#포근함 | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tosomeonessomeone · 4 months ago

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Chamego or 포근함?

Brazil series.

words・ 4.2k /pairings・ Jisung x reader / genres・fluff / warnings・ mdi, smut

포근함 (pogeunham) — Describes a cozy, warm feeling of comfort, often linked to physical closeness (e.g., hugging, cuddling).

Chamego — (primarily used in Brazil) that describes a warm, affectionate, and intimate form of physical or emotional closeness. It conveys a sense of cozy tenderness, often linked to actions like cuddling, snuggling, or sweet whispered exchanges. However, it’s more nuanced than just "cuddling"—it carries a romantic, playful, or deeply comforting vibe depending on the context.

The sun hung heavy over the secluded Brazilian coastline, its molten light gilding the waves that kissed the sugar-white sand. Salt-kissed air tangled with the smoky perfume of charcoal, wrapping around the beach house where laughter spilled like music. Stray Kids’ voices ricocheted off the infinity pool—Hyunjin cannonballing, Felix’s sunshine giggles harmonizing with Changbin’s bassy groan as he lost another volleyball rally. But you stood rooted at the heart of it all: the open-air kitchen, where skewers of *picanha* glistened like rubies over flames, and secrets simmered alongside the *feijoada*.

“Sunday *churrasco* isn’t just food—it’s *alma*,” you said, soul slipping into the word as you threaded garlic-rubbed beef onto skewers. Soo-jin, Minho’s sharp-tongued girlfriend, smirked while dicing mangoes for *vinagrete*. “Alma, huh? Explains why you’re sweating like this is a holy ritual.” Minho, ever the provocateur, flicked a sausage on the grill with a chef’s flourish. “Hyunjin’s been eyeing the meat like it’s his ex’s Instagram. When do we eat?”

The trio fell into sync—knives chopping, flames crackling, banter sharpening. Soo-jin nodded toward the pool, where Felix and Changbin clinked glasses of *caipirinha*, lime wedges clinging to the rims. “Ten-to-one odds Felix faceplants in the pool by sunset.” Minho’s gaze slid to you, sly as a cat. “But you’re the main event. Still pretending you *don’t* short-circuit when Jisung exists?” The tongs slipped in your grip. “I don’t—” “Liar,” he sing-songed. “You turned red when he called you ‘master of the grill.’” Soo-jin snorted. “And him? When you explained *farofa*? Bro was writing ballads in his head.”

As if conjured by the tease, Jisung materialized beside the grill, sleeves shoved above his elbows, hair wind-wrecked and eyes bright as the horizon. “Need a hero?” His voice was honey and mischief, and your pulse stuttered. Minho thrust a bowl of onions into his chest. “You’re on peasant duty. Cry us a river.” Jisung mock-saluted, shoulder nudging yours as he settled beside you. The rhythm didn’t falter—your hands seasoning meat, his fingers peeling onions with comedic precision. “Seungmin tried surfing earlier,” he said, grin crooked. “Looked like a wet cat fighting a dishwasher.” You choked on a laugh, and his knee bumped yours beneath the table. *Lingered*.

The ocean breeze carried Jeongin’s voice demanding more *brigadeiros*, Hyunjin’s splash-battle yelps, and the sizzle of fat hitting flames. But here, in the kitchen’s humid halo, time bent. Jisung’s jokes softened, his glances lingering on your profile like he was memorizing the slope of your laughter. When your fingers brushed passing a skewer, the world narrowed to the salt on his collarbone, the fleck of chili powder on his thumb, and the unspoken thing glowing brighter than the embers beneath the grill.

Platters of *picanha*, glistening with garlic butter, sat beside bowls of *farofa* and jewel-like *vinagrete*. Chan, ever the doting leader, leaned back in his chair, his Australian girlfriend laughing as Felix’s boyfriend mimicked a kookaburra call. “Feels like home,” Felix sighed, fanning himself. “Just swap the eucalyptus for palm trees.”

Minho and Soo-jin bickered over charred sausage links, their banter sharp but fond, while Changbin’s girlfriend—a makeup artist with a lethal eyeliner wing—snapped photos of Hyunjin posing dramatically with a skewer. “Single *and* starving,” Hyunjin lamented, flopping next to Jeongin, who was already halfway through his third *brigadeiro*. Seungmin’s girlfriend, a pro baseball player she was skinny but with biceps that could crush coconuts, arm-wrestled him for the last slice of grilled pineapple. “You’re *embarrassing* me,” Seungmin hissed, though his grin betrayed him.

