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nolita-fairytale · 2 months ago

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first of all i LOVE your work thank you for all of it! its so goooood. idk if u take requests but i was wondering if you could write smt w a breeding kink & accidental pregnancy w bucky. maybe reader was ovulating and they kept doing it raw bc surprise suprise they both have a massive breeding kink and somehow theyre both surprised when she gets pregnant. if thats too specific dont worry about not writing it! tbh im good for anything youd write for this.

loooove

It started with a missed pill.

Maybe two. Maybe more. You’d lost count somewhere between late mornings and lazy fucks across the kitchen counter, his fingers still wet inside you as he told you to skip it, sweetheart, and kissed your shoulder while pressing his cock back in, slow and deep.

You never meant for it to become a pattern.

But then again, neither of you ever planned to stop.

You’d tell yourself it was just a phase—a run of hot weeks, his missions light, his dog tags collecting dust on the nightstand while his mouth collected every moan you could make. You’d joke about how good it felt. How he hated condoms. How you loved the way he looked when he came inside you—his teeth sunk into your throat, his arms trembling from how hard he came, like your pussy wrung it out of him.

And maybe at first that’s all it was.

But somewhere along the line, it changed.

He started staying inside you longer after he finished—pressing the mess deeper with lazy thrusts, holding your hips down like he needed to make it stay.

“You’re fuckin’ made for it,” he’d whisper, tongue dragging up the sweat at your spine. “Made to take it. To keep it.”

You started biting your lip when he said it. Not from embarrassment—but from the ache it lit behind your ribs.

You started whispering things back, too.

Things like You want to fuck a baby into me, don’t you, Buck? Want to see me dripping full with your cum every day until it takes.

And he’d growl when you said it. His hands would tighten. His thrusts would change—from pleasure to purpose.

That was the shift.

It wasn’t just sex anymore. It was hunger.

Now, it’s in everything. The way he watches you when you stretch—eyes locked to the arch of your belly, the curve of your waist, like he’s imagining what it would look like full.

The way you catch yourself pressing your thighs together when he says good girl under his breath and presses his hand against the small of your back—low, possessive, anchoring.

The way he barely gets the front door shut these days before he’s behind you, nosing at your neck like he’s starving.

He knows the second he steps through the door.

Doesn’t even need to touch you.

The scent hits him first—warm, sweet, unmistakable. The same one that always drives him out of his fucking mind. You’re ovulating. He can smell it.

You’re standing at the kitchen counter, barefoot in nothing but one of his t-shirts, and the hem isn’t doing anything to hide the curve of your ass or the slick shine between your thighs when you shift your weight from foot to foot.

You don’t turn around.

You don’t have to.

You feel him the moment he stops in the doorway—still in his boots, fingers curled at his sides, chest rising with that low, sharp breath he only takes when he’s trying not to pounce.

“Baby.”

You hum without looking. “Hi.”

His voice is already lower than usual. Rougher. “You wearing anything under that?”

“Nope.”

He exhales through his nose. You hear the heavy sound of his boots on the hardwood. Then his hands—warm, firm—slide under the hem of the shirt and splay across your hips. His thumbs press into your skin, right at the bone. Not hard. Just enough to say mine.

“You wet already?”

You nod.

He doesn’t even check.

He just moves in behind you, chest to your back, his breath ghosting over your neck as he presses his cock—already stiff, already thick—against the curve of your ass.

His lips skim your ear. “You good?”

The question lands like a live wire. Your whole body tightens.

You hesitate. Then whisper, “Yeah. I’m… I’m ovulating.”

The sound that leaves him is half growl, half groan. His fingers flex on your hips. You can feel how still he goes—how much effort it takes him to not pin you down right then and there.

“Jesus fuck,” he breathes. “You tellin’ me that on purpose?”

You swallow hard. “Thought you’d want to know.”

He laughs. Low and wrecked. “That right?”

You nod. Your voice goes quieter. “Feels different when I’m like this. Warmer. Wetter. Tighter.”

His cock twitches against you, and you smile when you feel it.

“Feels like my body wants to take it,” you whisper, still not turning around. “Like it doesn’t want to waste a single drop.”

Bucky groans and grabs your jaw, tilting your head back until your cheek brushes his. His teeth scrape your throat.

“You want me to pull out?” he asks, voice tight. Strained.

Your answer is immediate. Quiet, but sure.

“No.”

He breathes hard through his nose again, like he’s holding himself back by a fucking thread.

You keep going. Keep pushing.

“Feels too good,” you whisper. “Doesn’t feel right when you pull out.”

His grip on you tightens—fingers digging into your jaw, your waist, like he wants to mark you with need. Like he doesn’t know what to do with how badly he wants to split you open and stay buried there.

“You sayin’ you want me to fill you while you’re ovulating?” he growls. “You want me to stuff you full when your body’s beggin’ to get knocked up?”

You nod again, trembling.

“I want you to come inside me,” you say, breath catching. “I don’t care if it takes.”

You feel his control snap like a bone under pressure.

He grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you in one smooth motion, your body weightless in his arms, and carries you toward the bedroom like a man possessed. His mouth is already on your throat, sucking hard, and you cling to him like you need him to take you apart.

This isn’t about slow. It isn’t about soft.

It’s about the way your body is open and hot and dripping, and he can’t think about anything but being inside.

He sets you down just long enough to yank the shirt over your head and shove his pants down.

And then he’s pushing you onto the bed—hands on your thighs, spreading you wide, his cock already dripping.

He looks down at you like he’s starving.

“You say you don’t care,” he rasps. “But you’re fuckin’ soaked. You’re aching for it. You want it to happen.”

You shake your head—desperate, panting.

“No, I—I’m not trying to get pregnant, I just—”

He cuts you off by lining up and shoving in. One deep, brutal thrust.

You scream.

The stretch is perfect. Too much. Not enough.

He groans through gritted teeth and drops his weight over you, cock buried to the hilt, not moving. Not yet. Just letting you feel how deep he is.

“Not trying,” he mocks, voice low and cruel. “You’re fuckin’ soaked. You didn’t even flinch. You took it like you were made for it.”

Your walls flutter around him, and he feels it.

“You’re beggin’ me to knock you up,” he breathes. “You think I can’t feel the way your cunt pulls me deeper when I talk about breeding you?”

You moan—long, shameless.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say you want me to come inside you.”

You grab at his shoulders, his back, anything. Your legs lock around his waist.

“I want it,” you gasp. “I want your cum inside me. I want to feel you fuck it into me.”

He loses it and the fucking begins. He starts moving like he wants it to take.

There’s no rhythm at first—just deep, dragging thrusts that shove the air out of your lungs, that make your knees shake and your fingers claw at his back like you’re trying to crawl inside him.

His cock is thick and hot and perfect, pushing into you again and again, parting your walls with the kind of stretch that turns your brain inside out. And he doesn’t slow down—he just gets meaner. Hungrier. More intentional.

“Fuckin’—Christ, baby,” he pants into your neck. “You’re squeezin’ me so tight. Like your pussy knows what’s about to happen.”

You moan so loud it’s barely a sound, more breath than voice, more need than language.

Your body’s already trembling beneath him—back arching with every thrust, hips rising to meet his like you’re chasing something you won’t survive catching.

And Bucky? Bucky sees it.

He watches your belly ripple with every thrust. Watches your thighs quake. Watches the tears prick at the corners of your eyes—not from pain, but from pressure. From want. From the deep, aching need to be filled.

He drags his hand down your stomach, then presses his palm flat over your lower belly as he drives into you again, harder this time.

“Right here,” he growls. “Feel that? That’s how deep I am. That’s where it’s gonna go.”

Your voice is broken when you sob, “Please!”

He cuts you off with a kiss. Rough, filthy, claiming.

Then he grabs your thighs and folds you in half—legs to your chest, cock hitting deeper, your breath catching on every thrust as he chases the edge like he’s never coming back from it.

“Gonna fill this pretty pussy,” he snarls, sweat dripping from his jaw. “Gonna give you everything, sweetheart—every last drop.”

Your brain is gone.

There’s no you anymore. No thought, no hesitation, no defense. Just the sound of skin on skin, the slick, obscene suction of your cunt gripping him, the heat that keeps building in your core with terrifying, beautiful force.

And then he groans—low and guttural and wrecked, “Oh fuck—fuck, baby.”

You feel him twitch inside you.

He’s close. So fucking close.

And he doesn’t stop.

“You gonna take it?” he grits. “You gonna let me come inside? Let me ruin you?”

Your whole body tenses. Tightens. Breaks.

You come so hard it blacks out your vision—legs locking, walls clenching, a scream ripping from your throat as your orgasm tears through you like a wave, unstoppable and drowning and perfect.

And that’s it.

That’s what pushes him over.

Bucky roars, hips slamming forward as his cock jerks inside you, and you feel it—hot and endless—as he spills into you with every pulse, every thrust, every desperate groan of your name like it’s the only thing he remembers.

He doesn’t pull out.

Not even when you twitch from oversensitivity. Not even when your walls flutter around him in the aftermath, coaxing more from him, more, more.

“Gotta stay there,” he rasps, burying his cock to the base and grinding down. “Gotta keep it all in. Don’t wanna waste it, baby. You hear me?”

You nod, tears slipping from your lashes now. Not from pain. From the way it feels to be this full. The way it feels to be kept.

Bucky collapses over you, panting against your throat, still grinding slow and deep—like he doesn’t trust gravity to do it alone.

Your hands find his back. You cling.

He stays inside you for long, slow minutes—cock softening slightly, your body twitching around him, every inch of you flushed and overstimulated and full. His breath is hot against your collarbone, his hand still pressed to your belly like he’s trying to hold it in with sheer will.

You think he’s done.

You’re wrong.

He shifts suddenly, just his hips at first—rolling his cock deep, slow, and you flinch, whimpering from the stretch.

“Too much,” you whisper. “Buck…”

“You can take it,” he murmurs, lips at your ear. “You always do.”

His cock twitches. Starts thickening again.

Your eyes flutter wide. “No—no way you’re hard again already.”

He chuckles. It’s low. Sinister. Loving.

“You were cryin’ for it five minutes ago,” he growls. “Still clenchin’ me like your pussy doesn’t wanna let me go.”

He pulls back—just enough to make you gasp—and thrusts in again, wet and slow. The mess between your legs makes the filthiest sound, cum slicking your thighs, soaking the sheets.

And he groans, deep and broken.

“God, look at you. So fuckin’ full,” he rasps, sitting back on his knees, grabbing your hips and dragging your ass higher, like he needs to see. “Drippin’ all over yourself. You wanna lose it? Huh?”

You nod, panting.

He drags his cock out, slow, watching the thick white mess follow. Then thrusts back in—hard, wet, final.

“You wanna keep it?”

“Yes—fuck, yes.”

He moves now. Deep strokes, rougher each time, like he’s trying to fuck his first load deeper before he adds another.

“You want me to fuck another load into you?” he growls, one hand sliding to your lower belly again. “Wanna stay full for days, huh?”

“Please,” you gasp. “Give me more.”

“You want me to fuck a baby into you?”

Your breath hitches.

“Yes.”

His hips snap.

“Fuck—say it again.”

You cry out, dizzy from the impact, the stretch, the burn.

“I want you to get me pregnant, Bucky—I wanna be full, I wanna be a mommy!”

That does it.

He snarls, flipping you onto your side, one leg thrown over his shoulder as he pounds into you from a new angle, deeper, meaner. One hand gripping your ankle, the other splayed across your belly like he’s claiming it.

“You wanna be mine like that?” he pants. “Wanna walk around this house all round with my fuckin’ kid inside you? Let everybody see it?”

You scream, back arching, another orgasm ripping through you without warning. He fucks you through it, harder, faster, chasing his own edge now, voice breaking.

“Gonna breed you,” he grits. “Gonna keep fuckin’ you full ‘til it takes. Gonna see that belly swell. Gonna see you waddle into our bed and beg me to fuck you again.”

You cry out, incoherent now—sobs and whimpers and “yes, yes, please, I want it!”

And Bucky groans, loud and ruined, slamming deep one final time as his cock pulses again—hot, thick, endless.

You feel it fill you. Again.

Worse this time. Better.

Too much.

And still he doesn’t pull out. He just stays buried, breathing hard, shaking slightly, one hand still on your stomach, like he’s trying to feel the change.

You’re both quiet. Your legs are shaking. Not from fear. Not even from the orgasm anymore.

Just the after.

The raw, spent heaviness of being fucked full twice—used, filled, held. Your thighs are trembling with it, soft little twitches that Bucky’s eyes catch every time. He doesn’t say anything. Just watches you for a second, his breath still ragged, his cock still buried deep, like he doesn’t want to pull out in case it spills.

But then his expression shifts. Something gentler. Less heat, more awe.

And then he’s moving—finally pulling out slow, careful, whispering a soft “I got you” as you flinch, as the wet stretch of it makes you gasp again.

You try to close your legs. He doesn’t let you.

Instead, he gathers you up—arms strong, but slow now, steady—and lays back, bringing you with him. Your body’s limp and pliant, sore in every way that makes you feel like his. He drapes the blanket over both of you, not caring that you’re still leaking, still flushed, still catching your breath.

And then the kisses start. Light, slow, everywhere. He kisses your cheek, your temple, your collarbone.

Your shoulder.

Your jaw.

He whispers between each one. Things you don’t fully register but still feel. Words like mine, and so good, and you took it all, and you’re so fuckin’ beautiful like this.

His arms tighten around you, one hand rubbing gentle circles into your lower back, the other combing through your hair. You melt into him, wrecked and warm and held like something sacred.

And when he kisses your belly. Low, just below your navel, lips soft and reverent—

You feel your chest crack open.

Neither of you says it.

Not yet.

But it’s there in the silence. In the kisses. In the hold.

You’re his. He’s yours.

It starts with small things.

You sleep a little longer. You nap in the afternoons, curled under the throw blanket on the couch like you can’t keep your eyes open. Bucky catches you there one morning—sunlight through the blinds, your mouth soft in sleep, a half-drunk mug of tea still warm beside you. You don’t wake when he leans down to kiss your forehead.

Later that night, he catches you staring at your reflection in the bathroom mirror—shirt lifted, fingertips resting lightly over your belly. There’s nothing there yet. But you look… thoughtful.

Still, nothing clicks.

Not until you’re in the kitchen, two weeks later, scrubbing out a cast iron pan when the smell of leftover garlic makes your stomach turn so hard you drop the sponge.

You double over the sink, one hand clutching your mouth, and gag.

And that’s when it hits you.

Hard.

You count the days—once, twice, three times—rechecking the calendar app on your phone like the numbers will change if you look long enough.

They don’t.

You’re late.

Really late.

It’s not the first time you’ve had a pregnancy scare. But this doesn’t feel like a scare. This feels… inevitable. Like your body’s just catching up to what your heart already knows.

You take the test in the early morning.

Bucky’s still asleep—bare chest rising slow and steady, his arm draped over your side of the bed, reaching for you even in sleep.

The test is quiet.

The wait is not.

You sit on the edge of the tub in one of his sweatshirts, fingers tangled in the fabric, heart racing so loud you swear the plastic stick can hear it. The bathroom smells like shampoo and steam. Your thighs are cold against the tile. You don’t breathe until the timer buzzes.

And when you finally look—

Two lines.

Clear.

Immediate.

Undeniable.

You don’t say anything at first.

You slip back into the bedroom in silence, test clutched in one hand, like maybe holding it too tightly will change the result. Bucky’s still asleep, but just barely—one eye cracks open as you stand at the edge of the bed, still wearing his sweatshirt, face pale and unreadable.

“Baby?” His voice is hoarse.

You can’t speak. You just crawl into bed and hand it to him.

He blinks.

Looks down at the test.

Stares.

And then looks back up at you like he’s trying to figure out if this is a joke or a dream.

“You’re…” he starts, voice rough, lips parted. “You’re pregnant?”

You nod once. Small.

And something shifts in his face. Not panic. Not regret. Something raw. Quiet. A little wrecked. He leans in slowly—hands tentative—cups your cheeks, thumbs stroking beneath your eyes.

“You’re sure?”

You nod again. “I took two. Both said the same.”

Silence.

Heavy.

“I didn’t think it would actually happen,” he breathes.

You laugh—but it’s fragile, a little cracked. “Neither did I. We were idiots.”

He huffs a breath. Shakes his head. “No, we weren’t.”

His thumb strokes your cheek again. “We were reckless,” he murmurs. “And obsessed. And addicted to the idea of it.”

You nod. You don’t deny it.

“Are you…” His voice falters for the first time. “Are you okay?”

You blink. And then your throat tightens. “I’m scared,” you whisper. “But… I’m not sorry.”

Bucky’s eyes shine. Just a little. Just enough. His hands slide from your cheeks to your belly, pressing gently through the sweatshirt.

“Me neither,” he says softly. “Not even a little.”

He leans in. Kisses your forehead. Then your nose. Then the corner of your mouth.

Then he whispers something you’ve never heard from him before—not in the middle of a scene, not under his breath in the heat of it, not even when he was fucking you full and whispering filthy promises in your ear.

He says, “We’re having a baby.”

And suddenly, you’re crying.

Soft, broken tears that come with a little laugh, your forehead pressed to his as he kisses them away, his hands on your belly like he already loves the idea of what’s coming next.

And Bucky—your Bucky, your wrecked, careful, protective man—says the words that undo you completely.

“You’re gonna be the most beautiful fuckin’ mama. And I’m gonna take care of you every single day.”

The bedroom is dark. Not silent—there’s the sound of rain on the windows, the whir of the ceiling fan, the soft rise and fall of your breath—but still, quiet enough that Bucky can hear his heartbeat when he lays his head against your belly.

You’re asleep. At least mostly.

Curled on your side, one hand under your cheek, the other resting atop the swell of your bump like you’re guarding it even in dreams. The sheets are tangled around your thighs, the neckline of your sleep shirt pulled low where you tugged at it in your sleep. Your lips are parted, lashes twitching faintly with whatever world you’ve wandered into.

He watches you for a long time.

The lamp beside the bed throws a warm, golden cast across your skin—his favorite. It softens you. Like candlelight. Like something sacred.

And you are. To him, you always have been.

Even before the test. Even before the late mornings, the crying, the ultrasounds, the apple slices and ginger chews and the two a.m. need for pickles and powdered donuts. Even before the first time he laid his hand on your belly and felt it move.

He’s been yours since long before that.

And now you’re his in a new way.

You’re both someone’s.

It’s a month later.

He shifts carefully, sliding further under the blanket, one hand resting warm and steady across your stomach. His thumb strokes a slow arc just beneath your bellybutton. The other hand slips under your back, holding you closer as he murmurs, almost too quiet for the room to hear:

“Hey, baby girl.”

Your belly is warm beneath his palm. Full. Real. The heartbeat he’d heard on the monitor weeks ago still echoes in his mind—fast, fluttering, perfect.

“You’re cookin’ in there pretty good,” he mutters, voice thick with sleep and awe. “She’s doin’ all the hard work. But I’m proud of you, anyway.”

He pauses.

You don’t stir.

He smiles against your skin.

“You’re gonna love her,” he whispers. “Your mama. She’s the bravest thing I ever touched. And the softest. Even when she pretends not to be.”

His hand slides to the side of your belly. His thumb brushes where he swears he felt a tiny kick last night. You’re not far from showing the whole world now. The curve is impossible to miss. Every shirt clings to it. Every motion carries a new weight.

You walk different. You sleep curled tighter. You breathe like you’re holding two heartbeats in one chest. Because you are.

And Bucky?

He doesn’t know how to stop falling in love with that.

“You weren’t supposed to happen,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin.

His voice is hoarse now. Quieter. Edging toward something he never says in the daylight.

“Not to me. Not like this.”

His hand tightens slightly, as if afraid you—or the baby—might slip away if he doesn’t hold on.

“But I’m glad you did.”

He kisses your stomach. Once. Twice. Then again, longer this time.

When he pulls back, your hand slides into his hair. Not asleep after all.

He looks up.

And you’re smiling—barely—but it’s there.

“You talk to her every night?” you ask, voice thick with sleep.

He nods. “Yeah. She kicks more when I do.”

You hum. “She knows her dad.”

That one gets him.

He shifts higher, face brushing yours, his hand never leaving your belly.

“I ever tell you how beautiful you look?” he asks.

You nod. “Every day.”

“Not enough.”

You press your forehead to his. “Bucky?”

“Mm?”

“I think she’s gonna have your eyes.”

He exhales slowly. His voice is rough when he answers.

“God, I hope so.”

And then he pulls you close, wraps around you like a shield, and lets himself sleep.

Because in the end, this isn’t just about what happened between your legs.

It’s about what bloomed in the space between your ribs—what grew there, quietly, over weeks and months and whispered promises in the dark.

This is home now.

In your arms.

In your belly.

In your bed.

And Bucky Barnes, for the first time in his life, gets to stay.

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nolita-fairytale · 2 months ago

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ANNA SAWAI photographed by Andrea Gandini for iO Donna Magazine

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nolita-fairytale · 2 months ago

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omg how could ever think this sucked it was magical?!?!?!?!!!!!!

omg hii congratulations on reaching 1k followers!!!

I loved ur recent Joaquin fic and was thinking of a roommates! Joaquin fic that’s friends to lovers and he’s not necessarily a player but he’s flirty with EVERYONE so there’s some sort of miscommunication (or maybe someone *cough* John *cough* slightly flirts with y/n in front of Joaquin which finally encourages him to make the move after YEAAARS of what he thought was unrequited pining (and years of complaining about it to Sam) but y/n doesn’t believe him at first because he’s flirty with everyone so she thinks he treats everyone the same as her (and because he’s stupidly always talking about ‘dates’ he has when it’s just him trying to prove to her that he’s date worthy but she just sees it as him not attainable)

Already Best Friends

joaquin torres x reader; roommates au; 18+; mdni

It had been a Tuesday.

The kind of Tuesday that crawled in with wet socks and aching knees—late afternoon, skies dull and weeping, the kind of gray that crept into your bones. You were still in your gear, boots leaving muddy prints across Joaquin’s kitchen tile, half-dead from the cold sting of the last training sweep.

Joaquin looked up from his tablet, lounging at the edge of the counter in a soft, threadbare undershirt, sleeves bunched tight around his biceps. His hair was still damp from the flight test earlier that morning. You’d helped him recalibrate the left wing adjustment mid-air, and now those same wings were leaned up in the corner of the room, drying like folded limbs of some impossible bird.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t even look like he’d thought about it more than a second.

“Hey,” he said casually, like you were discussing dinner plans. “You should just move in with me.”

You froze halfway between the door and the living room. Your hand still gripped the top strap of your pack, cold water running down your wrist from the storm. “What?”

Joaquin stood with a stretch, his shirt riding up just slightly as he moved, then fell back into place as he leaned one arm against the doorframe. He nodded up toward the ceiling like it meant something. “I mean, you’re already here all the time. You leave your gear, crash in the guest room, eat all my cereal. Might as well have your own key and closet space.”

You didn’t say anything, so he kept going, voice light, easy. Too easy.

“You can even have the bigger room if you want. I like the one with more light.”

It was everything you’d wanted. And somehow, it felt like being shot through the chest.

You stared at him, searching for some sign—some flicker of nerves in his smile, some spark in his eyes that meant he wasn’t just thinking practically. That maybe this was it. Maybe he was finally—

But no. All you found was warmth. Familiar, steady warmth. The same warmth that had made you fall in love with him in the first place. The kind that lived in his laughter and his half-asleep mumbling, the way he tucked a hand behind your back when crowds got too tight, or rubbed your shoulder wordlessly after a tough mission.

It wasn’t heat. It wasn’t hunger. It was home.

And homes didn’t fall in love with you.

“You’re serious?” you asked, voice too even. Too blank.

Joaquin just grinned, all dimples and sunshine, and bumped your shoulder with his. “Besties don’t let besties overpay for rent.”

Besties.

The word hit like a quiet bullet to the heart.

You laughed—light and hollow—and nodded. “Okay,” you said. “Yeah. That makes sense.”

You dropped your pack by the door, toed off your wet boots, and headed toward the hallway, hugging your arms tight to your chest.

“Spaghetti okay for dinner?” he called behind you. “I was gonna do garlic bread too.”

“Perfect,” you called back, your voice an echo of someone not on the verge of falling apart.

You made it to the room—your room, now, you guessed—closed the door, and leaned your forehead against it. The wood was cool against your skin. Too solid. Too real.

And then you slid down to the floor, curled into yourself, and cried as quietly as possible into the sleeves of the hoodie you hadn’t given back yet. The one that still smelled like his laundry detergent and skin.

Because that was it. That was the confirmation you’d been waiting for.

He loved you like a best friend.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

And now you’d have to live with it—literally.

You tried to be normal.

You tried to live inside the lines of what you were allowed to feel. Friends. Roommates. Besties.

Nothing more.

You cooked together—shoulders brushing at the stove, reaching for the same spoon, laughing when he tasted the pasta sauce off your finger like it wasn’t the most intimate thing anyone had ever done to you. You grocery shopped in sync, two carts, one mission. He always remembered your brand of tea, your weird peanut butter preference, the one soup you hoarded when you were stressed.

Nights bled into routines. You curled up together on the couch, blanket stretched tight over your legs, his bare feet pressed lightly against your calf. His laugh—the full-body kind, breathy and open—came easy around you. You learned to chase it, to earn it. Like oxygen.

You memorized the shape of him in motion: Joaquin barefoot in the mornings, still sleep-warm and blinking, hair sticking up in three directions, scratching his stomach with one hand and pouring coffee with the other. You learned the sounds he made in the shower—muffled humming, the occasional muttered curse when the shampoo bottle slipped. You learned which shirts he hated folding and the rhythm of his breath when he was about to fall asleep in front of the TV.

You wore his clothes like armor. Oversized t-shirts. The hoodie he never asked you to give back. He never said a word when you wandered into the kitchen in them, hair mussed, sleep still in your eyes. He’d just glance up from his cereal, grin softly, and ask, “You want coffee, mi cielo, or should I call a priest?”

You laughed. Played along. Pretended it didn’t wreck you every time.

He brought you back snacks when he flew missions alone—stashed in your drawer before you even knew he’d left. You found little notes sometimes, stuck between protein bars or ration packs. Don’t say I never spoil you. For the queen of snack hoarding. I saw this and thought of you. Because it’s dramatic and full of caffeine.

You shared a bathroom mirror. Brushed your teeth side by side. Laughed with foamy mouths and toothpaste dripping onto each other’s pajamas.

Once—when your cramps were bad and your stomach curled in on itself like a fist—he came home from training with three kinds of chocolate, a brand-new fuzzy blanket, and a heating pad shaped like a stuffed owl.

“Mission-critical delivery for mi cielo,” he announced from your doorway, holding the supplies like a care package from heaven.

He didn’t know you’d spent the whole morning crying into your pillow. Because you’d dreamed about kissing him. And in the dream, he kissed you back.

You thanked him. He tucked the blanket around you like it was nothing. Like you weren’t dying inside.

And then, of course, there were the others.

The girl at the corner café who always gave him an extra pastry. The med tech at HQ who once wrote her number on his palm. The mission handler who lingered too long when explaining recon protocols, fingers grazing his wrist as she talked. He just smiled—always smiled—tipped his head and flirted without even realizing it.

Once, you were packing med kits and he leaned against the table beside you, phone in hand.

“She wants to go axe throwing,” he said, amused.

You didn’t ask who she was.

He kept scrolling. “I mean, that’s kind of a date, right?”

You’d forced a tight-lipped smile. “Guess it depends how many axes.”

He laughed and bumped your arm with his. “Don’t worry, I’ll be home before curfew.”

You weren’t worried. You were dying.

Another time, you were sitting across from him at your tiny kitchen table when his phone buzzed. He checked it, smiled to himself, and said, “Damn. That’s the third time she’s asked if I’m free this week.”

You blinked at him. “Who?”

He looked up like he’d forgotten you were there. “This girl Bob introduced me to. Super smart. Doctor or something.”

You nodded, heart sinking. “Nice.”

He smiled again, soft and thoughtless. “Yeah. But I’ll probably cancel. Not really feeling it.”

You pretended that meant something. You told yourself it didn’t.

And then there was the day he saw you naked.

It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t lit with candlelight or edged in soft music. It was just a normal Tuesday morning—quiet, overcast, the heater rattling in the vents while you padded out of the shower, skin damp, hair dripping down your back.

You hadn’t closed the bathroom door all the way.

The towel around you was barely secured. You hadn’t even grabbed the lotion yet.

You bent at the waist to reach for it—steam curling around your thighs, the edge of the towel slipping free in one traitorous slide.

And that was the moment the door opened.

Not slammed, not shoved—just eased open on quiet hinges.

You looked up.

And there he was.

Joaquin. Standing in the doorway. Frozen.

His hand still on the knob, his brow faintly lifted, mouth parted—like his breath had caught mid-sentence.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move.

Just looked.

Really looked.

Eyes dragging down, then up again. A flash of heat—not leering, not crude, but something… hungry flickered across his face. And then it was gone.

He blinked, stepped back, and closed the door.

“Sorry!” he called lightly through the wood, his voice carefully pitched—casual, breezy, like you were old roommates and he’d just walked in on you flossing. Not standing stark naked, chest flushed, legs slick with steam and shower water.

You stood there frozen, breath lodged in your throat.

Heart pounding.

You waited—staring at the door like it might open again. Like he might apologize again, or make a joke, or say something that told you it had meant anything.

But there was nothing. No footsteps retreating. No flustered apology. No voice thick with arousal.

Just the sound of the hallway staying quiet. Just you, standing alone, naked, trembling slightly—not from cold.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. He hadn’t seen anything new. You weren’t special. You weren’t different.

And when you stepped out of the bathroom ten minutes later, fully dressed and pretending your skin wasn’t still buzzing, he was in the kitchen making coffee.

Same as always.

He glanced up, met your eyes, smiled. “You good?”

You nodded. “Yup.”

He slid a mug toward you across the counter. “Hazelnut creamer’s in the fridge.”

And that was it.

He never brought it up again. Never gave any sign that he remembered. Never looked at you like that again. If he ever really had.

But what you didn’t know—what you couldn’t see—was the way he’d stood on the other side of the door for a full sixty seconds after it closed. Breathing hard. Palms braced against the wood. Eyes squeezed shut.

Biting his tongue so he didn’t whisper your name. Telling himself not to want you like that. Because you were his best friend. His roommate. His mi cielo.

And he had no idea you thought he hadn’t noticed at all.

Joaquin had always been a little flirty.

It wasn’t intentional, most of the time. He liked making people smile. Liked connection—casual, harmless, light. Words were easier than silence. Touch came naturally. He’d always been that way. Comfortable in his skin. Quick with a joke. Affectionate by default.

But it was never real. Not with them.

Not like it was with you.

With everyone else, it was autopilot. A wink here, a compliment there. Something to pass the time. Something to fill the air. He could flirt with a mission tech or a med trainee and forget their name five minutes later. He could charm a bartender into extra fries and never feel like it meant anything.

But with you, everything felt dangerous.

Everything felt like almost saying something he couldn’t take back.

You made it real. Too close. Too honest. Too easy to lose control around.

So he softened it. Kept it just on the edge. Cloaked it in jokes and stupid nicknames. Called you mi cielo because mi amor would have been too much—too revealing. Mi cielo was safe. Still intimate. Still true. But just ambiguous enough that he could survive the way you smiled every time he said it.

He let his fingers graze yours when he passed by you in the kitchen. Let his hand linger on your lower back just a second longer when crowds pressed in at mission briefings. Let his body curl around yours during winter movie nights when the heat wasn’t working, telling himself it was just comfort.

And you never pulled away.

That was the worst part.

You let him do it.

You let him hold you. Let him press kisses to your temple when you were too tired to keep your eyes open. Let him rest his chin on your shoulder in the middle of grocery store aisles while you debated between almond and oat milk. You let him fall in love with you a hundred different ways, a hundred different nights—and you never once reached back.

Not really.

Not the way he wanted you to.

You smiled at his jokes, but not like you knew what he was hiding inside them. You touched him, but never with that edge of urgency. Never like you wanted more.

