#COME N GET IT

[orangepanic]

Much jelly!

Also human hand

Apparently they're selling post content to train AI now so let us be the first to say, flu nork purple too? West motor vehicle surprise hamster much! Apple neat weed very crumgible oysters in a patagonia, my hat. Very of the and some then shall we not? Much jelly.

[hinamie]

post-graduation trip airport looks

[lazyjellyfish300]

I SPY FOOD 👀🕵🏽‍♀️🔥

Nonviolent Communication - Part 22

Pairing: Spider-Man!Miguel O'Hara x Spider-Woman!Reader Summary: A getaway trip before Christmas with Miguel! ♡ Word Count: 27.6k (back on my shiz, what's new?😔) Warnings: mention of blood and injuries; mentions of Mexican/Latin food, but it's nothing new; the dating allegations are getting harder to deny, I'm afraid; slightly jealous Miguel??!🗣🤭 A/N: hiii, new update! Music Inspo (Spotify playlist): "Carol of the Bells" - John Williams "Better Than Snow" - Norah Jones, Laufey "Where or When" - Laufey "Die With A Smile" - Birru (piano version) "Nocturne (Interlude)" - Laufey Masterlist

Part 22

Snow sticks to the bottom of your shoes as you walk across the snow-covered pavement. The chill bites at your face, making you feel thankful about not forgetting your gloves or else, your fingers would be freezing right now. From somewhere in the city, you hear a clock strike seven times, announcing it's already 7pm. Internally cursing, you speed up to your destination. You could’ve simply traveled straight to the location from Miguel��s universe, but you decided against it to avoid any potential witnesses and now, you’re running a few minutes late.

Pausing at an intersection, you make the spontaneous decision to take a shortcut through an alleyway. If you were any other woman, you'd disapprove of this decision, but since you're Spider-Woman, you take the risk.

You move quickly through it, steering clear of frozen puddles of water under dirty and dimly lit light posts that make the alleyway a perfect place for a naive individual to run into trouble. Halfway across, your spider senses alarm you and a second later, an arm is wrapped around your shoulders.

“Drop all the money and jewelry you have,” a rough voice commands. “No screaming, or else.”

Seriously? You sigh internally. This is the second petty robber you've come across tonight just on your way to the dinner party.

“Did you not hear me? I told you to drop all the money and jewelry you have on you. Now. Don’t make me repeat myself, pretty thing,” the man says, his arm tightening around your body as a warning.

“You're lucky,” you start. “I don't have much time to teach you a proper lesson.”

The man snickers, amused by your words. “What could a thing like you do to me?” he arrogantly asks, that being the last thing he says.

In the blink of an eye, you easily free yourself and push the man against the wall, earning yourself a noise of surprise. You look at the poorly lit light posts and decide that they’ll at least keep your face hidden pretty well, so your identity won't be compromised.

“Now, where were we?” you ask, taking care of the matter. Two minutes later, you walk out of the alleyway and slip your phone back into one of your coat's pockets. You continue walking, police sirens audible in the distance.

It's not until you're about thirty feet away from the building’s entrance that you notice him, Felix Kerr. He's clad in dark clothes from head to toe, blending into the night. You hum to yourself, hoping he didn't see you slip out from the alleyway from a distance, but just in case he did, you relax your face and wear an expression of innocence and ignorance to the situation as you walk closer to the building's door.

“Madam,” Kerr says as a form of greeting, breaking the silence.

“Mr. Kerr,” you reply with a nod.

“Are you alright?” Kerr asks, pushing himself off a car — Harry’s — and stepping closer. His wide shoulders are covered in flakes of snow, making you wonder how long he's been outside in the cold and why.

“I am, thank you.”

“Allow me to walk you inside,” he says, gesturing to the double doors of the tall building. Before you even respond, he’s already moving towards the doors, expecting you to follow.

Silently, you follow and enter the building while he holds the door for you. Inside, you're both greeted by warmth, a sharp contrast to the coldness outside. Once you reach one of the elevators, Kerr steps aside to allow you in first.

“Ladies first,” he mutters.

Inside, Kerr presses a button and the doors close. You find yourselves, standing across from each other, leaning into the elevator's walls in silence, minus the elevator’s sound system announcing each floor level, for several seconds.

“You're lucky,” Kerr starts, breaking the silence.

“Pardon?” you respond, turning to look at him in the face.

“A petty robber was reported in that alleyway minutes before you stepped out from it. You're lucky Spider-Woman got him before you ran into him.”

Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise. How the hell does he know about that? Quickly, you use your genuine surprise to hide the reality, however.

“There was a petty robber there?” you ask, lifting a hand to your chest to pretend to be shocked and frightened by the news. “I did hear noises, but the alleyway is so poorly lit, I didn't see anyone. I assumed it was coming from the other side of the street. Oh, my goodness,” you mumble, looking down. “My landlord stopped me on my way out of the building to discuss something. It's why I'm running late. Had I been on time, I might have ran into them,” you lie. “Who knows what could've happened.” You sigh in relief and lift your face to look at Kerr again, who is observing you with a frown on his face.

“I’m glad you missed them, madam,” he replies. “Thankfully, Spider-Woman got there before you did.”

“Agreed,” you answer, pushing your hands into your pockets and turning to look at the digital display that reads the floor number. You clear your throat. “How did you find out so soon, sir?” you ask, turning to look at Kerr again.

At that, the older man gives you a small grin. “I used to be a police officer. My coworkers and I remain in touch, especially since I’m somewhat of a bodyguard for Mr. Harry. As soon as the call was reported, someone notified me since they know I’m in the area with him. I suppose they figured I could take action if needed before they arrived.”

“Oh, that’s… Great,” you answer, offering a small smile. You turn to look at the display again, feeling off not by the fact that Kerr is an ex-police officer, but because it seems that he’s still somewhat in touch with the police department, as if he were still active. Silently, you wonder if it’s illegal and also, if you’ve ever come across him in the past as Spider-Woman, but you cannot remember ever seeing him before that day you ran into Harry for the very first time in years.

“We’re here,” Kerr says just as the elevator doors open. “Ladies first.”

Thanking Kerr, you step into the fifth floor of the building. Christmas music, laughter, and conversations immediately reach your ears, reminding you that this is a Christmas work party Harry invited you to, even though you’re not an employee. He initially asked you about meeting on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day, but you had to decline because you already have plans — plans that involve traveling to another destination with Miguel and part of the spider gang tomorrow.

Unfortunately, scheduling a dinner between Christmas and New Year’s isn’t possible because Harry is highly busy with work and will also be traveling out of the country with his father the day after Christmas. Still, Harry insisted he’d like to celebrate a bit with you, even if it meant you attending his father’s work Christmas party, and now you’re here.

In truth, you wish you were home by the fireplace with a cozy book and café de olla [coffee] with Miguel sitting across from you, both wearing pajamas or lounge clothes. Instead, you’re here in this room full of strangers.

“Mr. Harry is this way,” Kerr says, tearing you away even from the mental image of being home with Miguel.

You almost sigh in displeasure, but stop yourself from doing so. Following Kerr, you move past a few people before you’re in front of the man who once used to be a close friend. Seeing Harry’s face, you’re reminded of the awkward moment you both shared last month when he went straight for a hug while you offered a handshake. This time, thankfully, Harry holds back from instantly going for that and instead, he smiles at you and places his hand on your shoulder to greet you.

“You’ve arrived! I was wondering if you had forgotten,” Harry states, a hint of worry in his tone.

“No way,” you answer with a smile. “I was just a little late, I’m sorry.”

“Did something happen?” Harry asks, concerned.

“No, thankfully not,” you answer, reassuring him.

“Miss Y/N barely missed an encounter with a criminal, sir,” Kerr states, gently inserting himself into the conversation.

Harry’s eyes go wide before his gaze sweeps over you. “Oh, God. Are you okay?” he asks, placing his hands on both your shoulders to inspect you. “Are you hurt? Scared?”

“I’m alright, Harry,” you answer, slightly annoyed by Kerr. “I didn’t even see the person. I missed them completely.”

“Thank God,” Harry breathes out. “I’m so glad to hear that. Come on, let’s get you something to eat and drink. Thank you, Felix.” With that, Harry guides you away.

After two hours of conversing, eating, and drinking, Harry helps you slip on your coat when you inform him that you’re heading out. Insisting on walking with you, Harry guides you out after you thank his father and wish him well for the holidays and their trip.

“Please allow Felix to drive you home,” Harry says in the elevator, suddenly.

“What? No, no, that’s not necessary.”

“I can’t allow you to walk home alone this late. Much less when you hardly missed a criminal earlier. I’d drive you myself, but I must see everyone away.”

“It’s fine, Harry, seriously,” you insist.

“Please. I’ll be worried the entire time until you reach home,” Harry states, taking your arm and holding it. “You’ll be home sooner, too. Out of this cold weather.”

Sighing, you agree. “Alright, alright. If it’s not a bother.”

“Of course not. I’ll be relieved knowing you’re safe. And, Felix is free,” he answers before you both move towards his car. “Felix. Please drive Y/N home.”

“Yes, sir,” Kerr replies, moving quickly to open the backdoor on the passenger’s side. He looks between you both, waiting.

Harry smiles, his hand sliding down your coat. “Thank you for coming tonight. I’m glad we got to celebrate and enjoy a bit of the Christmas season together, even if it was through a work party. I wish we could’ve had dinner, but perhaps we can do something once the new year starts, and we’re both free.”

“That sounds wonderful. Once you’re back from your trip, we can discuss it,” you reply with a smile. “By the way, have a safe trip, okay? And, try to enjoy the holidays with Mr. Osborn.”

Harry laughs softly and nods. “I will. I try to appreciate every moment with my dad as much as possible, being the only parent I have left. We’ll make time to celebrate the holidays properly, for sure.”

“Good,” you answer, slipping into the car. “I’ll see you soon, then?”

“See you soon,” Harry answers, looking down at you. “Happy Holidays!”

“Happy Holidays!” you cheerfully reply before Harry steps back and Kerr closes the door. After waving goodbye and buckling your seat, Kerr begins the drive to your home.

Quiet Christmas music plays from the radio, filling a silence for several minutes. You find yourself staring out the window, counting the seconds until you’re home and done with this car ride, which feels awkward for some reason.

“Excited for the holidays, madam?”

You blink in surprise, not expecting the man to make small conversation. “… Yes… Yes, I’m excited,” you start softly. “What about you, sir?”

“Hm… Yes.”

You nod, despite the fact that he probably can’t see you. “I’m glad to hear that,” you reply before a short silence follows.

“Will you be doing some traveling, madam?” Kerr asks, continuing the small conversation.

With pursed lips, you decide not to fully share your plans. Better safe than sorry. “No traveling, just going to other people’s homes for the celebrations,” you share. “Small gatherings.”

“I see,” Kerr replies as he makes a turn.

You glance out the window before deciding it would be bad manners if you don’t ask about his plans. “What about you? Are you traveling with your family, or staying home?”

It takes several seconds for Kerr to reply, as if he’s deeply pondering your question, and you almost swear he looks at you through the rear view mirror for a second before he finally replies. “I’ll be traveling with Mr. Harry and Mr. Osborn.” Kerr pauses, letting that sink in. “I don’t have any family.”

“Oh,” you respond in a hushed tone, understanding that feeling very well from when you were alone before joining the Spider Society.

“Not anymore,” Kerr continues quietly as he pulls to the side of the street, in front of your building. He clears his throat, unbuckles his seat, and gets down in seconds.