And then there was you and Jisung.

Perched at the edge of the weathered teak table, knees almost touching under the checkered tablecloth. He’d claimed the seat casually—“Easier to steal your *feijoada*”—but now his leg bounced nervously, his jokes a half-beat too quick. You focused on the way the sun caught in his hair, turning it amber, while he drummed his fingers to the bossa nova drifting from the speakers. *Your* playlist.

“Pass the *pão de alho*?” Jisung asked, leaning close enough that his whisper brushed your ear. You handed him the garlic bread, your fingertips grazing his. A spark. A pause. The table erupted as Jeongin accidentally knocked over Hyunjin’s *caipirinha*, the lime-soaked ice cascading onto the sand. “*Ai, meu Deus*,” you muttered, scrambling for napkins. Jisung laughed, low and warm, as he helped mop the mess. “Hyunjin’s gonna make this his villain origin story.”

Conversation ebbed—stories of Australia’s beaches, debates over the best *churrasco* cuts, Seungmin’s girlfriend recounting her no-hitter game. Yet every lull pulled you and Jisung into orbit. His shoulder pressed to yours when reaching for the chimichurri. Your laugh harmonizing with his at Minho’s impression of a capybara. A shared glance when Chan mentioned “unfinished business,” his tone teasing but pointed.

The afternoon sun melted into liquid gold, pooling over the infinity pool and glazing the beach where waves whispered promises of cool relief. Most of the group had migrated to the water—Jeongin cannonballing with a screech, Seungmin’s girlfriend hurling a beach ball hard enough to make Felix yelp—but Hyunjin had other plans. He cornered you by the tiki bar, still clutching an empty *caipirinha* glass like a prop. “Teach me samba,” he demanded, wrist flicking dramatically. “I *refuse* to let Brazilian Stays roast me again. I’ll be irresistible or die trying.”

You laughed, but Hyunjin’s pout was weaponized. “Fine. But don’t blame me when you pull a muscle.”

Minho, sprawled on a lounge chair with Soo-jin painting his nails neon green, perked up. “Oh, this’ll be good. Jisung! Bet you 50,000 won our *churrasco* expert can’t hip-swivel.”

Jisung, mid-sip of guaraná, choked. “I’m not betting on—*hyung*.”

Too late. Hyunjin had already commandeered the Bluetooth speaker, swapping bossa nova for a throbbing samba beat. You sighed, kicking off your sandals, the terracotta tiles warm under your feet. The sundress you’d thrown on after lunch—lightweight, breezy—suddenly felt too thin under Jisung’s gaze.

Then the music took over.

Hips swaying, arms arcing like palm fronds in a storm, you moved as if the rhythm lived in your bones. The dress clung, betrayed the curves you’d hidden under oversized shirts and chef aprons. Hyunjin gaped, forgetting to mimic your steps. “Wow,” Felix whistled from the pool, while Changbin’s girlfriend muttered, “How’s she even real?”

But it was Jisung who unraveled.

He’d frozen, guaraná can dented in his grip, eyes dark and wide. Every roll of your shoulders, every sharp snap of your hips, hit him like a wave. Minho leaned over, stage-whispering, “RIP Han Jisung. Cause of death: *a Brazilian goddess*.”

“Shut. Up,” Jisung hissed, ears crimson.

Hyunjin, ever the chaos magnet, grabbed your hand. “Teach me the *real* thing!” You guided him into a basic step, but his limbs moved like overcooked spaghetti. “No—*fluid*, like water,” you corrected, adjusting his stance. Out of the corner of your eye, Jisung stood abruptly, pacing toward the bar. *Running away.*

Minho pounced. “Where you going, Sungie? Heat too much?”

“To get water,” Jisung muttered, voice strangled.

“Bring some for the rest of us!” Seungmin’s girlfriend called. “You look *dehydrated*.”

The group howled. You spun Hyunjin into a turn, but your pulse raced for a different reason. Jisung’s reaction—the way he’d stared, like he’d been sucker-punched by longing—thrummed under your skin.