So he convinced himself you didn’t feel it.

Told himself that if you had, you would’ve done something by now.

Would’ve said something that night in the kitchen—when you wore one of his shirts, oversized and soft, and turned to ask, “Do I smell like you yet or do I need to roll around in your laundry?” and laughed, and he thought he might die right there.

Would’ve asked why he kissed your forehead the night your ex called out of nowhere and made you cry. Why he stayed up on the floor next to your bed, holding your hand like a lifeline until morning.

Would’ve looked at him differently after that day at the lake—when you jumped into the water, shirt soaked and clinging, hair slicked back, and climbed up onto the dock to grin at him like nothing had changed… while he was busy trying not to stare. Not to grab.

Would’ve said something after he called you mi cielo the first time—late, after a rough mission, handing you a coffee with blood still drying in the creases of his knuckles.

You’d blinked up at him. Smiled. Took the mug. “Thanks.”

That was it.

No question. No shift. No visible spark. And what else could he do but take that silence as confirmation?

He loved you like gravity. Constant. Unshakable. Invisible and impossible to ignore.

But he told himself to bury it. To hold the line. Because you’d never once given him a reason to think you were waiting on him, too. And if he said it—if he broke the spell—he was terrified everything you had would crack under the weight of it.

So he kept smiling. Kept teasing. Kept calling you mi cielo like he wasn’t screaming it inside his chest.

And it was killing him.

Every damn day.

He found Sam leaning against the nose of the Quinjet two hangars over, arms crossed, brow raised, eyes sharp like he already knew.

Joaquin could barely meet his gaze.

The sun was burning a dull stripe across the tarmac, heat shimmering up from the concrete. Inside the hangar, it was cooler—shade and steel and low thuds of gear being stowed, teams prepping for deployment. The air smelled like oil and jet fuel and just a hint of old coffee. Somewhere, someone was arguing about perimeter rotations.

Sam didn’t move.

“Spit it out,” he said finally. “You’ve been twitchy all morning.”

Joaquin rubbed the back of his neck, dragging his palm down the column of his throat like that would help. He shifted his weight, glanced toward the open bay where you were triple-checking the comms packs without realizing anyone was watching.

“She packed extra med kits again.”

Sam blinked. “Okay…”

“She always does,” Joaquin muttered. “Every time we leave. She says she doesn’t trust field supply loads but— I dunno, it’s not about that.”

Sam’s expression didn’t change. He just waited.

“I caught her rechecking them three times,” Joaquin continued, quieter now. “Like she was prepping for something bad.”

“Sounds like basic anxiety,” Sam said evenly, his tone clipped but not unkind. “Totally understandable. Given our line of work.”

Joaquin shifted again, eyes dropping to the scuffed floor. “She kissed my shoulder last night.”

Sam finally reacted—one brow arching, head tilting slightly like he was trying to decide if he’d heard that right. “She what?”

“I mean… I think it was an accident.” Joaquin shook his head, jaw tight. “We were watching that terrible baking show—y’know the one where the contestants always cry when their chocolate collapses—and she leaned over to grab the blanket. Her face was right there. She kissed my shoulder without even looking.”

He swallowed. “I don’t think she noticed. But I did.”

Sam squinted at him. “Okay. And what exactly do you want from me?”

“I don’t know.” Joaquin let out a frustrated breath. “I just—God, I think I’m losing my mind. I live with her. I know everything about her. How she organizes her gear, how she stacks her socks by color, how she always taps the top of her water bottle twice before drinking it.”

Sam didn’t interrupt. He just waited, arms still folded, gaze steady.

“I know her dreams,” Joaquin said, voice rougher now. “And her laugh. And that she always says she’s not hungry when she’s starving. I know her. I see her.”

He ran a hand through his hair, voice dropping.

“And I still feel like I’m missing something.”

There was a long pause.

The low whir of tech tuning in the background. Someone shouting for refuel status. The creak of pressure against the Quinjet wing as it shifted in its mount.

Then Sam said quietly, “You’re not missing anything. You’re just scared.”

Joaquin looked up, brow tight. “Scared of what?”

Sam’s voice didn’t waver. “That if you say it out loud, it’ll change everything.”

Joaquin didn’t answer.

Sam tilted his head. “That she’ll stop looking at you the way she does.”

“She doesn’t look at me like anything.”

Sam laughed—a dry, incredulous sound that echoed a little too loud in the hangar. “Man. She only looks at you.”

Joaquin went still. His fingers curled loosely into fists, heart thudding loud in his chest.

“She doesn’t believe I mean it,” he said finally, voice soft. “That I’m serious. She thinks I’m just… like that.”

Sam’s gaze softened a little, but his voice stayed firm. “Then show her you aren’t. Start there.”

And Joaquin knew Sam was right. Knew he couldn’t keep pretending. But still—his mind looped, caught somewhere else entirely.

A week ago.

High altitude. Bad mission. Worse intel.

They’d been called in to assist a perimeter sweep on a black site that turned out to be a weapons depot—fully operational, heavily guarded, and rigged for hell. What was supposed to be a recon flyover turned into a firestorm before they’d even broken cloud cover.

Joaquin was airborne before his HUD finished syncing. Night vision flared bright, then shorted out under countermeasures. Alarms blared in his earpiece—too many targets, no clean lock. Wind resistance buffeted his wings like punches to the ribs.

Below him: smoke, dust, chaos.

And you.

You were on the far ridge, rifle slung and braced tight against your shoulder, crouched in a nest of sharp rock and burning debris. Your comms were patchy, but your silhouette was clear through the smoke—spine straight, eyes forward, all discipline and fire. You didn’t even flinch when an explosion rocked the hill twenty meters to your left.

Joaquin’s stomach dropped.

“Two clicks and climbing,” Sam’s voice cracked in over the comms. “She’s on the ridge, you’ve got line of sight—take it before they lock her down!”

Joaquin banked left, wings flaring. Sensors screamed. His hands were sweating in the flight gloves.

And in the middle of it—in the literal fucking middle of a full-sky firefight—he said it. Blurted it, half-laughing, breathless and a little too honest, “She’s gonna shoot me one day.”

Sam, in a deadpan, shouted, “Brother, we are literally under attack.”

Joaquin couldn’t help it—his chest was tight and his heart was pounding and you looked like a goddamn war goddess up there, all controlled violence and messy hair, dirt streaked across your cheek. He was so far gone it felt stupid.

“Yeah,” he said. “But like… in a hot way.”

There was a silence over the comms.

Then Sam again, muttering, bone-deep exhausted: “Jesus Christ.”

But Joaquin couldn’t stop looking at you.

He flew harder. Sharper. Covered you like it was personal. Like anyone who so much as breathed in your direction wrong would find themselves in pieces on the ground.

And when the op ended—when the hostiles were down, and the dust had settled, and you’d finally clambered into the evac vehicle still wiping blood off your neck—he didn’t say anything.

Didn’t tell you how beautiful you looked covered in dirt and rage.

Didn’t mention the way he couldn’t stop shaking until he saw you wave up at him from the ridge with that crooked little half-smile.

Didn’t tell you that the moment he thought they’d gotten too close—you’d gotten too close—he nearly took a fucking nosedive just to reach you faster.

Because it was easier not to say anything.

Because you were brushing soot off your knees and asking for painkillers and joking with Ava about how you lost a whole mag in the chaos.

And because you didn’t look at him like he was yours.

You looked at him like a teammate. A friend. Nothing more. And maybe that was fine. Maybe it wasn’t.

But Joaquin hadn’t stopped thinking about it since.

The whole flight home, he sat in the jumpseat with his helmet in his lap, heart still racing, chest aching, listening to you laugh across the aisle with your head tipped back like nothing had changed.

And he realized—quiet and terrible, like a needle under skin—that if he didn’t do something soon… he was going to lose his shot completely.

The hangar always had a certain buzz to it before an op, regardless of if it was training or not. The kind that lived under your skin—nerves and muscle memory and the sharp tang of sterilized gear and oil. Familiar. Comforting, in a way.

You kept your hands busy. Pack straps tightened, med kits triple-checked. You counted vials without looking at the labels, fingers quick and practiced. It wasn’t the checklists you needed to confirm. It was your control.

If you stayed busy, you didn’t think. If you didn’t think, you didn’t feel.

And if you didn’t feel, you didn’t spiral about the fact that Joaquin had been off all morning.

You could feel him watching you.

From across the hangar, past the line of crates and half-lowered armor compartments—his eyes were on you. You didn’t have to look. You knew the way it burned across your shoulders, like sunlight through a windowpane.

It wasn’t new. Joaquin stared sometimes. A lot, actually. But today it felt heavier. Hotter. Like it meant something.

You shifted your weight, adjusted a strap, glanced up—just briefly.

There he was.

Leaning against the far wall near the comms terminal, arms crossed over his chest. Flight suit half-zipped and open at the throat. Hair pushed back. Brow furrowed like he was thinking about something too big for the room.

His eyes were already on you.

And not just in passing. Not in the friendly, flirty, hey you stole my coffee again kind of way. He wasn’t smiling. Wasn’t teasing.

He looked at you like he was seeing something he hadn’t dared let himself look at before.

And it made your pulse jump. Your fingers stilled against the velcro on your vest. Just for a second.

You looked back down before he could see your face tighten.

Because you didn’t trust it.

You couldn’t.

Joaquin was flirty. With everyone. Maybe you were just being sensitive. Maybe he was zoning out. Maybe he was thinking about airspeed and evac routes and totally normal mission prep things and just happened to be staring directly into your soul while doing it.

Maybe it was nothing.

It always was.

You reached for your gloves, jaw tight. Pulled them on like armor.

That’s when you felt it.

Fingers—his—ghosting along your arm as he passed behind you. A touch so light it could’ve been the air. But it wasn’t. You knew him. You’d have known his touch in a blackout.

Then, his voice—soft and low, barely audible over the clatter and chatter of the hangar, “You packed snacks, mi cielo, or are you gonna steal mine again?”

Your breath caught in your throat.

Not because of what he said—he always called you that. But because of the way he said it. Like it hurt. Like it mattered.

You didn’t look at him.

If you looked, you’d smile. If you smiled, he’d see the crack in your wall. And you couldn’t afford that.

So you kept your voice even. Flat.

“Didn’t have time,” you said, tightening the strap on your thigh holster. “Guess I’ll be stealing.”

You heard the hum he made in reply—quiet, amused, too warm.

Then footsteps. Boots against metal flooring. His gait easy, casual. Gone.

But your body didn’t relax.

Your chest stayed tight. Your fingers trembled as you zipped your kit closed.

You stared down at your gear and tried not to think about the first time he called you mi cielo. After a mission, in his kitchen, handing you coffee with dried blood on his knuckles.

You’d smiled and said “thanks,” like it was just a cute nickname.

You’d never looked it up.

Because if you had—if you knew what it really meant—you would’ve broken.

You still might.

You’ve spent years conditioning yourself not to fall. Not to hope. Not to read into.

And today felt like danger.

Not the kind in the field. Not the kind you could fight.

The kind that lived just beneath your skin. The kind that made you want to turn around, chase after him, grab his face in both hands and ask—

But you didn’t.

You just pulled your bag over your shoulder and walked toward the transport bay, pretending your lungs didn’t feel too small for your chest.

You’ve gotten so good at this.

So good at pretending he doesn’t wreck you with every look.

You’re good at it now.

Aren’t you?

The trees came first.

Sharp, towering evergreens that broke against a sky so blue it made your eyes ache. The air was clean here—so clean it felt wrong, like a movie set. You stepped off the transport jet with your duffel slung over your shoulder, boots crunching gravel, cold mountain air sliding down the back of your neck. A chill that made you inhale deep.

It was beautiful. Quiet. Until it wasn’t.

“Ten-hut!”

Sam’s voice cut across the clearing like a whip crack as the others emerged from the tree line—five distinct figures in various states of tactical gear and disinterest. They’d clearly been waiting.

The new team.

The New Avengers, as Val insisted on calling them. And despite the name, they didn’t exactly look like poster models.

Bucky Barnes was the only one you knew. He offered a terse nod from behind his gloves, face unreadable as always. You returned it quietly, respectful. There were ghosts between you—shared missions, mutual near-deaths—but little else.

The rest you didn’t know yet.

Yelena Belova—braid bouncing, arms crossed, head tilted like she was already cataloging your weaknesses. Cool, sharp, and impossible to ignore.

Ava Starr, ghostlike in posture, her presence more felt than seen. Her eyes passed over you once, calculating. Not cold, just… precise.

Alexei Shostakov, shirtless for reasons unknown, chest out like a comic book character. He was already mid-sentence, bragging about something—probably the time he “punched Captain America”—and no one seemed to be listening.

And then there was Bob Reynolds. Soft-eyed. Broad-shouldered. Lurking just outside the group with his hands in his pockets like he didn’t know what to do with them. His stare lingered a beat longer than the others. Quiet, observant. Like he saw more than he should.

You adjusted your duffel and glanced at Joaquin.

He beamed. “Everyone—this is my best friend.”

The words hit like a tap to the chest.

You exhaled through your nose, rolled your eyes. “God, you make it sound like I’m here to braid your hair and talk about boys.”

He winked. “We’ve done that.”

Bob raised a brow. His gaze flicked between the two of you.

You ignored it. “Nice to meet you all,” you said, offering a half-salute.

That’s when you noticed him.

Standing apart from the others, arms crossed, smug smile stretching his mouth like he owned the whole goddamn mountain.

John Walker.

His eyes swept you fast—head to toe—before he tilted his chin and gave a half-nod. “Didn’t know Torres came with backup.”

“Only when I get bored,” you shot back, dry.

The others chuckled. Even Bucky’s mouth twitched.

Walker smiled wider. “Guess I’ll have to keep you entertained.”

You didn’t rise to it. Just arched a brow and turned toward the gear shed, letting him watch you walk away.

Later— Training drills, daylight fading.

You moved through the course like it was a dance. Precision. Economy. No wasted movement. Joaquin was three stations behind you, clearing the rope bridge. Sam barked orders near the med tents.

And John Walker?

He was glued to your hip.

Not literally, but close. Hovering nearby for every sparring rotation. “Ladies first,” when you rolled into takedown drills. “Want me on top or bottom?” when you squared up to grapple.

You smirked once. Just once. And that was all the encouragement he needed.

He kept circling—throwing lines, flexing more than necessary, eyeing your form like it was homework he wanted to ace.

It wasn’t surprising. Joaquin had warned you Walker was a lot.

But what was surprising was how fast the group fell into rhythm. Ava was deadpan funny. Yelena was brutal and brilliant. Alexei warmed up once he started losing at sparring. Bob offered you a protein bar after drills, shyly, like a kid handing over a Valentine.

It was good.

Until the firepit.

You weren’t supposed to be laughing. Not really.

But John had told some story about Sam, a goat, and a mission in southern Italy that made you snort water through your nose—and your head tipped back before you could stop it.

Genuine, throat-deep laughter. Full-bodied and sharp and sudden.

Joaquin looked up from where he was drying his wings, and the sight hit him like a punch.

Your face, lit up. Your body leaning toward someone else. Someone tall and broad and cocky—who wasn’t pulling his punches. Someone who wasn’t afraid to make you look.

His stomach turned.

He wiped his hands on his towel and stood a little too fast. Feet heavy on the gravel.

Bob noticed first.

The others didn’t.

But Joaquin’s mouth was tight. His jaw clenched. His chest rising too fast. Because suddenly it wasn’t just a joke. It wasn’t just Walker being Walker.

It was you—laughing like that. Like you used to laugh with him. And for the first time in years, he felt something wild spark in his chest. Not jealousy.

Not yet.

Panic.

Because maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he’d waited too long. Maybe someone else was going to get to you first.

Dust kicks up in little clouds beneath your boots as you circle John Walker on the sparring mat, heart light from the last round, muscles humming. The sun has shifted lower—burning gold now, dragging warm streaks across the training yard. Bucky and Sam are running point on drills, Yelena barking critiques from the sidelines with a smirk, Alexei showing off to no one in particular.

Bob’s chewing a granola bar. Ava’s stretching.

Joaquin is standing at the edge of the mats. Watching.

You don’t notice at first. Not really. Your attention is on John, who’s rolling his shoulders back like he’s winding up for something theatrical.

“Ready, sweetheart?” he asks, cocking a grin that’s more challenge than charm.

Your eyebrows lift. “You calling me sweetheart or surrendering early?”

He laughs, low and rough. “Guess we’ll see.”

He makes the first move—deliberate and easy, just a wide swing to test your speed—and you duck under it with a pivot, letting your hip brush his as you slip past. It’s all choreography for now. Muscle memory. You know how to read weight, how to bait a shift. And John is solid. Fast. But not faster than you.

You land a hit—light, a tap to the side of his ribs—and his grin just widens.

“Not bad,” he says, brushing his forearm across his mouth. “Starting to think Torres brought you along just to show him up.”

You shrug, playful. “Someone has to.”

He laughs again, big and unbothered, and it’s… fun. Stupid, harmless fun.

So you lean into it.

When he calls you “sweetheart” again, this time it’s more teasing than before—drawled and low as you circle each other.

You toss it right back. “You always flirt this bad when you’re losing?”

“Oh, baby,” he says, ducking and lunging again. “I haven’t even started trying.”

And you laugh. Real and sudden, smile breaking wide across your face because it is kind of funny—the swagger, the routine, the way he says it like you haven’t heard better lines from Joaquin over breakfast.

You don’t notice that Joaquin has gone still. That his arms are crossed tighter than before. That he hasn’t blinked in thirty seconds. That his mouth has flattened into something sharp and unreadable.

Because you’re too busy leaning out of the next hold, twisting John’s wrist, and tossing a smile over your shoulder as you break his grip.

It doesn’t mean anything. Of course it doesn’t.

You’ve smiled like that at Joaquin for years and nothing ever came of it. Flirting is just… how you survive the closeness. The tension. The waiting.

You’re not thinking.

But Joaquin is.

He watches your smile, watches John smirk, watches the way the two of you move around each other like you fit—like it’s easy.

And something in his chest curls, dark and tight. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t make a sound.

He just clenches his jaw once—sharp and silent—then turns on his heel and walks away. Boots in gravel. Shoulders rigid. Gone.

You don’t notice.

But Bob does again.

And this time so does Bucky, whose eyes flick sideways just long enough to catch the smallest shift in the air—something new. Something coming.

The locker room’s half empty, low-lit and full of steam and peeling echo. Joaquin sits on the edge of the bench, bent forward, towel hanging from around his neck. His shirt clings damp to his back. He’s still breathing harder than he should be.

Not from the workout. Not from the drills.

From the way you smiled at Walker like he’d earned it. Like it was real.

He drags a hand down his face.

“Something you wanna say?” Sam’s voice cuts through the haze—calm but sharp. He’s leaning against the edge of the doorframe, arms crossed, still in his compression shirt, a half-finished water bottle tucked in one hand.

Joaquin doesn’t look up. “Nah. I’m good.”

Sam scoffs. “Sure. You’re not pouting like someone stole your girl and flirted with her.”

“I’m not—” Joaquin starts, then cuts himself off. “It’s fine. Seriously.”

Sam walks in, tosses his bottle to the bench, and sits beside him. Not close, but not far enough to let him retreat either.

“You’ve seen people flirt with her before,” Sam says, even.

Joaquin nods once, jaw clenched. “Yeah, but… she never looked like that.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Looked like what?”

“Like she meant it.” The words feel like gravel. Like something he shouldn’t be saying out loud.

Sam doesn’t tease him this time. Doesn’t grin or offer a punchline. He just looks at him for a long moment—eyes soft, like he’s trying to see the part Joaquin’s still hiding.

“Maybe she’s just tired of pretending not to feel it,” Sam says.

And Joaquin doesn’t answer.

Because for the first time in years, he’s not sure what he believes anymore.

You’ve noticed it.

The shift.

It’s not obvious—Joaquin’s still there, technically. Still cracking jokes with Bob, still fist-bumping Sam, still giving you the little shoulder squeeze he always does before mission briefings.

But it’s off.

He’s off.

He didn’t look at you during the debrief. Didn’t sit next to you at dinner—he sat across from you, eyes on his tray, shoulders turned in like he was bracing against something invisible.

You laughed at one of Alexei’s dumb stories about his glory days. Everyone else laughed too.

Joaquin didn’t.

Then Ava threw on some god-awful romcom in the rec room, and for the first time in your shared mission history, Joaquin didn’t make a beeline for the seat next to yours. He lingered in the kitchen, muttered something about catching up on field reports, and disappeared.

He didn’t even say goodnight.

Now you’re lying in your bunk, teeth sinking into a protein bar you don’t want, going over every little thing in your head like there’s a code you’re too stupid to crack.

Did you say something wrong? Did you do something? Did the John thing actually get to him?

Your stomach twists.

You can’t afford to think like that.

You can’t let yourself hope—can’t start spinning wild theories about jealous body language and meaningful silences. Not after years of learning how to keep your heart on a leash around him. Not after training yourself not to reach for his hand on long flights or linger too long when you wear his hoodie or flinch when he walks into the room shirtless and sleep-warm and smelling like—

No. Don’t go there.

“You’re overthinking it,” you mutter, but the words sound hollow in the quiet.

The bunk above creaks.

Yelena swings down casually, hair twisted into a messy knot, tank top rumpled, a glow stick bracelet still on her wrist from some past mission prank Bob pulled.

She lands with a soft whump and stretches out across the bottom bunk like she owns it.

You eye her warily.

“What?”

Yelena shrugs. “Nothing.”

She grabs a pillow and props it under her head. “Just wondering when you’re going to stop pretending.”

You blink. “Pretending what?”

She gives you a look. The kind of look that says don’t insult my intelligence. “That you don’t notice how he looks at you.”

Your pulse stutters. “Who?”

Yelena snorts. “Please. Don’t play dumb. It’s boring.”

You sigh and sit up, hugging your knees. “He flirts with everyone. That’s just how he is.”

“Not like that.”

You frown. “Like what?”

She turns her head on the pillow, watching you now. “He only calls you that little pet name.”

The words land heavy. Out of nowhere. Too sharp. Too direct. “What?” you ask, trying to keep your voice neutral.

Yelena shrugs. “You’ve heard him talk to Ava. To me. To literally anyone else on this team. Ever hear him say it to us?”

You fumble for logic. For something that makes sense. “Joaquin is just… he’s flirty. He says things.”

“Mhm.” She stretches her legs out, crosses her ankles. “He flirts, sure. But that? That’s not flirting.”

Silence coils tight in your chest.

You glance down at your lap. “Wait…” you murmur, half to yourself. “That’s not just… a thing people say?”

Yelena lifts a brow. “What exactly did you think it meant?”

You don’t answer.

You just roll onto your side, facing the wall, and pull your phone out from under your pillow. The screen lights up in the dark.

Your fingers hover.

Then type:

mi cielo meaning

A beat.

The result loads.

my sky. my heaven.

You stop breathing.

Your grip on the phone goes slack. It drops to the mattress, forgotten.

You stare blankly at the wall, heat rushing up your spine, burning behind your eyes, suddenly aware of every single time he’s ever said it—every casual, quiet, affectionate time he let it slip into conversation like it meant nothing.

Like you meant nothing.

And you hadn’t even looked up.

The next morning

You’re still half-asleep when you feel the weight shift.

The barracks are quiet—sunlight barely filtering through the slit-blinds, the distant hum of power units rising and falling like a heartbeat. You’re curled on your side, blanket tangled around your legs, still wrapped in the warmth of your dream when something solid and warm bumps against your back.

You blink.

Joaquin.

He’s sitting on the edge of your bunk, facing away, one foot on the floor and one knee bent beside you like he’s been there a while. His hair is damp from a shower, curling at the nape of his neck. His hoodie sleeve brushes your arm. He smells like cedar soap and toothpaste and clean cotton.

Your breath catches.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says softly, without turning. “Sorry.”

You rub your eyes. “What time is it?”

“Almost seven. Everyone else is still out. Sam’s snoring like a war crime.”

You groan, bury your face in the pillow. “Kill me.”

He chuckles. “You always say that in the morning.”

You peek up at him, heart fluttering. He looks down at you then—soft, fond. The kind of look you’ve seen a hundred times and never understood until last night.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb against the edge of your blanket. “Didn’t mean to bother you. I just…” He trails off.

You blink again, slower this time. Let your cheek rest against the pillow, eyes on him.

He sighs, scrubs a hand through his hair. “I don’t wanna be around everyone right now. Just… wanna go home.”

Your chest tightens.

Home.

With you? You don’t ask.

Instead, you murmur, “You okay?”

His head dips. “Yeah. Just tired. Done pretending everyone on this team doesn’t drive me insane.”

You smile, drowsy. “Even me?”

He glances down. The corner of his mouth lifts. “Not you, mi cielo.”

You freeze.

There it is.

Now you hear it. Now you feel it—like a sun flare under your skin. Too bright. Too much. A rush of heat blooming up your neck, flooding your cheeks, your chest.

You don’t say anything.

Just pull the blanket up to your chin like it might hide your reaction. Joaquin watches you another second, then leans in without thinking—presses a kiss to your hairline. Familiar. Thoughtless. So tender it breaks you.

And when he starts to pull back, you feel yourself reach. Fingers curling in his sleeve, just lightly, just enough to say stay.

He does.

Doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just breathes with you for a minute. Both of you still.

And now, every time his shoulder brushes yours, every time his voice drops low, every time his hand skims the small of your back as you pass each other in the narrow hallway, the word mi cielo plays on a loop in your head.

My sky.

My heaven.

And you wonder—how long has he meant it?

And how could you have missed it?

It’s already a disaster by the time you arrive.

The safehouse has two rooms—two—and six of you, sweaty and half-dead from the third round of terrain drills. The building is just a reinforced off-grid cabin with concrete floors and thick-ass walls and beds that look like they were hauled in by mule.

You’re still unlacing your boots when Ava and Yelena bolt ahead, already claiming one of the rooms for themselves.

“See you never,” Ava sings as she slams the door.

Yelena winks at you just before it closes. “Good luck.”

Great.

The remaining room has a single bed.

Bucky sighs, drops to the floor by the wall with a grunt. “I’ve slept on worse.”

Bob studies the ceiling and mutters something about “finding a vertical rhythm.” You’re too tired to ask.

Then John claps his hands, flashing you a grin. “Guess that leaves you and me, sweetheart.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Does it?”

He shrugs, cocky and charming in a way that’s meant to be harmless. “Unless you’re scared you’ll fall in love with me.”

You’re about to make some snarky reply when Joaquin steps between you.

Not aggressive.

Not rude.

Just there—shoulder stiff, jaw tight, his body a quiet wall of heat and intention.

“She’s with me,” he says.

You blink.

John smirks, clearly amused. “Oh, is she?”

Joaquin doesn’t answer.

Doesn’t need to.

He just reaches for your bag like it’s already decided, like it’s always been decided, and walks into the last room without waiting for a reply.

You follow in stunned silence.

He sets your stuff at the foot of the bed, then sits on it like he owns the place, running a hand through his hair.

You stay by the door.

“So,” you say, carefully casual, but your pulse betrays you, “you gonna tell me what that was back there, or do I have to guess?”

Joaquin doesn’t look at you at first. Just runs a hand over his jaw, jaw ticking, like he’s trying to muscle down something boiling beneath his skin.

“I didn’t like the way he said it,” he mutters finally.

You tip your head, arms folded. “John?”

A beat.

He nods once. Clipped.

“He’s not subtle,” you say. “But you don’t usually care.”

Silence.

Joaquin’s fingers dig into the edge of the mattress, twisting the threadbare cover like it’s something he can anchor himself to. His body’s tense, too quiet. Still facing away.

You step closer. Not touching. Not yet. “You’re allowed to be protective,” you offer, trying to ease the strange tightness between you. “You’re my best friend.”

The words echo a little. They don’t land right. Not like they used to. And when he looks up, the raw edge in his eyes steals the breath from your lungs.

He looks almost… hurt.

You push—softly, like testing ice. “What, are you jealous?”

He huffs a sound that doesn’t quite become a laugh. “You wish.”

You arch a brow. “Oh, so now you’re pretending you don’t care?”

“I don’t care,” he snaps, but the heat in it betrays him.

“Mm.” You circle to the side of the bed, dragging your fingers along the frame as you go. “That’s why you dragged me in here like a caveman?”

“I didn’t drag—”

“You said ‘She’s with me’ like we were already married.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“Possessive much?” You flop onto the mattress with exaggerated ease, voice lilting like a dare. “God, what would Sam say?”

Joaquin’s whole body tenses.

You don’t realize you’ve gone too far—not really—until his voice drops.

“Don’t.”

You blink. “Don’t what?”

That does it.

He moves—fast but measured, like a spring finally let loose. One moment he’s sitting, the next he’s shifting over you, knee wedged beside your hip, hand catching the mattress near your head. Not rough. But not careful either.

Just decisive.

Your breath catches, chest rising sharp beneath his as he looms over you. Not touching. Not quite. But you can feel the heat of him—feel the braced strength in his arms, the restrained tension coiled in his thighs, the simmering, unchecked frustration in the way his eyes burn into yours.

You shift beneath him, just a little, but it makes his gaze drop—to your lips, to the way your fingers twitch near your side.

He swallows hard.

You shouldn’t love the look on his face.

But you do.

“You’re mad at me,” you murmur.

He doesn’t answer.

“You’ve been weird for days,” you go on, tone quieter now, but still edged. “Ever since we got here. Ever since he looked at me.”

His jaw flexes.

“So what is it, Joaquin?” you ask, tilting your head, forcing his eyes back to yours. “You gonna keep pretending I’m crazy, or are you finally gonna admit it?”

“Admit what?” he bites out, too fast, too harsh.

You smile, slow and devastating. “That you’ve been in love with me this whole time.”

His eyes flare.

“You think I haven’t noticed?” you whisper. “You think I didn’t feel it, every time you called me that name?”

He stiffens.

“Mi cielo,” you say softly. “My sky. My heaven.”

His breath shudders out of him.

“I looked it up,” you confess, voice featherlight, watching him. “I should’ve done it years ago.”

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t move—but you feel the shift in him like a wave against your skin. The taut pull in his shoulders. The way his hand tightens in the mattress. The way his breath fans across your cheek, faster now.

You stretch your fingers toward his chest—just barely grazing the hem of his shirt.

“And you let me pretend I didn’t know,” you add. “You let me pretend it didn’t mean anything.”

“I had to,” he grits out.

“Why?”

His eyes finally meet yours again, blazing. “Because if I didn’t… I was gonna do this.”

You don’t have time to ask.

He crashes his mouth to yours.

It’s not soft.

It’s not shy.

It’s him breaking.

It’s every night he held back, every second he touched you like it didn’t kill him, every single “mi cielo” he whispered like a prayer, coming undone all at once.

You gasp—just for a second—but his hand comes to the back of your head, angling you deeper, and you feel his entire body shudder when your lips part for him.

He kisses like he’s been starving for it.

Like he doesn’t know if you’ll let him again.

Like the second he lets you go, it’ll all disappear.

You’re not letting go.

Your hands fist in his shirt, tugging him closer, wrapping him around you like something you’ve always known but never let yourself feel.

He groans—actually groans—when you tug, and the sound is low and aching and hungry.

The mattress shifts under his weight as he settles more firmly between your legs, one hand braced beside your head, the other sliding under your back, flattening you against him like he can’t stand the inches between you anymore.

When he pulls back, barely, lips kiss-bitten and breath hot against your cheek, you chase him without thinking.

“I’m not pretending anymore,” you whisper.

His forehead drops to yours. “Don’t,” he rasps.

You reach up, curling your fingers into his hair. “Say it again.”

He swallows. “Say what?”

You smile, breathless. “You know.”

His lips brush yours.

“Mi cielo,” he murmurs, reverent. “You’re mine.”

You nod, eyes fluttering shut. “Yours.”

His body sags against you for just a moment—like relief, like finally—and then he kisses you again, slower this time, deeper, hand sliding to your hip and holding tight like he can’t believe you’re real.

And maybe you can’t either.

Because nothing’s ever felt more right.