Despite Kerr’s startling revelation that he no longer has a family, you quickly unbuckle your seat when you see how fast he gets out of the car. A second later, your door opens and Kerr is there, offering his hand to help you out. To avoid being rude, you accept the gesture and step out of the car. Shivering slightly now that you’re back in the cold weather, you quickly thank Kerr for helping you out and for the ride.

“No problem, madam. I’m simply doing my job,” Kerr replies, taking a step back. “I’ll let Mr. Harry know that you made it home safely.”

“Thank you. Have a good night, and… I hope you enjoy the holidays,” you gently say, taking several steps backwards, towards your building’s entrance. “And, be safe.”

“Thank you. I hope you and your friends enjoy the holidays, too. Take care,” Kerr says with a nod, seemingly unbothered by the cold.

With a final nod, you walk towards your entrance, feeling a heavy gaze all the way to the door. As you open, you dare to glance back, finding Kerr in the same spot and watching you, probably to ensure you truly make it home safely, or maybe because Harry asked him to.

Inside your apartment, you turn the lights on and do a quick check around your space. You fluff the couch pillows and refold the blanket over your couch, wasting time. Humming, you turn to the art work on your wall and stare at it before you turn away and check your gizmo. After a few seconds of reading random messages from your friends, you subtly check the window to ensure that Kerr is gone. Satisfied when you don't see the car anywhere in sight, you open a multidimensional portal and finally, **travel back to Nueva York.

You step into the penthouse, specifically the living room, where you find the fireplace roaring with gentle flames. Above it, a fluffy and big green garland with ribbon, ornaments, twinkling lights, and other Christmas decorations adorns the fireplace mantle.

"Dulzura? Are you home?" Miguel calls out from the kitchen.

"I'm home!" you answer with a smile upon hearing his voice. You quickly slip your coat off just as Miguel enters the living room, looking incredibly cozy and warm in a white cable knit sweater while carrying a tray with two mugs on it.

With a warm smile and pink cheeks due to the penthouse’s warmth, Miguel happily welcomes you back home. "How did it go?" Miguel asks, handing you a mug.

"Mmm, it smells so good," you murmur with a smile, lifting the mug closer to smell the freshly made Abuelita hot chocolate Miguel promised to have ready for your return [a hot chocolate brand]. "It went well. It was a work party, so I talked with a few strangers, but for the most part, I talked with Harry and his dad."

"I'm glad to hear it went well. Sounds like it went smoother than the previous time you met with him," Miguel replies, placing the tray on the coffee table.

You smile sheepishly, remembering the embarrassing and awkward moment with Harry and his attempt to hug you on Día de Los Muertos for the second time tonight [Day of the Dead]. You sigh in relief that that didn't happen again, or something of the sort. "Don't remind me. I'm getting embarrassed again just thinking about it, but thankfully, nothing like that happened. It went smoothly. I was just a little late because of petty crimes."

"What happened?" Miguel asks, worry instantly flashing in his eyes despite the fact that you’re Spider-Woman. Still, you get a fuzzy feeling inside seeing Miguel so concerned over you.

“Just two men trying to rob money and jewelry. I took care of them, no worries,” you answer, reassuring Miguel “How’s the packing?” you ask before taking the smallest sip from the hot chocolate to avoid burning yourself.

“My bag is ready. Yours?”

“I have a few things I still need to pack, but I’m pretty much done! I’ll pack them before I go to sleep. So, packing the groceries is the only thing we have left to do?” you ask, watching Miguel take a seat on the couch, the one you always sit on. You make note of that, how he opted to sit there instead of the couch he always sits on, on top of the fact that he’s leaving your specific spot open. You can’t help but interpret it as a silent invitation for you to take your spot, next to him, so you do.

“Yep, the groceries are the only things we’ll need to pack tomorrow. Other than that, we’re set,” Miguel answers before gently blowing on his mug. “Shock.” Miguel gets up, placing his mug on the coffee table. “I forgot the pan dulce [Mexican pastries].” Miguel almost facepalms at his forgetfulness. He was so happy about you returning already that he forgot about the damn pan dulce. A few seconds later, Miguel returns to the living room with a plate that contains a few pieces of the sweet pastries, neatly arranged. “Here we go!”

Miguel joins you once again on the couch, now with pan dulce to go with the hot chocolate. You both indulge, happy and relieved to be back in each other’s presence while basking in the cozy vibes from the penthouse thanks to the Christmas decorations you both put together; from the garland on the fireplace mantle to the Christmas tree. Drinking hot chocolate, you admire it.

It’s a tall and fluffy artificial tree — not holographic like previous years. Smiling to yourself, you remember how at the end of November, Miguel and you put it together along with the holographic one in the dining area and the one at your apartment. You enjoyed setting up each one, but this one… It has a special place in your heart.

It was Miguel who brought up the topic the day after Thanksgiving. Unlike the previous year, when you both brought up plans for Thanksgiving dinner barely a few days before the holiday, Miguel and you discussed it with plenty of time this year. It may have seemed silly, considering you spend so much time with each other already, to think that you wouldn’t spend Thanksgiving day together, but still, you both brought it up to confirm.

Of course, the answer was yes; you wanted to have dinner together for the holiday again. It resulted in the two of you cooking and inviting the spider gang to join you, hoping that some of them could join.

In the end, a majority of the spider gang made it, along with a very pregnant Mary Jane, Mayday, and Gayatri. With such delicious food and great company, the dinner extended longer than either Miguel or you anticipated, but neither of you minded. The next day, after waking up much later than you’re both used to and having a much needed mug with coffee, Miguel brought it up. He asked if you wanted to help him set up the Christmas tree.

You agreed, expecting it to be the holographic tree with holographic ornaments, but no. An hour later, Miguel came back from downstairs carrying a large box. The surprise must have been evident on your face because he grinned at you before he placed the box down in the living room floor.

“¿Qué [what?]? Did you forget what I told you about Christmas trees on Earth-928? We do have artificial trees, you know,” he said, still grinning.

You grinned back before he headed back downstairs to retrieve the decorations, thinking to himself that you must have forgotten what he told you in the past regarding trees for the holidays, but it wasn’t that. You didn’t forget what Miguel told you; about how most families have holographic trees on this Earth and that they have an app to design their ornaments together, making it a family tradition. Nor did you forget the fact that some individuals or families have artificial trees and some even live ones, but that only the wealthiest tend to go for the latter.

You remember thinking that you knew Miguel had money, more than plenty, since he lives in this penthouse and keeps up with the Spider Society’s headquarters. Along with that, you recalled thinking you expected Miguel to own an artificial tree, but that it was likely he didn't put it up because he hadn't celebrated the holidays in recent years. Since you’ve only ever seen a holographic tree in his home, Miguel must have thought you forgot the information he gave you because of your surprise, but it wasn’t that.

Your surprise wasn’t due to seeing an artificial Christmas tree on this Earth, but rather because Miguel actually brought out his. That was the reason for your surprise; that Miguel felt like putting a physical tree up, and on top of that, with you.

Perhaps it was silly, but as the two of you assembled the tree and fluffed the branches before decorating it while lively and joyous holiday music came from the record player, you couldn’t help but consider it as yet another step forward for Miguel.

It was hard not to when you noted the smile on his face while he added beautiful ornaments to the top of the tree where you couldn’t reach, something he teased you about. Ornaments, bows, and other small decorations were added to the tree and when you thought it was all done and ready to lit up, Miguel disappeared upstairs.

He came back shortly with a bag, wearing a sheepish expression on his face. You didn’t know why, but you had a feeling it had to do with what was inside the bag, and you were right.

Inside the bag were clear, see through ornaments to be decorated along with supplies for such activity. Still looking sheepish, Miguel explained that DIY ornaments are also a thing in his dimension.

“And, I thought — I was thinking — you know,” Miguel said, his cheeks feeling warm while trying to relay the purpose of him buying those supplies. “If you want, which you don’t have to,” he continued, scratching his neck out of shyness. “That we could make some?”

You chuckled sweetly and walked past him. “You’re so cute when you’re nervous,” you murmured before you took a seat on the floor and picked up a clear ornament.

“I’m wha — cute?” Miguel asked, so flabbergasted that the words were barely a whisper. He watched you with wide eyes and even redder cheeks while you looked through the supplies with much excitement, he wondered why he was even nervous about asking you. Meanwhile, his brain was struggling to process the fact that you called him ‘cute’. A few seconds later, he pulled it together and joined your side, clearing his throat and hoping that you hadn’t notice any of that because in the moment, Miguel couldn’t even understand why your simple and short statement was affecting him so much.

In the end, the activity gave you something fun to do together and once completed, the ornaments were hanged on the tree not far from each other — as if neither of you could handle even your ornaments being too far apart from the other.

Now, your gaze falls on those ornaments, hanging so beautifully from the lit tree. A few branches below those, hangs another one that catches your attention. It turns out there are highly small projectors, small enough to fit inside a regular-size ornament, available on this Earth, and now, there’s that ornament displaying pictures of Miguel and you throughout the year.

Musing on the tree, Miguel drinks hot chocolate from his mug while your eyes move around the rest of the living room. After the Christmas tree, Miguel brought out other decorations, which resulted in the garland over the fireplace mantle, poinsettias on the coffee table, Christmas lights lining the windows, blankets on the couches paired with decorative pillows in winter colors, and other decorations, including a stocking for each of you with your names embroidered on them. The penthouse has never looked this cozier, that’s for sure. It’s the reason why Miguel and you decided to only spend the weekend away and return the day before Christmas Eve to the penthouse again; neither of you wished to be away from home for Christmas.

-♡-

The next morning, the groceries are packed away and everything from ensuring that the doors are locked to the air conditioner being set the way it needs to is checked before you both head out. With the help of the gizmos, Miguel and you arrive to the location in seconds, where you’re both welcomed by a cold breeze and the crunch of snow beneath your shoes.

Standing side by side, Miguel and you take in the view. The cabin, a single floor space, sits right in front of you. It’s surrounded by tall, majestic trees that seem to be hundreds of years old. The front of it is aesthetically decorated with rounded bushes covered in snow. In fact, almost everything in front of you is covered by snow except for a single path leading up to the cabin’s door. On one side, there’s logs ready to be used for a fireplace and on the other end, wooden chairs surround a fire pit.

“Looks cozy,” you state at last, looking around and realizing your cabin is far away from the rest were members of the spider gang should be staying at.

“It does. I like the pine trees,” Miguel says with a soft smile. “Should we head in?”

“Yes!”

After finding the key under the door mat, Miguel and you enter the cabin, completely missing the cabin’s name found above the door on a metal plaque —Lover’s Cabin.

Once inside, the two of you look around with interest and drinking in the coziness from the warm tones and Christmas decorations, including a Christmas tree, in the living room. You move to check the kitchen, finding it cozy and quaint. After putting the groceries away and becoming acquainted with the kitchen, you finally inspect the bedrooms to select one for your stay.

“You can have this room,” you say after a second or two when you realize the last room is the master’s bedroom since there’s a king size bed and has an en suite bathroom.

“Why?” Miguel asks, raising an eyebrow.

“Bigger bed,” you simply state, as if that alone should make sense. Noticing his raised eyebrow, you continue. “You’re a tall man.”

Miguel snorts, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning on the doorway. “So, just because of my height?”

“Yep! I’ll take the other room, alright?”

“Are you sure?” Miguel asks.

“I’m sure. I’m going to unpack now,” you announce. “And then, we can… Unwind for a little before we do other stuff.”

“No rush. We can figure it out once we unpack, Dulzura,” Miguel replies gently, gazing at you with nothing short of an adoring gaze, even without realizing so.