Then Minho shouted, “Jisung-ah, your phone’s buzzing! Is it your *crush*?”

Jisung fumbled the glass bottle he’d just grabbed, water sloshing over his shirt. The fabric clung. You missed a step.

Hyunjin seized the chance to dip you, nearly dropping you both. “Focus, teacher!” he laughed, oblivious. But you were too aware of Jisung’s silhouette in the fading light, shirt transparent, jaw tight as he watched Hyunjin’s hands grip your waist.

When the song ended, the group erupted in applause. Cheeks flushed, you broke away, only to find Jisung in front of you, holding out a fresh guaraná. “For the… uh. For the sweat,” he mumbled.

Minho snorted. “Smooth.”

You took the drink, fingertips brushing his. His gaze dropped to your lips. The air hummed, louder than the cicadas.

The sun bled into the horizon, painting the sky in molten hues of tangerine and violet, as the first notes of *forró pé de serra* spilled from the speakers—a accordion’s sigh, a zabumba’s heartbeat. Hyunjin had long abandoned his samba quest, dragged into the pool by a vengeful Jeongin, while the others scattered like seabirds. Only Minho remained, a devil in neon-green nails, sprawled on the patio couch.

“You can’t teach *forró* alone,” he drawled, twirling his phone like a baton. “Jisung’s two left feet need salvation. *Be his hero.*”

Jisung, still pink from the samba spectacle, choked on his guaraná. “I’m good—”

“You’re *terrible*,” Minho corrected. “Do it for Brazil’s honor.”

The challenge hung in the balmy air. You swallowed, nerves fluttering. *Forró* wasn’t just a dance—it was whispered secrets in dim-lit bars, thighs brushing, hands clasped tight. But Minho’s grin was a dare.

“Okay,” you said, voice steadier than your pulse. “But no laughing.”

Jisung rose like a man heading to his execution.

You positioned him under the swaying palm lights, your hand tentatively gripping his shoulder, his palm damp against your waist. “It’s… um, all about the *basicinho*,” you stammered, launching into a nervous monologue. “Three steps—side, together, side. Like a heartbeat. And the *giro*—the spin—comes after the *tippity-tap* of the feet. *Forró*’s about connection, you know? Like, your body talks. But not *talks* talks. Unless you’re, uh, into that—”

“*Tippity-tap*?” Jisung echoed, lips twitching.

“Shut up. Focus.”

He tried. Oh, he *tried*. But his steps were stiff, his grip tentative, like you were made of glass. Until Minho shouted, “Jisung-ah, if you hold her any looser, she’ll float to Rio!”

Jisung’s jaw clenched. His hand slid lower, anchoring you against him.

The music swelled—a faster *arrasta-pé*. Your bodies synced, knees bumping, hips swaying in time. You rambled to fill the silence. “This song? It’s by *Dominguinhos*—king of *forró*. He said the best dancers listen with their skin. Which sounds weird, but—”

“You’re blabbering,” Jisung murmured, spinning you out before pulling you back, chest to chest.

“You’re *staring*.”

“Can’t help it.”

The admission hung between you. His thumb brushed the dip of your waist, igniting a trail of fire. Around you, the group’s laughter dimmed—Seungmin’s girlfriend dragging him to bed, Chan and Felix debating Tim Tam flavors in the kitchen. Even Minho vanished, leaving his neon nail polish behind like a spectral wink.

Night unfurled its velvet cloak, the beach house now a constellation of hanging lanterns. You didn’t notice when the music softened, or when the others slipped away. All that remained: the press of Jisung’s calloused palm, the hitch in his breath when your temple grazed his jaw.

“Your *basicinho*’s improved,” you teased, voice barely audible.

“Had a good teacher.” His nose skimmed your ear. “Also, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Just… feel it.”

He did.

The dance dissolved into something slower, raw. No steps, no rules—just the creak of the wooden deck, the distant shush of waves, and Jisung’s voice, rough as sand. “I lied earlier. The *churrasco* wasn’t the best part of today.”

Your heart hammered. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His forehead touched yours. “This is.”

The night air thick with salt and the distant murmur of the kitchen crew clattering plates. Jisung’s hands still rested on your waist, his grip loose but trembling, as if he feared you’d vanish if he held too tight.