The next kiss melts.

Where the first was a dam breaking—wild, desperate, years of pressure finally loosed—this one is molten. Slow. Controlled. Like he wants to memorize your mouth, not just crash into it.

Joaquin’s hand stays firm on your hip, anchoring you beneath him, thumb slipping under your shirt to brush against bare skin. His touch is reverent. Careful. But his mouth tells a different story.

Your breath hitches when his tongue traces yours, gentle but hungry, and his hand slides—up, over the curve of your waist, fingers skating along the side of your ribcage like he’s drawing you from memory.

Your thighs tighten around his hips, just to see what he’ll do.

He groans. Loudly.

You slap a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. “Joaquin!”

He licks your palm.

“Ew— you menace—”

“You love it,” he murmurs, grinning beneath your hand.

You shove him lightly, laughing into the crook of his neck. “If anyone hears us, I swear to God—”

“Let ‘em.” He nuzzles your jaw, voice warm, teasing. “Maybe it’ll shut John up for once.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh my God, you are jealous.”

He lifts his head, gaze sharp but smiling. “He flirts like a man who has no idea what to do with a woman like you.”

“And you do?”

He smirks. “Baby, I study.”

You blink, trying not to look flustered—and failing. “That supposed to impress me?”

“Is it working?”

You purse your lips. “You tell me, expert. You’ve had all those dates. What was it—one girl a week?”

The smirk fades, just a bit. Enough to feel like truth.

“Most of those?” he says, eyes softer now. “Didn’t mean shit. One drink. One dinner. Half of ‘em weren’t even real dates.”

You blink. “What does that mean?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “They were practice. So I didn’t embarrass myself when it was finally you.”

You go still.

“You were never just a best friend,” he says, voice low and honest now. “I just… didn’t know if I could be good enough.”

Your heart stumbles.

You reach for him slowly, fingers curling into his shirt. “You’re such an idiot.”

His brow lifts.

You tug him closer. “But you’re my idiot.”

He laughs—bright and quiet and disarmed—then kisses you again. It starts sweet, then deepens. His hand finds the curve of your waist under your shirt, thumb dragging warm and possessive across your skin.

You squirm, breathing uneven. “God, you’re not gonna be quiet, are you.”

“I’ll try,” he says, already sounding far too proud. “No promises.”

You snort. “You’re gonna get us killed.”

He grins against your mouth. “Worth it.”

You gasp when his hand cups you through your panties, heat blooming through your hips.

“Oh fuck,” he breathes. “You’re soaked.”

You swat his chest. “Volume, Torres.”

He lowers his voice—barely. “This isn’t expert technique, okay? This is pure motivation.”

“You’re such a dork.”

“I’m a dork who’s gonna make you come so hard you forget John’s name.”

You choke on a laugh. “That a promise?”

“Bet your life on it, mi cielo.”

Your hips roll into his hand instinctively. Joaquin’s mouth falls open.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “You feel like sin.”

You bite your lip. “Didn’t take you for the poetic type.”

“Only for you,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You arch up into him. “Then hurry up.”

He does.

Your skin is warm silk under his hands, flushed and dewy with heat, and your thighs tremble around his hips every time his fingers drag slow and deliberate between them. His palm cradles you through damp fabric, reverent, then greedy, thumb brushing upward with just enough pressure to make your spine arch.

And then you moan—a soft, ruined little sound that punches the air right out of his lungs—and he groans right back, louder than he means to.

You slap a hand over his mouth again, hissing, “Quiet, Torres—God—”

But you’re smiling.

Your cheeks are pink. Your lips are kiss-swollen. Your eyes, heavy and glassy, flick up to meet his with something between amusement and desperation—and it fucking undoes him.

You look wrecked already, and he’s barely started.

So he nods against your hand, lips brushing your palm. Quiet. He can do quiet. Maybe. If you stop making those sounds.

He dips his head, mouth tracing the curve of your jaw, your throat, your collarbone—sucking gently just under the edge of your shirt, where he knows no one else will see. His hand, meanwhile, tugs your panties gently aside and slides between your legs.

And fuck—

He nearly chokes on his breath. You’re wet, messy, already pulsing around nothing. You grind down on his fingers like your body’s been waiting for his for years.

Maybe it has.

He kisses the base of your throat and breathes it there—soft and hungry, “Is that good, baby?”

You gasp, nodding, your fingers curling in his hair. Your hips roll against his hand, greedy for more friction, and he gives it to you—circling your clit slow and patient, learning every flicker of breath that hitches in your chest.

“Can I give you more?” he whispers against your skin, teeth grazing gently.

You nod again, but it’s not enough for him. Not tonight. Not after John Walker’s voice in your ear, not after that smug fucking grin across the room, like Joaquin hadn’t already memorized every inch of you in his dreams.

He leans in, eyes locked on yours, voice low and raw.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “Say it’s mine.”

You exhale, shaky. “It’s yours.”

He smiles, crooked and shattered.

“Then let me make it better,” he whispers, and sinks two fingers inside you.

You clutch his shirt like it’s the only thing tethering you to earth, eyes flying wide, lips parting in a stunned, breathless moan—and fuck, he has to close his eyes for a second just to survive it.

You’re so warm. So tight. Your walls flutter around him, greedy and sweet, and he’s barely moving before you’re already gasping his name.

He curls his fingers, just a little, just enough, and watches your head tip back against the pillow.

His other hand slides beneath your shirt again, splaying across your ribs like he can hold you together, like he needs to feel every stuttering breath you take while he pulls you closer to the edge.

His thumb circles your clit—gentle, practiced, focused—and he watches the flush creep down your chest, your thighs squeezing around his wrist.

And then your hand shoots up and clamps over his mouth again—tight.

“Joaquin,” you whisper, panicked and grinning. “Shut the fuck up.”

Because he’s moaning. Loud. He doesn’t even realize it.

He nods into your palm again, lips dragging across your skin.

And then you come—sharp, breathless, sudden. You buck into his hand with a stifled cry, thighs shaking, lips parted in perfect silence, eyes fluttering open to look at him like he just gave you every fucking star in the sky.

He bites his lip so hard he tastes blood.

He should stop. Let you breathe. Let you come down.

But he doesn’t.

He kisses you—messy, open-mouthed, reverent. His hand doesn’t leave you, not yet. He keeps it there, gentle and slow, working you through it.

When he pulls back, your cheeks are flushed, your lips glossy, and your breath still unsteady.

He kisses the corner of your mouth and murmurs, “You still remember his name?”

Your eyes flick up to his, dazed and dreamy.

“Who?”

He grins, slow and triumphant.

“That’s what I thought.”

And then he kisses you again. Like he’s starving. Like he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment.

Like now that he’s had you once—he’s never letting go.

You feel him hard beneath you when he kisses you—every desperate inch of him pressed against your thigh. Still clothed. Still waiting. Still holding back.

“Take it off,” you whisper against his mouth, tugging at the waistband of his sweats. “I want to see you.”

He groans, a shaky, broken sound as he lifts his hips to help you. You drag the fabric down and his cock springs free—thick, flushed, leaking at the tip.

And God. He’s gorgeous. All of him.

You pause, breath catching.

His hands grip your hips instantly, like he needs the grounding. “Don’t look at me like that,” he says, voice hoarse.

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve already decided to ruin me.”

You smile, slow and unhurried, sliding your panties off and tossing them somewhere near the foot of the bed.

“Maybe I have.”

And then you straddle him.

His breath leaves him in a sharp exhale—hands tightening on your thighs as you sink down into his lap, grinding against the length of him without letting him in just yet. He’s achingly hard and already twitching, but he doesn’t rush. He watches you with something like awe, like reverence, like he still can’t believe this is real.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, throat tight.

You reach down and line him up, sliding his tip through the slick between your thighs.

“You planning on asking me again,” you murmur, “every time I move?”

“Maybe,” he breathes. “Wanna be sure. Wanna make it good for you.”

You tilt your head, smiling as you start to sink down slowly.

“You are.”

And fuck.

You both feel it.

You stretch around him inch by inch, warm and tight and soaking wet. He’s thick, and the pressure is perfect—just enough to make you gasp and him curse under his breath.

His hands fly to your waist, not pushing, just holding, like he needs the contact to survive this.

You ease down until he’s fully seated inside you, his cock buried deep, his head tipping back against the pillow.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re so fucking tight.”

You grin, breathless. “You sound surprised.”

He cracks an eye open, dazed and dazzled. “I’m not. I just—fuck—I’m trying not to embarrass myself.”

You lean forward, palms braced on his chest, rolling your hips once.

His mouth drops open. His hands twitch against your skin.

“Quiet,” you tease, grinning. “Thought you were gonna be good.”

“I’m trying,” he gasps, voice breaking, “but baby, you feel like heaven.”

You ride him slow at first, rocking your hips in a steady rhythm, teasing, dragging yourself over him like you’ve got all the time in the world. His cock stretches you open so good, and he fills you deep, every shift sending sparks up your spine.

“Fuck,” he pants, fingers splaying across your thighs, up your waist, gripping your ass. “Look at you. You’re mine.”

You grind down harder. “Then show me.”

He bucks up once, deep and sharp, and you bite your lip to muffle the sound. You feel him throb inside you when you do.

“You like that?” he whispers, eyes devouring you. “You like riding your jealous little best friend? Making me lose my mind?”

You nod, bracing on his chest as you bounce a little faster now, the slick sound of skin on skin rising in the quiet room.

He catches one of your nipples in his mouth, sucking softly through your shirt, and you whimper.

“Joaquin—fuck—”

“Say it again,” he growls, looking up at you, pupils blown. “Say my name.”

You do.

Over and over.

And every time you do—every time you murmur his name, all breathy and ruined and just for him—Joaquin moans like it’s the first time. Like it’s the only name you’ve ever said in bed. Like it’s the only one he wants to hear ever again.

His mouth drops open, panting raggedly, eyes locked on where your bodies are joined. His hands slip lower, fingers digging into the plush curve of your ass, gripping like he’s anchoring himself to reality.

“That’s it,” he gasps, voice wrecked, hips bucking helplessly. “That’s my girl.”

You grind harder at the praise—can’t help it—your whole body shivering at the sound of it.

The drag of your clit against the hard ridge of his pelvis is like lighting a fuse—your sensitive skin catching on every pass, slick and swollen and so close. The coarser patch of his pubes teases just enough to make you twitch and whimper, dizzy from the friction. Every rock of your hips sends a jolt up your spine, everything molten and messy where you meet.

You’re barely riding him anymore—you’re grinding, angling your hips to chase the pressure, the stretch, the burn. Your thighs ache from the effort, but he’s holding you so tight, helping you move, forcing you down when your legs start to shake.

His cock is thick inside you, hitting just right, filling you too well, making everything feel too much and not enough at once.

You cry out before you can stop it.

Joaquin groans—deep and wrecked, no filter, no shame—and it rumbles up through his chest like he’s trying to fuck the sound into you.

Your hand flies to his mouth, clamping down hard.

“Shh—Joaquin, quiet,” you hiss, trying not to laugh, trying not to come just from the sound of him losing his mind under you.

But he doesn’t listen.

Or maybe he can’t.

He’s beaming under your palm—eyes glazed, lashes fluttering, cheeks flushed, grinning like a man possessed. His hips stutter, his body jerks, and it’s all he can do to keep from flipping you over and taking it back—taking everything.

“Jesus,” you whisper, biting your lip, your voice shaking. “You’re not helping.”

And then—God help you—he licks your palm again. You squeal, shocked and breathless, almost collapsing forward from the jolt of it.

“Fucking menace—” you hiss, trying to yank your hand away.

He catches your wrist midair and groans—not just from the motion, but from the full-body quake that rolls through you when your clit catches just right again on his pelvis. Your body jolts, thighs tightening, breath punching out of you.

That’s when you do it.

Without thinking—just acting on instinct and need and the burning desire to silence him—you press your hand to his throat.

Not hard. Just enough to feel it.

His breath hitches violently, hips freezing under you for half a second.

Then his entire body shudders.

His eyes fly open, wide and stunned—and then flutter, lashes trembling as his lips part on a soft, broken sound you’ve never heard before. A choked moan. A plea. A prayer.

You can feel his pulse under your palm—hammering. Wild.

“Oh, fuck,” he gasps, voice low and cracked and strangled with how good it feels.

You stare down at him, lips parted. His pupils are blown, mouth slack, cock twitching inside you. You tighten your grip—barely—and he bucks up again, losing the rhythm completely, chasing friction and contact like he’s gone feral.

“You like that?” you whisper, not even smug—just amazed.

He nods helplessly. Jaw slack. Hands gripping your hips so tight you know you’ll feel it tomorrow.

“God,” you murmur, rolling your hips just the way he likes, dragging your clit against his pubic bone again. “You’re such a fucking mess.”

He whines.

And it goes straight to your core—tightening everything, making you flutter around him in a way that has him shaking.

“Baby,” he gasps, voice high and reverent. “*Please—you gotta slow down or I’m gonna—”

“You’re gonna what?” you ask, tilting your head, fingers still wrapped around his throat. “Come already? Just from me on top?”

His hips jerk violently. A low growl escapes him, bitten off by your hand.

“God, you are so easy,” you taunt, voice trembling with arousal. “What happened to all those dates, huh? Thought you were the expert.” You’re half delirious. You know he said that they meant nothing and went no where— but you can’t help the little burn you feel when you recall his words.

His head rolls back on the pillow, teeth clenched, the flush on his chest spreading up to his ears. “Mi cielo I told you, most of those weren’t shit,” he pants, every word shaking. “They didn’t mean anything.”

You ride him harder at that—pushed by jealousy, by heat, by the image of those women never getting this.

You feel him twitch inside you again, too far gone now, body strung so tight he can barely speak.

“Maybe they didn’t. But me?” you whisper, leaning in close, lips grazing his jaw. “You’ll remember me.”

He nods wildly, clutching you like he’s about to fall apart. “Always,” he whispers, voice like gravel. “Always, mi cielo.”

And when he says it—that name—your body shudders, your orgasm building sharp and deep and fast.

You don’t even warn him this time.

You ride it out like you own him—head thrown back, thighs trembling, hips stuttering as you crash through it—grinding down until the slick squeeze of you has Joaquin snarling against your wrist, his whole body going tense beneath you.

He thrusts up once—twice—and then comes hard inside you, hips jerking, cock pulsing thick and hot and endless.

You’re still clinging to his throat when it hits him.

And he loves it.

His voice cracks on your name, muffled and reverent. Like it’s all he knows how to say.

Like it’s the only thing he’s ever wanted to say.

The room smells like sweat and sex and summer heat. Sheets half-twisted, one pillow missing, Joaquin’s arm slung across your lower back like a deadweight—possessive, warm, unmoving. You’ve both been quiet for a while. Not asleep. Just breathing each other in.

His fingers trace slow circles on your hip.

You shift against him, dragging your nose along the line of his throat, and he hums low in his chest, tilting his head to make room for your kiss. His skin is flushed and salt-warm, still damp from earlier, from you. You press your lips there anyway, slow and soft and unhurried.

“…We’re so fucked,” you murmur against his skin.

Joaquin chuckles, raspy and lazy. “Mmm. Because of the six orgasms or the six teammates who definitely heard them?”

You groan, burying your face against his neck. “All of the above.”

His laugh rumbles against your cheek. “You know Bucky’s gonna make a face. Ava and Yelena’ll be unbearable.”

“And Bob…” you sigh, then grin. “Bob might write us a poem.”

Joaquin snorts. “John’s gonna cry.”

You bark a laugh into his chest, muffled and breathless, because god, you hope so.

But the humor fades slower this time—melts into something quieter. Something that hums under your skin when he shifts and pulls you closer, tucking your leg around his waist, holding you like it’s always been this way. Like it should’ve happened years ago.

You blink up at him in the dark. His eyes are already on you.

“You good?” he murmurs, voice low and rough, thumb brushing the line of your ribs like he’s still not convinced this is real.

You nod. “Yeah. You?”

He leans in, kisses your forehead like it’s instinct. “Never better.”

It’s soft. Too soft for how loud the two of you were an hour ago. For how much teasing you’re both about to endure. For how unhinged and messy and absolutely obvious you’ve made it.

But none of that matters. Not right now. Not with your bare thigh hooked over his hip and your body sore in all the right places and his heartbeat slow and steady against your cheek.

“…Might need to start looking for a new place,” he says after a beat, feigning casual.

You glance up, brow lifted. “Oh yeah?”

He nods, eyes twinkling. “One bedroom. Less temptation to keep up the whole ‘we’re just friends’ bit.”

You smirk. “You gonna pay my half?”

He grins, all teeth. “Nope. Just gonna marry you.”

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t even blink.

“Joaquin—”

“Eventually,” he adds, grinning softer now. “After we recover. After we survive whatever lecture Sam’s planning. After you let me do this again. Like… at least fifty more times.”

You exhale a breathy laugh, heart aching.

Then you kiss him again—slow, grateful, wrecked and whole.

Because yeah.

You’re completely and totally fucked.

But not in a way you’d change for anything.

132 notes · View notes

nolita-fairytale · 2 months ago

Text

de thank you for your service 🫡

happy birthday ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: joaquín forgets your birthday while he's away on mission, so he flies home to beg for your forgiveness (friends to lovers)

notes: i'm not going to say this sucks (even though i don't love it) because it is a miracle it's even written! i've struggled so much these past two weeks, after the events of everything, and i'm so, so happy to be able to post again (even if i'm kind of nervous about it)! also i'm sorry if the smut gets a bit repetitive... i really struggled with it, and i ran out of creative ways to describe sex... but anyway! as always, please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing, some angst, spiralling thoughts (?), italics, a lot of crying, potentially incorrect time zone math (?), begging, (spanish) pet names, SMUT (making out, dirty talk, fingering, shower sex (ish), f oral receiving, unprotected p in v) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 12295

You don’t wake up to your alarm—you wake up before it. The sun is barely creeping over the horizon, but your body is too wired to fall back asleep. So you throw the covers off and pull on your gym gear, hoping to burn off some of the restless energy.

You spend an hour at the gym with your phone propped in front of you—resting in the treadmill’s cup holder while you run, balanced on your thigh during leg presses, leaning against a medicine ball while you stretch. Messages trickle in throughout your workout. Not hundreds, but enough to make you smile. Family, friends, a couple of people from work.

Happy Birthday!

Hope you get spoilt rotten today!

Best wishes!

You’re not the type to go around announcing your birthday all month, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like a little attention on the day. It makes you feel loved. Reminds you that people still care—still think about you. And it gives you a reason to talk to family and friends, to feel just a little bit special.

It’s always nice to feel important—especially to those who mean the most to you.

On your way out of the gym, you swipe your access key at the gates and head for the exit.

“Happy birthday!” the woman behind the front desk calls out.

You almost do a double take, pausing mid-step toward the doors.

She laughs softly. “It pops up on our computer when you swipe your access key.”

“Oh,” you say, laughing too. “That makes sense. Thanks.”

She smiles. “Have a lovely day.”

You nod, flashing her an appreciative smile before slipping out the doors.

Even a simple interaction with a woman you’re pretty sure you’ve never spoken to before leaves you feeling warm. Some years, your birthday just feels good—and this year is one of those.

You head home, shower, and change into something soft and comfortable. You don’t always take your birthday off work, but this year you did. You’ve got big plans for rotting on the couch, baking yourself a cake, and eventually facetiming Joaquín—the only person you’re really waiting to hear from today.

You moved to D.C. with him not long after Sam officially made Joaquín the Falcon—not into the same apartment, but close. He helped you land a decent-paying job in a lower-level government office and, over time, started looping you in on all things Captain America.

You’ve been best friends since freshman year of high school... and in love with him since junior year—when the hormones kicked in and you started wishing your vibrator was him instead.

The years between high school and moving to D.C. sucked whenever he was deployed—but the second he came home, everything felt right again. You tried dating, tried moving on—but nothing ever really worked out, and eventually, you accepted your fate. You made peace with the fact that you were doomed to live out your days as a semi-tragic spinster hopelessly in love with her best friend.

It’s honestly not as depressing as it sounds, because having Joaquín in your life, in any capacity, has always been enough. You love him regardless. He doesn’t need to know just how much—only that you’re always here for him.

And the rhythm you’ve found together is perfect. There’s no point risking it just because he happens to be the single most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

You’re perfectly content with fantasising about him in the dark, missing him when he’s off on missions, and enjoying your perfectly platonic Friday night 'date nights' whenever he’s got time between Falcon duties.

You’re happy. Truly.

Perfectly satisfied with the life you’re living—if you ignore the way your chest aches whenever you think about it a little too hard.

By one p.m., your cake is in the oven, the sun is bathing your studio apartment in warm golden hues, and you’re curled up on the couch watching one of your favourite 90s romcoms. It might seem a little sad to someone on the outside, but honestly, you couldn’t be happier.

Moving to D.C. meant leaving most of your family and friends behind, but being near Joaquín has meant you’ve never really been lonely—unless he’s off on missions, of course. And even then, he texts you, calls you, checks in—even if he’s halfway across the world in a completely different time zone.

This time, he’s in Hawaii. You’re not exactly sure where, but you know he’s about six hours behind. Which means…

You grab your phone off the couch beside you and check your notifications. There are a couple more messages from extended family, a few happy birthday promotional emails, and a single response from a friend you replied to earlier.

Huh. Weird.

It’d be at least seven a.m. for him by now—he should definitely be awake.

Maybe he’s just got stuff to deal with. Maybe he’s getting himself sorted for the day before he calls or messages. You can understand that—sometimes you just need a shower or a coffee before facing the world.

You drop your phone back on the couch, face down, and try to will your pulse to settle.

It’s fine. There’s no need to be dramatic.

It’s Joaquín.

You’ll hear from him soon.

Once the movie finishes, you start another—one you often watch when you need a little comfort. You keep yourself busy by decorating your cake, planning what you’ll order for dinner, and doing a little online shopping you’ve decided you’re absolutely entitled to today.

By the time that movie ends, you let yourself check your phone again. And—

Nothing.

Okay. Very weird.

It’s at least nine a.m. in Hawaii. He usually messages you by now.

You scroll back and reread the first message from yesterday.

12:02PM: Good morning, cariño! How did you sleep? I miss your face and I miss my bed. I’m convinced this motel bed is filled with nails.

That would have been six a.m. for him. A little early—but not unusual for him to text at that time. Still, it doesn’t mean he’s forgotten. He’s probably just busy. Maybe he slept in and had to rush around this morning. You wouldn’t put it past him.

For him, the day is still young. And he’s on a mission.

There’s no need to cry. Pull it together.

You blink quickly, swallow the lump in your throat, and toss your phone aside again.

For the next couple of hours, you do everything you can not to think about Joaquín. You do a face mask, a hair mask, take an extra-long shower, spend way too long moisturising every inch of your body, and then sit down to paint your nails. You smudge them several times and start over with a new colour—twice—before giving up entirely.

Then you decide to make yourself some tea, cut a piece of cake, and settle on the couch for yet another movie.

You check your phone a couple of times, unable to stop yourself now, and your stomach sinks lower with every disappointing flash of your lock screen.

Now you’re starting to panic.

Is he hurt? Missing? Bleeding out in some alley while you’re sitting here waiting for a text?

Could he have been kidnapped? Detained somewhere? Or worse—

No. You can’t think like that. This is Joaquín you’re talking about. He’s the Falcon. Ex-military. Strong. Capable. And this mission isn’t even dangerous—just recon and a little training for some of Sam’s new field operatives.

Joaquín is fine. He’s just busy.

Maybe he’s out in the field today and doesn’t have reception.

There are a million possible explanations for his lack of communication—and none of them include him being dead.

But still, you feel sick. It’s past six p.m. now, which means just after noon for him. It’s unusual not to hear from him by now, but maybe he’s just waiting until he can call you.

Yeah. That’s probably it.

He’s going to call later, and he wants to save everything he has to say for then.

You take a deep breath and try to focus on ordering dinner. You pick your favourite restaurant, order more food than you usually would, and hit submit.

Then you turn your attention back to the TV and pick a movie with an actor in it that kind of reminds you of Joaquín—a small slice of comfort that makes you feel just a little less alone. On the one day you were sure you wouldn’t feel as lonely as you have all week while he’s been away... somehow, you feel worse than ever.

After dinner, a couple of phone calls from family, and a glass of wine, the tears come.

You try to hold them back, but it’s no use.

You’re halfway through what feels like your twentieth movie of the day when you suddenly break. One minute you’re fine—numb, maybe—and the next, you’re sobbing. Full-body, can’t-catch-your-breath crying. Your chest is tight. Your head aches. Your breathing turns shallow and quick until your toes go numb, but none of it matters.

Because right now? You’re absolutely wrecked.

You don’t know whether to be angry or worried. You haven’t heard from Sam either—not that you expected to—but his silence only makes the panic worse. Joaquín could be hurt. He could be caught up in something. But deep down, one explanation cuts sharper than all the rest.

He just forgot.

You know it happens. You know he’s a superhero with bigger things to worry about than your goddamn birthday, but still—it hurts.

Because you would never forget his. Not even if you were on the other side of the planet. Not even if you were in another time zone, or fighting for your life. You would still find the time to send a text. Just something simple.

‘Happy birthday! Sorry I’m super busy today, but I’ll call you later. Love you!’

How hard is that? Just a quick message. Twenty seconds. One tap.

It’s not hard at all—and that’s what guts you the most.

Because if he really cared—if he cared about you the way you care about him—he would have done something by now. Anything. And maybe you’re being dramatic. Maybe you’re blowing it out of proportion, making the situation worse than it really is. But maybe you’re not.

Because this isn’t just silence. It’s a reminder. A reminder that you love him more. That you care more. That you’ve always been the one waiting, hoping, holding out for something he was never going to give.

You’ve always known you love him differently—in a way he doesn’t reciprocate—but you’ve always believed that you mattered to him. That he still loved you in his own way. That you were still important.

But apparently not.

Apparently, you don’t even make the list today—of all days.

And that’s why you’re sobbing into your couch cushion—shoulders shaking, face hot, heart splintering under the weight of it all—feeling like you should just pack up your whole apartment and move back home. Back to the people who at least care enough to send a goddamn birthday text.

It takes almost an hour for you to calm down enough to breathe properly—long, full breaths that actually get oxygen into your bloodstream. When you can finally feel your limbs again, you start to move. You turn off the TV, pack away the leftovers, and make your way to the bathroom.

You brush your teeth, wash your face, stare at your puffy, swollen eyes in the mirror, then head into your room and collapse into bed. You curl up beneath the covers and check your phone one last time.

And your heart nearly stops when you see his name on the screen.

You blink hard and rub your eyes to clear your vision, then tap on the message.

Hi, mi amor. Sorry I’ve been MIA today, I was training some of the new recruits for Sam and had to focus. I’m exhausted now. Want to call tomorrow night? I still miss your face.

You choke on your breath, your pulse thundering in your ears as the truth pulls at you like undertow, dragging you under before you can catch your breath.

Yeah. He forgot.

Tears rise again, quick and hot, spilling sideways onto your pillow as you stare at the message and wonder if you should even reply. You could send him a thumbs-up, or a simple k—but you’re not even sure he deserves that.

Then your phone buzzes with another message—this time from Sam.

Happy Birthday! Sorry I couldn’t message you earlier. I was stuck in meetings all day. I hope you had a great day, and I’m sorry for stealing your best friend, but I’m sure he’ll make it up to you when we get back. Only three more days. I promise not to extend it this time! xx – S

Normally, you’d laugh at the fact that Sam signs off all his texts, even though you have his number saved in your contacts—but not today. Today, it’s not funny.

With tear-blurred vision, you type out three red heart emojis and hit send—the only thing you can think of to reply with. Then you put your phone on Do Not Disturb, drop it face down on the bedside table, and cry yourself to sleep.

Your alarm wakes you up, and you turn it off without even glancing at the notifications on your screen. Every part of you wants to stay in bed, to disappear into the blankets and pretend the day doesn’t exist—but you force yourself upright and start moving through the motions of getting ready for work.

You still feel heavy—sad and a little hollow—but you know yourself well enough to understand that going into the office is better than wallowing in self-pity all day.

By nine a.m., you’re seated at your desk beneath the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, trying not to think about anything at all. Your email inbox isn’t too bad, which is a small mercy—because you truly don’t have it in you to do much today. In fact, you’re already planning to leave early, feigning a doctor’s appointment so you can crawl back into bed and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.

That’s the plan for the entire weekend, too. Even once Joaquín gets back. Even when he inevitably tries to see you—after you’ve ignored every call and text for the next few days. Whether he shows up at your apartment or, worse, your office, it doesn’t matter. You won’t be talking to him.

Still, a small and anxious part of you wonders if he’ll even try.

What if he doesn’t? What if your silence is all he needs to walk away? Maybe this is easier for him. Maybe he’s relieved. Maybe this was the plan all along—to forget your birthday, to push you away, to finally cut the tie without having to say the words.

What if he asked Sam to schedule the mission on purpose? What if it was deliberate, calculated, something he’s been building toward for months—just waiting for a clean excuse to let you go?

The thoughts hit you hard and fast, spiralling tight in your chest until it feels like you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but sit there beneath the buzz of the lights, nausea churning in your empty stomach as you try to hold yourself together.

“Hey.”

Your manager’s voice startles you, and your eyes snap up to where she’s standing beside your desk.

“You alright, hon? You look ill.”

She’s always been kind—warm in her own way, if a little distant—and you’ve never minded that management style. You like being trusted to work independently.

You clear your throat. “Yeah—um—well, actually, not really. I’m feeling a bit nauseous.”

Her brows pinch together, and she leans in slightly. “Go home if you need to.”

You take a deep breath and offer her a watery smile, blinking back the sting of fresh tears. “I might just clear some emails and head home in a couple of hours. Is that alright?”

She nods. “Of course. Just let me know when you’re heading out.”

“I will. Thank you.”

She gives you a small, thoughtful smile, her dark eyes lingering for a moment—quietly curious—but she doesn’t press.

Once she walks away, you turn back to your screen and try to focus. You manage to lose yourself in the rhythm of work, the comfort of something familiar. One hour turns into two, then three, and before you know it, four hours have passed. You’re numb now—too empty to feel anything—but your empty inbox quickly invites back the swirling thoughts from before, and your eyes stray toward your untouched phone. The little device you’ve been ignoring since last night. Still on Do Not Disturb. Still sitting lifeless on your desk, exactly where you put it when you arrived this morning.

You take a deep breath and reach for it, feeling how unusually cool it is beneath your fingertips. Your heart pounds in your throat as you tap the screen and watch it light up. You flick off Do Not Disturb and slowly start scrolling through the notifications.

There are seven missed calls from Joaquín—some rapid-fire earlier this morning, the rest spaced further apart, and the last one only two minutes ago. Then there are his texts, too many to count, stacking one after another as you open the thread and begin to scroll.

Shit. I messed up. I’m so sorry. Please pick up, or call me back. I’m so sorry, cariño.

I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean to forget. I don’t have an excuse, but I need to talk to you. Please.

I don’t blame you for being angry, but I need you to answer me, cariño.

Please answer. Just let me know you’re okay.

I need to know you’re okay. Just one reply, please.

I can fix this, okay? I can make it up to you. I promise.

I need you to say something. I’m going insane over here.

I don’t blame you if you hate me, but I swear I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.

Baby. Please.

You read until your vision is too blurred by tears to make out the words. Then your phone starts buzzing in your hand, and you flinch. Sam’s name flashes on the screen—but you know it’s Joaquín.

You quickly decline the call, wipe the tears off your cheeks, and begin packing up your desk. Thankfully, the office isn’t too busy today, and no one seems to notice your breakdown—or if they do, they don’t seem to care.

By the time you’re ready to leave, your manager is still in a meeting, so you send her a quick text to let her know you’re heading home. Then you all but fall into the elevator and sob into your hands, trying to pull yourself together before you reach the ground floor.

You walk across the lobby with your head down, doing everything you can to avoid drawing attention.

Once outside, you hail a cab—desperate to get home as fast as possible—and cry quietly in the backseat while the driver glances curiously at you in the rearview mirror.