“Right,” you answer with a smile. “This is meant to be relaxing.”

“And, a bit spontaneous,” Miguel adds, his hand suddenly itching to rest on your shoulder as a form of reassurance. Just when he lifts his hand, however, you walk back to the first bedroom, leaving his hand hanging.

“Alright, let’s unpack,” you eagerly say as you walk away. You glance at him with a smile before you enter your bedroom, unaware of how close Miguel was to making physical contact.

With a quiet yet defeated sigh, Miguel enters his own room carrying his luggage. He unpacks his personal hygiene items first, placing the items in the bathroom, before unpacking his clothes and placing them in the empty dresser. He walks around once he’s done as an attempt to get acquainted with the room and to ensure the windows are locked. At last, he turns to the bed and runs his hand over the bedding, finding it soft. He presses a hand into the mattress, trying to see if it’s going to be comfortable or not just as you walk into the room, missing a slight noise the base and headboard made when he pressed down.

“All unpacked?” Miguel asks straightening up, satisfied with the mattress.

“Yes. You?”

“Same. I was just checking the bedding, making sure it’s comfortable,” he says walking closer to you. “Is everything okay with your room? No issues? We can switch, if you want.”

You shake your head with a smile. “No issues. Everything is fine, so no need to switch on my behalf. You?”

“The room is great,” Miguel answers with a smile, glad to hear that you’ve found your room satisfactory. “So… We're here now. Our little Christmas getaway begins now.”

The vacation begins by settling down in the cozy living room. Miguel starts the fireplace, blankets are unfolded, and books, which you both brought along with you, are taken out. You both settle on a different couch, which you both find much smaller than the ones back at the penthouse, to read for a while. Eventually, you both grow hungry and decide to make brunch in the cabin’s kitchen.

“Do you want to go out? Head to the village?” Miguel asks once you’re both done eating and cleaning the kitchen.

Humming, you look around, thinking. “If you’d like to. Unless you want to do something else and check out the village tomorrow since we’ll be taking Mayday anyway.”

“That’s true,” Miguel answers, remembering that you both offered to look after her to give Peter and Mary Jane a little break, for lack of a better word, since they have a newborn at home and also, to give Mayday a chance to be out of the house, considering Mary Jane is recovering and Peter is taking care of her, while they both look after the baby. “There’s a little bookshop, coffee shop, and an ice skating rink just outside the village — it’s kind of separated from it by a small forest.” Miguel shrugs, smiling softly. “What do you think about a coffee and a visit to the book shop?”

“You know what? That sounds better than snow,” you answer with an excited smile. “You want to head out now?”

“If you’re up for it,” Miguel replies.

“Give me five minutes, please, and we can be on our way!”

“Take your time,” Miguel says, finding your excitement contagious and endearing. “No rush. Today, we’re being spontaneous.”

“Spontaneous,” you repeat. “We’re going with the flow.”

Miguel laughs softly and nods. “We’re going with the flow for this trip.”

After quickly getting ready and dressing appropriately for the weather, Miguel and you leave the cabin and walk on foot to the small area he suggested. The walk is a short one despite the snow and it grants you both a moment of tranquility and fresh air. You even spot squirrels scurrying away with their mouths full, carrying food to their small and cozy homes within trees. When you reach the small area at last, you pause and admire it, guessing that it’s only a small teaser of what the village has in store for you tomorrow.

The first stop is at the welcoming and warm coffee shop, where Miguel, always the gentleman, buys coffee and warm pastries for the two of you. You get on to him for always treating you to things and hardly giving you opportunities to reciprocate, which he chuckles about as you walk to the book shop. Amused with your little frown, he tells you not to worry about it.

Once at the book shop, the two of you browse every shelf high and low for an interesting book to take home with you. By the end of your search throughout the entire shop, you head to pay with Miguel, who carries the shopping basket for the two of you. And of course, Miguel pays before you get a chance to.

“That was a successful book shopping trip,” Miguel states softly once you exit the shop, carrying a reusable bag with everything that you both picked up.

“They had a lot of great options. I’m excited to read every book I picked. You?”

“Same. I got a few sci-fi books, and the others are in genres I don’t read much. I figured I’d give them a try,” Miguel answers as you walk past the ice skating rink. Still walking, Miguel glances back at the sign announcing the entrance and fee. “Would you like to — To go ice skating?” he asks suddenly, making you stop in your tracks.

“Ice skate?” you repeat, glancing at the entrance and reading the sign. You bite the inside of your cheek and turn to look at Miguel again. “I…” you trail off, nervously.

“We don’t have to,” Miguel says, immediately noticing your reluctance. “I simply noticed the sign and thought it sounded fun. I haven’t gone ice skating in forever, but it’s silly. Plus, it’s going to get dark soon and we have the bonfire with our friends, so —” Miguel continues, but is interrupted by you.

“I don’t know how to ice skate,” you gently confess with a bit of embarrassment. “It’s not silly at all. It actually does sound like a lot of fun, but I don’t know how to skate. I always wanted to try it out, but… It’s one of those things that you never make time for.” You smile sheepishly at Miguel. “So, yeah… But! I can watch you! I’d still find it enjoyable to watch.”

“It’s alright. Don’t worry about it,” Miguel answers softly, understanding. “We can go back to the cabin and unwind before the bonfire instead.”

“Please. It sounded like you really want to. Don’t stop on my behalf,” you insist with a smile. “I’d be more than happy to watch you. Maybe I’ll even get inspiration and try to learn as a new year’s resolution.”

Miguel chuckles before he sighs. He glances at the sign and then back at you. “You sure?”

“One hundred percent. Come on,” you say, leading the way.

Inside, Miguel heads to the ticket area to pay and get a pair of skates. While he does that, you settle down on a bench facing the ice rink, excited to see Miguel skate and have fun. A minute or two later, Miguel is at your side again, holding a pair of skates that look far too little for him. Just as you’re about to inquire about that, he kneels in front of you and it’s only then that you realize he’s already wearing a pair.

“Wait — Miguel?” you ask, looking at him a little confused.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Miguel starts, looking at you. “I went ahead and bought a ticket for you, too.”

“But, I don’t know how to skate,” you remind him softly, amused.

“But, I do,” Miguel answers with a soft smirk. “And you said, that by watching me, maybe you’d get inspired to learn, so I thought… Why not start now? If you’re okay with it, of course! I’m not pressuring you, just offering. I’ll guide you.”

Quietly exhaling, you glance at the ice and find it slightly intimidating.

“Hey,” Miguel starts, trying to get your attention again. “It can be a little scary at first, but after a few minutes, you get a little used to it. You just need a guiding and helping hand.”

Smiling, you nod. “Right. It’s like everything else… I… Okay,” you answer, nodding more to yourself for encouragement. “Alright. I’ll try it out.”

“Good, I’m happy to hear that,” Miguel answers with a grin before he gestures to your shoes. “I’ll help you put your skates on.”

“Wha- That’s not necessary! I can put them on myself.”

“It’s no problem, plus,” Miguel says as he begins to fix the shoe laces on the skates while you slip off your shoes. “I tie them in a specific way to ensure they’re truly secure. Sometimes they feel a little loose and tying them the right way makes a big difference.” With that, Miguel helps you put the skates on, despite your shyness about it.

He carefully ties the first one, concentrated on the task while you sit on the bench.

“How come you don’t do that for me?” a woman mumbles behind you from somewhere.

“That’s marriage level,” a man answers.

Curious, you glance back and spot a young couple walk by, exiting the skating rink. You hum to yourself, unsure what the couple were talking about.

“All done,” Miguel says with a smile.

“Thank you,” you answer, looking at the skates now on your feet. You glance up at him, a nervous look on your face. “I suppose… We go now?”

With a grin, Miguel nods. “If you’re ready. Or, we can take a few minutes if you need them. No rush,” he firmly states. “At your own pace.”

You sigh softly, mentally preparing yourself before you nod. “Let’s do this.”

“Are you sure? If you need a few more minutes, that’s more than okay.”

“I think I’m ready,” you insist. “Can we just… Stick to the edge, so I can hold on to the boards?”

Miguel smiles and nods. “Of course. Whatever is more comfortable for you. Ready?” he asks, standing up and extending a hand to you.

You look at him and then at his hand, truly noticing for the first time that he’s wearing the gloves you gifted him the previous year for Christmas. The sight brings a small smile to your face before you accept his hand with your own gloved one, standing up.

“Ready, I think,” you answer, trying to stand very still. “Okay,” you breathe out, unused to the feeling.

“Step like this, look,” Miguel gently guides, demonstrating for you while still holding your hand.

With his demonstration, you slowly but surely make it to the actual ice rink without falling. Miguel, ever the patient man with you, continues to guide you.

“Some people try to walk,” Miguel says. “But skating isn’t like walking because you’re not walking. You’re gliding on the ice. To get the feel, you need to start off by gently marching.” Still holding your gloved hand, Miguel marches, staying near you. “Like this, see?”

“Mhm. I can tell already that you’re — like, pre-gliding.”

Miguel chuckles. “Pre-gliding, that’s right. Okay, do you want to try now?”

You huff softly, out of nerves, and nod. “Yes. Marching, right,” you mumble more to yourself than him. Despite Miguel holding your hand, you still hold on to the boards. “March, march, march,” you whisper, moving your feet. “If I fall, I’m going to try very hard not to use my webs to help myself.” You state, marching shakily.

“I won’t let you fall,” Miguel states with a soft smile. “I’ll catch you. You trust me, right?”

“Yes, of course. I trust you. It’s me I don’t trust in this situation,” you answer. “I feel like I’m one second away from one of my feet gliding a little too far and then, falling on my butt.”

“You won’t fall,” Miguel assures you again, squeezing your hand and surprising you in the process because of it. “I’ll catch you however many times I must. I promise.” He grins at you before he continues on with his lesson. “However, I should probably teach you how to correctly get on the ground if needed, and how to get up again. Safely.”

After showing you those things and having you practice everything he’s taught you, Miguel then shows you how to ‘kick’ your feet off the ice to properly skate. When you successfully skate about fifteen feet or so, Miguel congratulates you.

“Great job! You’re doing amazing, Dulzura,” he proudly says, still holding your hand. “It took me far longer to get used to the gliding, but you — You’re already so much more comfortable with it.”

“Thank you! Your patience and guidance made it possible. I’m no longer as nervous as before. I see why people enjoy this,” you answer. Grinning, you slowly let go of the boards.

“There we go,” Miguel whispers, noticing that you’ve let go and you’re now only holding on to him. “I’m glad you’re enjoying this new experience. It’s a fun activity, and you can even learn tricks when you get more experience.”

“Do you know tricks?” you ask Miguel.

“Mm… Not really. Just spinning around, but it’s been a long time since I’ve skated. I probably can’t even do that now,” he answers with an amused smile. “Plus, I won’t let go of you now that you’ve let go of the boards. Maybe in the future. For now, lets try to circle around the rink — get you more comfortable.”

Continuing to apply what Miguel taught you, you grow more and more comfortable and manage to complete one full lap of gliding around the rink.

“I think… I’d like to try on my own,” you announce when you skate, still slowly, past the rink’s entrance.

“Alright, I’ll loosen my hand, and you can release mine when you’re ready,” Miguel responds, trying to make everything confortable and safe for you. He slowly loosens his grip on your hand and a few seconds later, he feels your hand slip away. With much pride, Miguel watches you skate on your own for the very first time.

“I’m doing it,” you say with a smile as you move. “I’m actually doing it, Miguel.”

“You are.” Miguel answers with a smile. “You’re doing so well,” he continues, keeping up with you and remaining alert, just in case.

