Chapter 29 Fairs.
twenty-nine
fairs.
Frankie.
I don’t hear him come in, not at first.
A cold mug of tea I keep forgetting exists is my only companion. That and my phone as I doom scroll.
Then I hear the door open with a soft click. Shoes kicked off without care. Then heavy steps trail into the living room with familiarity, even though I’ve spent the last five days acting like the idea of him belonging anywhere near my life is a joke.
“Francine?” His voice carries casually.
I don’t answer immediately. I make myself finish typing one last code that I’m not even going to keep.
Then I close my laptop.
“In here,” I call.
He appears in the doorway with the same hoodie on from the night before. He’s holding a paper bag from the corner shop like he’s coming to deliver peace offerings to a hostile nation.
He looks… good.
“So you’re alive,” I say.
“You are too,” he adds, eyes scanning me like he’s checking for damage.
“Barely,” I reply. “How did it go?”
He steps into the room and drops the bag on the table with a soft thud. “I spoke to Za.”
My whole body tightens so fast it’s embarrassing.
“We discussed everything we could. I spent the rest of the night in my car thinking about what to do next.”
“And?” I keep my tone flat, but my heartbeat starts doing things it has no business doing.
“And nothing.”
I blink. Once. Twice. Like my eyes are buffering. “That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
I stare at him. He stares back. He’s calm in a way that makes me want to scream because I’m the one who’s been up all night with guilt in my nerves.
“So what did she say?” I ask, and I hate how small my voice gets at the end.
He shakes his head. “I’m not doing that.”
“Not doing what?”
“Carrying messages.” His tone stays even, but there’s a line in his forehead that tells me he’s forcing the calmness in his tone. “You two need to talk. Without me.”
I scoff. “Oh well, ain’t you wise?”
His eyes narrow. “Francine.”
“Why are you here?” I ask. “Don’t you have training or something?”
He looks at me, then claps his hands once like he’s shifting an atmosphere.
“Get dressed.”
I laugh without humour. “Excuse me?”
“We’re going out.”
“I’m not in the mood.”
“I know.” He says it like he’s been expecting that exact response. “That’s why we’re going.”
I stare at him, trying to find the angle.
“What is this?” I ask. “Is this you trying to distract me so I don’t cry again? Or is this you trying to do boyfriend things without the title like you always do?”
His jaw flexes, then he exhales.
“Francine,” he says, softer. “You’ve been in your head for days. You’ve been in this flat like it’s punishment. You haven’t eaten properly.”
I open my mouth to argue.
He holds up a finger. “And before you start, I’m not saying you don’t deserve to feel what you feel. I’m saying you deserve one day where you’re not drowning in it.”
My chest aches in that very specific way it only does when someone says something true that I don’t want to accept.
“What if I don’t want to go out?” I ask.
He tilts his head. “You trust me?”
I hate that I do.
“…Yeah,” I admit, like it costs me something.
“Then get dressed,” he says again. “And put on trainers. We’re walking.”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He smiles. “If I tell you, you’ll start resisting early.”
“I’m resisting now.”
“Yeah, but you’re still getting dressed.”
“Shut up, Jabari.”
It takes me longer than it should because my brain keeps trying to turn everything into a consequence.
If I dress up, it means I care.
If I look good, it means I want him to look at me.
If I go out with him, it means I’m choosing him.
My reflection stares back at me while I pull my hair into a neat bun. I put on lip balm, then take it off, then put it on again because I’m indecisive when I’m stressed.
I should really call my mother.
When I come out, he’s sitting on the edge of my couch scrolling through his phone.
He glances up and does that pause he does when he’s trying not to say something that will inflate his own ego.
“You look… alright,” he says.
I squint. “Alright?”
He smirks. “I was going to say ‘gorgeous’ but you would’ve booed me.”
“Good.” I grab my bag. “You learning.”
He stands and holds out the paper bag. “Eat this.”
“What is it?”
“Chicken patty.”
I stare at him. “I don’t eat meat.”
He sighs through his nose. “It’s vegan-chicken. I didn’t think it had a special name. Vicken? Sounds mad.”
I take it, suspicious. “Where did you even find this?”
He points toward the door. “I’ve been living in London long enough. Don’t disrespect me.”
I take a bite as we step into the hallway.
It’s actually good.
I refuse to say that out loud.
He looks over, sees my face, and grins.
We get downstairs and outside, and the air is cold enough to wake me up properly.
He walks close but not close enough to touch.
It’s deliberate. He’s giving me space while still making sure no one else takes it.
I hate how safe that makes me feel.
“So,” I drag, because silence with him always turns into tension.