When you finally stumble into your apartment, there are two more missed calls and three new texts—one of them from Sam, asking if you’re okay. You don’t know if it’s really him or if Joaquín is using his phone still. Either way, you don’t care. You’re not replying.

Still crying, still gasping for a proper breath, you strip out of your work clothes, wash the makeup off your face, and collapse into bed. Then you cry harder. You sob. You spend the next hour—maybe more—howling into your pillow like a newly widowed wife.

You feel ridiculous, of course, but you can’t help it. Your heart hurts. Everything hurts. He seems sorry—he seems genuinely distressed—but you still can’t shake that awful weight from yesterday. The realisation that the person you love most in the world doesn’t love you back. Not the way you love him.

Maybe that’s why it hurts so much. Because deep down, you were still holding out hope—despite all the times you told yourself you’d made peace with it. Despite swearing up and down that you were happy just being his friend.

Maybe the truth is… you’re not.

You’re not happy. Or satisfied. Or content at all.

You’re lonely and aching and hopelessly in love with a man who has everything he needs without you. And that’s what guts you most. Because you know—deep in your chest, in the hollowed-out place where his absence lives—that Joaquín is okay without you.

But you without him? You’re unravelling. You’re not okay. You’re falling apart at the seams and he doesn’t even know it. You haven’t even truly lost him—not yet—but you feel like you have. And maybe you will. Because you don’t know if you can keep being his friend, not after this. Not now that you’ve seen the truth so clearly.

That you’ll never mean as much to him as he means to you.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

And you don’t wake up until midnight, when the world outside is dark and quiet and your body aches from the way you’ve been lying for hours—tangled in blankets, face swollen, head pounding from crying and dehydration. You feel dull all over. Empty. Like your emotions are swinging on a pendulum that just won’t stop—pulling you from the depths of heartbreak to a hollow, numb nothingness that makes your skin itch and your chest feel too tight.

You hate this. You hate how small you feel, and the fact that you still want him. Still want to hear his voice, feel his arms around you, have him whisper that everything’s going to be okay. That it was just an accident. That it didn’t mean anything.

But you can’t have that. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

So instead, you drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, hoping that a hot shower might help ease the ache in your limbs and loosen whatever vice is still wrapped around your chest.

After showering, brushing your teeth, and drinking at least a litre of water, you collapse onto the couch and pull out your phone. You take a deep breath and tap the screen, watching it light up with a ridiculous number of new missed calls and texts.

It’s chaos.

Please, please answer me, cariño. I’m begging you.

I know I messed up. I’m so sorry. I’m trying to fix it.

I’m getting a flight back tonight.

Your breath catches when you read that, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Sam is trying to hook me up. I’m not doing a layover, I’m coming straight home.

You don’t have to forgive me, but please hear me out. I know I’m an idiot, but I can’t lose you.

Your chest rises and falls too fast, breath coming in shallow gasps as you keep reading.

I think I have something. I’ll be home when you wake up tomorrow.

I hate how far away I am from you.

Your chest aches. Fresh tears sting your eyes.

Flight booked. I’m leaving soon. I love you so much and I can’t wait to see you.

I’m getting on the plane now. See you soon, baby.

Your hands are shaking. Your whole body feels tingly—nauseous, anxious, strung-out. You’ve never had such a physical reaction to anything in your life, but right now? You might actually throw up.

Because as much as you want to see him… you also really, really don’t. You know it’ll hurt too much. You don’t even know what you could possibly say.

With trembling fingers, you type the only thing you can think of—a weak attempt to stop him before he gets to you.

Don’t. I need space.

You don’t wait to see if he reads it. You don’t wait to regret it. You just power the phone off entirely and shove it beneath the couch cushions like that will somehow bury everything you’re feeling along with it.

Then you get up and start pacing. Back and forth. Over and over. Breathing hard. Thinking too fast.

What are you supposed to do when he shows up? What the hell are you supposed to say?

Could you ignore him? Pretend not to be home? Would he knock until the neighbours complained? Would he wait outside all day, refusing to leave until you answered?

God. You feel sick all over again.

And the worst part? You only have nine hours before he lands.

Nine hours to somehow piece yourself back together—before he walks through your door and tears you apart all over again.

You go back to bed at two a.m., but you can't sleep. You toss and turn, checking your phone for another message—just like yesterday, waiting for that birthday text that never arrived—but now for something else. Something worse. Something real. But of course, there’s nothing. He’s on a goddamn plane. On his way home. And in about seven hours, he’ll probably be standing at your front door.

By three a.m., you give up entirely. You throw the covers off, change into your gym clothes, make your bed with precision, and then start deep cleaning your apartment. All four hundred square feet of it—already spotless, already organised—because what else are you supposed to do?

You empty every cabinet, clear every shelf, strip the couch cushions, and move every piece of furniture. You dust, polish, vacuum, and mop until sunlight begins creeping through the curtains and your muscles throb from overuse. And when everything is finally back in place—looking exactly the same as it did before, just a little shinier—you’re exhausted.

So you drag yourself into the bathroom, peel off your sweaty clothes, step into the shower, and stand beneath the hot spray for far longer than necessary. You don’t even hear your phone ring while you’re in there, too focused on scrubbing every inch of your body, as if you can wash away the anxiety prickling beneath your skin.

When you finally step out, you dry yourself off, change into an oversized old shirt and a pair of comfortable panties, and text your manager to let her know you’re taking the rest of the week off. Then you collapse onto the couch and reach for the remote.

You’re just about to click on Netflix when—

Knock, knock, knock.

You freeze. Your breath catches, your fingers still on the remote, hands starting to tremble.

Then a few seconds later—

Knock, knock, knock.

“Cariño, it’s me.”

His voice is muffled but unmistakable—low, thick, and painfully familiar.

“Please open up.”

Tears sting your eyes. Your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Please, baby,” he says, voice breaking. “I know I fucked up, but I need to talk to you.”

For a second, it almost sounds like he could be your boyfriend—pleading with you after a stupid fight. Maybe he stayed out too late. Maybe you saw him with his arms around another girl.

But he’s not your boyfriend.

He never was. Never will be.

“I—” he hesitates, then clears his throat. “I have a key, but I don’t want to use it. I want you to let me in.”

Your stomach drops.

Fuck.

You forgot about the spare key—the one you gave him when you first moved in.

You take a deep breath and push off the couch, your legs unsteady beneath you as you cross the floor.

Either way, he’s getting in. But maybe—just maybe—you can stop him before he steps inside. If you can keep your voice steady. If you can make him believe you mean it.

You blink a few times—fighting back tears—and take a deep breath.

Then open the door.

Joaquín is standing there in the hallway—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted like he’s just forgotten how to speak. His curls are messy, flattened on one side like he tried—and failed—to nap on the plane. He looks exhausted. Worn thin. But the worst part is the look in his eyes. That soft, aching guilt that tells you he knows exactly how badly he hurt you.

“What?” you say, surprised by the steadiness of your own voice.

He blinks, clearly taken aback by your icy exterior. “Hey, I—I’m sorry, I—”

“I get it,” you cut in. “You’re sorry. I got all the messages. Is that it?”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again—swallowing hard. “I didn’t mean to forget—”

“But you did.” You hold his gaze, arms crossing over your chest like a shield. “You forgot me. Not a meeting. Not a dentist appointment. Me.”

His brows draw tight, hurt threading through his features. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you ask, voice steady—too calm. “It’s one day, Joaquín. One day in the whole year, and it didn’t even cross your mind.”

He steps forward, and you step back.

“I—I’ve never felt worse about anything,” he says, voice catching. “I’ve never hated myself like this.”

Your heart twists, but you don’t let it show. “Good.”

His eyes shine now—big, brown, and filled with unshed tears.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did,” you snap, a tear slipping down your cheek.

Fuck. You thought you were keeping it together.

“Baby,” he murmurs, stepping forward again.

“I’m not your baby, Joaquín.” There’s barely a few inches between you now, the zipper of his hoodie brushing your wrist where your arms are still crossed tight. “Stop calling me that.”

He looks down at you—not angry, just wrecked. So incredibly fucking sad. You’ve never seen him like this, and it’s finding every weak spot in your armour.

“How can I make it up to you?”

You scoff, tears still falling. “You can’t. You forgot. You did something I could never do to you, and—and you just proved what I’ve always known.”

His expression tightens. “Proved what?”

“That you don’t love me the way I love you,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. “That you don’t care as much. Because I could never forget your birthday. Not if I was in a different time zone, or—or trapped at the bottom of the ocean in a fucking submarine. I’d still find a way to talk to you. To tell you that I love you. To say happy birthday. But you—”

“I do love you,” he says, a tear tracking down his cheek. “I love you so much. And I don’t have an excuse, except that I’m a fucking idiot who forgot what day it was.”

You tip your head back and laugh—dry and bitter. “Yeah. Same shit, Joaquín. You forgot me.”

“No.” His voice cracks. “It’s not. You’re not just a date on a calendar. You’re—you’re everything. I think about you constantly. I talk to you in my head when I’m halfway across the world. I land in a new time zone and I want to tell you what the sky looked like when we touched down. I see something dumb and want to send it to you because I know you’d laugh. I—” He falters, breath shaking. “I’m in love with you. And I still forgot. What kind of person does that?”

Something in you breaks—a rib, a wall, your resolve—something.

You’ve been waiting to hear those words for years. Dreaming of them. Replaying fake versions in your head just to see how they might sound coming from his mouth.

But now that he’s actually said it—now that he’s standing in front of you, broken and trembling and saying he’s in love with you—your mind just blanks.

It doesn’t compute.

It hits you like a punch to the chest, and for a second, you genuinely forget how to breathe.

Because he can’t mean it. He just can’t.

If he did, he never would’ve forgotten. He never would’ve let you cry yourself to sleep or spiral or feel so completely fucking invisible on the one day of the year you’re supposed to feel special—loved.

You swallow hard, staring through the blur of your tears. “The kind of person who doesn’t love me enough.”

“No,” he says, suddenly too close—his hands hovering near your waist, not quite touching. “The kind who loves you too much and keeps fucking it up anyway.”

He’s shaking now. Visibly. Tears clinging to his lashes. Jaw tight like he’s holding himself together by a fraying thread.

“I thought I’d have time,” he says, voice breaking. “I thought I could stay close, keep loving you from the sidelines, and you’d never have to know how goddamn ruined I am for you. I thought if I kept it quiet, I could keep you in my life—because that was better than losing you completely. And for a while, it was enough. Just being near you. Just pretending.” He breathes in hard, like it physically hurts. “But it stopped being enough. And I was too fucking slow to say anything. I waited too long. I thought maybe—maybe one day you’d look at me the way I’ve always looked at you. But now you can’t even—”

You don’t know who moves first.

You don’t know if it’s you or him or both at once.

But his mouth crashes into yours, and you don’t stop it.

You gasp into the kiss like you’ve been underwater for days, like you’ve been holding your breath since the moment he forgot you—and this is the only way you’ll survive. Your hands find his chest, his shoulders, his face, gripping him like he might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough. He kisses you like he’s unravelling, like he’s been waiting for permission to fall apart and this—this—is the moment he breaks.

It’s heat and ache and urgency, all tangled into one. He groans into your mouth, something low and wounded, and you feel his hands trembling where they’ve come to rest at your waist—thumbs pressing into your sides like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you.

You whimper when he deepens it, and it tears something out of him. His breath stutters, hitching against your lips, and then he’s murmuring into the kiss—“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry”—his voice cracking on every word.

Your fingers thread into the curls at the nape of his neck, anchoring him there, pulling him closer even though your chests are already flush. You don’t care that you’re both crying. You don’t care that you’re still angry or that this should be harder than it is.

All you know is that his mouth on yours feels like home.

Every kiss is an apology. Every touch is a confession. Every tear sliding between your cheeks is a year of aching, unanswered want.

When he finally pulls back just enough to breathe, your lips are red, your faces damp, and his hands are still shaking where they cradle your ribs like he can’t quite believe that you’re real.

“I love you,” he whispers, breathless. “I don’t know how to stop.”

You shake your head, voice wavering. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

His lips crash against yours again, desperate, trembling with soft sobs that mix pain and need. Like he’s unravelling in the moment, and you’re the only thing holding him together.

“I—I need to make it up to you,” he pants against your mouth. “Baby, you gotta let me—”

His breath catches when your hands slip under his shirt, fingers trailing over the firm planes of his stomach before dipping lower, brushing the waistband of his jeans.

“How’re you gonna make it up to me?” you murmur, voice thick with heat.

Your fingers hook behind his jeans, tugging him closer until his hips press flush against yours—and you can feel how hard he already is. Just from kissing you.

His lips curl into a slow smile against yours, his voice dropping lower, rougher—raw with promise. “I’m gonna make you come undone, cariño. Over and over. So many times, you won’t be able to walk by the time I’m done showing you how sorry I am.”

Heat coils deep inside of you, a rush of fire and ice that burns all the way down, settling behind your hipbones—pulsing with every quickened breath.

Before you can think of something to say, before you can even draw a full breath, he’s kissing you again. He moves forward, and you step back, his lips never leaving yours—even as the door clicks shut behind him.

Then his hands are on your hips, firm and warm, fingers slipping beneath your shirt, and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you never put on pants. A small part of you is impressed he managed to keep eye contact earlier. But another part—a more insistent, very aware part—registers the way he smells.

It’s not bad. Just not him. He smells like sweat and stale air. Like stress and adrenaline and a man who’s been trapped on a plane for nine hours.

You pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him properly—his hair flattened on one side, shirt rumpled, jaw dark with day-old scruff.

“I think you need a shower,” you whisper, voice shaky with half a laugh.

His lips twitch, eyes still glassy. “Only if you’re coming with me.”

You take him in for a second longer—the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the familiar shape of a face you know too well. And then his eyes catch yours—still a little bloodshot, but so full of love it makes your whole body pulse with the need to stay wrapped around him forever.

“Okay,” you mutter, sliding your hand into his.

You bite down on your bottom lip to keep from smiling—he hasn’t earned that yet—and turn to lead him through the apartment. He knows the way, but he follows close, like he’s scared you might disappear.

You step into the bathroom first, let go of his hand, and reach into the shower to crank the hot water. Then you turn back—and your breath catches.

Because holy shit.

He’s so beautiful.

Even now—sweaty and tired and a little rough around the edges—he’s breathtaking.

And you’re about to see him. Each other. Naked. For the first time. Ever.

He steps closer, eyes locked on yours as he shrugs his hoodie off his shoulders. The zipper clicks against the tile as it hits the floor, but neither of you look—you just keep watching each other.

Then his hands move to the hem of his shirt, fingers hesitating for half a second before he pulls it over his head. The fabric lifts to reveal warm, golden skin and the sculpted lines of his chest and stomach, a soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

Your breath catches as you drink him in, eyes trailing over every inch with a quiet hunger that pulses low in your belly. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat blooming between them like a fuse catching fire.

“I can’t believe you came back early,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of the running shower.

His gaze softens, a small, uneven smile tugging at his lips. “I couldn’t be away from you any longer.”

The shirt joins his hoodie on the floor, and his hands drop to his jeans. He starts to unbutton them, but you step forward quickly, your fingers brushing his to stop him.

“Wait.”

He freezes, eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow. “Everything changes if we do this.”

His expression melts as his hands find your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “I know. I want it to. But we don’t have to rush. I just want to be here—with you.”

And just like that, your ribs crack open, and your heart falls right into his hands. Not that he didn’t already have it—but now, it’s his completely. You exist only for him. And there isn’t a sliver of hesitation in you. You don’t want anything else. Not now. Not ever.

You already knew this, of course. But right now, standing in front of him, memorising a face that’s already burned into the backs of your eyelids, you feel it settle into something bone-deep and permanent. He’s all you’ll ever need. As closely as possible. As deeply as possible. In every way he’ll let you have him.

“I want to,” you say softly, stepping closer until your bodies almost touch. “God, I’ve wanted you for so long, I don’t even know how to not want you anymore.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, but it catches on something else—something tender and breaking and real.

His smile is crooked, lips kiss-bruised and pink. “So we’re both idiots, huh?”

You nod, heat blooming in your cheeks. “Yeah. The biggest.”

Then your eyes drop to where your hand rests over his, right at the waistband of his jeans. You gently pull his hands away and begin to unbutton them yourself—fingers trembling, but sure. His breath hitches the moment your knuckles brush over the length of him, already hard and burning through the soft cotton of his briefs.

Your eyes flick up to his face, only to find him already looking down—watching every slow, deliberate movement as you drag the zipper down and start working the denim down his hips. He moves with you, grabbing the back of his jeans and shoving them down until they fall around his ankles.

You step back just a little, giving him room to step out of them—and to look.

Because God. Now he’s standing in nothing but those briefs, cock straining against the fabric, chest rising and falling like he can barely catch his breath. And it’s doing something to you.

He’s barely touched you, and you’re soaked. Just from looking at him.

“Think you need to catch up, mi amor,” he murmurs, voice low and thick.

His eyes drag up your bare legs and pause where the hem of your shirt brushes your thighs. He knows you’re not wearing anything underneath.

And now you’re trembling for an entirely different reason.

Your cheeks burn as you reach for the hem of your shirt and hesitate—but only for a second.

Then you quickly pull it over your head and let drop to the floor.

“Fuck,” he whispers, low and shaky.

And then he’s on you.

His hands are hot and urgent as they wrap around your waist, dragging you in until your bare chest presses flush to his. You gasp at the sudden rasp of his skin against your nipples—sensitive and aching—and he groans, deep in his chest, as his mouth crashes into yours.

The kiss is devastating. Open, messy, a little too much and nowhere near enough. He kisses you like he’s branding you—like the taste of your mouth belongs to him and he’s never letting you forget it.

You melt into it, into him, arms looped around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. His hips rock forward, cock grinding against your hip, and the friction makes you gasp again, makes your fingers tighten in his curls.

He groans into your mouth, deep and desperate, and the sound shoots straight through you.

You gasp against his lips as his hands slide lower, skimming the curve of your spine, tracing the waistband of your panties. He palms your ass, squeezing once—firm, possessive—before slipping his fingers beneath the fabric.

You whimper against his lips, knees almost buckling as he tugs your panties down in one swift movement. They fall to the floor, pooling around your ankles, and you step out of them blindly—too consumed by the way his mouth is moving over yours, by the feel of his skin against yours, to think of anything else.

Your hands find his hips, fingers curling beneath the elastic of his briefs. He groans as you drag them down slowly, the cotton catching on his hard cock before it springs free and the fabric falls to the floor. You suck in a shaky breath as you feel the full weight of him against your lower belly—then step back again just enough to look.

And fuck.

He’s so beautiful.

Chest heaving. Lips kiss-bitten and red. Eyes burning as they drag over your naked body like you’re the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen.

You take his hand in yours and step backward, pulling him toward the shower. The steam curls around you as you move, warm and thick in the air, and when you step beneath the warm spray of water, he crowds in again—bare skin pressed to bare skin, heat radiating between you like a second heartbeat.

He reaches for the body wash with one hand, the other trailing softly over your wet skin, and then lathers it between his palms before bringing them both to your body. He starts at your shoulders, working his way down your arms with steady pressure and soft murmurs.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice low and rough in your ear. “If I could take it back, I would. I love you so much, mi amor. I need you to feel it.”

You close your eyes and let him touch you, let his words wrap around you like the heat curling through the shower steam. His fingers glide over your ribs, your stomach, the undersides of your breasts. He’s gentle but thorough, brushing against the softest parts of you, the most vulnerable—never rushing, never greedy. Just present. Devoted.

“I missed you,” he says. “I miss you every second I’m not with you.”

Your breath shudders, and your hands move to return the gesture, trailing soap over the broad planes of his chest, down the ridges of his abs, over the sharp cut of his hips. He’s watching you—always watching you—with eyes that look like they might spill over at any second.

The quiet between you hums, heavy with want. Your fingers dip lower, following the lines of muscle that lead to his cock, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

But you don’t touch. Not yet.

“You’re killing me,” he says softly, forehead tipping forward to rest against yours.

You smile faintly, cheeks flushed from the steam—or maybe from the way you can feel him, hot and hard between you, aching to be touched.

“I’m gonna make it up to you, cariño,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your temple. “I promise. You’re gonna feel how sorry I am.”

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then dips lower—mouth dragging lazy, open kisses along your neck, over your collarbone, across your shoulder—each one slower than the last, like he’s trying to memorise every inch of your skin.

You can feel your pulse between your legs—heavy and insistent. Every breath makes you more aware of how slick you are, how achingly empty, thighs pressing together in search of friction that doesn’t come close to enough.

“Need a hand?” Joaquín mutters against your skin.

You whimper, fingers digging into his back as you wrap your arms around his neck and hold on tight.

He shifts closer, letting out a broken sigh when his cock brushes against your skin. “Gonna need to hear you say it, baby.”

He starts guiding you back until your spine meets the cool tile, his body boxing you in, all heat and muscle and sinful promise. His mouth keeps moving—hot, wet kisses trailing down your chest, leaving pink and purple marks in their wake—and you whine again, breath catching on the edge of a moan.

“Tell me you want me,” he murmurs, lips brushing even lower. “Tell me, and I’m yours.”

Then his mouth finds your nipple—warm, wet, perfect—and his tongue swirls over the sensitive bud until you're gasping.

“Need you, Joaquín,” you breathe. “Need you to touch me. I—I want you inside me.”

You feel his mouth twitch against your skin—still sucking, still relentless—but smiling

And then—

Oh, God

His fingers slip between your thighs and find your entrance with no effort at all—wet and ready for him.

He groans, guttural and low. “You’re so fucking wet, mi amor.”

You tip your head back with a breathless laugh. “Well, duh. We’re in the shower.”

He nips at your nipple in retaliation—just enough to make you yelp—then soothes it with his tongue before kissing across your chest to the other. The first brush of his mouth makes your back arch off the tile, heat flaring deep in your core.

His fingers dip lower—sliding easily through the wet heat between your thighs, and he groans again, like the feel of you is frying his goddamn brain.

"Fuck, baby," he mutters, voice ragged against your skin. "You’re so ready for me."

You whimper, thighs twitching as his fingers trace lazy circles around your entrance. Teasing. Testing. Making you shiver.

“Joaquín—"

He shushes you with a kiss, his free hand cupping the side of your face as the other finally slips one thick finger inside you. You gasp, nails scraping down his back as your hips stutter forward, chasing the stretch.

“So tight,” he breathes. “So warm.”

He starts to move—slow and steady—curling his finger just right as he watches your face from barely an inch away. And when your eyes flutter shut, breath hitching, he adds another.

Your moan echoes off the tile, high and broken.

“That’s it,” he whispers, breath brushing your lips. “Let me feel you.”

Your head drops back against the wall again, chest heaving, one leg lifting instinctively to hook around his hip and open yourself wider for him. He groans again—like he’s losing his sanity.

“Look at me,” he says softly, fingers working deeper now. “Wanna see you fall apart.”

You force your eyes open, blinking through the haze, and the second your gaze meets his—intense, reverent, absolutely wrecked—you clench around him hard enough to make his jaw snap tight.

“Fuck,” he growls, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel so good, baby. Gonna make you come just like this—just my fingers.”

Your breath comes out in shaky, desperate gasps, your hips rolling helplessly against his hand as he works his fingers inside you. Each curl brushes that perfect, aching spot, and your thighs are trembling now, barely holding you up.

Then his thumb finds your clit.

You cry out—sharp and breathless—as he rubs slow, deliberate circles that make your whole body tighten.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Feel so fucking good like this. Can’t believe I’ve never touched you here before.”

His mouth is everywhere—your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—before he finds your lips again and kisses you hard. Not sweet, not gentle. It’s filthy. Wet. Starving. His tongue curls into your mouth just as his fingers thrust deeper, his thumb grinding harder against your clit, and the moan you let out is swallowed by his kiss.

You’re panting into him now, legs shaking, nails raking across his shoulders. His cock is hard between you—thick and hot where it presses against your belly, and he shifts his hips just enough to drag it over your skin. Slow, firm pressure that makes your breath stutter and your knees nearly give out.

“You feel that?” he groans, rocking against you again. “Been hard for you since the second you opened that fucking door. Can’t stop thinking about how good it’s gonna feel when I’m inside you.”

Your head spins. The rhythm of his fingers, the pressure of his thumb, the weight of his cock grinding into your skin—it’s too much and not enough and you’re falling apart under it.

You gasp against his mouth, clinging to his shoulders. “Joaquín—oh my god—please—”

“I know, mi amor,” he pants, lips brushing your cheek as he fucks you with his fingers a little harder now, more insistent. “Almost there. Let me feel you come, baby. Just for me.”

Your whole body tightens. Heat coils low in your belly, fast and frantic now, about to burst—

And then he’s gone. Fingers, warmth, everything—gone.

Your eyes snap open just in time to see him drop to his knees, and the sight of him there—lips kiss-swollen, eyes dark with desperation—knocks you breathless.

“Let me taste you,” he says, voice rough and a little broken. “Please.”

You nod before you can even think—and then his mouth is on you.

He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and drags his tongue through your soaked folds with a low groan that vibrates through your entire body. You cry out, the sound ricocheting off the tile, and one of your hands flies to his hair—gripping hard, grounding yourself.

“Joaquín—oh, fuck—”

He eats you like a man starved. Like this is the apology. The penance. Like your pleasure is the only thing in the world he gives a damn about. His tongue swirls around your clit, then flattens and flicks with just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back.

He moans into you like you taste better than anything he’s ever had, and when he slides two fingers back inside, curling deep, it’s like your body just stops thinking and lets go.

Your legs quake. Your hips roll. You’re panting his name, over and over, thighs tightening around his head—and he just groans and keeps going. Keeps sucking. Licking. Fucking you with his fingers like he’s trying to chase your orgasm down and wring every last tremor out of it.

And then it hits.

White-hot and all-consuming

Your back bows, your voice breaks, and your climax rips through you—violent and endless and overwhelming—until your legs give out completely and you slump against the wall, heart hammering, chest heaving, Joaquin still between your thighs.

When the wave finally starts to ebb, you glance down—and he looks up at you like you’re a miracle.

“Still mad at me?” he asks, lips slick and smirking.

You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t even have the energy for that, so you just look at him. You watch him rise to full height and gently press his forehead to yours, letting the water run over both of you—warm and steady. Now he smells like coconut and sex and something so unmistakably him it makes your knees weak.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life between your thighs making it up to you,” he whispers, voice thick with promise.

You huff out a breathless laugh and bring one hand up to the back of his neck. “I might think about forgiving you,” you murmur, your other hand sliding lower, tracing the ridges of his stomach, “if you make me come with this.”

Your fingers wrap around his cock and he chokes—actually chokes—on a groan like he was punched square in the chest. You can’t help but giggle, slowly stroking him as his eyes flutter shut and his hips jerk desperately into your hand.

“Such a tease, baby,” he mutters, letting his head fall back.

You give him two more deliberate strokes—just to hear that little catch in his breath—before planting both palms on his chest. “Let’s get out before my water bill bankrupts me.”

His eyes snap open, and he hesitates for a moment but doesn’t argue. You both rinse off quickly, steam curling between your bodies in lazy spirals, the tension still crackling like static. Then he turns off the water and steps out, handing you a towel before grabbing his own, and the two of you start drying off in silence.

But there are more heated glances than actual drying, your eyes drawn to each other like magnets, and before you’re even halfway dry, he’s back on you—towel forgotten, curls still dripping, hands cradling your face as he kisses you like it might kill him not to.

“Can I show you how sorry I am now?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

You pull back just enough to raise a brow. “That wasn’t what you just did?”

He flashes that devastating smile—the one that would melt your panties if you had any on.

“Not even fucking close,” he growls.

Then his hands slide to the backs of your thighs and he lifts you in one swift motion. You gasp, arms flying around his neck and legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His cock presses hot and hard against you as he carries you—bare, dripping, aching—out of the bathroom and straight into to your bedroom.

He stops at the edge of your bed and drops you with a playful ease. You land with a soft squeal, the mattress dipping beneath you as he follows, crawling over you like he can’t stand even a breath of distance. His body hovers over yours for just a second—wet curls dripping onto your chest, breath hot against your cheek—before he sinks down, skin to skin, his weight settling perfectly between your thighs.

His cock is already so hard, heavy and leaking, dragging against your slick folds as he grinds into you slowly—like he needs to prove, with every aching touch, that you’re his. You gasp when the head catches just barely on your entrance, too close to be nothing, not close enough to be everything.

“‘M still sorry,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing the curve of your breast. “Still not done making it up to you.”

Then his mouth closes around your nipple and you keen, back arching, thighs tightening around his hips. He groans as he sucks, teeth grazing gently—just enough to make your whole body burn. One of his hands comes up to cup your other breast, thumb circling lazily until your breath turns shallow and your fingers claw at his back.

“Joaquín—” your voice breaks into a gasp as his hips roll again, dragging the thick, sensitive length of him over your clit.

“Say it again,” he whispers, switching to your other nipple, mouthing at it like it’s the only thing that will keep him sane. “Say my name again, baby.”

You do. Over and over. Between panting breaths and needy little whines, your body grinding up against his as the heat builds all over again.

“I’m gonna be so good to you,” he groans, moving lower, teeth grazing your sternum before he kisses back up your throat. “You have no idea how good I’m gonna be.”

His cock presses flush against your entrance again, thick and hot and teasing, and you let out a breathless, broken sound.

“P—Please,” you whisper, breath catching. “I need you.”

Joaquín exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment you opened the front door. His forehead drops to yours, noses brushing, lips just barely touching. You feel the tremble in his arms as he shifts his hips, lining himself up properly—his tip nudging at your entrance.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice breaking against your mouth. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby…”

You whimper, hips tilting up instinctively, but he doesn’t push in—not yet. He just keeps kissing you, slow and messy and reverent, while his cock slides through your folds again and again, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with the swollen head until you’re nearly shaking.

“Joaquín,” you plead, voice thin and wrecked, “I need you inside me now.”

That does it.

He drags his cock down, barely notching at your entrance—and then pushes in slowly. Excruciatingly slowly. Stretching you inch by inch like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he’s trying to savour the way you take him in. His breath hitches as you tighten around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, forehead still pressed to yours.

“Fuck,” he pants. “You feel—God—you feel so good.”

You clutch at his back, nails dragging, legs tightening around his hips to pull him closer. He slides in a little deeper, then stills, chest heaving against yours, giving you both a second to breathe. To feel everything.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “You’re everything. I’m never gonna stop being sorry for hurting you, but I swear—this, right now—I’m yours.”

He kisses you again, a soft sound caught between your mouths, and then pushes in the rest of the way—slow, steady, until he’s fully seated inside you and both of you are left shaking from the overwhelming relief of finally being whole.

For one breathless moment, you just cling to each other, suspended in it.

Then, with a low, strangled sigh, he starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Every thrust measured and deliberate, like he’s trying to say sorry with every inch of him. Like he’s trying to rewrite the last forty-eight hours with the press of his hips and the reverent way he touches you.

You hold on to him, hands grasping at every inch of skin you can reach, your mouth brushing his jaw as you gasp into the space between you.

“God, Joaquín—”

He groans low in his throat, the sound desperate and aching as he drags almost all the way out and pushes back in with a little more force. The drag of his cock inside you makes your toes curl, pressure building deep and steady, a fire licking up your spine.

“Feels so good,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing. “You feel so good, cariño. I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You squeeze your legs around his waist and roll your hips to meet his next thrust. “Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He laughs—a soft, breathless thing—and kisses you again, slow and messy, tongues tangling, your breath stuttering between moans as he begins to pick up the pace. Each stroke grinds deep, just enough to make your breath hitch and your thighs tremble.

You can feel every inch of him, the thick press of his cock dragging over that sweet spot inside of you, over and over. And the tension between you—emotional and physical—is like a live wire sparking in the dark.

“You’re mine,” he breathes into your mouth. “All mine. Gonna keep you like this forever—wrapped around me, panting my name. Gonna make it up to you, baby, ‘til you can’t walk.”

And then it hits you—like a lightning strike—right in the middle of him moving inside you, skin sliding against skin. The boy who’s lived in your heart for so long. The one you thought might never feel the same...