You giggle softly and kick your feet a little harder, trying to gain a little more speed.

Unable to stop himself from smiling, Miguel speeds up just a tad to keep up. He watches in awe as you move, the sound of your giggling kindling a fluttering in Miguel’s chest.

“I think I’d like to keep practicing in the future,” you say, looking up at him for a moment. Unfortunately, looking at Miguel distracts you, eliciting a loud gasp from yourself as you feel your foot move in a way it shouldn’t. The sense of falling is barely registered by your brain when strong hands take your arms and hold you steady.

“Tranquila [relax; feminine noun],” Miguel gently mutters, holding you. He helps you straighten up first, trying to make the near accident as calm and smooth as possible. “You’re not falling, remember?” He continues with a small smile as you sigh in relief.

“Yes. You’re not letting me fall,” you answer, your shoulders relaxing slightly after growing tense. You exhale again and gather yourself. “I’m sorry. I got distracted looking at you.”

“Hey, no reason to apologize. Small accidents are going to happen,” Miguel reminds you. “Even those with years under their belt have hiccups.”

You chuckle. “Thank you — for the lesson and for catching me.”

Miguel’s gaze softens as he gazes at you, his hands releasing your arms. “Always,” he answers, wholeheartedly, before his hand moves to yours. “Do you want to do another round? Maybe this time faster?”

“Faster?”

“I'll hold both your hands,” Miguel assures. “And you can experience skating with a little more speed. Only if you're open to it, of course.”

You hum and look around the rink before nodding with a smile. “I'd like that.”

“Hold on tight,” Miguel instructs, offering his other hand and standing in front of you. Once you're holding hands, he begins to skate backwards with ease. “You're doing great.” Miguel praises as you simultaneously follow and allow him to lead, moving your feet. “We're gonna pick up speed now,” he informs to avoid startling you.

“Alright, alright,” you answer, bracing yourself for a different pace, but Miguel does it so carefully that you hardly feel the transition. “Hey, this isn’t so bad!”

Miguel grins, guiding the two of you around the rink. He continues to skate, gently tugging you along. “Having fun?”

“Yes!” You answer, chuckling.

The two of you continue to skate, moving along the ice rink laughing and talking, unaware of strangers’ gazes. The innocent bystanders stop and watch, the sight of you alluding to an intimate, warm, and beautiful romantic connection; the kind that millions and millions of people across the vast multiverse can only ever dream about and wish for.

At last, the two of you reach the entrance, feeling like that round went by much faster than it should’ve.

“Do you wish to keep practicing, or would you like a break? Or, go back to the cabin?” Miguel asks.

“Hmm… How are you feeling?”

“I personally… Would be okay if we return to the cabin, but what about you?”

“Me, too,” you say, moving your feet a bit to ease some tension in them. “I’m kind of tired of wearing the skates.”

“Understandable,” Miguel answers. “Come on, I’ll help you get off the ice rink.”

Along with helping you get out of the ice, Miguel also helps you remove your skates, despite your refusal out of embarrassment, before he returns both pairs. A few minutes later, you’re back on your way to the cabin.

“That was a lot of fun,” Miguel softly starts after a few minutes of silence. “Thank you for indulging me by joining me. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.” Miguel looks at you, carrying the tote bag with books.

“Are you kidding? I loved it!” Smiling, you eagerly continue. “After my initial nervousness, you helped me get over it and simply enjoy the learning experience. For some reason, I thought it was going to be scarier. Maybe that’s why I never actually tried it in the past. I can’t remember if I ever even told Peter that I’d like to learn,” you say, silently trying to remember if there was ever a time you shared that with your boyfriend. “Either way, I loved it. Thank you for suggesting it in the first place, and for teaching me.”

“Always,” Miguel answers with a sweet smile on his face, more than happy that you enjoyed it as much as he did despite how random it was.

“Hey! What are you guys up to?!”

The sudden number of voices startle you both, directing your attention towards them. Hobie, Pav, Margo, Noir, and Penny wave at the two of you.

“Heading back to the cabin!” Miguel answers once he realizes it’s them.

“We’re having a bonfire! Wanna come?!” Hobie yells.

“When?!” you ask.

“… Now!” they all reply, waving you over.

“Are you up for a bonfire?” you ask Miguel, turning to look at him.

“We have marshmallows! Andddddd hot dogs!” another voice says in a singsong voice. Peter Porker.

“Are you interested?” Miguel asks.

“Roasted marshmallows. That’s something I haven’t had in a long, long time.”

“Well, how can we say no to that, then?” Miguel answers with a grin.

“Are you in, or not?!” the group yells.

“We’re in!” Miguel and you yell back in unison.

Half an hour later, Miguel and you sit next to each other toasting marshmallows with mini chocolate bars and graham crackers to make s’mores.

“Dang, how much longer are you guys toasting your marshmallows?” Gwen asks, looking at both of you. “It looks like your marshmallows are going to be burnt.”

“I like mine toasty,” Miguel answers.

“Me, too,” you reply. “Another minute, or two.”

“I think those are beyond toasty,” Gwen responds, but Miguel and you shrug and continue on.

Two minutes later, you’re both assembling your s’mores at last.

“Just perfect,” you mumble, gently squeezing the sandwich and watching the chocolate drizzle down the marshmallow.

After taking a bite, Miguel hums in approval. “It’s great. Nice little dessert after skating.”

“Agree. An unexpected dessert, but so, so good,” you answer.

“You guys went skating?” Hobie asks.

“Mhm,” you hum, eating your s’more.

“I didn’t know you guys know how to skate,” Miles says with interest, earning a few head nods in agreement.

“I don’t — Or, well, I didn’t, but now I have a little bit of experience. Miguel taught me today,” you reveal with a small smile.

“And Dulzura did amazing,” Miguel adds, looking at you with a warm smile — one that seems to be reserved just for you, as far as the spider gang is concerned.

Glances are shared amongst your friends, curious as always. It’s no secret that Miguel and you hold each other in high regard, or that you occupy a place in the heart of the once stoic man. You even have your own nickname, which none of them are even sure where or when it came to be. One day, they simply heard Miguel address you as such and noted the level of comfort and familiarity you had with it, meaning the nickname had had to be a thing for some time.

“Thanks to you,” you answer. “You made it fun and not so scary.”

Smiling at each other, Miguel and you continue to eat your s’mores before you become aware of teasing noises from your friends.

“What?” you ask, confused.

“Nothing,” Miles answers, giving a warning look to the others, but Hobie Brown has other plans.

“You guys are under mistletoe,” Hobie says with a half smirk.

That simple statement makes your heads snap upwards, finding the plant innocently hanging over the two of you from a tree. Neither of you noticed it earlier, somehow, but it’s there — hanging so effortlessly above the two of you, a Christmas symbol for many and one with several meanings, such as peace, goodwill, love, and even fertility. And of course, there’s that one tradition when two people happen to be below it that involves…

Slowly, Miguel and you look away from the mistletoe and at each other once the realization dawns on you. The respectful distance between you suddenly seems shorter, much shorter. Gazing into each other’s eyes, you both sense the continuous teasing, but also curious energy radiating from your friends. Will you kiss?

“I — Um,” Miguel starts, his brain failing to form words.

“Wow, um, we didn’t — didn’t see it earlier,” you stammer, still looking at Miguel before you look away to face your friends. You offer a small smile. “It’s just a silly tradition, right?” you ask, turning to look at Miguel again.

“Yeah — Yeah, it’s an old tradition,” Miguel quickly replies, still looking at you.

“And besides, you know — Miguel, he — We must be respectful of each other. And I mean that for everyone,” you continue, stopping yourself just in time before stating that Miguel isn’t open to physical touch, much less a kiss. “Including you all. So, yeah.”

“If you say so,” Hobie answers before he takes a drink, slightly shaking his head in either disbelief or amusement, who knows.

“In my universe, the ancient Greeks used mistletoe berries to treat some medical conditions, and even as a way to promote fertility,” Margo shares, shifting the focus from you and Miguel.

You exhale softly and take a drink, glad for the distraction Margo has provided. Slowly, you glance at Miguel to gauge his reaction now. You find him staring at the bonfire, what’s left of his s’more forgotten for now.

“Hey,” you whisper, catching his attention.

“Hey,” he replies in a whisper, turning your way.

“You okay?” you ask.

Miguel nods, slowly smiling a bit. “Yes, thank you.” He pauses and looks at his s’more. “I know what you did there, so thank you.” You raise an eyebrow, prompting him to continue. “Without bringing up my physical touch thing, you steered the conversation away,” he explains, whispering. “Thank you for time and time again respecting my boundaries.”

You smile slowly and nod. “Always. I’m not pushing your boundaries over a silly tradition,” you answer, not quite believing the ‘silly’ part, but saying it in hopes of easing any discomfort.

“I wouldn’t say it’s silly,” Miguel gently counters, informing you indirectly that perhaps… He isn’t opposed to participating in the tradition and would kiss you, if the circumstances were different; those being Miguel’s boundaries with physical touch and a worry of disrespecting each other. “It's a fun, old tradition. As long as there's no disrespect.”

“I agree,” you confess. “I said that for you. I didn't want the situation to make you uncomfortable.”

“Oh,” Miguel answers, realizing that that means you'd be open to the tradition, too. “So you… You participate?”

“In the past, yes, but only with Peter,” you share, looking at the bonfire's flames briefly.

“I see,” Miguel responds.

A few seconds later of debating, you watch Miguel lift his hand with his index finger out towards you.

You stare at his finger and then look at him, wondering. Slowly, you raise your own finger to the same height as Miguel's, leaving a few inches of separation.

Smoothly, Miguel moves his finger closer and closer until there’s barely an inch of space left. A second later, his finger moves the rest of the way and ever so gently, presses against yours at the top.

You watch in silence, smiling sheepishly and leaving your finger in place until Miguel slowly retracts his own, about thirty seconds later. Smiling to yourselves and ignored by your friends, who are too busy talking about some celebrity from another universe, you continue to enjoy your s’mores with the silent yet mutual understanding of what that gesture shared between you symbolizes: a kiss underneath the mistletoe.

-♡-

Hours later, Miguel and you are back in your own cabin after the bonfire. After showering to wash away the scent of smoke, dinner was cooked and eaten. Out of nowhere, you surprised Miguel with a little self-care moment that involved matching headbands and treating yourselves with gentle skincare before unwinding with Christmas movies and snacks in the living room; finishing the day in a relaxing manner.

“Good night,” you softly say with a smile once the last movie is over and you've both cleaned up the living room from your activity.

“Good night. Sleep well,” Miguel answers, reciprocating the smile. He enters his own bedroom once he sees you enter your own and heads to the en suite bathroom to do his routine. Once done, Miguel steps out of the bathroom and begins to prepare his bed to sleep, ensuring that your sweatshirt is near him.

He slips off his top and places it at the end of the bed before climbing on it and laying down. Staring at the ceiling, he sighs softly and begins to reflect on the day, thinking to himself how much he enjoyed spending the day with you. Rolling on his side, Miguel smiles to himself as he fondly recalls the day’s activities like the cooking, watching the movie, the relaxing self-care, and the ice skating. It’s then that his thoughts shift to that moment at the bonfire, but before he can reflect on it, he hears a noise coming from his bed.

Already laying on your bed, you’ve barely tucked yourself in when you hear a semi-loud noise from Miguel’s bedroom. The loudness startles you so much you immediately climb out of bed and walk to Miguel’s room.