“The Korean way,” you pressed, voice feather-light, “or the Brazilian way?”

His brow furrowed, thumb absently tracing the lace hem of your dress. “What?”

You stepped back just enough to see his face, moonlight etching the panic in his eyes. “Korean style’s *ppalli-ppalli*—direct. A ‘Let’s date’ text. Flowers. Maybe a handshake if you’re feeling retro.” You grinned, but your pulse roared in your ears. “Brazilian’s… messier. You confess during Carnival, drunk on *cachaça*, or whisper it in a samba club where no one can hear.”

Jisung’s laugh was shaky. “Sounds like a *telenovela*.”

“It’s *passion*,” you countered, stepping closer again. His breath hitched. “But you—you’re all… *aegyo* and mixtapes. Poetic texts at 2 a.m.”

“I’m not *that* corny,” he muttered, but his ears burned.

The waves hissed, a rhythm older than languages. You tilted your head. “So? Which one wins?”

For a heartbeat, he faltered. Then his hands slid up your arms, slow as a tide pulling sand, until his palms cradled your face. “*My* way,” he whispered, voice roughened by a day of laughter and longing. “The… the *Jisung* way.”

Your lips parted, but he pressed on, words tumbling like pebbles. “I practiced a speech. In Korean. About… *neon naui bit*—you’re my light, or whatever. But then you danced, and I forgot all of it. Now I’m just… *here*. With salt in my hair and my heart doing *this*—” He guided your hand to his chest, where his heartbeat thrashed against his ribs. “—and I don’t care if it’s *jeong* or *saudade* or whatever. I just… I *like* you. A lot. *Too* much. And if I don’t kiss you right now, I’ll—”

You kissed him first.

It wasn’t Korean propriety or Brazilian fire—it was the shudder of his exhale, the way his fingers tangled in your hair like he’d dreamed of it for years, the taste of guaraná and nervous hope. The world dissolved into the press of his lips, the sigh he muffled against your mouth, the distant crash of waves keeping time.

When you broke apart, foreheads touching, he rasped, “Was that… enough?”

You laughed, breathless. “*idiota*. That was perfect.”

Somewhere in the shadows, Minho’s voice floated from an upstairs window: “ABOUT TIME!” followed by a chorus of giggles and a thud—likely Hyunjin falling off a chair.

Jisung groaned, burying his face in your neck. “I’m moving to Antarctica.”

“Too late,” you whispered, kissing the shell of his ear. “You’re stuck with me.”

——

The night draped itself around you like silk, the rhythmic crash of waves a distant lullaby beyond the shuttered windows. Jisung’s back pressed against the carved wooden headboard, your legs bracketing his hips, his hands anchored to your waist like you were the only steady thing in a spinning world. His thumbs traced idle circles over the thin fabric of your sleepshirt, the heat of his palms searing through to your skin.

“So,” he said, grinning as you stole another kiss, “is this the Brazilian way? Stealing a man’s bed *and* his dignity?”

“You’re the one who said I could be a real Brazilian,” you teased, nipping his lower lip.

He groaned, fingers threading into your hair. “Regretting that now.”

“Liar.”

When your palm slid under his shirt, tracing the taut plane of his stomach, he hissed, “*Jagiya*—you’re playing dirty.”

You pulled back, heart jackhammering. “Last chance to back out.”

The cultural differences between you fade away as passion takes over. His K-pop idol perfection meets your raw Brazilian sensuality, creating an intoxicating chemistry. Your caramel skin glows against his pale complexion as his hands explore the curves that drove him crazy during all those production meetings.

"I've wanted you since the first day you walked into that studio," Jisung confesses between kisses, his accent thicker with desire. His fingers trace the outline of your full lips, remembering how they'd curl into knowing smiles whenever you caught him staring.

The secrecy of your position at JYP makes this even more thrilling - the respected producer and the rising star, finally giving in to months of tension. His perfectly sculpted idol body presses against your lush curves as the ocean waves crash outside.

The moonlight filtering through the shutters casts ethereal patterns across your intertwined bodies. His touch burns through the thin fabric, leaving trails of fire wherever his fingers roam. The intimate position has your hearts racing, bodies pressed close as the ocean's song fills the night air.