He loves you.

No hesitation. No pretending.

Just raw, desperate, breathless love.

Right here, right now, with him fucking you like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Your chest tightens, breath catching as the whole world narrows to the heat of him, the slick rhythm of your bodies, and the impossible truth that he’s yours.

He’s finally yours.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice breaking as his thrusts slow. “Baby, what is it?”

His lips press to your temple, then your jaw, trailing wet, fevered kisses as he holds himself above you—arms trembling, hands braced on either side of your head.

You glance up, meeting his eyes, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs.

“I love you, Joaquín,” you whisper.

His expression softens instantly, breaking into the kind of smile that could ruin you—gentle, wide, boyish—and then he’s leaning in, nuzzling your nose like the lovesick fool he is.

“I love you too, cariño.”

“And I forgive you.”

His smile shifts, curling into something smug—something wicked. “You do?”

You nod, barely, fingers toying with the curls at the nape of his neck.

He rolls his hips back slowly—deliberately—watching your mouth fall open.

Then he shakes his head, grin turning feral. “No, you don’t. Not yet.” He kisses you deep, then draws back just enough to growl, “I’m not done making it up to you yet.”

And with that, he sits up, still buried to the hilt—and his next thrust hits a new angle that makes your vision blur.

He grabs your thigh and lifts it over his shoulder, holding you open without hesitation. The new position has him even deeper, his thick cock dragging against every sensitive part of you, and it’s all you can do not to scream.

He thrusts harder now—rough, fast, relentless—finding spots inside you that you didn’t even know existed. Your body tightens, your lungs burn, and your eyes lock onto his, wide and wild and desperate.

“You gonna take my apology like a good girl?” he pants. “Gonna let me say sorry with every fucking inch?”

You moan something garbled, hands flying into your hair as your back arches off the mattress. His name spills from your lips in broken syllables, again and again, like prayer.

And it only spurs him on.

“That’s it, cariño,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Feel me. Let me make it up to you.”

You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—some ruined, hungry thing—and your hand moves to your chest, fingers tugging lightly at one nipple.

His rhythm falters. He groans—loud and helpless—the sight of you clearly undoing him.

“Fuck—look at you,” he gasps, eyes locked on your chest. “You gonna come like that? Gonna squeeze me so tight just from playing with those perfect tits?”

He adjusts his grip and thrusts deeper, harder, one hand anchoring your hip, the other pressing your leg back even farther as he drives into you like he can’t get close enough. Like the only way to be forgiven is to fuck you until the memory of anything else burns away.

Every thrust is devastating now—deep, punishing, perfect. The wet slap of skin against skin echoes in the room, nearly drowned out by the choked sounds spilling from both of you.

Your leg trembles where he’s holding it, thigh stretched wide over his shoulder, but you can’t even think about it—can’t focus on anything but the pressure building low in your belly, coiling tighter with every filthy grind of his hips. Your hand is still on your breast, tugging at your nipple, needy and impatient—like you can pull another orgasm out of yourself if you just try hard enough.

“Joaquín—” you gasp, voice cracking. “I’m—fuck—I’m getting close.”

“I know, baby,” he grits, sweat dripping from his temples, curls soaked, eyes fixed on where his cock disappears into you. “I can feel it. You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

His pace stutters, then steadies, grinding deep with a low groan that sounds like it’s been torn straight from his chest. He leans in just enough for your foreheads to touch, his breath hot against your cheek, and you can feel how close he is too—barely hanging on, every muscle in his body straining to hold back.

“You’re doing so good,” he pants, mouth brushing yours. “Taking it so good. You gonna let me keep saying sorry? Let me fuck you through every single thing I never should’ve done?”

You whimper, nodding, lips brushing against his, unable to speak as the pressure builds and builds. His cock drags against the sweet spot inside you that makes your legs shake and your eyes roll back, again and again, his pelvis grinding against your clit on every downstroke, drawing you tighter, higher, closer.

Your fingers scramble across his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades as your other hand slips down, desperate for more friction, for anything. But before you can touch yourself, his hand is there—slapping yours away and replacing it with his own. His thumb circles your clit, slow and slick and fucking perfect.

“Let me,” he growls. “Let me take care of you, cariño. Let me make you come.”

Your whole body arches, breath caught in your throat, every muscle drawn tight as the pressure builds, sharp and consuming. His thumb doesn’t let up—circling, pressing, teasing—until it’s too much, not enough, and everything in between.

“Come on, baby,” he pants, his voice thick, ragged. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And then you do.

It slams into you like a tidal wave—your orgasm ripping through every inch of you, hot and sharp and blinding. You cry out, legs trembling as your thigh slips from his shoulder, fingers clawing at his arms while your body clenches around him, slick and pulsing and endless.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, still moving inside you, slower now but deeper—like he’s trying to feel every last pulse of you coming around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

But you don’t have time to catch your breath—because he’s unravelling too.

His hips jerk, rhythm faltering, and he lets out a strangled noise—somewhere between a gasp and a moan—as he fucks into you hard one last time, spilling deep inside with a broken, breathless, “Fuck, I love you.”

You cling to him as he shudders through it, both of you shaking, bodies pressed tight and hearts pounding like they’re trying to break free from your chests.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. Laboured. Tangled. Shared.

And then he kisses you again, slow and tender this time, mouth soft and sweet against yours like he’s still trying to say sorry—only now with love, not desperation.

“I think,” you murmur, voice distant—breathless, “we might need to shower again.”

Joaquín chuckles, his chest rumbling against yours as he barely holds himself up on his forearms. “I don’t think there’s any point, cariño.” He flashes you a cocky grin. “I’m just gonna ruin you again.”

Your cheeks heat—despite everything you just did with him—and you giggle. “That so?”

He nods, then leans in to press a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Yep. But first—” He pushes himself up, muscles flexing— “I have something for you.”

The loss of his heat makes you shiver. The loss of his cock makes you whine.

He laughs again. “I’ll be back in a second, baby. Then I’ll be right back inside—I promise.”

He shuffles off the bed and throws a wink over his shoulder as he turns toward the door. You lie there, flushed and wrecked and floating, shamelessly ogling his ass as he walks away.

You can feel your pulse still thrumming through your whole body while you wait, anticipation building like static beneath your skin.

And when he returns, it’s hard not to stare—slick, still half-hard, still perfect. Holy shit. You’ll never get used to seeing him naked.

“Eyes up here,” he teases, smirking as he settles beside you on the bed.

You roll your eyes and sit up, dragging a pillow into your lap. Joaquín eyes it, clearly displeased with the coverage, but he lets it slide. For now.

“Here,” he says, offering you a little black box.

You frown but take it, confused—until you see the flush on his cheeks and the nerves written across his face.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs.

Your heart skips and you look down at the box, fingers trembling just a little as you open the lid.

Inside is a necklace—a delicate chain with a small bird charm in flight, wings spread wide.

Tears prick your eyes. “Joaquín…”

He looks so sweet—so fucking boyish—it knocks the air right out of you. This soft, thoughtful man just gave you the most perfect gift... after absolutely rearranging your guts.

“I didn’t forget forget,” he says quickly. “I just—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I just love you so much.”

Your throat tightens as you blink hard, tears slipping free. “I love you too.”

You set the box on your bedside table, toss the pillow aside, and crawl into his lap. His grin blooms wide as his arms come around you, brown eyes lit up like you just handed him the whole goddamn universe.

“Think you’ve got another apology in you?” you whisper, rolling your hips against him, feeling his cock swell beneath you.

“Baby,” he groans, gripping your hips, “I plan on apologising all fucking night.”

And he does.

He kisses you like it’s the first time. Fucks you like it might be the last. He moves with something holy in his hands, something feral in his mouth. He whispers I’m sorry, I love you, again and again, breaking you open with every thrust. And you forgive him—again and again—until the words don’t even matter anymore. Until there’s nothing left between you but sweat and breath and the way your bodies fit together like they were always meant to.

He doesn’t stop until you’re both boneless. Breathless. Too wrecked to move.

And then, finally—he pulls you into his arms, kisses your hair, and tells you he loves you until the only thing left is sleep.

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

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nolita-fairytale · 2 months ago

Text

this was wowowowow

almost wasn’t

joaquin torres 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, mutual pining, friends to lovers, teasing and tension, dirty dancing, grinding, thigh riding, piv sex, creampie, slight angst, happy ending ofc, slow burn word count: 14k Summary: You and Joaquin have been best friends since the Air Force—shoulders pressed side by side through deployments, shitty rations, late-night confessions, and every almost that never became something more. You’ve seen him fall in and out of love. He’s seen you pretend you don’t need more than friendship. You date other people. You go on double dates. But every time, you end up right back next to each other—too close, too familiar, too full of everything you won’t say. Until one night, everything breaks open. And it turns out, the only thing worse than wanting him all this time… is realizing he’s always wanted you too. notes – not proofread tags: @eeveedream @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet

— reblogs comments & likes are appreciated

The first time you meet Joaquin Torres, he’s grinning through a busted lip.

There’s blood on his chin and dirt smudged along one cheekbone, and he’s still cracking a joke with the instructor like he’s not one misstep from failing out of the course. The sun is high and brutal, hanging over the tarmac like punishment. Your sweat-stuck shirt clings to your spine. You’re already tired. Already irritated.

He looks at you like you’re a dare.

“Guess we’re partners now,” he says, offering a hand that’s scraped raw across the knuckles. “Hope you can keep up, mami.”

You almost don’t shake it. Almost tell him to go to hell. But something in his tone—something cocky, sure, but not mean—softens the edge just enough. You grip his hand.

“Don’t hold me back, flyboy.”

He laughs, bright and stupidly charming. You hate how easy it makes you smile.

That first day, he nearly gets both of you benched. He moves too fast, talks too loud, tries to jump the mock wall without waiting for cover. You yank him down by the back of his shirt, hissing, “Are you trying to get us both killed?”

But he only grins. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Dead men don’t flirt,” you snap, dragging him behind the barricade.

He winks. “Only with you, baby.”

By the end of the week, you hate him slightly less. He brings you water without asking, learns your favorite MRE and trades for it at lunch, and stops making mami sound like a taunt and starts making it sound like a secret.

By the end of the month, he’s your best friend.

You don’t know when it happens. Somewhere between long shifts and longer nights, the shared silence of exhausted bodies sprawled in the same tent, the way he always finds your eyes after a rough drill like he’s checking to make sure you’re still breathing.

He starts sleeping near you—just close enough that your shoulders brush in the dark. He always finds you, even in the chaos of rotations and reassignments. Always.

There’s a night he finds you outside the barracks, sitting on the curb with your knees pulled to your chest, hands shaking from a call home that didn’t go well. You don’t say anything. Don’t even hear him approach.

But then there’s a sweatshirt draped over your shoulders. His.

He sits beside you. Doesn’t ask questions. Just leans in until his shoulder presses yours and stays there.

That’s when it starts. Maybe.

Years later, you still haven’t figured out when the line between friend and something else stopped feeling so clear.

Now, you’re both out. Still close. Too close, probably.

You work in the same world—government-adjacent, Sam’s new crew, helping out when things get messy. The kind of life that keeps you moving, but never far from each other. You share intel, comms, sometimes cars. You’ve slept on his couch. He’s slept in your bed. You’ve learned not to count.

You live across the hall. He makes you coffee when he gets back before you. You make him pasta when he’s too tired to fake being fine. He leaves his hoodies in your apartment. You stop giving them back.

He flirts constantly. Teases you in Spanish. Calls you mi cielo when he wants something and mami when he doesn’t. You tell yourself it’s harmless. It’s just how he is.

You’ve been telling yourself that for years now.

But then there’s tonight.

He’s sitting on your couch with one leg stretched out, socked foot knocking lightly against yours, scrolling through his phone with a soft little smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t say her name, but you know who it is. You don’t need to look.

Lea’s the only one who ever makes him smile like that. That lazy, distant kind of smile. The I know I shouldn’t want this kind. The but I do anyway kind.

Your stomach twists.

“Dinner plans?” you ask, keeping your voice neutral. Easy. Friendly.

He hums. “Just catching up.”

“Cool.” The word lands heavy in your mouth. You force your eyes back to your laptop.

He leans back, stretching, fingers curling behind his head. “Lea texted first,” he offers, as if that makes it better.

You nod without looking at him. “You gonna go?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Figure I owe her that much.”

You don’t ask why. You already know the answer. Because he still feels something. Or thinks he does. Because the past is easy to romanticize when you’re tired and lonely and still bleeding from things you never say out loud.

You shut your laptop and stand. “You want to take leftovers?”

He blinks up at you. “You cooked?”

You shrug. “Enough to feed a maybe-girlfriend.”

He snorts. “Don’t be like that.”

“I’m not being anything,” you say, crossing to the kitchen. “I just didn’t realize we were back in that phase.”

He watches you from the couch, head tilted, brows drawn. But he doesn’t push.

You hand him a plate even though he said he had plans with her. He takes it anyway. Eats like it’s the first real meal he’s had all week. You sit beside him and pretend your heart isn’t trying to claw out of your chest.

Halfway through the movie, he leans into your side. Familiar. Thoughtless. Your body goes still.

He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and pretends not to.

You sit there for an hour, his thigh warm against yours, his plate balanced on your knee, his breath slow and steady beside your ear.

And all you can think is: Don’t go to her. Please, don’t go to her.

But you don’t say it.

You never do.

The moment your date says the words “I’m an alpha, you know,” you know you’re texting Joaquin the second you hit the bathroom.

It had already been bad. The restaurant was too dark, the booth sticky, the wine list a joke. He talked over you through the first course, interrupted your story about Sam with something about stocks, and made three separate jokes about therapy—none of which landed.

But the alpha comment? That’s the final nail.

You step away to the restroom, screen already glowing in your hand.

you: abort mission you: send evac you: i’ll throw myself into traffic otherwise

Joaquin doesn’t respond right away, but he never takes long.

When your phone buzzes two minutes later, it’s a single line.

torres: 10 mins. fake emergency ready.

You exhale. Tuck the phone into your clutch. Go back to the table and fake a smile while your date tries to show you something on his phone—an NFT? You don’t know. You don’t care. You nod and laugh and drink just enough wine to blur the edges of your irritation until you see headlights sweep past the window.

Your escape hatch.

“Shit,” you gasp, grabbing your purse. “That was my friend’s car. Something came up—mission-related. Sorry!”

You don’t wait for a response. Just kiss the air beside his cheek and walk fast enough to feel the wind behind you.

Joaquin’s already got the passenger door open when you reach the curb. You slide in without thinking, dress pulling taut across your thighs. You’re flushed. A little buzzed. And when you turn to look at him, he’s already grinning like he’s proud of you.

“Mission successful,” he says, putting the car in drive.

You sigh and sink back into the seat. “You are a gift.”

“I know.”

“You’re also full of yourself.”

He shrugs. “Comes with the territory.”

You glance sideways. He’s in a hoodie and joggers, baseball cap turned backward, hand steady on the wheel. His wrist is tanned, scarred, strong. You think about kissing it. You think about a lot of things when you drink.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“Place we like,” he says. “Comfort food and healing vibes.”

You smile. Of course. Dumplings and bao from the hole-in-the-wall joint you’ve shared after every breakup, every disaster mission, every bad day. It smells like fried heaven and safety. He orders for both of you like always.

“Extra chili oil?” you ask, leaning over the counter, your shoulder brushing his arm.

“Already added,” he murmurs, without looking at you.

You don’t realize you’re still leaning on him until you feel his breath shift. You straighten, suddenly aware of the warmth in your cheeks. Blame the wine.

Back in the car, you balance the takeout bags on your lap and open the windows. The air smells like spring and distant pavement. He hums along to a song on the radio—off-key but sweet.

“Tell me everything,” he says.

You groan. “The man referred to himself as an alpha.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious. Like, looked me in the eye and said, ‘I’m an alpha, you know.’ I laughed and he didn’t.”

Joaquin snorts, head tipped back against the headrest at a red light. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“He explained crypto to me. Twice.”

“Jesus.”

“And he kept touching my shoulder like he was going to brand me.”

“You should’ve stabbed him with your fork.”

You laugh, reaching across to slap his chest lightly. “Don’t joke. I considered it.”

“You get real feisty when you drink,” he says, glancing at you with a teasing glint in his eyes. “And touchy.”

You freeze for half a beat. Your hand is still resting on his chest, over the soft cotton of his hoodie, where his heart beats steadily under your fingers.

“I’m affectionate,” you say, trying to play it off. “You like it.”

His voice dips. “Yeah. I do.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The air goes thick, just for a moment. Then he taps your hand, a little too gently.

“Come on. Let’s eat before it goes cold.”

You end up back at your place. Sitting cross-legged on the floor with dumplings between you, dipping sauces lined up like a battlefield. You’re still flushed from the wine and the laughing. He steals the last pork bao and you fake rage. He fakes surrender and feeds you a bite with his fingers.

“You’re lucky I’m hungry,” you mutter around it.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he fires back.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward—it’s warm. Familiar. You finish your food. End up sitting back against the couch, side by side. His knee knocks yours. You don’t pull away.

“Don’t date losers,” he says suddenly.

You tilt your head toward him. “You offering to set me up with someone better?”

He meets your eyes. His voice is quiet now. “Maybe.”

You open your mouth to say something—something flirty, or funny, or clever—but nothing comes out. Your brain’s gone soft around the edges.

So instead, you sigh and tip your head onto his shoulder. “Next time I text you mid-date, bring a taser.”

He chuckles, settling in. You feel him press his cheek against the top of your head.

“Next time, don’t go on a date,” he murmurs. “Just hang out with me.”

You don’t answer. Your chest is too tight.

You just let your hand find his. Let his fingers curl around yours. And let the silence hold everything neither of you is brave enough to say.

The door opens with the ease of someone who doesn’t need permission.

You glance over your shoulder, blinking sleep out of your eyes as the deadbolt turns and Joaquin steps inside your apartment like he’s done it a hundred times before—which, to be fair, he has.

He doesn’t call out right away. Just drops his keys into the bowl by the door, then sets a brown paper bag on the kitchen counter with a quiet thump. There’s a heaviness to the way he moves—shoulders tense beneath the hoodie, jaw tight. Like he’s holding something in his mouth he doesn’t want to taste.

He finally speaks, voice softer than usual. “I brought food.”

You shift upright on the couch, legs bare and half-tucked beneath your worn oversized t-shirt, hair still a little messy from a nap you didn’t mean to take. The room smells like lavender and soy sauce and something unspoken.

He walks into the living room, eyes skimming over you quickly. He notices the sleep in your eyes, the flushed imprint of the couch cushion on your cheek. His mouth twitches.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you lie, rubbing your face. “I was just… resting my eyes.”

He doesn’t press. Just crouches down beside the coffee table, setting out containers from your favorite spot. Garlic noodles. Veggie spring rolls. That crispy tofu he used to mock you for but now steals from when he thinks you’re not looking.

You pull yourself up and sit beside him on the floor without thinking, your shoulder brushing his. Close, like always. Too close for comfort, but not close enough to matter.

“Everything okay?” you ask after a few minutes, your chopsticks hovering over a spring roll.

He pauses, container halfway to his mouth.

You watch his jaw work, the muscles clenching once, twice.

Then he says, “She called again.”

You don’t need to ask who she is. You lower your chopsticks, rest your hand against the cushion beside you to anchor yourself. “What did Lea want?”

He exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a bitter laugh. “To talk. To see me. To maybe—” he waves a hand, “—start over.”

You’re careful. Quiet. “And… are you thinking about it?”

His silence is answer enough.

You try not to show it—how that silence lands like a weight in your gut. How the idea of him going back to her feels like watching a storm come in slow across the water. Inevitable. Distant. But you feel the pressure building anyway.

“She says she misses me,” he murmurs, mostly to the noodles. “That she didn’t get closure.”

You swallow hard. “Do you need closure?”

He shrugs. Doesn’t answer. Just shifts his weight, leans back against the couch behind him, and stares at the muted TV screen playing something neither of you are really watching.

You nod slowly and pick at your food again. “Right.”

You don’t say, You’ve been sleeping on my couch three nights a week. You text me first every morning. You bring me soup when I’m sick and groceries when I’m too tired to shop. You hold my hand when I’m scared, and you never let go unless I make you.

You don’t say, How can you want her when you already have me?

Instead, you clear your throat and ask, “You want a beer?”

He looks at you. For the first time since he walked in, really looks at you. His eyes drift down—over your bare legs, the collar of your shirt stretched loose at the neck, the sleepy flush still in your cheeks. Something flickers behind his expression, there and gone before you can name it.

“No,” he says, voice low. “I’m good.”

You nod again and reach for the remote, turning the volume up a few clicks—not enough to fill the space, just enough to dull the silence.

By the time you finish eating, the light outside has faded to navy. That thick, late-evening blue that makes everything feel closer. Quieter. You’ve both migrated to the couch, feet up, bodies relaxed but angled toward each other.

Joaquin’s slouched low, legs stretched out, hoodie rumpled around his waist. You’ve got one of the throw blankets half-draped over your legs and the other over his lap, tossed there casually when you got cold. Your knees touch beneath the fabric. You haven’t moved.

The TV glows in front of you, flickering shadows across his face. He’s watching, sort of. Mostly, he’s just still. Like he doesn’t want to risk the wrong movement shattering whatever this is.

You glance at him, letting your gaze linger.

He looks tired. But it’s more than that. He looks worn. Like he’s been carrying something for a long time and doesn’t know how to set it down.

“Hey,” you whisper. “You okay?” His answer is too quiet to hear the first time. You shift closer, knees knocking his. “What?”

“I’m just… tired of feeling like I owe people parts of myself.”

Your breath catches. “You don’t owe her anything, Joaquin.”

His jaw ticks. He looks at you then, eyes dark and soft all at once. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not really.

So you move. Carefully. Slowly. You shift toward him and tuck yourself into his side like it’s instinct—like your body already knows the path. He doesn’t flinch. Just curls an arm around your shoulders and lets you lean in, your cheek against his chest.

You stay like that. His thumb drawing slow, idle circles on your arm. His chest rising and falling beneath your ear. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat. A lullaby you didn’t know you needed.

“You’re safe with me,” you whisper.

The words slip out before you can stop them. Quiet. Steady. Heavy with everything you’ve never said out loud.

And for once, he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk or deflect.

His hand—where it’s been tracing slow, thoughtless circles over your arm—goes still. You feel the change in him instantly, like something inside him has turned to face you.

His breath hitches, the faintest catch in his chest. You feel it under your cheek. Then the subtle ripple of a swallow, like he’s forcing something down—emotion, maybe. Or want. Or words that don’t quite make it to the surface.

“I know,” he says, so soft you barely catch it.

You tilt your face up before you’ve even made the choice to do it. You just need to see him.

His profile is half-lit by the television’s glow—his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, the faint crease in his brow still present, even now. He’s looking ahead, but not at the screen. Not at anything.

Just… still.

Your face is so close to his you can feel the ghost of his breath across your lips. Warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

Your noses nearly brush. One twitch closer and they would. Your legs are tangled under the blanket. His fingers still rest against your waist, just under the hem of your shirt, unmoving but firm. Like he doesn’t know he’s holding on, or like he’s afraid to let go.

The air buzzes—hot and tight between you, electric with all the things neither of you have ever said. All the chances you’ve never taken. All the time you’ve spent not doing this.

You wonder if he can feel your heart racing. You wonder if he knows it’s been his name inside it for years.

Your lips part just slightly. Not in invitation. Not exactly. Just… readiness. Waiting. Bracing.

You don’t move.

And neither does he.

But something shifts. Deep and quiet and undeniable. Like the entire room has tilted four degrees and nothing will sit quite right again.

He exhales, low and shaky, and the breath dances across your mouth like a promise almost made.

And still—nothing.

No kiss.

No lean-in.

Just the ache of something so close it feels like it touches every nerve in your body.

You let your head rest against his chest again, slowly. Carefully. Like lowering a bridge that almost caught fire.

Neither of you speaks but you both feel it. The moment that didn’t happen. And the weight of what it means.

You wake sometime later, slow and disoriented, caught in the kind of sleep that doesn’t feel like rest.

The room is quiet, except for the low hum of the fridge and the muted murmur of the TV—still playing something you’d long since stopped watching. Outside, distant city sounds bleed in through the windows: a car passing, a siren somewhere blocks away, the low bark of a dog.

Your cheek is pressed against warm cotton. Joaquin’s chest.

Your arm is draped across his stomach. His is curled around your waist, heavy and solid, hand tucked just beneath the hem of your shirt where your skin is soft and bare. His fingers aren’t moving, not quite—but they twitch every now and then, a subtle flex against your lower back, like some part of him is still holding on in his sleep.

You don’t move.

You barely breathe.

It should be uncomfortable—too intimate, too exposed—but it’s not. It’s warm. Familiar. Dangerous in a way that feels like home.

You can feel his heartbeat, steady and slow beneath your ear. It lulls you. Grounds you.

You wonder if he can feel yours. How fast it’s racing. How hard it’s trying not to hope.

You stay like that for a long time, eyes half-closed, watching the shadows dance across the walls. His breath brushes the crown of your head each time he exhales. One of his legs is tangled with yours beneath the blanket. Your thighs are pressed together. Your whole body fits against his like it was made for this.

And you think—This could be everything. This could be it.

If only.

Eventually, your chest tightens too much. The stillness becomes too loud. You feel the weight of your own desire folding in on itself like a collapsing star.

Carefully, reluctantly, you shift.

You slide your arm from across his stomach, moving slowly enough not to wake him. You lift your head from his chest. His fingers twitch again, just slightly, like some part of him senses the loss of you even in sleep.

He stirs, brow pulling faintly. Mumbles something in Spanish—soft, low, slurred with sleep. You can’t quite make it out. Maybe your name. Maybe a dream. Maybe something you were never meant to hear.

Then he rolls onto his back, sighing. The arm around your waist slips away, falls limp beside him. The blanket shifts.

And suddenly the warmth is gone.

You sit up fully, pulling your own limbs close, arms hugging your knees to your chest. Your shirt slips off one shoulder, cool air brushing your skin.

The room feels different now. Too quiet. Too cold. The air between you somehow filled with the ghost of what almost happened.

You stand, slowly, and cross to the window. Arms wrapped tight around yourself. You stare out into the dark city street, but your eyes catch on the reflection in the glass—your silhouette beside his on the couch. You, upright. Him, sleeping.

You, wide awake with everything you can’t say.

He looks so peaceful like that. Eyelashes fanned against his cheeks. Mouth parted slightly. One hand resting palm-up where you used to be.

He looks like yours.

He isn’t.

And that’s what breaks you a little.

Because he feels like home. And you’re still sleeping in the guest room of your own heart.

You press a hand to the cool glass of the window and close your eyes.

And you wonder—how long can something stay unspoken before it becomes unbearable?

How long before the silence between you splits wide enough to swallow you whole?

It’s already warm when you walk into the bar, and it only gets hotter.

Bodies sway shoulder to shoulder under the amber haze of low lights. There’s a thin layer of sweat clinging to your collarbone before you’ve even finished your first drink. The bass from the speakers thrums through your chest like a second heartbeat, low and insistent, steady enough to pull you toward it.

He finds you in the crowd without looking.

You spot him first—leaning casually against the high-top near the back, dark shirt clinging to his chest, a chain catching the light at his throat. His curls are still damp, falling into his eyes in soft, messy strands. His smile finds you the second your gaze meets his.

God, you wish he wouldn’t look at you like that. Like he knows something you haven’t let yourself admit yet.

“About time,” Joaquin calls as you slip through the crowd toward him, the familiar rasp of his voice slicing through the music, warm and low.

“You’re early,” you say, sliding into the space beside him.

“Had a feeling you’d be late.” His eyes flick down, briefly, to your bare legs, then back up—slowly. “You wore that dress.”

You glance down at it. Black, short, skin-hugging. You picked it because you liked how it made you feel. And maybe—just maybe—because you knew he’d see it.

You lift a brow. “You got a problem with it?”

“No,” he says, too quickly. His tongue clicks behind his teeth. “Not even a little.”

You look away before he can see what that does to you.

The night blurs at the edges. A round of drinks. Someone from your group orders shots. Laughter curls like smoke in the air. You loosen slowly, like film unraveling from the spool—one beat, one sip, one sidelong glance at him at a time.

He’s magnetic. Always is. People orbit him. But he keeps coming back to you.

His elbow bumps yours as he leans in to whisper something you don’t catch because the music is too loud. You turn your head, and your faces end up too close, his mouth inches from yours.

You don’t breathe.

He just smirks. “Dance with me, mami.”

You shake your head. “No one’s dancing.”

He nods toward the crowd, where couples sway and grind in a barely contained pulse of heat and sweat and need. “They are.”

You hesitate for one breath too long.

Then you nod.

And follow him in.

The music is sticky-slow now, heavy with bass and syrupy synth, the kind of rhythm that coils low in your stomach and spreads like warmth through your limbs.

Joaquin turns to face you as you step into the center of the dance floor. The world narrows. There are people all around you—laughing, moving, bodies pressed close—but the second his hands find your waist, you forget how to think about anything but him.

His touch is grounding—hot and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, fingers pressing in like he’s measuring the shape of you through muscle and memory. He pulls you closer, a smooth drag of your hips against his. His breath is slow and controlled, but his hands aren’t.

You settle your palms on his chest, just over where his heart beats slow and strong beneath your touch. His shirt is soft from wear, clinging in places where the heat has melted it to his skin, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breath under your fingertips.

Your hips begin to move—slow at first. Testing. His body matches yours without hesitation, like he already knew where to find your rhythm.

The space between you disappears.

Your chests brush. His thigh slips between yours, and you let it, let yourself move with him, let your body find that perfect friction where your thighs part and settle over the thick press of his leg.

You roll into him, just once, and the sensation—sharp, electric—shoots through you so fast it steals your breath.

His fingers tighten on your hips.

He leans in, voice low and hot against your ear. “You’re not usually this quiet.”

“I’m not usually this—” you start, then swallow hard. His thigh flexes between your legs. “This drunk.”

He makes a low sound, almost a laugh. Almost a groan. “You’re not drunk.”

“I’m buzzed,” you counter, but your voice is thinner now, breathier.

“No,” he murmurs, lips grazing the edge of your jaw. “You’re feeling me. That’s not the same thing.”

You inhale sharply when he shifts—subtle but deliberate—and the pressure between your thighs spikes. Your pulse thunders in your ears. You grab at his shirt, curling your fingers into the soft fabric at his shoulders, nails digging in just slightly when your hips grind together again.

His hand slips lower on your back. Not quite possessive. But close.

He guides you now, slow and deliberate. Rocking. Teasing. Your stomach clenches with every drag of your body over his. You’re barely dancing anymore. This isn’t for the crowd. This isn’t for the music.

This is you and him—wrapped in heat and breath and restraint that’s seconds from slipping.

“Joaquin…” you breathe.

He pulls back a fraction. Enough to see your face. Enough to make your chest heave from the loss of contact.

His eyes sweep over you—your parted lips, your flushed cheeks, your dazed, hungry stare—and his expression softens into something dangerous. Like he’s remembering every time he wanted you and didn’t touch. Every time you smiled and he looked away. Every time he could have.

He brushes his thumb along your jaw. The pad of it grazes your cheekbone.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

His voice is low. Rough. Edged with something close to please.

You should. You know that.

But his thigh is still pressed between yours, and your dress is still riding up, and your whole body feels like it’s straining toward him, like it needs him.

You don’t tell him to stop.

Instead, your hand slips up the back of his neck, into his curls, soft and damp with sweat. You curl your fingers there. You tug him down.

And then you kiss him.

Your breath catches against his lips. His jaw flexes. His fingers tighten. You kiss him like you mean to end him. Like this has been building between you for years.

It’s not careful. Not sweet. It’s messy, desperate, soaked in tequila and sweat and all the almosts you’ve survived up until now.

He groans the second your mouth slants over his, low and guttural, like the sound rips out of him without warning. His lips part, tongue swiping against yours in a kiss that’s already too much, too deep, too real. His hands are everywhere—one curling around your jaw, the other flattening low on your back, pulling your hips into his with a grind that has your thighs trembling.