“Miguel?” you call out, pushing the door open without thinking about asking first. “I’m turning on the light.” Once you locate the light switch, you flick it and freeze at the doorway when you find Miguel’s bed, and him on it, partly on the floor while the other half remains in place. “Are you okay?” you ask, rushing to his side to help him as he begins to move.

“Yeah, I’m alright. Just a scratch, I think,” he answers as he maneuvers himself to stand up.

“How did that happened?” you ask in shock, offering your hand just in case Miguel needs help. A second later, Miguel accepts it. You clasp hands, securely, and pull him up before releasing his hand.

“I heard a noise and next thing I know, I’m falling,” Miguel answers, shaking his head in amusement.

You look at him, finding a smile on his face. “I’m surprised you didn’t say anything while it was happening. I would’ve probably cursed out of surprise.”

Miguel chuckles softly. “I did, internally. It happened so fast,” he says, crouching to inspect the damage. “Seems like the base and this side of the headboard cracked.”

“Surely it was broken before we arrived,” you state, crouching next to Miguel to look at the situation. In doing so, you notice the sweatshirt you gave Miguel earlier this week for his sleep, still clinging to the half hanging mattress. “It seems the owners failed to catch this.”

“It appears so,” Miguel answers in amusement as you both continue to look at the broken bed.

You sigh softly just as you notice that there are several spots on the wall where the paint has chipped off, right about where the top of the headboard lines up. Your mouth parts slightly as you realize what the reason must be for that.

“Oh,” Miguel quietly mutters, his gaze on the wall, too. He hadn’t noticed that before until now, and now that he does, his cheeks flush as he realizes.

“Umm... You said you got a scratch?” you ask, shifting the conversation.

Miguel turns to look at you, his cheeks still red. “It’s probably nothing,” he says, lifting his bicep to check. “I think I hit it against the nightstand in my attempt to catch myself.”

“Here, let me see,” you gently request.

“It really is nothing,” Miguel answers, standing up.

“It doesn’t hurt to check,” you reply, keeping your eyes on Miguel’s face because he’s shirtless.

“Alright, alright,” Miguel murmurs softly before he shows you his bicep, which immediately earns himself a frown from you. “It’s not that bad.”

“There’s blood,” you reply, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll find a first aid kit. Please sit down… “ you trail off and look around the room, searching for a chair or something for him to sit on. “There,” you gesture once you locate a wing back armchair near the dresser. Without giving Miguel a chance to decline your help, you head to his bathroom in search of the kit. Thankfully, you find one under one of the sinks. “Alright, I found one.” You announce, leaving the bathroom and walking straight to Miguel, who is sitting on the chair just like you asked him to.

“It’s truly fine, Dulzura,” Miguel insists just as you kneel at his side. He looks away for a few seconds, finding it unnecessary for you to give him this much attention to the point you’re on your knees. “It’s just a small scratch.”

“I said that to you many months ago. On Father’s Day when I hurt myself, remember?” you say, opening the first aid kit and looking for the right supplies. “It was just a scratch and you still tended to it.”

“That’s…” he starts, but trails off because he was about to tell you that that situation was different.

“Please… Just let me,” you gently say, looking up at him.

“I — Okay,” Miguel answers, staring back at you and finding it impossible to refuse your care and attention any longer. He swallows softly, his maroon eyes gazing over your face. “Alright, thank you… Thank you, Dulzura.”

You smile sweetly at Miguel before you begin checking the wound. “It’s pretty long,” you state. “May I…?” You look up again, referring to touching him.

“Yes,” Miguel replies quietly.

You nod before gently cleaning the bit of blood present. Your fingers touch his skin respectfully, always polite of Miguel’s boundaries.

Miguel looks away a few seconds later and stares at the broken bed while you continue to work. He flexes the fingers from his free arm over and over again, feeling your fingers on his skin and trying not to think about how pleasant your touch is.

“All clean,” you murmur. “Luckily, it’s not a deep scratch, but it’s still good to make sure.” You search through the kit to find some kind of ointment, something to alleviate any discomfort and help boost the healing process before turning to face him again, the situation reminding you of last year, when you tended to much worse injuries on Miguel’s body. At that, your face softens and your gaze sweeps over Miguel’s torso, easily spotting those old scars. The itch to trace them suddenly overwhelms you, a need to physically feel them to assure yourself they’re truly only scars and no longer wounds in need of attention.

Of course, you don’t; doing so would be far too intimate and would disrespect Miguel’s boundaries. Internally, you tell yourself to focus as you begin to softly apply the ointment to Miguel’s scratch. You focus on that for a moment before your gaze strays away for a few seconds, despite yourself, to Miguel’s physique, noting and remembering details of Miguel’s body; his tan skin, the scars that were once wounds tended by you, the scars that were already there before, the multiple lines defining muscles from years of physical activity, and the soft trail of hair leading down to Miguel's —

You swallow and look away, scolding yourself for noticing silly things. Instead, you focus on how the ointment melts into Miguel's warm skin as you apply it, his warmth seeping into your own.

“Looks good. It should heal quickly,” you say, clearing your throat and reluctantly removing your hand from Miguel.

Miguel glances at you as you begin to place everything you used back in the kit. “I'm sure it'll be good by tomorrow morning. Thank you, I appreciate it, Dulzura,” he says, offering you a warm smile.

“Always,” you answer looking up at him again, reciprocating the smile. Standing up, you turn to the bed, the sight of it reminding you that Miguel can't sleep here now.

At the same time, Miguel looks at it. He stands up and approaches the bed, pulling the comforter off before he grabs a pillow. “I need to set up the couch,” he states, pulling a blanket, too.

“The couch?” Your eyebrows raise as you think about the couch and how uncomfortable it is already compared to a bed. You imagine it'd be triple the discomfort for Miguel due to his build. “That's not gonna be comfortable for you,” you say. “Have my room instead. I'll take the couch.”

“Wha— No, no, no. That's kind of you, but no way.” Miguel shakes his head, speaking firmly while holding the bedding in his arms. “I'm not letting you sleep on the couch.”

“I'll be fine. It'll be far more comfortable for me than you,” you argue.

“Dulzura, thank you, but no. I'm not taking the bed and letting you sleep on the couch. I'm a gentleman,” Miguel softly, but firmly continues to decline.

“But—” you start, trying to convince Miguel.

“Please, no buts. You sleep on the bed. I wouldn't even be able to sleep knowing you're in the living room.”

“I've slept in the living room at the penthouse before. Many times.”

“This is different, you know that,” he replies with a small smirk. “I appreciate you trying to accommodate me, but there's no way I'm doing that.”

Huffing, you follow Miguel to the living room and watch as he begins to set up his pillow. You suddenly think of something, but you're not sure Miguel will be comfortable with that idea. He might even find it inappropriate. With a sigh, you dare voice your idea. “What if — Um…” You trail off, building up the courage. “If you're comfortable with it, would you be okay with just, you know,” you continue, shrugging to downplay the offer. “We could share,” you finally say, quickly.

Miguel’s eyes widen slightly and you almost swear he clutches the blanket a little tighter. “Share… Share what?”

“You know,” you reply, gesturing to your room. “I wouldn’t mind. I’m comfortable with you because you know, you’re… You’re a gentleman,” you say, softly. “And I trust you, one hundred percent. Wholeheartedly.” Clearing your throat, you look away, afraid you’ve pushed too far with your offer, even if it’s out of kindness. “But, well… I know maybe you’re not at that level of comfort with me, which is understandable,” you quickly say, not trying to guilt Miguel into it. “Whether it’s because we — you know. Us being a man and a woman. Not that I think a man and a woman can’t lay tog—” you stop rambling and sigh. “You know what I’m trying to say. Or, because we would be, closer and we might touch, so…” you trail off again, realizing you probably look like a fool in front of Miguel with your rambling. Maybe you should’ve just kept the idea to yourself. “I understand if you don’t want to, that’s what I’m trying to say, however, if you wish to, that’s an option. It’s up to you.” You gently conclude, deciding that’s the best way to explain it. “I’ll be in the room, if you need something, or if you — You know.” You nod at Miguel. “So, yeah… Good night.”

“Thank you. Good night,” Miguel answers softly, feeling like a deer caught in headlights due to your offer to share the bed.

You walk back to your room and stand next to your bed for a few seconds, almost in a daze. For some reason, you discover that your heart is racing. You finally climb back into bed after shaking your head as an attempt to clear your mind and based on the silence that follows, you assume that Miguel has decided to sleep on the couch after all. Turning on your side, you pull the covers higher over you, preparing to go to sleep after Miguel’s bed breaking. Several minutes later, you hear Miguel’s footsteps.

“You awake?” Miguel whispers.

“Mhm. Still awake. Is everything okay?” you ask.

“Yeah, I just…” Miguel trails off. He’s not sure if you can make out his figure in the mostly dark bedroom, but he looks around shyly. “It turns out, I don’t fit on the couch.”

“Oh,” you softly respond. “Your legs?”

“Yeah, they’re hanging off the couch, so… I was wondering…”

Smiling softly, you turn on the lamp on the nightstand closest to you. You find Miguel standing near the doorway, still shirtless. “I can imagine. Do you want to bring your pillow, or are these okay?” you ask, gesturing to the free pillows on the other side of your bed, unused.

Miguel’s body relaxes, as if he was worried that your kind offer was no longer on the table. “Those should be fine, thank you.”

You nod. “Alright, then… If you need nothing else, you can — You know.”

“Right,” Miguel answers shyly, his cheeks feeling hot as he moves around the bed to the other side. With his long strides, it doesn’t take Miguel long to reach the empty side of the bed. He looks at it and then at you, noticing an equally shy expression on your face.

Noting the shyness in Miguel, you offer a warm and reassuring smile to encourage him, which seems to do the trick.

Gently pulling the covers on his side of the bed, Miguel climbs in, careful not to disturb you too much. He lays on his back before pulling the covers up again. Once settled, he turns to face you, giving you a small smile. “Thank you, and I’m sorry if this is an inconvenience. Please… Don’t hesitate to tell me if I make you uncomfortable,” Miguel gently says. “I'll get off the bed, no questions asked.”

You chuckle softly. “You’re forgetting I’m the one that offered and also what I told you. I trust you,” you murmur.

“I trust you, too,” Miguel whispers. “I just… I don’t want to make you uncomfortable in the aspect that you mentioned earlier.” He looks away for a few seconds. “In that you’re a woman and I’m a man, but also because you’re like me,” he says, turning to look back at you with a sheepish smile. “We’re not used to sharing a bed. I don’t want to disturb your sleep and rest because you don’t have the bed all to yourself.”

“I’ll be perfectly fine,” you answer with amusement. “But, I appreciate your concern for my beauty sleep.”

“Not that you need it,” Miguel answers without thinking, still wearing that sheepish smile.

You hum, your cheeks feeling warm suddenly. “Oh, thank you,” you whisper, looking away.

Of course, Miguel notices your shy reaction to his words, inspiring a blooming warmth and fuzzy feeling in his chest. “Always,” Miguel whispers, still grinning.

You clear your throat and pull the covers slightly higher to hide your face. “Good night, Migs,” you whisper, turning off the nightstand lamp.

“Buenas noches, Dulzura [good night],” Miguel murmurs, still watching you. “Dulces sueños [sweet dreams].” Miguel turns away and closes his eyes, laying next to you.

Trying to fall asleep, thoughts of your current position comes to mind for the two of you. Is this strange? You’ve both laid next to each other before, even shared a blanket and pillows, but that was different. All those times, it’s been on the living room floor, not a bed, and for some reason, the bed makes it more… Intimate.

It's not strange, right? Best friends have sleepovers and share a bed all the time.

