
“I’m in love with you, Maxwell Sheffield, and I have been for a very, very long time. I’m so sorry that I haven’t told you, that I never said it before. Because I am, I do. Love you. So much. With everything in me.”
Eyes wide and wondering, he stares up at her. His mouth opens but she presses her fingers to his lips. She’s not done confessing.
“I know you probably already know, but you didn’t know; you didn’t get to hear me say it. I should have said it a million times already, every day, every minute. And I should have said it in Koorestan, and at the airport, on the plane, at the front door, in the living room. Every time I asked you to say it, I should have said it, too. I love you. I love you, Max. I love you. I—”
Her words choke off on a gasp as he flips them over, rolling on top of her so quickly she feels the adrenaline swoop of butterflies in her stomach. His body presses into hers from head to toe.
“Fran,” He says, “Fran… ” And then he’s kissing her, hard. Biting at her mouth, drinking from her. His hand is on her cheek, one thumb stroking her lower lip, pulling it down, encouraging her to open to him, coring her like a pearl, tongue sweeping against hers, hot and insistent. Her legs part instinctively, welcoming his hips into the cradle of her body. She whimpers and he pulls away almost roughly, teeth scraping against her lip. She tries to chase his mouth but his hands hold her head firmly in place.
“I did—I do know,” His voice is fierce and he’s wearing an expression of staggered awe, “But it’s bloody marvelous to hear you say it. My God, Fran, what you do to me. I’m... I—fuck.” And he’s kissing her again, wild and unrelenting.
The butterflies swirling in her belly turn into a swarm, rioting inside her. Hearing him swear like that, well, frankly, it’s hot as hell. And the way he’s kissing her... He’s never been so passionate, so raw in his affections. His blatant desire is heady, thrilling, addictive. She winds her hands into his hair as he tears his mouth from hers to trail scorching kisses down her throat, growling in triumph when he finds the spot above her collarbone that makes her gasp and writhe her hips up into the hard evidence of his arousal.
With one hand he tugs down the neck of her t-shirt, scores his tongue down her sternum and over to the swell of her breast, just above her heart. He opens his mouth and she knows he can taste the frantic timpani of her heartbeat. He sucks on her skin there, all soft lips and sharp teeth. It’ll leave a mark, she knows, and that knowledge thrills her as much as she suspects it does him, if the desperate way he groans is any indication. His voice is deep and grating, it reverberates through her chest like slow-rolling thunder, echoing out into the darkness around them.
A vague concern for the kids sleeping down the hall floats slowly to the surface of her lust-fogged thoughts. She reaches up to push on his shoulders.
“Max,” She tries to warn, but it comes out as a moan. At the sound of his name, his hips grind forward and down against hers in an instinctive roll that leaves her gasping and fisting her hands into the silk of his pajama top; pulling him closer instead of pushing him away.
He feels so good against her. Too good, with three impressionable children nearby. Clearly, she’s going to have to be the one to put a stop to this; their usual roles are somehow reversed and the irony is maddeningly hilarious.
“Max,” She tries again, “We have to—oh, god—stop.”
His lips abandon her neck to close over hers again, likely to silence her protests.
“Max,” She gasps in between kisses, "The kids—just down—the hall…”
That seems to get through to him; a plaintive whine resonates against her mouth, but his hips still against hers and his kisses soften and slow. She’s almost disappointed that he listened, though, she knows it’s for the best. He rests his forehead on hers and they breathe for several endless minutes, sharing each other’s air, calming down.
“I don’t want to stop,” He says in a guilty pleading whisper. Oh, how the tables have turned. She can’t help it, she laughs, and he pulls back to look at her, affronted.
“Oh, believe me, I don’t want to stop either,” She kisses the tip of his nose, he’s annoyingly adorable when he’s pouting, “But, you see, my boss has this rule about setting a good example for his kids: no sex in the house.” He glares at her but she can see the humor in his eyes.
“It’s my bloody house, I can change the rules if I damn well want to.”
His petulance makes her laugh again. He grumbles but rolls away to lie on his back beside her, takes her hand and tangles their fingers together. They’re silent for a while, simply basking in their nearness, in the intimacy of the moment.
“Fran?” She can feel him looking at her and turns her head on the pillow to meet his gaze.
“Yes?”
“If you’ve ever wondered, all these years, why I tend to avoid physical intimacy with you, why I run away whenever things start getting... Well, heated… You should probably know that this—what just happened here between us—is why. I have virtually zero self-control where you’re concerned.”
“Are you seriously telling me, that at any point in the last 5 years, all I would have had to do is climb into bed with you, and you wouldn’t have been able to resist me?”
“Well... Yes, I suppose so,” He grins, teasing, “That night you climbed into my bathtub with memory loss was a very close call.”
“I can’t believe I never thought of trying that.”
It’s his turn to laugh at her evident frustration, “May I ask you something?”
“Technically, you just did.”
“Miss Fine!”
His eyebrow arches in mock irritation and she smiles at his reversion to their formal address, “Ask away, Mister Sheffield.”
“You said before that you’ve been in love with me for a very long time.”
She searches his face, wondering at the serious look in his eyes, “Technically, that wasn’t a question.”
He turns on his side to stroke her cheek with the hand not twined in hers, “How long is ‘very long’, Fran?”
She hesitates. It’s not that she doesn’t want to tell him, it’s just that she doesn’t want him to think she’s been pining away for him all these years, even though, yeah, she kinda has. Oh, to hell with it. Cards on the table, no more hiding, no more evasion.
“I knew for sure the night you showed up at my camp reunion, when we danced. You swept me right off my feet, Max.” She raises their joined hands to press a kiss to his fingers, “Can I ask how long it’s been, for you?”
He’s quiet for a long moment, simply gazing at her.
“I…” He falters, and then begins again, “Perhaps this will sound a bit corny but, to borrow a phrase from Jane Austen, ‘I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words—I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun’.”
Fran’s heart trips. She’s actually read Pride and Prejudice, plus she saw the film adaptation and was properly wooed by Colin Firth in the role of Mr. Darcy. But the reverent way Max speaks these words to her now puts all of it to shame.
He kisses her nose, threads his fingers into her hair, and continues softly, “I fought so hard to keep from loving you, for so long, Fran. But I think I started falling the moment you walked down my stairs in that red dress and paraded my children into a party they weren’t supposed to be at. There’ve been a million moments since then, and I’ve fallen more deeply at each and every one. I’m still falling, Fran, and I don’t ever want to stop.”
“Oh, Max,” Her voice is hoarse, thick with emotion, both of their eyes glisten with unshed tears, “I love you.”
“As I love you, Fran, as I love you.”
Their kiss then is perhaps the sweetest they’ve ever shared and all Fran can think is, thank god she held out for this man, for this love; soul-deep and hard-won, but all the more real and intense for the battle.
They stay wrapped in each other’s arms for a while longer, reveling in the closeness, simply breathing, existing together. And when she leaves his room that night—because they both agree they won’t be able to resist the temptation of the other if they were to sleep in the same bed—she brings with her the memory of the peace of being in his arms and the certainty that she’ll be there again soon.
fin.
“This journey that we’re on, how far we’ve come, and I celebrate every moment
And when you say you love me, that’s all you have to say, I’ll always feel this way”
— Josh Groban