You gasp into him, and he chases the sound, mouth sealing over yours again, swallowing every breath like it’s the last one he’ll get.

The music and the bodies around you disappear. All you can feel is him.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly he’s walking you backward, lips never leaving yours, hands tight on your waist as he guides you off the dance floor. You stumble into the shadows of the bar, around the corner behind a pillar near the back wall. It’s dim. Private. Hidden from view.

He presses you into the wall like he can’t not touch you. His thigh pushes between yours again and you rock down without thinking, chasing friction.

Your dress hikes up your legs, hem catching high on your thighs. The rough fabric of his jeans hits exactly where you need it, and when your hips grind against him, you whimper.

He drags his mouth down your jaw, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your throat. “You’re gonna ruin me mami,” he breathes, voice rough and wrecked. “You don’t even know.”

“I do,” you gasp, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath. His skin is hot, slick with sweat, muscles shifting beneath your fingers as you run your palms up his torso. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

He groans again—head tipping back like he’s trying to catch his breath, like he’s already lost it. His hand slides down, gripping your ass, lifting you until your back arches and your hips grind down on his thigh again, harder this time.

The seam of his jeans presses against your center and it’s too much—perfect in a way that makes your breath catch and your eyes flutter shut.

He must feel it. Must feel the way you shudder. How wet you already are.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re soaked.”

You nod, desperate. Hips still rocking. Mouth parted, panting into his breath.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Please, don’t—”

And he doesn’t. Not right away.

His mouth crashes back onto yours, kiss deeper, rougher, hand sliding up under your dress to grip the back of your thigh, the edge of your panties, fingers digging into the soft heat of your skin.

You’re moaning now, helpless against the press of his body and the way his tongue curls against yours and the thick, perfect pressure of his thigh between your legs. You roll into him shamelessly, chasing that edge, one of your hands buried in his curls, the other dragging down his chest, clutching at anything you can find.

You want him.

Here. Now. Against this wall. In the dark.

You shift, grind down harder, and your head tips back against the brick with a quiet, broken sound.

“Joaquin—”

And that’s when he breaks.

He jerks back like it hurts, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“Fuck,” he says again, this time like a warning. “This isn’t nothing, mami.”

“What—?” You blink at him, dazed, lips swollen, your thighs still trembling from the loss of him.

He steps back. One foot. Then another. Hands still hovering like he doesn’t want to stop touching you but has to.

“If we keep going…” he pants, voice low and frayed at the edges, “I’m not gonna stop.”

Your body stills. Every nerve ending still sparking. You blink at him, dazed. Still drunk on the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his thigh, the way your body nearly unraveled in his hands.

He lets out a short, shaky breath, dragging a hand through his curls. “Jesus. We’re—fuck, we’re not doing this. Not here.”

You laugh. It sounds breathless. Too high.

“Yeah,” you echo, heart slamming against your ribs. “Yeah, that would’ve been… wow. That would’ve been a terrible idea.”

“Like. Hall-of-fame level bad.”

“Bad decisions in dark corners of bars? Never ends well.”

He nods quickly, swallowing, trying to straighten his shirt, trying not to look at your thighs where your dress is still bunched up, at your lips still wet from his mouth.

“We should, uh…” he gestures vaguely toward the exit, or maybe toward time rewinding.

“Rejoin the group,” you say at the same time. Too fast.

“Right,” he mumbles.

Neither of you moves.

Then you laugh again, too loudly this time, shoving your hands through your hair. “We really need to stop pre-gaming tequila.”

He huffs a laugh, smile twitching, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Next time we’re sticking to beer. And boundaries.”

You nod. “Right. Boundaries.”

You pretend that the word doesn’t land like a bullet in your chest. You tug your dress down. He adjusts his sleeves. And then you walk back into the noise and light, side by side but never touching.

You’re both still flushed. Still buzzing. Still wrecked by what almost happened.

But you say nothing.

Because if you did, it might become real. And you’re not ready for that.

Not yet.

The next morning is quiet.

You’d expect a text. Something dumb. Some callback to tequila or dancing or—God forbid—the way his thigh felt between yours.

But there’s nothing.

No meme. No “still thinking about that guy grinding behind us” joke. No voice note where he laughs and pretends his voice isn’t hoarse from moaning into your mouth in the dark.

Just silence.

You wake up still aching. Body heavy with the aftershocks of almost. The taste of him still on your lips like a secret. The place between your legs still tender from where you chased friction against him, so close to coming undone you could barely stand.

You press your face into your pillow.

And you don’t call him either.

Two days pass.

You fill them with errands and laundry and the kinds of tasks that feel productive but really just help you avoid thinking.

You keep your phone on you like a lifeline. Check it too often. Try to stop. Fail.

When it finally buzzes with his name, your chest seizes.

Torres: Headed out with Sam for a run. Might be a few days.

No emojis. No voice note. Just… that.

Short. Casual. Dry.

It shouldn’t sting. It does anyway.

You type and delete a dozen replies before settling on:

You: Stay safe.

He doesn’t answer.

The next update doesn’t come from him.

It comes from Sam. Mid-afternoon. A phone call you weren’t expecting.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. Tense. “Wanted to give you a heads up. Torres is okay—he’s okay—but he took a hit. We’re bringing him back in tonight.”

Your whole body goes cold.

“What kind of hit?”

“Caught some shrapnel. Shoulder and ribs. Nothing life-threatening. He was conscious the whole time, just banged up. But I know you’d want to know.”

You nod even though he can’t see you. “Yeah. Thanks, Sam.”

Your voice comes out calmer than it should. He hangs up after a few more assurances. But you’re already pacing. Already pulling on shoes. Already at the door before your brain catches up with the fact that you don’t even know where they’re bringing him yet.

You find him at the safehouse. Small, tucked on the edge of the city. Sam texted the location twenty minutes later, and you made it there in fifteen.

Joaquin is on the couch when you arrive. Shirtless. Wrapped in gauze. His hair is damp with sweat, curls flattened to his forehead, eyes half-lidded like he hasn’t really slept yet.

He doesn’t hear you come in.

He looks… wrecked. And still, somehow, so fucking beautiful.

You kneel beside the couch before he notices you. Place a hand—soft, careful—on the edge of the cushion.

He blinks. Sees you.

You try to smile.

“Hey.”

His lips twitch. “Hey, mami.” The nickname makes your throat close. It feels different now. Too tender.

You swallow it down. “Sam said you were okay.”

He shrugs. Winces. “Define okay.”

Your eyes sweep over him—slow, searching. Bandages across his ribs. Gauze at his shoulder. Bruises darkening along his side. His fingers twitch slightly, like he’s still wired, like his body doesn’t know how to stop fighting.

“You look like shit.”

He grins. “You always know what to say.”

You reach out, tentative. Brush a strand of hair off his forehead. He leans into it without thinking.

“I would’ve come sooner if—” You stop. Breathe. “I didn’t know.”

His smile fades, just slightly. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well,” you murmur, hand still in his hair, “too late for that.”

You expect him to tease again. Make a joke. Pretend. But he doesn’t.

His eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes. And for the first time since that night, he looks like he might actually say something real.

Then he exhales, and just like that—it’s gone. “Help me sit up?” he asks, voice thin with effort.

You nod. Slide in behind him, letting him lean against your chest as you help shift him upright. He groans as his muscles pull.

“Careful,” you murmur, arms around him. “Don’t be a hero.”

His head tilts back against your shoulder. His breath fans over your collarbone.

“I missed this,” he whispers.

You stiffen.

“This?”

“Being around you.” A pause. “You smell like home.”

Your heart twists.

You could say something now. Me too. I was scared. I thought maybe you regretted it. I didn’t want to make it worse.

But instead, you laugh—soft, almost shy. “Still high on pain meds?”

“Definitely.”

And that’s the story you’ll both stick to.

Later, when the pain meds finally start to pull him under, he grows quiet.

Not just tired—quiet in that way Joaquin only ever gets when he doesn’t want you to know how bad it really is.

His head is heavy where it rests against your shoulder. One arm loosely bandaged, the other draped across his lap. The bruises along his ribs are starting to darken into something angry. His breathing has evened out, but every now and then, he winces when he shifts, like his body won’t let him forget.

You brush your fingers through his curls, soft and slow, and he makes a sound—almost a purr. Eyes closed, lips parted, too relaxed to be pretending anymore.

“You should lie back,” you whisper.

“No,” he murmurs. “Comfortable.”

“You’re going to mess up your back.”

“Don’t care.”

You shake your head but don’t push it. He’s warm against you. Steady. Too much. Not enough.

A few minutes pass in silence, just the soft hum of the fan in the corner and the weight of his body against yours. You think maybe he’s drifted off—his breath is steady, eyelids unmoving.

You shift a little, adjusting your leg under him.

His hand shoots out. Finds yours. Grabs it.

Your heart skips.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Stay,” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep. “Just—don’t move.”

You blink, startled. “Joaquin—”

“I’m not sleeping if you let go,” he says, clearer now. Dramatic. Almost pouty. “Swear to God, I’ll fight you with one working arm.”

You stifle a laugh. “You’re literally half-conscious.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t win.”

You roll your eyes and squeeze his hand. “Fine.”

But he doesn’t let go.

Not even after you settle deeper into the couch. Not even after his head tips forward again, breath soft against your collarbone. His hand stays locked with yours—firm, possessive, a silent tether.

Like if he lets go, he might drift somewhere he can’t come back from.

You don’t try to pull away again.

Instead, you trace your thumb slowly across his knuckles. Watch the way his fingers twitch, even in sleep, adjusting to keep you close. He mumbles something too soft to catch—your name maybe, or just a breath of it.

And still, he holds on.

Like he’s afraid you’ll leave if he doesn’t.

Like somewhere deep down, even beneath the denial and the laughter and the half-spoken nothings, he already knows.

So you stay there. Hand in his. Heart unraveling slowly in your chest. And you let him hold on.

Even if neither of you is ready to admit what it means.

Joaquin’s healing.

Physically, anyway.

The bruises along his ribs have gone yellow at the edges. The stiffness in his shoulder only shows when he thinks no one’s looking. He walks the stairs two at a time again. Smiles more. Flirts more. His laugh is back—loud, whole, dangerous.

But the space between you hasn’t healed at all.

You still talk every day. You still know his order before he says it. You still bring him protein bars he likes and roll your eyes when he tells you he doesn’t need them.

But something’s changed. And neither of you will name it.

He comes by late.

Almost midnight.

He knocks like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the first time he’s shown up at your door since the kiss. Like the air between you hasn’t shifted so fully that even breathing the same space feels dangerous now.

You open the door in your sleep shirt—one of those oversized, threadbare things that hangs off one shoulder and smells like detergent and summer. You weren’t trying to look good. You weren’t trying to tempt him.

But the way his eyes pause on you says you did anyway.

He clears his throat. “Forgot my external charger.”

You arch a brow. “You own, like, three.”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging into that familiar half-smile. “Yeah, but this one’s my favorite.”

You step aside to let him in. The apartment is quiet. Dim. The glow from the kitchen spills down the hall like a whisper. You move ahead of him without a word, padding barefoot over tile, shoulders loose with exhaustion you don’t quite feel.

You pour a glass of water at the sink, and when you turn, he’s still there—leaning against the counter like it’s habit, eyes following your every movement.

His gaze drops.

To your thighs, bare beneath the hem of your shirt. To the curve of your shoulder where the fabric slips. To the place where your lips part as you bring the glass to your mouth.

You hand him the charger like it’s a lifeline. Like it might give you something to hold onto.

“You’re good now?” you ask, voice light. Easy.

He nods. “Back to mission-ready, according to Sam.”

“That’s good.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. It feels brittle. Forced.

He doesn’t leave.

He lingers in the quiet, something heavy settling into the space between your bodies—familiar and foreign all at once. Then he says it, too casual to be casual.

“Lea called again.”

You blink. Slowly. Like you didn’t hear him.

But you did.

You always do.

Your stomach knots before the words finish landing. That slow, cold twist you know too well. You open the fridge to give your hands something to do. To hide the way your expression falters, just for a second.

You stare into the light, at rows of neatly arranged condiments, and say, “What’d she want?”

Behind you, he shrugs. You hear the soft rustle of fabric. The creak of the counter as he shifts his weight.

“Just to talk,” he says. “Said she missed me.”

You shut the fridge a little harder than necessary. The sound echoes.

You don’t look at him. You just lean your hands on the counter and stare down at the pale stretch of tile, the pattern you’ve memorized. The silence pulls taut between you, like thread stretched to its limit.

You tell yourself: If he wanted you, he’d say something.

You tell yourself: He already had his chance.

But your throat is tight. Your skin is flushed. Your pulse won’t slow.

You take a breath and finally turn toward him. He’s already watching you. Not in the teasing way you’re used to. Not with a smile or a smirk. But still. Quiet. Unreadable.

His eyes catch yours and hold. And in that pause—drawn out, aching, so heavy you feel it in your chest—you wonder if he’s waiting for you to say it.

For you to break first.

Because he’s looking at you like he knows.

Like he’s already read every line of your silence and decided he’d rather live in it than force either of you to say the one thing that might unravel everything.

You blink.

He doesn’t.

And for a moment, the whole world shrinks to the space between you, the weight of your longing, and the truth neither of you dares to name.

You start dating again the following week.

At first, it’s defiance. A kind of protest you carry in your posture, your lipstick, the tilt of your head when you smile just a little too easily. You say yes when a stranger buys you a drink. You swipe right on someone who seems decent. You respond to texts with emojis and exclamation points. You even laugh out loud on the first date—partly because he’s funny, mostly because you don’t want to be thinking about anyone else.

But you are.

Always.

Even when you’re sitting across from Eli, who’s all clean lines and expensive cologne, you find yourself watching the door, thinking how Joaquin always shows up ten minutes late with some half-assed excuse and a grin that makes up for it.

Eli’s sweet. Polite. He opens your car door, asks about your work, orders a second glass of wine only when you do. He smiles when you talk, really listens. His teeth are a little too straight. His opinions a little too smooth. His fingers, when they brush yours, make you feel nothing at all.

You say yes to a second date anyway.

Mostly because Joaquin hasn’t asked about the first.

You don’t know what makes you more bitter—the fact that he didn’t ask, or the fact that he clearly noticed.

You catch him glancing at your phone one afternoon when it buzzes on the armrest between you. Just a flicker of his eyes before he looks away. But you see it.

You always do.

He doesn’t say a word.

You don’t either.

You keep talking about the mission Sam wants him on. You keep sipping your iced coffee. You keep acting like the string between your ribcage and his hasn’t grown taut enough to snap.

The invitation comes two days later, and of course, it’s her.

You’re on your balcony, ankles crossed, a blanket wrapped around your legs. The sun’s started its slow descent, painting the sky with blush-pink clouds. You’ve got a mug in your hands, something lukewarm and too sweet. You’re trying to read, but your eyes keep skating across the same line.

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: Hey :) Joaquin said you’re seeing someone?? Eli?? Thought it could be cute if we all went out together sometime! Me, him, you, your guy. Like a double date but not awkward. Just fun!

What do you think?

You reread it four times. Your stomach drops on the first. You start to laugh on the second. By the third, you’re wondering if this is some kind of cosmic punishment.

And by the fourth, you feel nothing at all.

You don’t respond. You don’t even move. Your thumb hovers over the screen, motionless, until another message pings—this time from the contact that matters more than it should.

Torres: Lea got excited. Said it might be “healing.” I told her I’d ask you. But we don’t have to.

Your chest tightens at how careful he’s being. How neutral. How unassuming.

You know he’s waiting. Waiting for you to call it off. To say no. To admit it’s too messy. Too weird. Too fucking painful.

But you don’t.

Because you’re not sure what you’re more afraid of: saying no and him pulling away, or saying yes and having to watch him touch her across the table.

You don’t answer right away.

You stay outside until the sun sinks below the skyline and the warmth fades from your mug. By the time you go back inside, it’s already decided.

And somehow, the plan is in motion.

You, Eli.

Lea.

And Joaquin.

You meet him for coffee the day before the double date.

Neutral territory. Daylight. Public. All the safeguards in place to keep your heart from doing something stupid.

He gets there first, which is rare. You spot him through the window before you push the door open—head bowed slightly, fingers curled around a paper cup, his other hand idly tapping at the lid like he’s got something restless beneath his skin.

His curls are messy. Sunglasses pushed up into them like he forgot they were there. Chain loose at his throat. Hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms.

Too casual. Too him.

You swallow hard and make your way over.

He stands when you approach. Hands you your drink without looking you in the eye. The contact is brief—warm fingers brushing yours—but your pulse leaps anyway.

You sit across from him and take a long sip, pretending you don’t notice how stiff your spine has gone. How wide the table suddenly feels between you.

“This is weird, right?” you say eventually, with a laugh that sounds thinner than you meant.

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “Only if we make it weird.”

You nod. “Right. Totally.”

A beat of silence stretches between you. You stir your drink even though there’s nothing in it that needs stirring.

“You seem okay,” you say, keeping your voice light.

“I am,” he says. Then he tilts his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours for the first time. “Are you?”

You freeze.

Your fingers tighten around the cup. Your heartbeat stutters.

You look at him—really look at him.

At the soft curve of his mouth, the faint bruise still healing at his jaw. The little freckle just beneath his left eye that only shows when the sun hits right. The way his hoodie collar hangs open just enough to expose the glint of chain against collarbone, skin you remember tasting. Wanting.

You remember how his thigh felt between yours. How his breath caught when you moaned into his mouth. How he pressed you against the wall like you were the only thing holding him up.

You remember what he said—I’m not gonna stop—and how you almost let him prove it.

And you remember the silence that followed. The careful steps backward. The joke. The laugh. The way neither of you brought it up again.

The way it’s still there, buzzing beneath your skin like it never stopped.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

He nods.

Doesn’t press.

Doesn’t call you on it.

But his eyes linger on you a moment longer. Long enough to make your stomach flip. Long enough to make you wonder if he’s trying to ask a different question entirely—and neither of you knows how to answer it.

That night, you try on three dresses.

Then four.

Each one gets discarded more violently than the last.

Too short. Too low. Too soft. Too obvious.

You finally settle on a black one. Simple. Clean lines. High neckline. Just enough curve to pretend you’re not hiding in it.

You tell yourself you’re going neutral. You’re being respectful. But really, it’s that you don’t want him to look at you the way he did in the bar. Don’t want to feel the way you did when his thigh pressed up between yours and he moaned into your mouth like he was starving.

Because you don’t know what you’d do if it happened again. If he looked at you like that in front of her. If he touched you like that when someone else is watching.

You pull your hair up and change your earrings three times before giving up completely. Your skin is too warm. Your stomach’s in knots.

And when you check your phone, there’s a text from Eli confirming the time for tomorrow.

Under it, there’s a heart emoji.

And all you can think is:

It’s not from the right person.

You set your phone face down and stare at the mirror, wondering how the hell you’re going to survive sitting next to him tomorrow.

Watching him flirt with her.

While pretending you didn’t already taste what he sounds like when he can’t catch his breath.

You arrive first.

Eli’s hand rests at the small of your back as you step into the restaurant—upscale, dimly lit, all amber tones and soft jazz that makes you feel like you’re trapped inside a movie you didn’t audition for. You let him lead you to the hostess stand, let him say your name, let him touch you like it means something.

You feel none of it.

You spot them before they spot you.

Lea’s laughing—head tilted, red lipstick perfect, long nails curled around a wine glass like she’s posing for a lifestyle ad. Joaquin is beside her and he’s already looking at you.

Has been, apparently.

You meet his gaze across the room. One second. Two. Long enough to register the tension in his jaw. The way his eyes flick to where Eli’s hand still lingers on your back.

He doesn’t smile.

Neither do you.

Then she notices you and waves—bright, enthusiastic, like none of this is strange. Like your stomach isn’t already twisting into something ugly.

You follow Eli to the table, plastering a smile on your face that feels like it might crack if anyone looks too closely.

Joaquin stands, pulls your chair out like a gentleman.

“Hey,” he says softly, only to you.

You glance up at him, trying not to breathe in the warmth of him, the way he smells like spice and cologne and something you still dream about.

“Hey,” you echo.

You’re seated across from him, just like she planned—perfect symmetry, like this was supposed to be cute. Eli beside you, smiling easily. Lea beside Joaquin, laughing too loud, tossing her hair like she knows she looks good.

Joaquin hasn’t said much.

He offers short replies when spoken to, but mostly he drinks from his water glass and watches the candles flicker. His jaw’s tense. His smile comes late, if at all. His shoulders haven’t relaxed once since you sat down.

You try not to watch him too closely.

Try not to notice the blue of his shirt—the one that makes his skin look more radiant. The way he shaved, but not too clean. The tiny scar at the edge of his chin that only shows when he tips his head just right.

You try not to think about how his mouth felt against yours.

You fail.

Eli is telling some story about a surf trip to Baja, and you’re nodding politely, sipping wine you don’t care about, when you see it.

Joaquin’s leg is bouncing under the table. Fast. Restless. The way it always does when he’s anxious or overthinking.

You’ve known that tic since you were nineteen.

Without meaning to, without even fully realizing what you’re doing, you shift in your chair and stretch your leg out beneath the table—pressing your calf against his.

The movement is slow. Deliberate. Your knee brushes his first. Then more of you touches him.

The bounce stops instantly.

You feel his body go still. The sharp inhale he doesn’t let out.

You don’t look at him right away but you don’t move your leg either. You stay connected, just like that—calf to calf, knee to knee, warmth pressing into warmth beneath the white linen tablecloth, hidden from the people who don’t know any better.

Eli keeps talking. Lea laughs at something and bumps Joaquin’s arm with hers. He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t lean in either.

You glance up, finally.

And find him looking straight at you.

Not just looking—seeing.

His mouth parts slightly. His brows pull together, just the faintest crease between them. And his eyes—God, his eyes—are full of something unreadable. Something wrecked. Something like regret. Something like realization.

For a second, the restaurant fades.

You’re not on a date. You’re not seated next to other people you don’t want.

It’s just the two of you.

The pressure of your leg against his. The memory of his breath in your mouth. The pulse you can feel between your legs. And then someone says his name—Lea’s voice, light and oblivious—and he looks away.

The moment passes.

But you don’t move your leg.

And neither does he.

The night eases into something smoother than expected.

Soft jazz hums overhead. Candlelight flickers low across the table. The air smells faintly of citrus and red wine and something richer beneath it—something warm. Familiar.

Lea’s voice drifts across the conversation, layered with Eli’s easy baritone, both of them carrying on, talking about some new art exhibit, or maybe a weekend hike—they’re words you nod along with, but barely track.

Because across the table, Joaquin says something under his breath and you snort before you even catch the full shape of it. Your glass stills midair. Your mouth pulls into a grin without your permission.

The laugh bubbles out of you anyway.

“I did not almost get arrested,” you say, pointing at him across the candle.

He arches a brow, smug and lazy. “You scaled the embassy gate in a blackout hoodie and forgot you had three knives on you.”

“One was decorative,” you shoot back.

“It was pink.”

“And glittery.”

“And illegal.”

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. The table chuckles around you, but you’re not looking at them. You’re looking at him. And he’s looking right back. His eyes glint—low, amused, golden in the soft light.

It feels like breathing for the first time in weeks.

You don’t even realize your knees are still pressed together beneath the table until he shifts—reaching for his drink, leaning in just slightly—and the press of his thigh against yours deepens.

The contact sparks.

Sharp. Immediate.

You don’t move. Instead, you let your shin slide against his, the slow drag of flesh on denim, heat on heat.

A pause.

Then—you feel it.

The inhale.

Barely a breath. His throat working around it. The soft twitch of his fingers on the glass as if he almost forgot how to hold it.

You look down. Then up. Catch him mid-sip, his eyes cutting sideways toward yours.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

There’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips now. Something private.

And you should look away but all you can think about is the way his hands felt curled around your thighs. The taste of his mouth, hot and impatient. His breath at your ear, the rasp of his voice when he groaned into your throat like he needed you just to stay upright.

His leg shifts slightly. Yours follows. Neither of you flinch.

The others are still talking. Laughing. Clinking glasses.

And between you and Joaquin—beneath the tablecloth, in the quiet hum of your locked knees and sliding calves—there’s a conversation happening no one else can hear.

And you remember, all over again, just how easy it is to fall into rhythm with him. You think about the soft rasp of his voice when he said, “This isn’t nothing, mami.”

And the way he said nothing at all afterward.

And how impossible it’s becoming to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

When the night ends, there are no dramatic goodbyes. No outbursts. No tension you can’t smooth over.

The others talk about meeting up again.

You laugh, say something noncommittal. Joaquin opens the door for you as you leave.

He says, “Get home safe,” low and quiet.

You murmur, “You too.”

And when you pass him, your arm brushes his. He turns his head.

But he doesn’t say anything.

And you don’t look back.

You’re sitting side by side on your couch two weeks later, two takeout containers balanced across your thighs, legs kicked up on the coffee table, some mindless documentary playing in the background. Joaquin’s thigh brushes yours now and then, like always. You pass the sauce back and forth. You argue about whether or not the narrator’s accent is fake. It feels normal.

You almost convince yourself it is.

Until he says it.

“Lea asked to talk tonight.”

You freeze with your fork halfway to your mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. FaceTime. She said it’s important.”

You don’t ask what it’s about. You already know.

Or at least—you think you do.

You imagine it before he can explain: her, bright-eyed, soft-voiced, asking him to finally make it official again. That this time, she means it. That this time, they’ll try for real.

You imagine his fingers on her waist instead of yours. His smile, easy and golden, reserved for someone else. You imagine how easy it would be to lose him—really lose him—and still have to sit across from him like it doesn’t tear something vital out of you.

You force a nod. “Cool.”

Cool. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you’re not already bracing for something to end.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just glances at you, his eyes heavy, unreadable. His hand twitches like he might reach for yours.

But he doesn’t.

You don’t look at him.

You just keep eating, eyes on the screen, heart sinking slow and quiet into your ribs.

He doesn’t tell you when the call is. Doesn’t say if he’s nervous.

But he doesn’t finish his food either.

And you sit there together, close and silent, pretending this moment isn’t about to change everything.

You’re barefoot when he knocks.

The wineglass in your hand is nearly empty. Your legs are curled beneath you on the couch, some show droning on in the background that you’re not really watching. Your phone is face-down on the coffee table, ignored. You’d already decided tonight was going to be one of those quiet, aching nights—where you keep the lights low and pretend the pit in your stomach isn’t growing.

Then comes the knock. Slow. Familiar.

You don’t even check. You already know.

When you open the door, he’s standing there—hoodie half-zipped, curls mussed like he’s been dragging his fingers through them, expression unreadable.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you. Like he’s searching for something. Like he doesn’t know what it is.

You step aside, and he slips past you without a word. His hand brushes yours as he goes by.

Your skin burns.

He drops onto your couch like his body finally gave out—sprawled wide, hands on his knees, head tipped back like he might sink straight into the cushions and disappear.

You stand there for a beat, watching the rise and fall of his chest. His leg bounces—nervous, always. He doesn’t look at you.

You head to the kitchen and pour him the last of the wine, lukewarm now. He takes the glass when you offer it but doesn’t drink.

Instead, he stares at the rim, thumb brushing the condensation.

“She met someone.” His voice is rough. Unfiltered.

“Lea?” You blink, not sure you heard right.

He nods once. You’re stunned. Of all the things you were bracing for—that wasn’t it.

She’s been wrapped around him since the beginning. Even when they were off, she always seemed one emotional voicemail away from crawling back into his lap. And he let her.

You expected a rekindling.

Not this.

You swallow around the twist in your throat. “What… what did she say?”

“Said she met someone a few weeks ago,” he says. His voice is too even. “That she didn’t want to leave things unclear. Said it was time to move on.”

You lower yourself into the armchair across from him, your wineglass forgotten in your hand.

“How do you feel about that?”

He looks at you then. And doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches you. Too long. Long enough that your skin starts to warm beneath his stare.

Your mouth parts like you might say something else, but you don’t. You just watch him watch you.

His gaze drops—for a moment—to your knees, bare and folded under your oversized tee. Then up, trailing over the soft slope of your shoulder where your shirt’s slipping just slightly off. The neckline’s too wide. It always hangs off you like that.

You hadn’t meant to look like this. You hadn’t expected company.

“I’m happy for her,” he says finally, with a shrug that’s too slow to be casual.

You nod, even as your stomach twists. “Are you sure that’s not, like… weird?” you murmur, trying to sound neutral. “I mean—she was always so… into you. And I thought you were maybe—”

He moves. A sudden shift. Not violent. But deliberate.

You stop talking. Because he rises from the couch with that soft, deadly grace he always carries on missions—like he’s not sure what he’s doing until he’s already doing it. And then he’s in front of you, lowering slowly, crouching at the edge of your chair.

His face is level with yours now. His hands rest on his knees. Then one lifts.

You don’t flinch.

He reaches forward, slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers graze the shell of it, warm and callused, and trail down to your jaw.

You can’t breathe. Not really. Not when he’s this close. Not when his touch is gentle like this, like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

His thumb lingers at your jawline.

You try to keep your face still, but you’re sure your eyes give you away. They always do.

He leans in—just slightly. His breath ghosts across your lips. You catch the faintest scent of him: soap, spice, something underneath that you’ve never been able to name. Something that always pulls you in.

The space between your mouths crackles. Charged. Fragile.

You don’t lean in. But you don’t lean back either.

Then—softly, with the hint of a smirk—you hear him say it.

“I’m here flirting with you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “so what do you think, mami?”

And your heart stutters. Because it sounds like a tease. Like the way he always says stupid shit when things get heavy. But his eyes are dead serious. His hand doesn’t move from your face. Your pulse thunders.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because this feels too close to truth. Too dangerous. Too much.

So instead, you smile like you always do when he’s too much. You reach up and gently, slowly, take his hand from your jaw.

“Joaquin,” you say, soft. Neutral.

He lets you. Lets you lower his hand to his lap, though his fingers linger—half-curled around yours for a beat longer than they should.

Then he shifts back, rising to his feet again, sighing like he’s not sure whether to laugh or swear.

You both let the moment go. At least, on the surface. But your chest is still tight. Your lips still burn.

And his eyes stay on you like he’s trying to decide something.

He doesn’t move back to the couch. Just stands there for a second, looking down at you—his hands curled at his sides, that same unreadable expression tugging at the corners of his mouth. You feel the weight of something building, coiling in the air between you.

Then, finally, he asks, “You still with Eli?”

The question is soft. Careful. His voice lower than before.

“What?” You blink up at him.

“Eli,” he repeats, eyes on yours. “You still seeing him?”

You almost laugh. Because of all the things you thought he might say next—that wasn’t on the list.

You lean back against the cushion, exhaling. “No. He ghosted me last week.”

Joaquin’s brows lift. “Seriously?”

You nod, swirling the wine left in your glass. “Haven’t heard from him since our last date. Didn’t really mind, though.”

That gets a faint smile out of him. “Cold.”

You shrug. “Selective.”

A beat of quiet.

He shifts his weight, then lowers himself back onto the couch—closer this time. Not touching. But the air between you has tightened again. His thigh is inches from yours.

You can feel the heat of him.

“Can I tell you something?” he says.

You glance sideways. “You’re gonna anyway.”

He smiles at that. A real one.

“I’ve been thinking about you.”

You freeze. Not visibly—at least, you hope not—but your breath stills in your throat.

“Not just lately,” he adds, voice slower now. “I mean… since the Air Force.”

You turn, staring at him. He’s not looking at you this time. His gaze is on the floor, brows furrowed, lips parted slightly like he’s working his way through the words.

“Back when we were nineteen,” he says. “Sharing shitty MREs in the back of that busted truck in Kuwait. You remember that?”

Of course you do. The dust in your hair. The blistering heat. The cold sweat from nerves neither of you wanted to admit. His thigh pressed against yours in the dark, his shoulder the only thing steady enough to lean on when the sandstorms hit.

You remember his laugh cutting through your exhaustion.