Rolling to your other side, facing away from Miguel, you decide it’s normal. It’s totally normal… Except, the last time you shared a bed was with Peter, your Peter, and that was years ago. The thing is, you don’t find it uncomfortable, even if he’s a man and you’re a woman. Instead, you find Miguel’s presence next to you new, yet insanely pleasant. His body warmth seems to call to you, to move closer and take a dip in it. You close your eyes and try to ignore it, certain that you’re simply immensely exhausted from the fun day you both had and now having strange thoughts.

Next to you, Miguel opens his eyes and stares into the darkness. There’s some distance between you two and yet, the combination of your personal hygiene items and your very own scent embrace him, like a blanket of constellations welcoming him home. He suddenly remembers that he left your sweatshirt in the bedroom and realizes that if he had stayed in the living room, he would’ve already gone back to retrieve it, but being here with you now, within hand’s reach, he has no need for it since he's next to you, his sleep remedy.

Minutes later, Miguel hears your breathing slow down, signaling your slumber and promising his to come. Focusing on the gentle sound, Miguel rolls on his side, facing your back. Despite the darkness, he can make out your figure, so close, yet with a respectful distance still in place. Once more, Miguel’s fingers flex; close, open, close, open. They itch, to reach and touch.

Miguel slightly shakes his head, ignoring the strange need. He closes his eyes and focuses on your breathing again, finding it easy to find sleep, as always, with you near him.

-♡-

When Miguel wakes up, he’s immediately aware of a pleasant presence next to him. It’s soft, warm, and their scent — Miguel wants nothing more than to bury his face into them and further inhale that lovely essence. Still half asleep and with his eyes closed, Miguel moves closer to the presence, allowing himself to be lulled in this moment of vulnerability.

“Mmm,” Miguel hums in appreciation once the scent is closer, once the warmth feels like it’s become his own. His arm tightens around said presence; wanting it closer, closer, closer.

His eyes slowly open, needing a moment to adjust to the bits of light streaming through the windows’ blinds. With his brain barely waking up, it takes Miguel several seconds to realize: his arm is wrapped around your waist, holding you close.

As the realization dawns on him, Miguel’s arm remains around you, even when his mouth slightly parts in surprise at his own actions. Despite the shock, Miguel doesn’t remove his arm right away. He leaves it there instead and gazes at you, at your sleepy face.

Miguel drinks in the sight of you, one that’s not entirely new to him for he’s had the absolute pleasure and privilege of witnessing so many times before. Still, for some reason, in this moment in this little cabin in the middle of a forest with snow all around, the sight feels different. There’s your eyelashes and the way they brush against the top of your cheeks, your lips, the peaceful and almost innocent-like look on your face, and how utterly and unquestionably endearing, lovely, and beautiful you look.

Miguel continues to observe you, almost in a trance, even as you stir. He watches you exhale softly, snuggling further into the pillows before going still again.

It’s then that it dawns on Miguel that he ought to remove his arm from you. It’s not appropriate, is it? He’s a gentleman. He was raised to be one, and so, Miguel reluctantly removes his arm from you, instantly missing everything about it from the softness to the warmth of your body.

As if sensing the absence of his touch, you stir again and this time, Miguel can tell you’ll be waking up. You hum softly, eyes fluttering before they focus on the man next to you. “Miguel,” you murmur sleepily. “Good morning.”

“Good morning, Dulzura,” Miguel murmurs. “Did you sleep well?” He asks, wondering if he disturbed your sleep at some point during the night.

“Mmm, yes. I did,” you answer, covering your mouth to yawn. “I slept very well.”

“That’s a relief,” Miguel says. “I was worried I… I don’t know. Kicked you in my sleep, or something.”

That makes you snort softly. “If you had, I wouldn’t be in bed right now. Probably.”

“Not funny,” Miguel responds in a slightly playful way, yet he’s not amused with the idea of you being hurt, especially by him.

“There was no kicking, or anything,” you assure him.

Except Miguel did have his arm around you when he woke up, but you’re not aware of that innocent fact.

Remembering that, Miguel clears his throat. “… I need to tell you something,” he says, sitting up to give you space.

“Oh… Is something wrong?” you ask, worried you possibly did something to offend him during your sleep. Your brain quickly goes through the worst scenarios, like you getting too close to him, or saying something inappropriate.

“Not exactly? It’s something I did,” Miguel continues, watching you sit up as well. “I just want to be honest.”

You nod, clasping your hands together and waiting.

“I didn’t kick you,” Miguel starts. “But… When I woke up, I had my arm — around you — around your waist,” Miguel confesses, his cheeks red. He curls his fingers around the bedding, waiting for your reaction and finding surprise, but no negative emotion.

“It was?” you ask softly, thinking. Somewhere during the night, you vividly remember feeling the weight of it, yet you were more asleep than anything. “I felt it during the night.” You announce quietly, trying to recall the short blurry memory.

Miguel’s eyebrows shoot up. That means he held you for far longer than he thought. “I’m sorry,” Miguel states a few seconds after recovering from the news. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what got to me.”

Smiling, you shake your head. “You don’t have to apologize. It doesn’t bother me in the slightest. Really. In fact,” you pause, looking away out of embarrassment and a bit of shame. “I may have… Touched your arm, too.”

“I don’t mind,” Miguel quickly admits because he recognizes your emotions and he doesn’t want you to feel like that. Besides, the truth is that he doesn't mind one bit that you touched him. In fact, he hasn’t minded your touch on previous occasions when physical contact has been needed or has happened out of spontaneity. “It's the truth. And it's only expected.” Miguel continues, reassuring you so you stop feeling negatively when it was him who clearly initiated physical contact during his sleep. “I did have my arm around you, so, it's only expected you would touch it. And there's no reason to be… Embarrassed about it,” he gently adds, giving you a warm and soft smile when you look at him again.

You smile back and nod, slowly feeling less embarrassed about it. “I’m glad you don’t feel upset,” you reply, unclasping your hands.

“Not in the slightest,” Miguel answers reassuringly. “And you…?” Miguel asks, just to be certain.

“No, not at all,” you reply. “Not at all.” You glance at the windows, noticing the sun’s rays. “We should get ready for the day. We’re looking after Mayday today.”

“Right,” Miguel answers, remembering. “I almost forgot.” He sighs softly, feeling good about being honest with you regarding what happened and relieved that you both handled it so well. With the day ahead of you two, Miguel decides to move on from the moment for now and start the day by leaning back to stretch.

Next to him, your gaze moves over to Miguel, landing on his chest before it dips to his abdomen. It’s impossible not to notice the way his body moves, or how the sunlight caresses his bare skin. You look away, remembering it’s incredibly rude to stare, just as Miguel climbs out of bed. You find yourself staring again as he stretches once more, his back popping and back muscles rippling.

Again, you look away and finally get out of bed to start the day. The two of you quickly make the bed before you head into your respective bathrooms to get ready.

An hour later, both Miguel and you find yourselves in Mary Jane and Peter’s home.

“We seriously cannot thank you enough,” Peter B. says as he carefully hands Mayday’s backpack to Miguel since you’re already holding his daughter’s hand. “Mary Jane and I appreciate it so much.” He says, exhaustion visible on his face.

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?” Miguel asks, voicing your own thoughts.

“No, no. We’re good, thank you. You offering to take Mayday with you for the day, having her have a day out means so much to us. Mary Jane and I have hardly left the house, which means so has little Mayday,” Peter answers. “Mary Jane is still recovering and with it being cold, we don’t want to take Benjamin out either. I’ve gone out to get groceries and the such to distract Mayday a little, but that’s nothing compared to our routine from before. Today will make her so happy.”

You offer him a smile, gently patting his shoulder. “We’re happy to help, and if you need something else, please don’t hesitate to let us know.”

“Thank you,” Peter answers, smiling despite his exhaustion. “Thank you so much. If you guys need anything or have questions, or need to bring Mayday back earlier, please don’t hesitate either. We’ll understand.”

“We’ll return at the agreed time, don’t worry. She’s safe with us. You guys do what you need to do with little Benjamin, and take care of Mary Jane. If she needs medical attention or support, the infirmary is always open,” Miguel states, reminding Peter of that resource.

“Thank you, thank you,” Peter sighs. “It means a lot. We’ll keep it in mind, if necessary.”

“Say bye to your dad, Mayday! You’ll be back in a few hours,” you say, still holding Mayday.

“Bye, daddy!” Mayday eagerly says, waving bye.

“Bye, sweetheart. I’ll see you in a little bit,” Peter says with a smile, walking closer to gently pinch her cheek. “Be a good girl for uncle Miggle and aunt Y/N,” he adds, earning himself a scoff from Miguel at the silly nickname Mayday gave him some time ago.

“Alright, we’re heading out,” Miguel says. “Rest as much as you can, Peter.”

“Thanks, pal. I’ll try. Have fun, guys. Be safe, please!” Peter says, watching you leave with his daughter for the day.

Back to your vacation spot, the three of you step out of the portal and into the cold. You immediately feel Mayday shiver at the change of temperature, so you hold her closer and adjust her puffy jacket to keep her warm. “Gotta keep you warm,” you murmur as you move on to fix her beanie.

“It might be too cold for her,” Miguel says, slinging the backpack on one of his shoulders and stepping closer to help.

“She did shiver just now, so I’m adjusting her clothes to make sure she’s as warm as possible, right, Mayday?” you murmur softly, unable to stop yourself from being so affectionate with her. “Alright, all warm for now.”

“First activity for the day?” Miguel asks to confirm, still carrying the backpack.

“We have Mayday, so, yes,” you reply with a chuckle. “Let’s just hope she likes what we’ve planned for her today.”

Miguel laughs softly as you both begin to walk over the snow. “I’m sure we can figure something out if the day’s activities are not to her taste.”

With another chuckle, you both continue to walk to your destination. All the while, Mayday looks around with excitement, even though it’s just a bunch of snow and trees all around for several minutes until the three of you reach the small and cute village. The three of you look around for a moment to take in the village, realizing it’s one of those villages that goes over the top with Christmas decorations everywhere.

“It’s cute,” you state as you near your destination by following signs.

“Mhm, it reminds me of those movies my mom used to watch when Gabriel and I were kids,” Miguel answers. “Some of which are so… Predictable, but still fun to watch. I guess.”

You snort softly. “What? You don’t like those movies?”

Miguel shrugs as you both keep walking. He looks over at you and then at Mayday, who is too busy looking at everything to pay either of you attention. He can’t blame her, though, he supposes this is like a kid’s dream. For a few seconds, he thinks of his little Gabby and how she would’ve loved today’s activities. With an exhale, Miguel gently pulls himself back to the present after silently sending his child an ‘I love you’. “I just think… Some of them are both predictable and problematic, so I can’t watch them without thinking about that.”

“Do go on,” you press. “Please?”

Miguel smiles. “Well, when I say that, I’m talking about those movies where there’s a successful character in the city. Typically, it’s a woman. She has a partner and it all seems to be going well in her life. For example, she has a big work promotion coming up because she’s been killing it in her career through hard work and she has all these nice things, like a luxurious car and apartment, but then, she goes back to where she came from for whatever reason. Some far away place from the city that she left a few years ago and hasn’t visited in x number of years because she’s been busy, and this is sometimes right after discovering that her boyfriend has been cheating on her,” Miguel says, definitely getting into it.