You can feel every breath Jisung takes, his chest rising and falling against yours. The way he holds you - like you're precious yet dangerous - makes desire pool low in your belly. His thumbs continue their maddening circles on your waist, each touch building the tension between you.

Your fingers trace each button of his linen shirt as you undo them slowly, savoring the reveal of his smooth chest beneath. Jisung's hands mirror your movements as he slides your dress down, his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.

The moonlight bathes your bodies in a soft glow as more skin is exposed. His breath catches when the dress pools at your feet, leaving you bare except for your delicate underwear.

"You're stunning," he whispers, hands settling on your waist to pull you closer. The heat of his bare chest against yours makes your head spin as his lips find your neck, pressing soft kisses along your pulse point.

His lips trail down your neck as his hands slide up your sides, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. The way Jisung touches you - reverent yet hungry - makes your breath catch. You arch into him as his thumbs brush the undersides of your breasts.

"You're driving me crazy," he murmurs against your collarbone, nipping gently at the sensitive skin. His hands move to unclasp your bra while yours explore the lean muscles of his back.

The sound of waves provides a rhythm as clothing continues to fall away, skin pressing against skin in the moonlit bedroom. When his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, you shiver in anticipation.

"Please," you whisper, rolling your hips against his growing hardness.

Jisung's hands explore every inch of your exposed skin. He manhandles you, laying you on your back and laying himself between your legs. His weight presses you deliciously into the mattress as his lips find your neck, leaving hot kisses and gentle bites that make you gasp.

His hands slide down to remove your panties, dragging them slowly down your legs while kissing a trail along your inner thighs. Once they're off, you reach for his boxers, pushing them down his hips to free his hard cock.

The moonlight illuminates your naked bodies as he settles back between your legs. His hands roam over your curves, squeezing your breasts and teasing your nipples until you're arching into his touch.

"Want you so bad," he groans against your neck, grinding his bare length against your wet pussy. The friction makes you both moan, bodies moving together in growing desperation.

With a mischievous grin, you push Jisung onto his back and straddle his hips, your wet pussy sliding against his hard cock. His hands immediately grip your thick thighs as you begin rolling your hips, teasing him with the friction.

"Fuck, you're so sexy," he groans, watching your breasts bounce as you move. You reach between your legs to guide his cock to your entrance, sinking down slowly until he's fully sheathed inside you.

The angle has him hitting deeper, making you moan as you start to ride him. Your hands brace on his chest for leverage as you pick up the pace, your ass jiggling with each bounce.

"Let me show you how we like it in Brazil," you purr, climbing off his cock and getting on your hands and knees. You arch your back, presenting your dripping pussy and round ass to him.

Jisung groans at the sight, gripping your hips roughly as he positions himself behind you. Without warning, he slams his thick cock deep inside you, making you cry out in pleasure.

"Fuck me hard," you demand, pushing back against him. "Show me what that Korean dick can do."

He sets a brutal pace, his balls slapping against your clit with each thrust as he pounds into your tight hole. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, spreading you wider.

Your moans fill the beach house bedroom as Jisung pounds into your dripping pussy from behind, his cock stretching you perfectly. His hands grip your ass, spreading your cheeks to watch himself disappear inside you over and over.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he groans, speeding up his thrusts. The sound of skin slapping against skin mingles with the crashing waves.

You can feel your orgasm building as his thick cock hits your g-spot repeatedly. One of his hands slides around to rub your clit, making your thighs tremble.

"Cum for me," he commands, his voice rough with desire. "Want to feel this tight Brazilian pussy squeeze my cock."

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave as Jisung continues pounding into your clenching pussy. Your arms give out, face pressing into the mattress as your walls squeeze his cock rhythmically.

"Fuck, I'm gonna cum," he groans, his thrusts becoming erratic. His fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave bruises as he chases his own release.

With a guttural groan, he slams deep one final time, his cock pulsing as he empties himself inside your sensitive pussy.

Jisung collapses on top of you, both of you panting heavily as you come down from your highs. His cum drips down your thighs as he slowly pulls out, making you whimper at the loss.

"That was..." he trails off, rolling to pull you against his chest. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your sweaty skin as the ocean breeze cools your heated bodies.

You snuggle into him, feeling thoroughly satisfied as his hands continue their gentle exploration. The moonlight catches the marks he left on your skin - evidence of your passionate encounter.