You remember wondering, once, if you’d ever feel safer than when his hand brushed yours in the dark—accidental, but maybe not.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I remember.”

“I used to think about kissing you back then,” he says, quiet. Blunt. Like he’s just letting it fall out now. “Didn’t let myself. Thought it would fuck everything up. Or that you’d laugh.”

“I wouldn’t have,” you say, almost before he finishes.

He looks at you now. You hold his gaze.

Neither of you blink.

His mouth parts, and for a second, you think maybe he’ll reach for you again.

But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

“I was an idiot,” he murmurs. “Letting you get that close and not saying anything.”

You nod. Your throat’s tight. “Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”

The silence stretches. Not empty. Not uncomfortable.

Electric.

Joaquin’s eyes flick from your mouth to your eyes and back again.

And still—neither of you look away.

“I kept thinking I had more time,” he says, voice low.

Your chest aches.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “Not really.”

His hand twitches between you, resting on the cushion. Close enough that if you moved an inch—

You do.

You slide your fingers toward his, brushing lightly, the softest stroke.

He exhales sharply, almost like a choke, and in one breathless motion, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours—not careful this time, not tentative. It’s a kiss full of wasted years and the ache of almosts. Teeth clashing. Hands greedy. Your wineglass falls to the carpet with a dull thud, forgotten, warm drops soaking the fibers.

Joaquin pulls you into his lap in one motion—your knees straddling his thighs, your fingers already fisting in the fabric at his shoulders. He groans against your mouth, low and guttural, as your hips roll against his without thinking.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not slow.

It’s starving.

His hands find your thighs, then higher—gripping under the hem of your shirt, dragging it up until your ribs are bare to the cool air.

You break the kiss long enough to pull the shirt over your head. His eyes drag over you like he can’t believe this is real.

Then you’re kissing again, harder now. His fingers splay across your back, his hips lifting to meet yours. The friction is maddening—heat grinding into heat, breath panting between kisses that don’t stop.

You tug his hoodie up.

He helps you rip it off.

His skin is hot. Familiar. You’d seen him shirtless more times than you could count, but this was different. This was want.

He kisses your jaw, down your neck, bites just hard enough at your shoulder that you gasp, clutching him tighter.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “I should’ve done this years ago.”

“You’re doing it now,” you breathe, your mouth dragging along his jaw, his neck, the edge of his ear.

His hands find your ass, pulling you tight against the bulge in his sweats, and you grind down, both of you gasping.

There’s nothing careful left.

He stands with you in his arms—lifts you without warning. You gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“Couch?” he pants.

You shake your head. “Bedroom.”

He nearly stumbles trying to make it there, your body wrapped around him, your mouth on his jaw, his throat, his shoulder—any part of him you can reach. You both laugh breathlessly as he kicks open your door, backs you into it blindly, presses you against the wood with his full weight.

His hands grip your thighs like he’s claiming them. His forehead rests against yours, panting.

“You sure?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You don’t even speak. You just kiss him. And then you say, “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He lays you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Your sheets are cool, but his body is fire—warm, broad, solid as he crawls over you, lips never leaving yours. The kiss slows, deepens. Tongue curling slow against yours in a rhythm that makes your stomach twist tight. His hand cups your jaw. His thumb strokes your cheek like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Mami,” he breathes against your mouth. “I swear to God…”

You arch into him, gasping when your bare chest drags against his. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, his chain dragging across your sternum, and when your thighs part for him, his hips settle between them like they’ve always belonged there.

He grinds once. Slow. Deep. Measured.

You both break apart with a groan that sounds like pain.

“Fuck—Joaquin.”

He does it again.

And again.

Deep, sinful rolls of his hips, dragging the length of his cock through the soaked fabric of his sweats and your panties. You’re so wet the friction sends shivers up your spine. The pressure is maddening. Not enough. Just enough.

His head drops to your shoulder. “Been thinking about this since that night at the bar,” he groans. “You riding my thigh, whining in my mouth. Fuck, mami…”

You bite his shoulder. “You should’ve said something.”

“You should’ve said something.” His hand slides between you, tugging your panties aside. His fingers find you instantly—wet, swollen, aching—and he drags them through your folds with reverence.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “This all for me?”

You nod, eyes fluttering, hips arching into his touch. “It’s always been for you.”

He groans like it physically hurts him, then leans back, tugging his sweats down just enough to free himself. You can’t stop staring—hard, flushed, dripping precome. Your mouth waters.

But you don’t have time to speak.

He’s lining up, sliding the thick head through your slick folds, teasing you both with how slowly he moves.

And then—finally—he pushes in.

You both moan like you’re falling apart. Because he’s thick. Stretching you inch by inch. Filling you in a way that makes your body seize and melt all at once.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You’re so tight. So fucking perfect.”

Your nails dig into his back. You’re trying to breathe, to adjust, but he feels too good. Like he’s settling into a space that’s always been waiting for him.

He bottoms out.

Pauses.

His breath trembles against your cheek as he presses a kiss there. Then one to your temple. One to the hollow of your neck.

You can feel his heart pounding—inside you, against you, around you.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, voice wrecked. “Move. Please.”

And when he does—it’s slow. Deep. Measured.

Not rushed.

Not frantic.

Just devastating.

Each roll of his hips presses you deeper into the mattress. The drag of him against your walls is enough to steal your breath, to make your toes curl and your fingers claw at the sheets.

His hand slips under your thigh, lifting it high around his waist so he can sink even deeper.

He kisses you between thrusts—your mouth, your neck, the edge of your collarbone—like he needs every inch of you mapped onto his mouth, claimed cell by cell.

Your breath stutters.

His chain swings gently between your breasts with every grind. Cool metal against flushed skin. A contrast that makes you shiver.

“Mami,” he groans, voice ragged. “Se siente tan jodidamente bien. Voy a perder la cabeza.” It feels so fucking good. I’m going to lose my mind.

You don’t know the words—but the tone of them wrecks you.

Rough. Desperate. Reverent.

He groans again, the sound dragging from his throat like it’s being pulled out of him.

“You feel too good,” he pants. “I’m not gonna last.”

“You will,” you breathe. “You have to. You made me wait this long.”

His laugh is sharp and ruined. His next thrust is harder.

You gasp.

Your heel digs into the small of his back. “You trying to punish me?” he breathes, voice hot at your ear.

“A little.”

He kisses you again—open, filthy, needy. Tongue curling with yours, hand gripping your ass, grinding his hips slow and relentless, dragging you over every inch of him.

You’re soaked. So far gone. And when his pelvis rocks just right, the friction over your clit makes you moan, helpless.

“You close?” he asks, eyes dark, mouth swollen.

You nod, frantic.

“Touch yourself.”

You reach between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

“That’s it,” he breathes, watching you. Feeling you. “Let me see you fall apart, baby. Let me feel you come on this cock.”

Then—softer, like it slips out without him meaning to, he says, “Siempre ha sido tú. Desde el primer día. Nunca dejé de quererte.” It’s always been you. Since day one. I never stopped loving you.

You don’t know what he said, but it sounds ruined. Like confession. Like prayer.

Your body tenses.

The orgasm snaps through you—tight and deep and blinding. Your fingers dig into his shoulder, your mouth drops open around a cry, and he groans when he feels it, when your walls clamp around him, pulsing.

“Fuck—fuck, mami, I’m—”

His hips stutter. He thrusts once. Twice. Then buries himself to the hilt and stays.

You feel him pulse inside you. Feel him come—deep, hot, filling you with a broken moan.

He collapses onto you, gasping against your neck. His whole body twitching, hips jerking reflexively.

Still holding you.

Still inside you.

Then—barely audible, like the words were never meant to be heard, “Te amo tanto que duele.” I love you so much it hurts.

You don’t know what it means. Not exactly. But it sounds like love. It feels like surrender.

And you hold him tighter, like maybe that’ll help you understand. Because even if you don’t know the words—his body, his mouth, his hands—they’ve been saying it for years.

He doesn’t move. Just rests there, still inside you, head buried against your neck. His voice is soft when it finally returns. “You were always mine,” he whispers.

You close your eyes.

Swallow hard.

And then—because you can’t make the same mistake again—you answer.

“I’ve loved you since the Air Force,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Since you gave me your last bite of cold chili mac and made me laugh so I wouldn’t cry.”

His breath hitches. You tilt your face toward his, fingers still in his hair, forcing him to look at you.

“I’m not making the mistake of not saying it this time.”

His eyes—wide, glassy, stunned—search your face. And then he kisses you. Softer this time.

Like a promise.

Like a yes.

He pulls back just enough to look at you—really look at you. His hand brushes your cheek, thumb catching on the tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“Te amo,” he says quietly. No hesitation. No performance. Then, in English, just as soft but more certain, “I love you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he’s known it forever and only now found the courage to let it breathe.

“I think I’ve loved you since the first time you stole my dessert and didn’t even apologize.”

You laugh—wet, stunned, shaking. “You said you didn’t want it.”

“I lied. I wanted the dessert.” He leans in, kissing your forehead. “But I wanted you more.”

You breathe into his shoulder, overwhelmed. Anchored. Neither of you runs this time. Because there’s nothing left to outrun.

Just this.

Just home.

Sunlight bleeds through the curtain slats.

You feel it first on your cheek, warm and soft, pulling you out of a dream you don’t remember. The sheets are tangled beneath you. Your legs ache. Your mouth is dry.

But you’re not alone.

You shift slightly, and a warm hand flexes at your waist.

His hand. His arm. His chest against your back, breath slow and steady. One of his legs is tangled with yours, and his other hand is buried under the pillow you’re both sharing. His face is tucked into the crook of your neck, and when you sigh, content and sore, he makes a sound deep in his throat and tightens his hold like he’s not ready to wake up.

You stay like that for a while. Not thinking. Not bracing.

Just being.

It’s strange, how normal it feels. Like this has happened before. Like it’s always meant to happen.

Eventually, you roll to face him. His brow twitches at the shift, his lashes fluttering, and when his eyes open, they’re soft with sleep.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.

You smile. “Hey.”

He blinks slow, eyes roaming your face like he’s checking to see if this is real. If you’re still here.

You brush a curl from his forehead. His lips curve into a sleepy smile.

“You okay?” he asks, thumb finding the edge of your hip beneath the sheet. His touch is casual, but not forgettable.

You nod. “Are you?”

He leans in and kisses your jaw. Then your cheek. Then your lips. “Yeah,” he says against your mouth. “I’m good.”

You breathe a little easier at that.

For a while, you just lie there. Talking about nothing. The weather. The way your neighbor’s dog won’t shut up. The fact that your back’s probably going to be sore all day because of how hard he railed you into the mattress.

He laughs, smug and bright.

You smack his chest.

He catches your hand. Laces your fingers through his. Doesn’t let go.

It’s so easy.

So him.

And so familiar it should feel like surreal.

But it doesn’t.

Because here’s the truth: almost nothing has changed.

You’re still talking the same. Teasing the same. Moving through the kitchen the same as you both get up to make coffee, shoulder-checking and stealing sips. He still curses too colorfully when he burns his fingers on the toaster. You still hum the same stupid song when you rinse your mugs.

Everything’s the same.

Except now, he walks up behind you at the sink and wraps his arms around your waist.

Except now, when you pass him a towel, he leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth just because he can.

Except now, when he sits beside you on the couch, his hand finds your thigh like it’s always belonged there—and yours covers it like it knows.

And when he presses his forehead to yours later, eyes warm and full and unguarded, he doesn’t have to say anything.

You already know.

And this time—neither of you run.

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nolita-fairytale · 2 months ago

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i have NO idea what the plot would be. maybe it’s a headcanon…!

no but why am i thinking about chef au joaquin torres *cries*

thanks to men's health, we know that danny ramirez is a bad cook and so i did in fact make him a bad cook in my fic. so naturally i had to go in the complete opposite direction.

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nolita-fairytale · 2 months ago

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NAT HI!!

no but why am i thinking about chef au joaquin torres *cries*

thanks to men's health, we know that danny ramirez is a bad cook and so i did in fact make him a bad cook in my fic. so naturally i had to go in the complete opposite direction.

36 notes · View notes

nolita-fairytale · 2 months ago

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Drop off the Key | Joaquin Torres

Author's Note | Just a little tiny blurb as I get back into the swing of things.

Summary: A quiet morning with Quin and his Querida.

PG-13

The idea of waking up in fresh, crisp sheets was always a godsend the morning after. That, and the body in front of his, keeping the soft bed warm.

Joaquin groaned softly as he reached over, looping a muscled arm around her waist, pulling her body flush against his.

“Quin,” she murmured, still in that hazy moonlight between awake and asleep. “G’back t’sleep,” she insisted, nuzzling further into her pillow.

He stuck his nose right into her thick hair, inhaling deeply the scent of coconut and caramel, the smell of home.

“Good morning, querida,” he murmured against the shell of her ear.

“Quin, I mean it, I was up late waiting for you,” she said, eyelids still heavy as she hiked one leg up against the mattress to get more comfortable.

Joaquin curled arm around her chest, palming her breast and squeezing gently as he playfully bit her neck with a fake snarl

“Joaquin!” She squealed, flopping out of his grip – which he allowed given the tight hold he’d had on her – and against the pillows. He pressed his face down into her breasts, hiding there from the morning sun as it began to stream into her bedroom. “Y’know one day you’re going to break in here and I’m going to end up hitting you with my cast iron,” she warned, running her hands through his hair. He’d obviously showered off before climbing into her bed late last night as his hair was soft and fluffy.

“Yeah well I’ve been asking for a key for weeks,” he replied, looking up at her.

“Baby,” she frowned, gently tracing just above the small cut near his brow bone.

“S’not bad,” he insisted, dropping his head back down to rest on her chest. “It honestly hurt more wedging my shoulder into your entry door,” he exhaled. “I think Mr. Jones on the first floor is onto me.”

“He should be,” she laughed. “You’ve jimmied that door like five times.”

“Mm, scratch my back,” he purred, nuzzling into her warm skin, covered by one of his old Miami tanks that he’d diced up all sorts of ways for the gym years ago.

She dutifully ran her manicured nails up and down the broad expanse of his muscled back, a grin splitting her lips as he mewled in happiness from atop her.

“Rough night?” She asked. She never asked too many questions, but just enough to let him know that she was there for him if wanted to talk or needed something.

“I fell off a bus,” he admitted quietly. “A moving bus,” he added.

“Quin, you’re not a super soldier,” she reminded, reaching up to brush a thumb across his cheekbone. “Even if I think you’re super,” she added, making both of them groan.

“Querida,” he scolded.

“I know, I know,” she giggled. “Come on, let me make breakfast,” she insisted, pressing a kiss to the crown of his head.

“Migas?” He asked hopefully. “And a key?” He added.

“Let’s start with the migas.”

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nolita-fairytale · 2 months ago

Text

no but why am i thinking about chef au joaquin torres *cries*

thanks to men's health, we know that danny ramirez is a bad cook and so i did in fact make him a bad cook in my fic. so naturally i had to go in the complete opposite direction.

#joaquin torres x reader #joaquin torres #marvel mcu #marvel au #mcu fandom #marvel fanfiction #mcu fanfiction #marvel fandom #joaquin torres fluff #joaquin torres imagine #joaquin torres fanfiction #joaquin torres fic

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nolita-fairytale · 2 months ago

Note

I saw this post that said ‘Enemies to lovers, but only one of them thinks they're enemies. The other has been entirely obsessed since the beginning.’

Thought this would be absolutely perfect with Joaquin Torres maybe she’s apart of the thunderbolts* but now thunderbolts and sams avengers team are working together (sambucky no longer divorced) but y/n and Joaquin are both fighting to see who is better in Sam’s eyes?

Maybe just like Bucky, she was kind of roped into the thunderbolts* team after working with Sam during tfaws era (where she also met Joaquin) and after the new avengers reveal she somehow overheard Joaquin make a comment about her ‘betraying’ Sam (she possibly hears it out of context) which began their one sided enemies to lovers

Also I love love LOVEEE the idea of service top Joaquin I think it’s so perfect for him I think he’s the type to be so sweet with his words during it but as soon as he’s speaking Spanish he’s saying the most filthy things ever because he knows she wouldn’t understand

Mi Amor, Mi Guerra

joaquin torres x reader; enemies to lovers au; 18+; mdni

Warning: I am not a native Spanish speaker, but I did my best haha

Two Months Ago – New York

It was late.

The compound gym was nearly empty, lit only by a few overhead fluorescents that buzzed faintly above your head. You’d stayed after training to clear your mind—burning through heavy bag rounds like they owed you something.

The shift had been slow. You’d started noticing it the week before: Joaquin no longer sought you out during debriefs. He stopped lingering near you in the field. You thought maybe he was just busy.

You thought maybe it was nothing.

You were halfway down the hallway, towel slung over your shoulder, boots echoing against the concrete floor, when you passed the glass conference room. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop.

You just… heard your name.

Joaquin stood inside, tense and animated, pacing in tight arcs while Sam leaned back in one of the chairs, arms folded. They hadn’t noticed you in the dim corridor.

Your name came again. Soft, edged with something bitter.

“She shouldn’t have left us.”

The words hit like a sucker punch to the ribs.

You didn’t stop to hear Sam’s reply.

Didn’t wait to hear what us meant, or what shouldn’t have really implied, or whether Joaquin’s voice cracked at the end the way it sounded like it might.

You just turned.

Shoulders tight. Heart pounding.

You shoved through the exit door and let it slam behind you—loud and final. Cold air bit at your skin as you stepped outside.

You didn’t look back.

The rooftop stinks of tar and heat, even at this hour. The city below still hums—vendors closing up shop, the last round of traffic sputtering past on narrow streets. Above it all, crouched in the shadows beneath a rusted ventilation unit, you glare at your comms screen and mutter, “You’re flying too wide.”

“I’m covering your flank,” Joaquin’s voice crackles through your earpiece. “You want the drone tighter, you’re going to lose visibility on Sector B.”

You scoff under your breath. Of course he’s disagreeing with you. Again.

You tap the tablet against your knee, watching the thermal signature of a HYDRA agent shift through a maze of crumbling alleyways. The local cell’s about to offload experimental tech smuggled out of Sokovia. You’re running out of time—and patience.

“I don’t need visibility on B, Birdie. I need cover at the junction.” You emphasize the nickname just to get under his skin. You hear the sharp inhale before he responds.

“Don’t call me that during an op.”

You smirk. “Don’t fly like you’re trying to impress someone.”

“Maybe I am.”

Your heart stutters. You ignore it. “Yeah? Then impress me by shutting up and doing your job.”

You kill your comms before he can answer.

Sliding your weapon into place across your back, you rise in a low crouch and move toward the ledge. The agent below is about to turn into the open corridor—a perfect window, but only for a second.

You should wait for backup.

You don’t.

One heartbeat. Two. Then you leap from the rooftop, drop into a tight roll, and spring up behind the HYDRA runner just as they round the corner. Your elbow lands sharp against his jaw. The briefcase skitters. You fire a shot into the wall to scatter the others as you slam your knee into the man’s ribs and wrench his arm behind him.

Backup arrives three seconds later.

Not Sam. Not Yelena.

Joaquin.

He lands like a shadow beside you, wings still humming with heat. “Jesus, are you trying to get yourself killed?”

You don’t look at him. “Got the case, didn’t I?”

He says nothing. But you feel him looking. Hard.

When the rest of the team rolls up, weapons drawn and a little too late, you finally step back. Joaquin crouches to scan the case, silent and efficient. Sam claps your shoulder as you dust off your knee.

“Hell of a move,” he says, half-worried, half-impressed. “That could’ve gone sideways.”

You shrug. “Didn’t.”

Behind you, Joaquin mutters something in Spanish. You don’t catch it—but the tone is… not annoyed. It’s low. Hoarse.

Like something else.

Still, when you glance back at him, he’s got that same smirk you’ve learned to hate. The one that curls the corner of his mouth like he’s the only one in on a joke you’ll never be smart enough to get.

Smug bastard.

The compound is quieter than usual, thick with that post-mission fatigue that settles in your bones like wet sand. You scrub the last of the grit off your skin in the locker room sink, slap your comms into their charging cradle, and wander toward the war room only because Sam requested it—not because you want to be in the same room as him.

You enter just as the last bits of mission data finish uploading to the table’s holo-display. Joaquin’s already there, perched on the edge of a stool like he owns the place, damp curls sticking to his forehead, gear still half-strapped on like he couldn’t be bothered to change. Show-off.

Sam’s leaning over the table, arms crossed, eyes bright.

“Not gonna lie,” he says, gesturing at the map footage mid-scroll. “That could’ve gone sideways real fast.”

You brace for it. The lecture. The what were you thinking speech. You shot off script. Took a leap without backup. You know all the ways that could’ve backfired.

Instead, Sam chuckles. “But it didn’t. That was some damn fine work from both of you. I like the way you adjusted—clean recovery, tight coordination.”

You blink. “Thanks,” you say, cautious.

Joaquin hums his agreement, reaching over to flick his fingers across the drone flight path, adjusting the holographic trajectory. “Honestly,” he says, “wasn’t too bad. Could’ve been smoother if someone didn’t dive off a rooftop like it was a Mission: Impossible reboot.”

You shoot him a look. “The timing was clean.”

“It was reckless,” he corrects, glancing at you sideways, a flash of heat in his eyes before he looks back to the projection. “Typical.”

Typical.

You feel your blood warm. “You mean effective.”

He shrugs one shoulder, casual. Infuriating. “Sure. If your goal was to give half the team a heart attack.”

Then he adds it—just loud enough for Sam to hear, just quiet enough to make your pulse hitch.

“Real on brand for her.”

That lands sharper than it should.

You freeze. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Joaquin doesn’t answer. Not directly. He just keeps scrolling through the drone footage, one finger tapping out a rhythm along the table’s edge.

“I mean, you’re fast, you’re loud, and you always leave a trail behind you.” He smirks—smirks—without looking up. “Just saying. It’s a pattern.”

You don’t even realize your hands have curled into fists until Sam shifts, sensing the spark in the room.

“Alright,” Sam says, raising his brows like he’s trying not to laugh, “cool it. Save the pissing contest for sparring, yeah?”

Joaquin smiles like it’s nothing. Like it’s not a game he’s been playing all night. But when you move to walk away, he glances up, catches your eye just long enough to murmur—

“Careful, princesa. You keep leaping off rooftops like that, someone’s gonna have to scrape you off the sidewalk.”

Your breath catches.

You hate that nickname. Hate that it almost sounds like affection. That it drips with condescension every time it leaves his mouth. That it twists something in your chest you can’t name.

You grit your teeth, spin on your heel, and storm off before they can see the heat blooming in your cheeks.

You don’t know what you hate more—his smirk, his voice, or the fact that somewhere in your chest, your heart is still hammering from the sound of it.

The ceiling fan above your cot creaks every time it makes a full rotation. Wobbling like it’s just barely hanging on, same as you.

The desert night seeps in through the cracked window, hot and dry and still. But you’re not cool. You’re burning. You’ve been burning ever since Joaquin looked you in the eye and said it like that.

Princesa.

The word plays on repeat in your head like a broken recording—his voice curling around it, low and offhand, like it didn’t mean anything.

But it did.

It did because he made it sound like it came easy. Like it belonged on his tongue. Like he’d used it before.

And maybe he had. Maybe he said it to every girl he flirted with in rooftop bars and extraction zones. Maybe it was just a thing he did. Maybe you weren’t special.

But you heard it differently. Felt it differently.

You’d spun on your heel and stormed off, but the word clung to you like humidity, like sweat on the back of your neck. And now—hours later, alone in the dark, that one word is still alive in your bloodstream.

Princesa.

You hate how slick it sounded. How smooth. Like it slid out of him naturally.

You hate the smug curl of his lip when he said it. The glint in his eye that told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

You hate that your breath caught in your throat. That your pulse stuttered.

You hate that part of you—deep, raw, and buried—wished he’d say it again.

Because that flashback still lives inside you. That moment outside the glass room. That single, unguarded sentence.

“She shouldn’t have left us.”

He meant Sam. He meant the team. He meant everything you weren’t anymore.

You tell yourself he resents you for choosing the Thunderbolts.

That he sees you as a defector. A liability.

That his little jabs and sideways smirks are just ways of keeping distance.

But lying here now, staring up at the broken fan and the cracked plaster above your cot, you feel the truth press against your ribs.

You don’t hate him. You wish you did. Because if you hated him—really hated him—it would make this simpler. Cleaner. Easier to breathe around him without your chest going tight. Easier to shrug off the way his voice curls around your name. The way he looks at you when he thinks you’re not paying attention.

But you can’t hate him. Not when the sound of his voice lingers. Not when princesa still echoes in your head like a bruise you can’t stop pressing.

You tell yourself he means it as a jab. That every glance, every smirk, every smart-ass comment is designed to remind you of where you stand: on the outside. Across the line. Not one of them anymore. Not one of his.

You tell yourself he doesn’t care.

That he’s made it very, very clear.

And that should be enough to hate him.

So why does it feel like losing something you never got to keep?

The mat beneath your boots is slick with sweat and bad intentions.

You circle him, spine loose, jaw tight. Every muscle in your body is wound like wire, drawn taut from a night of no sleep and too much thinking. You haven’t stopped replaying that rooftop. That word. That smirk.

Across from you, Joaquin rolls out his shoulders, wings retracted, bare arms glinting under the overhead fluorescents. He’s been insufferably calm all morning, and that only makes it worse. He acts like nothing happened. Like he didn’t drop princesa into the air like a match into gasoline.

Bucky watches from the bench on the edge of the mat, pretending not to care, but his eyes flick between you like he’s waiting for blood.

You meet Joaquin’s eyes.

And you lunge.

The impact is a crash of bodies and breath. You drive him back hard, sweeping his ankle, slamming him into the mat. He grunts, but grins—grins—like this is fun for him.

“Come on,” he goads. “That all you’ve got?”

You straddle his waist, forearm braced across his chest, panting.

“Keep running your mouth,” you snap. “I’ll break your ribs.”

“You think I haven’t been dreaming about this exact scenario?” he murmurs, voice low enough only you can hear.

You hesitate—just a flicker—and that’s all he needs.

He hooks your thigh, flips your entire body in one clean twist, and suddenly he’s on top of you, one forearm braced beside your head, his chest barely brushing yours.

You snarl, too close to think. “What is your problem with me?”

You expect the usual smirk. The roll of his eyes. Something dismissive.

But he doesn’t blink.

He leans in. Not enough to touch. Just enough to burn.

“My problem?” he says, voice like gravel dragged across heat. His breath ghosts across your cheek. “You, mami.”

The word lands with a thud between your legs. He sees it. You know he does.

“You have always been my problem.”

For a beat, your brain blanks. The noise of the gym fades out, static in your ears. Your pulse roars in its place.

You shove him hard. He lets you. Rolls onto his back with a grunt, one hand still curled around your wrist like he doesn’t want to let go just yet.

You push to your feet.

“Fuck you,” you mutter.

He grins from the mat, eyes dark, breath shallow. “You offering?”

You don’t answer. You don’t look back. You grab your towel and storm off, heart pounding in places it shouldn’t. Behind you, Bucky mutters something like “Jesus Christ,” and Joaquin just laughs—low, breathless, and wrecked.

Brazil hums outside the cracked window—hot and heavy, the air thick with jasmine and smog, a low pulse of samba weaving in from the city below. Even this far up in the hills, the world doesn’t sleep. Music thuds faintly beneath the whir of the ceiling fan, the chatter of voices on neighboring balconies, the hum of mopeds zipping past crumbling stone.

Inside, the safehouse is quiet.

Too quiet.

Four rooms. One fan. One flickering bulb in the kitchen. One creaky cot shoved against the far wall. No doors. No privacy.

One bed.

One you.

One him.

A bad idea.

A logistical decision, Sam had said over the debrief that morning, like that explained anything. No budget for more than one safehouse in the area. You two can manage, right?

You’d stared at the shared mission file. Then at Sam’s face.

Then at his.

Joaquin had smiled like he’d won something. Just the corner of his mouth twitching, self-satisfied. Smug bastard.

You hadn’t spoken to him for the rest of the flight.

He’s been too nice since you got here.

He makes your coffee before you’re even awake. Black, the way you like it, waiting in a chipped mug by the sink when you shuffle in wearing yesterday’s shirt and bruises. He compliments your mission plans in front of Sam. He praises your threat assessments like he doesn’t find you exhausting every time you speak.

He cleans his gear with the focus of a soldier trying not to lose his mind. Wipes each blade three times. Lines up his sidearm with the strap of his thigh holster. Replaces the safety latch on your rifle without a word when it sticks.

It’s like he’s decided you’re partners now.

Not rivals.

Not whatever-the-fuck you’ve been since Marrakesh. Since you joined the thunderbolts.

It makes your skin itch.

Because if he’s just going to keep pretending you’re on the same side—if he’s going to keep acting like there’s nothing unsaid between you—then you’re going to snap.

He keeps being irritatingly… civil.

He’s courteous in the way that makes you want to break things—offering to carry your gear, adjusting your comms strap when it rides up on your neck, handing you a fresh bottle of water without saying anything. Just watching you drink it with those quiet, unreadable eyes.

And now?

Now he’s cooking. Shirtless.

The kitchenette barely fits the stove and a narrow strip of counter, but Joaquin moves like he’s done this before—like he’s comfortable anywhere, like his body is his favorite tool. The pan sizzles, steam rising in curls, and he doesn’t even flinch when a drop of oil spits onto his chest.

He flips the chicken, turns the burner down with the back of his wrist. His dark curls are still damp from the evening rinse in the roof tank. His dog tags cling to his collarbone, swinging low when he moves. You hate the way they catch the light.

You’re sitting at the tiny square table, arms folded, one boot propped on the rung beneath you like you’re guarding territory.

“You know you’re not charming,” you mutter, eyes flicking to the pan mostly so they don’t stay on him.

Joaquin doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s not what you said when I brought you that backup battery in Cairo.”

“That was different. I was bleeding and unconscious.”

He grins. “Still grateful, though. You clung to me for hours.”

“I was in shock.”

“Sure you were.”

He plates the food like it matters—two portions, even distribution, fork aligned on the edge of the napkin. Civilized. Controlled. Psychotic.

You scowl. “Do you always play house in warzones?”

“Only with you, querida.”

You freeze.

The nickname lands like heat in your chest. You pretend not to hear it. Pretend it doesn’t thrum in your ears.

He doesn’t push. Just takes his seat across from you and starts to eat, like none of this means anything. Like you haven’t been holding your breath since Sam handed you that damn assignment.

The first few bites pass in silence.

The kind that isn’t neutral—nothing about this safehouse, or this arrangement, or this dinner is neutral.

You chew mechanically, eyes fixed on the wall just beyond his shoulder. The food’s good. Of course it is. He’s irritatingly competent at everything, even domesticity. That should make you feel grateful.

It just pisses you off.

He eats with maddening ease, like this is some casual post-mission dinner at home. Like you’re two partners decompressing instead of two people who barely tolerate each other. His fork scrapes gently against the tin plate. The fan clicks overhead every third rotation.

You can feel him watching you.

You don’t look up.

“Want more rice?” he asks after a moment, his tone polite enough to make your jaw tighten.

You stab a piece of chicken. “I think I’m good, thanks.”

“You sure?” He leans forward, his forearms resting on the table. “You barely touch your food recently. Thought maybe you were finally letting me take care of you tonight.”

Your fork pauses midair.

There it is again. That smug tone, laced with the ghost of something warmer. Something sharper. Something you don’t trust.

You meet his eyes for the first time all meal. “Didn’t realize hovering counted as taking care of someone.”

Joaquin’s mouth twitches. “Didn’t realize being reckless counted as strategy,” he shoots back, voice light.

You hum. “Still bitter I got the briefcase before you?”

He leans back slowly, chair creaking beneath him, a lazy smile spreading like sin across his face. “Still pretending you didn’t want me to grab you when you landed?”

You kick him under the table. Hard enough to jolt his knee. Not hard enough to count as violence.

He lets out a soft “ow,” exaggerated, rubbing the spot with a hand over his sweats.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re mean when you’re tired.”

You reach for your water. “I’m always mean when you’re around.”