Now, with her not visiting her parents… I’d be hurt if my kid hadn’t visited in so long, but then again, the parents could also travel to her.” Miguel continues with furrowed eyebrows. “Actually, I had never thought about that. Everybody always judges the person who went away, but the parents could also visit… Hm. Well, anyway.” Miguel shakes his head, trying to focus and not ramble. “She goes back to some small town where it looks like Santa Claus threw up all over the place. Like… Here. Anyway, she gets judged left and right by people that knew her growing up. You know, giving her backhanded compliments. Like, ‘oh, I hear you’re getting a promotion, but your boyfriend just cheated on you, so how successful are you really, then?’ They have that kind of attitude.”

You nod, paying attention and trying not to grin too hard at how passionate Miguel seems about this topic.

“And it’s like, wait, what does that have to do with her romantic life? It’s like they’re saying her boyfriend cheated on her because she’s ‘too’ successful. It’s so annoying. What message is it sending to women and young girls? Not a good one, for sure,” Miguel says shaking his head in disapproval. “Well, she’s there in town and then,” Miguel says with an exasperated sigh. “She runs into her previous boyfriend, probably high school sweetheart, who she loved so much, but when she brought up the idea of moving to the city years prior, he didn’t support it because he’s a small town man. He imagined spending his entire life in that place, which is fine, but the female protagonist didn’t want that life. She wanted something different, so they ended up breaking up because of the woman’s decision to pursue their dreams.”

“As they should,” you add.

“Exactly. As they should,” Miguel affirms. “But then, they run into each other in the present and it’s painfully awkward because they haven’t seen each other since the breakup and old wounds are open. Despite the woman trying to keep her distance, fate, or perhaps due to the townspeople who meddle too much, she can’t seem to escape the man and they’re stuck in this forced proximity for half the movie, and you can tell the guy is still upset over the girl’s decision. Anyway, it ends with the woman apparently ‘realizing’ she’s not happy in the city, never has been. And she decides, just from spending like three days in her old town, that she wants to move back and take on the family business she didn’t initially want to be a part of, and resigning from her job. Oh, and she ends up with the old boyfriend. The end,” Miguel finishes. “It’s repeated so much. How about we make the man realize he’s not happy in his town like he thought he would, and is the one who leaves to go live in the city with his successful partner? I’d like to see that instead.”

“You know… You’re right. I don’t think I’ve watched a movie like that, now that you mention it. There should be one like that,” you answer.

“That’s why I don’t like those especially. The other ones, they’re good,” Miguel says with a chuckle. “Oh, look. We’re here.” Miguel gestures ahead, directing your attention.

You grin at the sight and point for Mayday to look. “Look, Mayday! Over there.”

Expectantly, Miguel and you wait for Mayday’s reaction to the first activity of the day: petting and feeding reindeer. Thankfully, her reaction doesn’t disappoint.

“Reindeer! Santa Claus’s sleigh,” she says grinning from ear to ear.

“Yes, mija [my daughter]. Those are Santa Claus’s reindeer,” Miguel replies with a small smile. “Want to pet them?”

“Yes! Can I pet the reindeer? Please?”

“You may, but you must be gentle, okay?” Miguel answers, establishing that boundary immediately for both her safety and the animals’.

You watch in awe, always surprised to see Miguel fall into that fatherly energy so effortlessly, further convincing you that Miguel was meant to be a father in this life.

“Come on,” Miguel says, smiling.

After paying and listening to the instructions, the three of you are in front of reindeer with other people. A worker provides information about them, from how fast they can run and how they differentiate from other deer species along with other interesting information.

With glee, Mayday watches everything from some of the reindeer peacefully eating to others walking, but her favorite part seems to be when she has the opportunity to pet and give snacks to one.

“It’s so fluffy,” she says, gently petting the animal’s head. “Like a dog.”

Miguel and you turn to look at each other, smiling.

“And so cute,” you state, carefully petting the gorgeous reindeer.

“Fluffy and cute,” Miguel murmurs, petting it himself after a few seconds of debating it. He gently pats it with a sigh, once again thinking about Gabby and how she would’ve enjoyed this. Knowing her, Gabby would’ve asked for a book about reindeer to learn more about them afterwards.

“Aww,” you coo softly when you see the reindeer close their eyes and nudge their head into Miguel’s hand, apparently enjoying the petting. “Seems like they like you. Probably because of your warmth.”

“My warmth?” Miguel questions, looking over at you.

“Yeah,” you answer with a shrug as you gently pet the side of the reindeer’s face. “You’re naturally warm. I’m sure they find your warmth… Nice.” Nice? You almost facepalm and wonder why you’re even thinking about Miguel’s body warmth. Feeling embarrassed, you change the subject and gesture to a calf. “Look, a baby reindeer,” you say, successfully shifting the attention, though Miguel glances at you even after the fact.

After another half an hour, the three of you leave with Mayday, who happily carries a reindeer plushie that Miguel bought her on the way out. Together, you walk around the village to see all the decorations and the more you walk, the more it feels like you’re all in a Christmas movie set.

“We’re only missing the love interests,” you joke when Miguel mentions that, too.

“And the meddling friend group who must be running around here somewhere,” Miguel answers with a chuckle. “How about some brunch?” Miguel asks when the scent of food from a diner reaches you.

“Actually… I could eat something right now. What about you, Mayday? Are you hungry?”

“Yes, I’m hungry. Can I have waffles?”

Miguel and you laugh quietly at the innocent question.

“We’ll see if they sell some in there, alright? I’m sure they do,” you assure Mayday, taking her hand again to head inside.

Warmth and the delicious scent of diner food immediately welcomes the three of you when you step inside. Looking around for an empty booth, Miguel and you spot a few spider people neither of you were expecting to see here, in this exact universe and location.

“I didn't know other people were coming,” you say once the three of you are sitting at the booth, including Mayday’s plushie by Miguel's side.

“I didn't either,” Miguel answers, glancing at the group and quickly identifying them.

At the same time, Ben Reilly, Malala Windsor, Max Borne, Anya Corazón, and another member you only know as Spider-Canada, turn to look at the three of you.

Making eye contact with them, Miguel and you nod as a form of greeting, receiving nods and hand waves, before looking over the menu and ordering. Thankfully for Mayday, the diner sells waffles, so Miguel orders her some along with a cup of milk.

Once you're all done eating, you take Mayday to the restroom again to wash her hands, only to run into Ben when you walk out.

“Y/N,” Ben starts, looking surprised to have run into you. “How are you doing?” he asks, offering a smile.

“Hey, I'm doing great. We've been enjoying walking around the village. You?” You ask, holding Mayday’s hand, who looks up at Ben with curious eyes.

“Good. I'm doing good. We've also been sightseeing.” Ben answers while scratching his neck, pink dusting his cheeks as he stares at you before turning to look at the kid. He offers an awkward smile to Mayday before looking back at you. “You and Miguel babysitting for Peter?”

“Yes. We offered since Mary Jane and Peter just had — Their baby,” you reply, remembering that their newborn is named Benjamin, just like Ben. You suddenly wonder how Ben feels about that and the fact that Peter looks so similar to him. “So, Miguel and I figured that we could look after Mayday for the day, and give her a fun day here.”

“That’s kind of you and Miguel. I’m sure Peter and his wife appreciate the gesture, and the little kid, too,” Ben states. “Where are you guys staying?”

“We’re staying in a cabin. It’s a few minutes from the village by foot,” you answer. “All my friends rented cabins there, too, so we’re all within walking distance.”

“Oh, you’re not all staying in the same cabin?”

“No, we’re staying in different cabins. Miguel and I are staying in one, and the rest of my friends are in two others.”

“Oh, you and Miguel are in one,” Ben repeats slowly, briefly glancing in Miguel’s direction, who is looking the other way, before turning to look back at you. “Well… I hope that you’re enjoying the cabin.”

“We are, thank you. It’s so cozy. Where are you and your friends staying at?”

“The inn. It’s just down the street,” Ben explains. “It’s a nice place. Cozy.”

You smile, “I can imagine. This place seems so magical. I’m certain that every building and crevice of this village is cozy and welcoming.”

“Uncle Miggle,” Mayday says next to you. “He’s waiting on us. Can we go?”

“We’re going, Mayday,” you answer before turning your attention to Ben. “Well, we’ll see you around, Ben. I hope you and your friends continue to enjoy the holiday trip.”

“Thank you, Y/N. You, too,” Ben replies, smiling again. “See you at work after Christmas!”

“See you!” You reply before Mayday and you both walk past Ben to return to Miguel. “We’re back,” you say once you reach Miguel.

“You guys ready to go?” Miguel asks.

“Yes. Let’s go ahead and pay.”

“I’ve already paid, don’t worry about it, Dulzura,” Miguel answers with a small grin, standing up. He quickly puts on his coat and helps Mayday with hers while you slip on your own.

In no time, the three of you exit the diner only for you to realize that Mayday isn’t wearing her beanie. “Wait, her beanie is missing. It must have fallen off the booth.”

“I’ll go get it,” Miguel states, but you shake your head.

“It’s alright. I’ll go get it. Be right back,” you announce, turning on your heel and walking back the short distance to the diner. Inside, you quickly return to your booth and find the beanie hanging from one side, where Mayday was sitting. You pick it up and head back, running into Ben right at the door while his friends are off to the side, looking at a wall with decorations.

“I’m sorry,” you apologize. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes, I’m alright. Are you okay?” Ben asks, looking you up and down, as if to ensure you’re okay.

“Yep, I’m okay. Sorry, I guess I was moving too fast, I didn’t see you there,” you answer with a chuckle as Ben opens the door for you, allowing you to exit first. As you step out, you hear him chuckle, too.

“It’s alright. It happens sometimes,” he says behind you before he finds himself next to you with a small grin, right in front of the diner’s door. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, no worries,” you answer, reassuringly. “It was more the surprise of running into someone.”

It’s Ben’s chuckling that captures Miguel’s attention while he holds Mayday’s hand for her safety. He turns around when he hears it, finding you next to Ben. For some reason, he’s unable to look away from the interaction, making it the sole reason why Miguel even notices Ben looking up for a single second. Curious, Miguel’s gaze travels upwards, only to find a mistletoe hanging over the diner’s doorway, right above the two of you.

Miguel’s eyes quickly dart back to Ben, who is looking at you once more, and sees an idea form in his head — a light bulb go on.

An idea has formed in Ben’s head and it leaves Miguel frozen in place for a second, just a mere second. His chest fills with a heavy and distressing feeling, spreading like vines. Somewhere in his mind, Miguel is aware that he’s holding his breath, as if he’s bracing himself for something heart-shattering.

The heavy and distressing feeling continues to grow within Miguel, much like the idea in Ben’s head. Miguel’s suspicions are confirmed, or at least he thinks so, when he sees the other Spider-Man reach for your arm.

It’s instinct — pure instinct from somewhere within Miguel — that leads to his free hand shooting out. In the blink of an eye, a string of neon red web travels from him to you, and wraps itself around your torso. Still led by instinct, Miguel tugs you towards him and away from Ben, who was just milliseconds from touching your arm.

One second, you’re next to Ben and the next, you’re flying across the short distance and in front of Miguel, who carefully catches you by your arms, holding you steady.

“Miguel,” you breathe out, shocked. “What happened?”

“I —” Miguel starts, desperately trying to think of a reason for his actions when he can’t even begin to decipher why he’s done what he did. He stares at you, his eyebrows furrowed and chest heaving while he continues to gently hold you by your arms. Miguel searches his brain for an answer. Why did he do that? Why? “I — I can explain,” Miguel says, even though he has no explanation.

“Icicles!” Mayday exclaims next to the two of you.

Miguel looks up, finding icicles over the doorway you were just under, which he hadn’t noticed before.