He looks at me, eyes scanning my face.
“You okay?” he asks.
I scoff automatically. “No.”
He nods once like he expected that.
“Fairs,” he says, opening his car door for me. “We’re still going out.”
He takes me somewhere I don’t expect.
It’s an arcade bar.
Old consoles. Loud noise. Neon lights. Sticky floors. People cheering at screens. There’s a small air hockey table at the back.
I stop at the entrance and stare.
He watches me like he’s waiting for the insult.
“You bringing me here to tell me we’re acting like children?” I ask.
He shrugs and walks ahead without answering, already moving like he knows where everything is.
I follow him anyway.
He turns back. “We’re playing air hockey.”
“No we’re not.”
“Yeah we are.”
“I don’t wanna play games with you, Jabari.”
He grabs two paddles and tosses one to me. “Stop being scary and come get embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed?” I repeat. “You think you’re going to beat me? The gamer?”
He looks me up and down like he’s assessing my body as a threat. “And I am the striker. I know I’m going to beat you.”
“I’m going to humble you in public.”
He grins wider. “You can try.”
“I’ve beaten you before, big man. You sure you wanna get reminded of that assing?”
“Come on, Francine. Stop chatting shit and get on with it.”
We start and immediately I remember something important. Jabari is competitive in a way that feels personal.
He doesn’t just want to win. He wants you to feel it.
I score first and he goes still for a second.
“Oh,” I say sweetly. “Look at that.”
He narrows his eyes. “Don’t start.”
“What?” I ask innocently. “I’m just saying. Maybe you should stick to the pitch. Wait…”
“Now you’re chatting rubbish.”
I lean forward. “You’re sweating.”
He scoffs. “The air is warm.”
“It’s warm because you’re losing.”
He smashes the puck so hard it flies off the table and skids across the floor.
A guy nearby turns. “Yo!”
Jabari lifts his hand. “My bad.”
“Hey, are you Jabari McKingsley?” he asks.
“Uh… no?”
I burst out laughing. I can’t stop it. It slips out of me like relief.
He looks at me like he’s been waiting for that laugh.
I let him win the first game. I won the second out of spite.
The third gets cut short because he starts accusing me of cheating and I start accusing him of being a dick and someone behind the bar tells us to calm down.
We leave the arcade with me still laughing under my breath and him looking pleased with himself.
We walk again. We grab food. Nothing fancy. Just something hot and quick that we can eat while standing because neither of us is pretending this is romantic.
It’s normal.
It’s easy.
We talk about the game build. About how Kai’s a stress head. About Tasha’s mouth. About how my staff keep emailing me like I’m their mum. About how his teammates are idiots in public and angels on the pitch.
We talk like we haven’t been ripping each other apart for days.
Like the worst thing between us is a petty argument about who liked the other first.
At one point, I forget myself and call him “Baby” without thinking.
He hears it. His eyes flick to mine but he doesn’t tease me.
He just keeps walking beside me like he’s storing it away. He waves away his fans and lets them know he’s on a date. And I don’t correct him. I let him know it’s okay, and he even takes photos with them. Which honestly shocks me.
This day feels natural.
Then we pass by a tattoo studio.
I clock the sign and stop instantly. Jabari stops with me.
“No.”
I smile. “Yes.”
“Francine, no.”
“Pleaseeeee.”
“You don’t think you have enough?” he cocks a brow. “Do you even have any more space?”
I stare at him. “I was talking about you.”
“Me?!” he examines his skin. “And mess up all this melanin?”
“Just get the goddamn tattoo. Even if it’s a small one.”
“You can’t make me,” he huffs. “It’s my body. My choice.”
I narrow my eyes. “Come on, Bari. Think of all the attention you’ll get.”
He steps closer, voice low. “I get attention by breathing.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “But, I think you’d look good with one.”
That clears it all up.
“What tattoo should I get?” he ask.
The studio is quiet inside, clean, professional. The artist greeted him by name— Of course she does —before she whisks him away and closes the curtains.
I sit in the waiting area, legs crossed, arms folded, trying to pretend I’m not curious because Jabari insists on keeping it as a surprise.
Maybe I could use this time to actually do work.
My phone buzzes with an email notification.
I almost ignore it until I see the sender name and my whole body goes cold.
Elliot Greene from Imaginate Studios
I open it so fast my thumbs fumble.
My eyes race down the screen:
Subject: Obsidian Adaption.
Hi Frankie,
I hope you don’t mind me reaching out directly. I’ve been following your work for a while now, quietly. I played Chastity when it first released, and I watched what happened at the awards.