He tilts his head. “Right. Must be why you keep calling me Birdie.”

You sip. Slowly. “Well, you are flighty. And loud.”

“You’re obsessed with the wings,” he says, voice low now. “Just admit it.”

You don’t blink. “You’re not that special.”

His smile grows. “Princesa, please. You’ve been eye-fucking my flight gear since Berlin.”

There it is again.

That word.

You hate how it lands every time. How it makes your stomach tighten and your throat go dry. You hate that he says it like he knows exactly how you’ll react—and you hate that he’s right.

You push your plate away and stand. “I’m showering.”

You don’t wait for his reply.

You towel off your damp hair and step into the bedroom barefoot, the hem of your oversized t-shirt brushing the tops of your thighs. Your shorts cling slightly from the humidity. You’re hoping to find the bed empty, maybe Joaquin already crashed on the floor like a decent human being.

He’s not.

He’s there.

Lying on his side of the single bed, shirt back on now, arms folded behind his head, long legs stretched out, ankles crossed. The fan clicks above him. The air smells like soap and whatever cologne he insists on using even in the field—spice, cedar, faint citrus. Unfair.

He doesn’t move. Just watches you with half-lidded eyes as you cross the room, like this isn’t the most tense, suffocating thirty feet you’ve ever walked.

You climb into the bed stiffly, careful not to let your skin touch his. The mattress dips beneath your weight, and the slight shift brings your thigh dangerously close to his. You face the wall. Pretend to adjust your pillow. Pretend to breathe like you’re already half-asleep.

He doesn’t say a word. But his body heat bleeds into your side like a slow fuse.

You lie there, counting ceiling fan rotations.

One.

Two.

Three.

Then—his voice breaks the silence. Soft. Barely there.

“You always this prickly, or is it just with me?”

You don’t answer.

“’Cause I’ve seen you banter with Walker,” he continues, his tone carefully neutral, “and that doesn’t come with death threats. At least, not every time.”

You exhale hard through your nose. “Walker doesn’t act like a goddamn Boy Scout every time I breathe.”

He lets out a quiet laugh. “You’d rather I be an asshole?”

“I’d rather you be consistent.”

There’s a pause. A long one. Then, gently, he says, “You really think I’ve been faking this?”

You turn toward him—just a little. Enough to catch his silhouette in the dark. “Yes,” you snap. “I think you’ve been pretending since the day I joined the New Avengers. I think you’re keeping the peace because Sam told you to. I think you’ve been playing this sweet, civil, don’t-rock-the-boat act because you think I switched sides.”

That lands. You hear his breath catch—just slightly.

The room is too quiet. Even the fan seems to slow.

When he speaks again, it’s a whisper, hoarse and uneven. “You think I’m judging your loyalty.”

You don’t respond. Not directly. But your silence says enough.

His weight shifts on the mattress. For a second you think he’s going to get closer, say something else, push it.

Instead, he sits up. Swings his legs off the bed. Rubs a hand over the back of his neck like he’s trying to scrub your words off his skin.

“You have no idea,” he mutters, more to himself than to you.

Then he stands, crosses the room, and walks out.

The safehouse is dark now.

The last traces of music from the city have faded into the warm, buzzing stillness of night. Even the fan overhead has gone lazy, spinning in slow, uneven circles, creaking every time the blades dip slightly off balance.

You lie alone in the bed, staring at the ceiling.

Still burning.

You haven’t moved since he left—since the door clicked shut and the quiet swallowed you whole. You could still feel the heat of him in the sheets for a while, until it cooled. Now you just feel the absence.

You told yourself you were angry. And you are. But that’s not what’s keeping you awake.

Not really.

Across the safehouse, in the corner of the living space, Joaquin lies flat on his back on the thin mat you’d left tucked by the wall.

He didn’t bother grabbing a pillow.

One arm is flung over his face, shielding his eyes from the faint city light slipping in through the cracks in the curtain. His jaw’s been tight for over an hour. His spine won’t relax. Every breath feels like it drags against his ribs.

He knows he should’ve said more. He should’ve told you—something. Anything.

But he’s not good at this. Not with you. Not when everything he feels is clawing its way up his throat and getting tangled behind his teeth.

His body aches. Not just from training or the cot. From you.

From watching you walk around this place in a thin t-shirt and combat shorts. From watching you tie your hair up with one hand and load a pistol with the other. From the way your voice drops when you’re serious. From the way you look at him like he’s just another battle you’re preparing to win.

You don’t even know what you do to him.

That pisses him off most of all.

He grits his teeth and lets his forearm fall across his chest. Tries to breathe. Tries to sleep.

Eventually, exhaustion drags him under.

But it doesn’t bring peace.

It brings you.

In the dream, you’re on top of him.

Straddling his hips with the same confidence you carry into combat, like your body was always meant to dominate, like his was built to take it. The air is sweltering. He doesn’t know where you are—some distorted version of the safehouse, the training mat, the bed you won’t share—but it doesn’t matter.

You’re here. And you’re furious.

Not screaming, not wild—but restrained, simmering. Controlled rage that burns hotter than fire. Your jaw is tight, eyes narrowed in focus, hands planted firmly on his chest as your hips move over him in slow, punishing rolls. Not fast. Not frantic. Purposeful.

You ride him like it’s war.

Like you’re exacting vengeance for every look he didn’t give you, every word he never said.

His mouth opens, but he can’t speak. Can’t ask for permission. Can’t beg for more. Your pace stays maddeningly steady, grinding down onto him with enough pressure to make his stomach clench, his hands twitch uselessly at his sides.

He tries to reach for you. Tries to grip your waist, to ground himself in your skin, to anchor to something.

You slap his hands away. Pin his wrists to the floor, breath hot against his cheek.

“Don’t move,” you growl.

Your voice in the dream is low. Commanding. Hoarse with need, but sharp with authority. Like you want him to know just how badly he’s fucked up. Like every roll of your hips is a punishment he earned.

“You don’t get to come unless I say.”

His cock twitches at that—so hard it hurts. He’s dizzy, panting, sweating beneath you, and you just smirk like you knew he would be.

He arches into you. Tries to meet your pace. You sink your teeth into the edge of his jaw and grind harder.

“This is what you wanted, right, Birdie?”

The nickname cuts through him. Spits him open like a blade between the ribs.

He moans for you—loud, wrecked, wanton. Begging without words. Writhing beneath you. Needing more than you’re giving him.

But you don’t relent. You don’t speed up. You keep moving just slow enough to drive him mad, your hands still pinning his down, your body heavy on his, sweat dripping from your neck onto his chest.

His hips buck, desperate for friction, for relief—but you don’t let him have it.

You lean in close, press your mouth to his ear, and whisper, “Good boys wait.”

“Yes, mami,” he pants. Your breath hitches.

And he breaks.

Or almost does.

Because just before the dream crests—just before he tips into orgasm so strong it threatens to unravel him—

He wakes.

Sweat sticks to his skin. His heartbeat is a hammer in his throat. His cock is aching—hard against the waistband of his pants, twitching uselessly beneath the sheet he dragged over himself hours ago.

He doesn’t move.

Doesn’t even shift to ease the pressure in his hips.

He just stares at the ceiling, chest heaving, skin burning, and lets the want tear through him like shrapnel.

He doesn’t touch himself.

Because it wouldn’t help. Not tonight. Not when he knows that no matter how good it feels—it won’t be you.

So he stays there.

Hard.

Empty.

Quiet.

Still tasting the way your breath hitched when he called you mami in his sleep.

The sun burns through the gauzy curtain before the alarm chimes. It’s early, but the city never sleeps and neither of you really did. Not well.

You wake to the scent of brewed coffee and the soft clatter of someone trying not to make noise. The bed is empty beside you. The air still carries the imprint of him—warmth in the sheets, a faint trace of sweat and whatever soap he used last night. You blink at the ceiling for a long moment before dragging yourself up.

When you walk into the kitchen, he doesn’t look up.

Joaquin stands barefoot at the sink, shirt clinging to his back, dark curls still messy from sleep. There’s a mug waiting for you at the edge of the table—black, just the way you like it—but he doesn’t say a word when you enter. He just rinses out his own cup, jaw tight, hands steady like this isn’t the hardest part of his week.

Like he didn’t dream about you riding him until he woke up with your name punched into his chest.

You glance at the coffee. Then at him.

“Thanks,” you mutter.

He nods. Doesn’t turn around. The silence hums. Not hostile. Just full.

You sip slowly, keeping your distance. Watching him over the rim.

He finally speaks, voice low, rough with something you can’t place. “Mission brief’s in twenty. You good?”

You nod once. “Always.”

He finally glances at you—just for a second. And whatever’s in his eyes makes your spine stiffen.

You don’t ask. You don’t want to ask.

And he doesn’t offer.

It goes to hell fast.

Too fast.

The HYDRA intel was bad—wrong, or outdated, or intentionally fucking sabotaged. The rooftop you and Joaquin were assigned to breach was supposed to be clear. A dead zone. Easy eyes-on.

But you crest the edge and see too many shapes.

Six. No—seven heat signatures. Armed, fast, coordinated. A decoy asset in the center. It’s a trap.

“Shit,” you mutter, raising your comms. “Joaquin, pull back—this is a setup. They’re—”

BANG.

The flashbang detonates two feet from your left boot.

A split-second scream of white light swallows everything.

Your body lifts and slams back down with brutal precision, ribs colliding with the edge of the rooftop ledge. You think you hear something crack. You definitely feel the warmth blooming under your vest, the skin-splitting sting of concrete meeting flesh.

Then your head hits.

Not hard enough to knock you out. Worse than that—hard enough to daze you. Hard enough to leave the world spinning just out of reach.

The sky tilts above you in slow-motion spirals.

A gun goes off. Close.

You try to lift your hand—your gun arm—but it won’t respond. It’s like your nerves are short-circuited. You feel the wet heat trickling down your temple and try to blink the blood from your eye.

Everything is too loud.

Everything is wrong.

Then you see it. A shadow.

Him.

Joaquin crashes down beside you so fast you barely register it. His wings are deployed, shielding your body with the full sweep of metal and light. Someone fires again—his body jerks as he twists mid-kneel, taking the shot to one of the wings with a hollow ping.

And then his arms are around you.

You don’t get a warning. No tactical callout. No command.

Just hands—one behind your knees, the other cradling your back—as he lifts you against his chest like he can’t get you away fast enough.

“Wait,” you try to rasp. “I can still—”

But the words barely come out. You sound drunk. Detached. Slurred like your lips don’t belong to you.

Your head lolls against his shoulder. You can feel the tension radiating through him—his breath tight, his jaw clenched, heart pounding like it’s breaking inside his ribs.

Then he says it. Low. Raw. Torn from somewhere buried.

“Mi amor, por favor no me hagas esto.” The words shake in his throat. Not shouted. Whispered—like a prayer. A plea.

You don’t understand them.

Not fully.

But your body reacts like you do.

Your stomach flips. Your hands twitch weakly against his chest.

His voice doesn’t sound like the Joaquin you know—the one who flirts and smirks and taunts you with princesa like it’s a game.

This is something else.

Desperation. Grief. Terror.

Something ancient and gut-deep, like he’s losing you in real time and can’t do anything to stop it.

Mi amor.

Your mind can’t make sense of it. You catch the rhythm, the sound, the shape of the word as it falls from his mouth like something he’s been holding in for years.

His boots hit the fire escape in three heavy steps. Down. Down again. He’s running. You don’t know where. You don’t even know if the gunfire’s stopped—but you know he’s holding you like he doesn’t give a damn about anything else.

You try to speak again. Try to lift your head. “Wh… what did you say?”

He looks down at you, face tight with panic, eyes so wide it guts you. But he doesn’t answer.

His jaw clenches. His grip tightens.

He just runs.

You drift in and out like you’re underwater.

Voices come and go. Lights blur at the corners of your vision. You remember the pressure of Joaquin’s arms wrapped around you, the heat of his chest where your blood soaked through his suit. You remember his voice in your ear—Spanish, soft and breaking.

You remember how it didn’t sound like orders.

It sounded like goodbye.

Now, the room is dim.

A single lamp glows in the far corner of the makeshift medbay. There’s a low hum from the power converter. Someone’s set up a heart monitor—it beeps steadily at your side.

You blink slowly.

Your head hurts. Your ribs burn. Your left arm is wrapped and braced against your chest.

The air smells like antiseptic and sweat and—him.

You turn your head a fraction.

Joaquin is there.

In a folding chair beside the bed. Elbows on his knees, hands hanging between them, eyes locked on your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he blinks.

He looks like hell.

His curls are damp with sweat. His brow furrowed so tight it might crack open. There’s a smudge of dried blood on the side of his neck—your blood. He hasn’t changed.

You shift slightly, and the pain makes a soft sound tear out of your throat.

He jerks forward instantly.

“Hey,” he breathes. “Hey, I’ve got you.” His hand finds yours. Warm. Calloused. It trembles.

You look at him—eyes half-lidded, head heavy—and manage a faint, croaky rasp, “Birdie…?”

His mouth twitches. Not into a smile. He looks like he’s been crying.

“Don’t call me that right now,” he says, voice raw. “Please.”

You frown. Or try to. He leans closer. His knee bumps the cot. His hand curls tighter around yours like he thinks you’ll float away again.

“I thought I was gonna lose you.”

“What… what happened?” You blink again, drowsy, slow.

His throat works. He doesn’t speak right away. “The op was bad intel. You took the worst of the flash. Hit your head—cracked a few ribs, too. You started bleeding, and I—I didn’t know how bad. You weren’t answering your comm.”

You try to make a joke, something about how that’s normal. He always says you ignore him.

But your voice won’t cooperate. So instead you whisper, “You… carried me?”

He nods, like it hurts to admit.

“I got you out. I had to. I…” He swallows hard. “Never mind. We’ll talk more when you’re feeling better. Get some rest, princesa.”

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t gloat. He just stays there, one hand curled around yours, thumb brushing softly over your knuckles in a rhythm too gentle to mean nothing.

You feel the weight of it. The heaviness behind his silence.

You don’t know what he’s thinking.

You don’t know if you imagined the way he held you, the way he sounded when he said something you couldn’t understand.

But the way he’s looking at you now?

You understand that.

And for once, you don’t pull away.

The sound of fists slamming into the heavy bag echoes like thunder through the otherwise quiet gym. The compound is still. Late. Most of the others are either asleep or gone.

You’re supposed to be resting.

Instead, you’re sweating through a black tank top and punching until your shoulders burn, your ribs throb, and the image of his face stops flashing behind your eyelids.

He’s been quiet in the three weeks since Brazil. Not cold—but distant. Measured. Careful in every interaction. Too careful. Like he’s trying not to trigger something in either of you.

And you’ve had enough.

The bag swings wide after your last strike, and a voice cuts in from the shadows.

“You’re not cleared for combat training yet.”

You don’t look at him. “And yet here I am.”

Joaquin steps into the light, sweatpants low on his hips, jaw tight. His hair is damp from the shower—he always showers before bed, like it rinses off the day—and the sight of him only stokes the fire in your chest.

You rip your gloves off. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

He crosses his arms. “No, I haven’t.”

“Bullshit,” you snap, rounding on him. “You barely talk to me anymore.”

“You were injured. I was giving you space.”

“No, you were running.”

That hits him.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just clenches his jaw until the muscle jumps.

You take a step forward. “Back on the roof, you said something. In Spanish.”

He doesn’t answer.

Your heart pounds.

“I don’t know what it meant,” you say, quieter now, “but I know how you said it. Like it mattered. Like I mattered.”

You let it hang there between you, the air between your bodies going electric.

“You also said I betrayed Sam. Back then. When I first joined the avengers.”

Joaquin flinches like you slapped him. “That’s what you think I said? That’s what this has all been about?” he says, voice low, raw.

You stare at him, throat tight.

“I was pissed,” he says, stepping forward. “Not at you—at me. Because I let you walk away. Because I didn’t stop you. Because I didn’t have the guts to tell you how I felt, and then you were gone.”

The floor tilts.

Your lips part. “What are you talking about?”

“I said it felt like losing you,” he says, and it lands like a punch to the ribs. “And it did. It does.”

You don’t know what to do with the weight of it. With the burn behind your eyes and the ache in your chest.

“You—” your voice breaks. “You think I’m just gonna believe that?”

Joaquin takes another step forward.

“You think I’ve been watching you for three years because I hate you?” His hand lifts like he’s going to reach for you, but he stops himself. “You think I call you princesa to piss you off, and not because I can’t stop looking at your mouth when you snarl it back?”

You feel dizzy.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you whisper.

He closes the last inch of space between you.

“I want you to understand,” he says, eyes locked on yours, “that every time I looked at you like that—it wasn’t anger. It was want.”

You shake your head. “You—you look at me like I’m your enemy.”

“No, cariño.” His voice drops into something molten, reverent. “I look at you like you’re mine.”

Your breath catches. Your hands twitch at your sides.

Joaquin steps in even closer, until there’s only heat and tension and history between you.

He’s breathing hard. So are you.

You could kiss him. You could slap him. You could break down and let every wall you built around him fall like glass.

Instead you whisper, “Say that again.”

And he does. Mouth brushing your ear, lips hovering against your skin like a prayer.

“Mine.”

The gym’s fluorescent buzz fades from your ears.

All you hear now is the sound of his breath—low, rough—and the thunder of your own pulse.

You kiss him first.

It’s not planned, not graceful. Just a sharp inhale, a step forward, and your mouth colliding with his in a crash of pent-up need and disbelief. His lips part in shock—but only for a second. Then he’s kissing you back, one hand fisting in your tank top, the other cupping your jaw like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

He groans into your mouth.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, hoarse. “You sure?”

You nod, breathless. “Please.”

And that’s all it takes.

Joaquin walks you backward through the corridor like he’s been dreaming about it for years—because he has. His hands skim your waist, your hips, steady but reverent, easing under your shirt as he presses you to the bedroom wall.

“You’re still hurt,” he says against your throat. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

You nod again, but you’re not thinking about pain. You’re thinking about the way his mouth is everywhere—your jaw, your shoulder, the curve of your collarbone. You’re thinking about how careful his hands are as they peel your shirt away, how tenderly he cups your ribs, tracing around the bruises instead of pressing in.

“You’re so good for me,” he whispers, guiding you to the bed. “Been waiting so long to touch you, mami.”

You shiver.

He lowers you slowly onto the mattress, careful of your side, then sinks to his knees with a look in his eyes that scorches straight through you.

He hooks his fingers in your waistband, dragging your shorts and underwear down in one slow, deliberate motion. Then he presses your thighs apart—gently, almost reverently—and exhales a quiet curse under his breath.

“Preciosa…”

Your breath stutters. “What did you just call me?”

He only smiles, then lowers his mouth to your thigh and murmurs, low and dark and filthy, “Te voy a destrozar con la lengua primero…”

His lips brush closer—closer still—until you can feel his breath against your core.

“Después me vas a rogar que te deje sentarte en mi verga.”

The sound of it hits you like lightning—deep, commanding, and soaked in heat. You don’t know the exact words, but the tone alone makes your back arch, your legs tremble.

“Joaquin,” your voice breaks.

He hushes you with a kiss to your inner thigh. “Just relax, princesa.”

Then he leans in and devours you.

There’s no hesitation, no teasing. He licks into you like it’s his only purpose—slow and deep at first, then faster, hungrier, until you’re clutching the sheets and gasping his name.

Your legs try to close and he drags them back open, pinning you with a quiet, filthy, “No me corras.” Don’t run.

You don’t stand a chance.

He sucks your clit in a steady rhythm, tongue flattening against you, and when your hips start to roll—when you start begging for more—he groans like he’s the one being wrecked.

When you finally break, thighs shaking around his shoulders, he pulls back only to kiss the inside of your knee, eyes dark and wild.

And then, “Dime, mami,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “Ready for more?”

You nod, dazed. “Yes.”

“Say it.”

“Joaquin, please.”

He climbs over you, slow and sure, bare chest brushing yours, cock hard and throbbing against your thigh. “You gonna beg to ride me now?” he whispers in your ear.

You bite your lip, arching up to him. “You offering, Birdie?”

He growls at the name—actually growls—and drags your leg up over his hip. “Careful, mami,” he rasps. “Keep calling me that and I might not let you get off until sunrise.”

Then he lines himself up, strokes the tip against your soaked entrance, and whispers,

“Ven y siéntate, preciosa.”

Come sit.

You do.

And the world breaks open.

You sink down onto him slow—inch by inch—and his head falls back against the pillow with a rasped-out moan that punches through the air like a warning shot.

“Fuck—mami…”

You brace yourself on his chest, thighs trembling, breath short. He feels huge inside you. Heavy. Thick. Stretching you to the point of burning.

But you don’t stop.

You can’t.

You drag your hips back and sink down again, harder this time, your breath hitching as you adjust to the weight of him—your body already clenching around him like it’s trying to pull him even deeper.

“Just like that,” Joaquin groans, voice strangled. His hands are on your hips, but he doesn’t guide you yet. He lets you take, lets you move. “You ride me how you want, baby. I’m yours.”

You roll your hips in a slow, punishing rhythm—grinding instead of bouncing—and watch his face come apart beneath you. His mouth slack. His throat working. His hands flexing against your skin like he’s trying not to grip too tight.

But it’s not enough. Not yet.

You reach back, plant your hands on his thighs, and fuck him harder—louder. The slick sounds fill the room, hot and obscene.

Joaquin grunts, then sits up just enough to mouth at your chest—desperate, messy kisses pressed beneath your collarbone, your sternum, your breast. He tongues your nipple and groans, hands sliding up to cradle your back, holding you open.

“Been dreaming about this for years,” he pants. “Every fucking night. You, like this—above me. Using me. Letting me make you feel good.”

You lean forward and murmur, low and taunting: “Then shut up and do it, Birdie.”

He growls—an actual, vibrating snarl against your skin—then slides one hand between your thighs, thumb circling your clit with practiced precision, matching the rhythm of your hips.

You clench so hard around him it makes him swear in Spanish.

“Mierda—tan jodidamente apretada,” he chokes. “You’re milking my cock, baby. Fuck.”

Your rhythm stutters, thighs shaking.

He keeps his thumb tight and steady, whispering filth in your ear.

“Así me gusta, mami. Muéstrame cómo te gusta correrte. Te voy a dejar completamente exhausta. Vas a gritar mi nombre.”

(That's how I like it, Mami. Show me how you like to cum. I'm going to leave you completely exhausted. You're going to scream my name.)

You don’t need the translation. Not with the way he’s watching you—eyes dark, wild, reverent.

Not with the way he starts thrusting up into you now, meeting each grind with his own pace, punching deeper, harder, faster, until you’re gasping and clawing at his chest.

He whispers again, low and shaky, “I’m going to leave you trembling, my love.”

And you do.

You come so hard you crumple forward, shaking all over, sobbing his name into his throat.

Joaquin holds you through it. Kisses your temple. Whispers soft, soothing things in your ear while you ride out every wave.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow.

“You done, baby?” he rasps, pulling back to look at you. “Or you still gonna beg to sit on my cock again?”

You whimper.

He smiles, gentle and sinful. “Good girl,” he says. “Then let’s start again.”

You nod, still dazed. But when you shift, when you feel him still hard inside you, twitching, thick and soaked, a shiver rolls down your spine.

He hasn’t come.

You barely process it before he lifts you—strong arms sliding under your thighs and waist—and lays you gently onto your stomach, cheek pressed to the mat.

“Joaquin,” you start, voice scratchy, but his hand smooths along your spine.

“Shhh. Just relax for me, mami.”

The way he says it—low, warm, hungry—makes your thighs squeeze together. Makes your fingers curl into the mat.

You feel the drag of him slipping out, thick and soaked in your slick, and then the pause. His hands grip your hips, thumbs spreading you open, gaze drinking you in.

“You look so good like this,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “All wet and swollen. Still pulsing around nothing.”

The head of his cock nudges your entrance.

“So fucking beautiful.”

He pushes in slow—so slow—until he’s fully seated, thick and throbbing inside you again, and you gasp into your forearm, back arching off the mat.

“Oh my god.”

“Feel that?” he groans, hips tight against yours, every muscle in his body wound like a bowstring. “So deep in you, mami. Fuck, you were made for this.”

He doesn’t thrust yet. Just holds you there. Lets you feel the weight and stretch of him again. His body blanketing yours now, chest to your back, arms braced around your shoulders.

“Can’t stop thinking about you,” he murmurs into your ear, rolling his hips once, deep and slow. “You ride me like you hate me, then fall apart like you’ve always been mine.”

You cry out—sharp, needy.

He groans again and pulls back just enough to do it again, harder, the sound of your bodies colliding echoing off the gym walls.

“That’s it, my love. Just like that. Take all of it.”

You grip the mat like it’s the only thing anchoring you. He fucks you slow at first, dragging it out, savoring your gasps, the way your thighs tremble, the little broken sounds you try to muffle in your arm.

“Mírate. So good for me. Letting me use you. Letting me fill you.”

You choke on a moan.

“Tell me you want it,” he pants, pace picking up, thrusts growing filthier now, more desperate. “Tell me you want all of it, baby.”

“I want it,” you sob, back arching into him. “Want all of you, Joaquin—please—”

“Eso, mami. That’s it. That’s my girl.”

His fingers dig into your hips as he drives into you harder now, chasing the edge, the sound of his breath ragged in your ear, hips slapping, low filthy praises between every thrust—

“So tight.”

“So wet.”

“So fucking perfect.”

And when you start to come again—helpless, gasping, clenching around him—he growls, stuttering deep inside you once, twice—

And fills you.

Thick, pulsing heat spilling deep, buried to the hilt, his entire body wrapped around yours like he could crawl inside you.

“I’ve got you, my love,” he breathes against your ear. “I’ve got you.”

Your body goes limp. His hand cradles your jaw. His lips brush your temple. He doesn’t pull out.

Doesn’t move. Just stays there. Inside you. Around you. With you. Like maybe he finally understands what it means to stop pretending.

Joaquin doesn’t let go of your hand. Not once. Not through the walk down the corridor, not when the elevator doors shut behind you, not even when you stop in front of his door like something sacred is waiting on the other side.

You expect more heat. More hunger. Instead, he’s quiet. Reverent. He opens the door, flicks on a small bedside light, and the soft golden glow makes the room feel smaller. Safer.

He waits for you to enter first. Then shuts the door behind you with a click.

You stand there awkwardly for a moment—barefoot now, your shirt clinging to your skin from sweat and heat and effort. The mat burns are still faint on your knees. His handprint might still be on your hip.

But none of that matters when you finally look at him. And he looks at you like he means it now. Like the years of tension weren’t just a game. Like you’re everything he’s ever wanted.

He moves first. Not to strip you down or drag you back into bed. But to pull you into his chest and rest his forehead against yours.

You can feel his breath when he whispers, “I’m sorry it took so long.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “You could’ve just told me.”

“I thought you hated me,” he breathes out, soft and laughing—but there’s hurt behind it. “You called me Birdie, for god’s sake.”

“You called me princesa.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, tilting his mouth toward yours, brushing close without sealing the kiss. “Because I didn’t trust myself to say mi amor.”

Your breath hitches.

Then he kisses you.

It’s not like the kiss in the gym. It’s not frantic or filthy or desperate. This one’s slow. Deep. Languid. Like he’s tasting every second he’s missed. Like he’s been dreaming about it for too long to rush now.

You try to speak again—pull back to say something serious, something honest—but he shakes his head and kisses you again.

Longer. Slower.

He doesn’t want to talk. Not yet.

You let yourself melt into it. Into him.

Eventually, he walks you backwards toward the bed. But not to fuck you again. He just wants you close.

You both fall sideways onto the mattress, fully clothed, tangled in the sheets. He pulls your legs over his lap and buries his face in the crook of your neck.

“You can still talk,” he mumbles against your skin. “Just let me keep kissing you while you do.”

You laugh softly, fingers curling in the soft cotton of his shirt. “I still don’t understand what you said. That day. On the rooftop.”

Joaquin exhales. His voice is lower now, less playful. “I thought I was gonna lose you. I panicked.”

“I didn’t even know you cared.”

“I care too much,” he says, brushing a kiss to your jaw. “That’s the problem.”

You press your hand to his chest. Feel the echo of his heartbeat—steady, warm, real. “You still want to pretend we’re not friends?”

He chuckles. “After everything we just did on a gym mat?”

You tilt your head. “So what are we now?”

He lifts his head, expression open. Raw. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I know I’m not letting you walk away again.”

And then he kisses you like he’s sealing it. Like that’s the promise.

Not with a title. Not with a confession.

Just with his mouth.

And it’s enough.

For now.

The shift doesn’t come with fireworks.

No grand declarations. No one-liners. No audience.

It starts quietly—like a frequency just beginning to tune in.

Like static softening into clarity.

By the time the rest of the team notices, it’s already been happening for weeks. In the way Joaquin stands a little too close. In the way you linger a little too long. In the silences that stretch between you without bristling—no longer taut with resentment or confusion, but something slower. Something warmer.

On missions now, Joaquin doesn’t hover—he lingers.

Touches your elbow when you pass in tight corridors. Brushes his knuckles against your hip when no one’s looking. Stands just behind your left shoulder, close enough that you can feel his breath on your collarbone when you’re poring over maps and data feeds. He holds eye contact longer than is polite and smiles like he knows what it does to you.

It’s deliberate. Grounding. A silent reminder: I’m here.

He pulls you aside just before takeoff.

It’s a humid morning. The jet’s hatch is open, whirring softly. The others are filing in. Sam’s already talking in your ear about regional flight patterns. Kate’s climbing up the rear ramp with a duffel slung over her shoulder. Bucky’s checking his weapons. John’s somewhere, probably making a mess.

Joaquin stands in your path and catches your hand before you can walk past.

You open your mouth to object. To give him the rundown again. Your voice dies in your throat when he lifts your fingers to his lips.

He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t make it a show. Just presses a warm, unhurried kiss to your knuckles—his thumb sliding over your skin like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You swallow hard.

“Don’t get cocky up there, Torres,” you mutter, narrowing your eyes to hide the way your pulse flares. “I want altitude, distance, recon only. You don’t get to improvise just because—”

He leans in and kisses you.

Soft. Direct. Familiar now.

You falter—words snagging mid-sentence—and blink at him, stunned.

He does it again.

Slower this time.

And again, before you can recover. Mid-command. Mid-thought. Mid-you trying to keep this professional.

You blink, lips tingling, brain sparking uselessly.

He grins.

You jab your finger into the center of his chestplate. “I’m serious, Birdie.”

“I know,” he says, low and smooth, bending his head to kiss just beneath your ear. “I love when you boss me around, princesa.”

You groan. “That’s not what I—stop distracting me—”

“You’re still talking,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your jaw. “So I’d say I’m failing miserably.”

You don’t shove him away.

You should.

Instead, you rest your forehead briefly against his temple, breathing him in, trying to gather yourself. It’s no use. He smells like clean gear and the cinnamon gum he always chews before a drop.

You feel your knees go soft just as someone clears their throat behind you.

“Aw, come on,” John Walker drawls as he strides past, all tactical armor and unimpressed sarcasm. “You two gonna make a sex tape or file the recon brief first?”

He doesn’t even break stride.

You flip him off with your free hand.

Bucky follows behind him with a long-suffering groan, rubbing his temples like this physically hurts him. “For the love of—do it in the air, at least. There’s less echo in the cabin.”

Joaquin just chuckles. Doesn’t let go of your hand.

Kate Bishop, walking up the ramp while chewing a protein bar, doesn’t even glance up. She mutters through a mouthful, “Gross but hot,” and shrugs.

You roll your eyes. Try not to smile.

Fail.

Sam Wilson stands by the loading ramp with his arms crossed. No headset now, just a clipboard tucked under one arm and a smirk that’s got at least five years of I knew it simmering behind it.

He watches you and Joaquin like a man who called his shot long ago.

“Y’all good?” Sam asks casually, cocking his head.

You feel Joaquin’s thumb trace the edge of your palm. It’s featherlight. Grounding.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say. “We’re good.”

And it’s the truth.

For once, finally, it’s the truth.

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