"Think you can handle another round?" you tease, grinding your ass back against him. His cock twitches with interest against you.

——

Later, skin sticky and souls quiet, you lay curled into him, his heartbeat a drum under your cheek. He traced idle patterns on your back. “So… do I get a citizenship now?”

You snorted. “You wish.”

“Worth a try.” His arms tightened around you. “For the record? The ‘Korean way’ involves breakfast in bed tomorrow. *Kimchi* pancakes. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You smiled into the dark. The ocean sighed. Somewhere down the hall, Minho’s voice echoed, “USE PROTECTION!” followed by a door slam.

Jisung buried his face in a pillow. “I’m *actually* moving to Antarctica.”

“Too late,” you whispered, kissing the fluttering pulse at his throat. “You’re Brazilian now.”

——

The first rays of sun seeped through the gauzy curtains, painting Jisung’s bare shoulders in gold. You woke to the weight of his arm slung over your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck, breath warm and steady. For a moment, you lay still, savoring the quiet—the distant crash of waves, the rustle of palm fronds, the way his fingers twitched against your hip even in sleep.

Then reality hit.

A clatter of pans echoed from the kitchen below, followed by Chan’s booming laugh and Felix’s off-key rendition of *“De manhã”*. Jisung stirred, blinking groggily. “Are they… *frying bacon* to a samba beat?”

You giggled, rolling to face him. His hair stuck up in chaotic tufts, pillow creases etched into his cheek. *Adorable*. “Welcome to a Brazilian morning. Chaos included.”

He flopped onto his back, arm slung over his eyes. “I need five more years of sleep.”

“Too bad.” You pressed a kiss to his collarbone, delighting in his shiver. “Chan’s probably making kimchi pancakes. *You* promised me breakfast.”

“I was *delirious* last night,” he grumbled, but his hands slid down to your thighs, anchoring you against him.

——

Descending the stairs hand-in-hand, you braced for impact. The group was clustered around the dining table—Hyunjin scrolling through dance videos, Minho flipping *pão de queijo* with a spatula, Seungmin’s girlfriend arm-wrestling Changbin.

The room froze.

Minho’s smirk was nuclear. “Well, well. Look who survived the *Brazilian initiation*.”

Jisung’s grip tightened on yours. “Hyung, I will *end you*—”

“*Aww*, they’re matching!” Felix cooed, pointing at the twin hickeys on your neck and Jisung’s.

“*FELIX!*” Jisung lunged, but you tugged him toward the kitchen, where Chan stood flipping pancakes with one hand and sipping *cafézinho* with the other. “Ignore them,” he said, sliding a plate of *kimchi jeon* your way. “They’ve been placing bets since sunrise.”

Jisung groaned. “Who won?”

“Me,” Minho called. “I said you’d look like a disheveled puppy. *Pay up, Lee Know supremacy!*”

The table was a collision of cultures: golden *pão de queijo* beside spicy kimchi, fresh *açaí* bowls next to steaming *doenjang jjigae*. You split a *brigadeiro* with Jisung, laughing as he pretended to hate the sweetness. “It’s *too much*,” he complained, yet stole another from your plate.

Hyunjin, ever the menace, kicked Jisung under the table. “So. How *Brazilian* was it?”

Jisung choked on his coffee. You kicked Hyunjin back. “How *single* are you?”

The table erupted. Jeongin hurled a *pão de queijo* at Hyunjin’s head.

After breakfast, you escaped to the beach, toes sinking into sun-warmed sand. Jisung walked beside you, quiet until you reached the tidepools. “Last night…” he started, uncharacteristically hesitant.

You braced for regret.

“...I didn’t know it could feel like that,” he admitted, staring at the horizon. “Like… *home*.”

Your chest tightened. “Even with Minho’s commentary?”

“*Especially* with Minho’s commentary.” He grinned, then sobered. “I’m… scared. Of fucking this up.”

You interlaced your fingers, salt spray kissing your skin. “So don’t.”

He huffed a laugh. “Simple as that?”

“No.” You turned to him, heart in your throat. “But we’ll suck at it together.”

He kissed you then—slow, sweet, flavored with coffee and *brigadeiro*. When he pulled back, he pressed his forehead to yours. “Deal.”