“Icicles,” Miguel repeats, clearing his throat as he looks back at you, still holding you by your arms. “It looked like one was about to break off and fall on you.”

You look behind you with wide eyes, confirming that there are icicles. “I didn’t notice them,” you confess. “Thank you. Hey, Ben! Watch out for the icicles!” you call out to Ben, who for some reason, looks displeased. Maybe it’s the cold, or the news of icicles, you think to yourself.

“Thanks for the warning!” he calls back, looking at Miguel for a few seconds with that same look of displeasure. He waves bye before he’s joined by his friends.

Miguel sighs, slowly releasing your arms and stepping back. The sinking and heavy feeling in his chest slowly dissipates, and seeing Ben walk away from the diner with his friends, heading in the opposite direction of where you all should be heading next, helps even more.

“Whew, thank goodness you noticed. We should probably tell the owners about it,” you say, looking back at the diner, completely unaware of what just transpired.

“Yeah,” Miguel answers, feeling like he can breath normally again with the distance between Reilly and you growing. “I’ll go tell them. You stay here with Mayday. I’ll be right back, okay?” Miguel says, not wanting you or Mayday to walk past the icicles again.

“Alright, just be careful, please,” you answer softly, a hint of worry on your face.

“I will, don’t worry. I’ll be right back,” Miguel responds before he heads back to the diner to notify someone about the icicles situation. Still feeling off by what just happened, Miguel shortly returns to you and Mayday. “I told one of the workers, so that should take care of it,” Miguel announces. “Should we head back to the cabin, or would you like to go somewhere else?”

“I think with what almost happened, I’d like to go back to the cabin,” you truthfully answer with a small smile. “Besides, we have some fun activities to do with Mayday there.”

“True,” Miguel answers. “Let’s head back, then.” Miguel sighs to himself as you all begin to walk, trying to figure out the mess in his head, but he can’t make anything out of it.

He did a good thing, right?

Miguel subtly glances at you as he asks himself that. What he did was a good thing, or at least Miguel thinks so. Ben was going to try and kiss you because of the mistletoe tradition. There’s no doubt about that in Miguel’s mind; it was obvious and he could smell it from a mile away. And you… Miguel steals a glance at you again just as you tell Mayday something.

You were so oblivious to it, to Ben’s intentions. Miguel doesn’t know how Ben was going to do it. Was he going to tell you about the mistletoe and hint for a kiss, or hope that you offered one instead? Or, was he going to steal a kiss from you without your consent? The simple idea of Ben kissing you without your consent, especially when you don’t carry yourself like that, upsets Miguel. Just yesterday, you were talking about respecting everyone when it comes to the tradition and today, Ben was likely going to disrespect you and your boundaries.

Miguel huffs to himself as you near your cabin, deciding that his actions are justified. He prevented someone from disrespecting you, even if it was only going to be a harmless kiss because of some Christmas tradition. Or at least, that’s what Miguel tells himself.

As the cabin comes into view, Miguel continues to think about the situation and begins to wonder if Ben’s intentions were truly harmless. Didn’t you say months ago that Ben wanted to tell you something, only for it to be about an anomaly report when Ben knows how to make them? That was strange to Miguel back then, how Reilly had only sought your help for something as basic as a report.

And wasn’t there that time at the training sector when Ben only greeted you and completely ignored him despite walking next to you? It was as if Miguel, a man nearly seven feet tall, wasn’t even there. Then, that same day at the training sector, he seemed to be doing a little too much in Miguel’s opinion. It almost seemed like Reilly was trying to impress someone, but doing a horrible job at it — not that Miguel would know any better, but still.

Miguel’s thoughts abruptly halt when he notices you duck before a snowball flies by. He immediately forgets about Ben and turns to find the culprit for the snowball, realizing you sensed it coming.

“Are you okay, Dulzura?” he asks, turning to face you again when he finds no one, a gentle look on his face just for you.

“I’m alright,” you answer, turning around. “I think someone’s playing a trick on us.”

“I think so, too,” Miguel answers, looking at the ground because he has an idea. He crouches and grabs snow before he molds it into a snowball with his gloved hands. “I think I know who threw that one.”

“Right there,” you murmur, noticing footprints coming from an invisible source on the snow. “On your right,” you whisper before another snowball flies your way. You’re quick to dodge it and Miguel is even quicker in throwing his own snowball. It hits something, or rather someone, and when it makes impact, it reveals none other than Miles.

“Attack!” he says, crouching to form snowballs and inciting the rest of the spider gang to come out from behind trees.

Seeing multiple snowballs coming your way, you quickly grab Mayday, who of course, finds the situation hilarious.

“Snow attack!” she yells, still carrying her reindeer.

“I need you to hold on to me, Mayday, okay?” you instruct with a grin. “We’re being attacked.”

“Are we going to win?” she asks as Miguel walks past you, preventing a snowball from hitting you and Mayday and throwing four back in retaliation.

“That’s the plan,” you answer. “Miguel, you, and I must work as a team.”

“And Binx!” she answers, showing you her reindeer.

“And Binx,” you add, wondering at what point did Mayday name the reindeer as you dodge another snowball from Hobie. You quickly collect snow and shape it into balls, launching one after another to different people.

Snowballs fly across the plot of land, some bigger and faster than others. Laughter and comments about winning and defeating fill the air. The snowball fight goes on for some time until Hobie, Gwen, and Pav begin to target you specifically. You run around, swinging from trees to dodge their relentless attack, which only stops when Miguel begins to target them back with much larger and stronger throws, knocking them down.

You laugh to yourself and swing back to Miguel, helping him form more snowballs to defeat the group. It finally concludes with Spider-Ham waving a white flag for surrender.

“Victory!” Mayday exclaims, but not before throwing one last snowball at Spider-Ham’s face.

“Alright, we give up!” Miles states, standing up and brushing off snow from his jacket. “I told you guys not to target Y/N too much,” he continues, looking at the group. “I knew el tío was going to go full on protective mode [the uncle].”

“I think you mean he was going to defend his team,” you clarify, or at least think so, with a small smile as you walk past him. “And I so happened to be in his team.”

“I don’t think I can handle this anymore,” you hear Pav say behind you. “This is like reading a nearly 400K torturous slow burn fanfic on Our Own Archive with the ‘idiots in love’ tag.”

“That’s what it’s called in your universe?” Margo asks. “But, so true.”

“Ooh, can we build a snowman? Please, please?” Mayday asks, tugging your arm and looking up at you with such puppy eyes you forget to ask Pav why he brought up fanfiction.

You glance at Miguel, who shrugs, as if saying ‘why not?’

“Why don’t we build it in front of the cabin?” you suggest.

“Yippie, okay!” With that, Mayday runs ahead of you and picks a spot to begin rolling snow.

“It’s been a hot minute since I’ve built a snowman,” you comment as you both watch Mayday kneel on the ground with her reindeer next to her whilst telling it how to make a snowman.

“Yeah, it’s a been… Years for me, too. I think since I was like fifteen, or so, with Gabriel,” Miguel replies with a fond smile. “Come on. Mayday is going to teach us how to build a snowman, along with her reindeer.”

“Binx,” you say.

“When did they get a name?” Miguel asks. “I missed that development.”

“Somewhere after the reindeer place and before the snowball fight,” you reply with an amused smile. “I found out about it just before the action started.”

“I see. Kids,” Miguel answers with a smile. He turns around to look at the others. “Should we invite them for the baking?”

“I was thinking about that. Maybe some of them will be up for it, if they don’t have plans already. It’s worth asking.”

“Uncle Miggle, aunt Dulz,” Mayday calls.

“Dulz…?” you repeat.

“She’s trying to call you Dulzura,” Miguel states with a smile. “Seems like you have your very own nickname from her, too, hm?” he teases.

“Nothing beats Miggle, though,” you tease back, making Miguel chuckle.

“It’s a noble nickname,” Miguel answers before you reach Mayday. “What is it, mija [my daughter]?”

“I need help,” Mayday replies. “We need big, big snowman.”

Together, Miguel and you help Mayday build a big snowman while your friends build their own things.

“We need another one!” Mayday declares when you've completed the first snowman. “Short!”

“Like you?” You ask, trying to figure out how short.

“No, like you!” Mayday replies with a giggle as she begins to collect snow. And so, a second snowman is built before Mayday requests an even shorter snowman. Of course, Miguel and you oblige.

“Yay!” Mayday happily hugs the tallest snowman. “Uncle Miggle!” She then moves to the second tallest snowman. “Aunt Dulz!”

“Oh, that's supposed to be me” you say amused as Mayday hugs your snowwoman. “Is this you?” you ask, gesturing to the shortest snow person.

“Nope. It's my friend.”

“Your friend? Oh, what's their name?” Miguel asks, equally curious like you.

“Gabby!” Mayday answers with glee.

“Oh,” Miguel softly responds, his chest tightening at the mention of Gabriella by Mayday. It's the first time she’s ever said anything about Gabby and to be honest, Miguel didn't expect her to until much later. He expected that she'd eventually ask who the little girl in the picture frames at the penthouse is on a random day while you both babysat her, not on this winter getaway.

“Miguel,” you murmur softly, gaze softening at the mention of Gabby. “Are you okay?”

“Ye-Yes.” Miguel nods, trying to recover.

“She likes the snow!” Mayday announces before running to pick up more snow with Binx.

“She did,” Miguel breathes out. “She liked the snow. How did she know?”

“Kids…” You trail off, not knowing how Mayday knew of that fact. “They're far more sensitive than we are, and far more aware than we give them credit for.”

Nodding, Miguel watches Mayday continue to play in the snow with the others. After a minute or two, he tries to push the thought away for the remainder of the time in an attempt to enjoy himself and keep the mood light. He watches with a smile as the group has fun and eventually joins you in making snow angels just outside your shared cabin.

Gabby comes to mind yet again, however, when you’re all in the cabin’s kitchen baking cookies. Miguel was concentrated on the task at hand, but when he gazes at you and notes how patient and tender you’re being with Mayday as you teach her how to bake, Miguel can’t help but think about his daughter and how eager she would’ve been to bake with you. He imagines you would’ve been so sweet and patient with her, just the way you are with Mayday.

After baking and decorating cookies, everyone gathers in the living room to enjoy them and relax with the Christmas tree in sight.

All too soon, Miguel and you cook dinner while those who stay to dine with you entertain Mayday in the living room with coloring books. Once dinner is over and the kitchen is cleaned, you put on a Christmas movie while Miguel gathers the snacks, starting the final fun activity for Mayday. Of course, your friends were invited to stay and so they did, which results in a full living room with some people sitting on the floor.

Miguel and you, however, sit on the same couch next to each other and share snacks while the movie plays. You eventually note, close to the end, that Mayday has fallen asleep with Binx close to her chest, exhausted from the day out. A few minutes later, the credits begin to roll and one by one, your friends bid their goodbyes and wish you both a Merry Christmas before returning to their cabins.

“Should we put on another movie? We still have about half an hour before we drop off Mayday,” you say once it’s just the three of you.

“I’m personally… In the mood for Christmas movies, so I’d be happy to watch one more,” Miguel answers with a grin.

“Me, too! Alright, let’s see,” you say, looking to see what options there are. “This one sounds interesting. It says —” you begin but stop when you feel something small fall on you. “What was that?”

“Hm?” Miguel moves to see what fell on you before he feels something light hit his shoulder, too.

You both shift over and find small berries — mistletoe berries, to be exact.

“Berries…?” you say softly before you both look up in confusion only to find mistletoe hanging from the ceiling thanks to spider web and tied with a pretty satin red bow. “I… That wasn’t there before, was it?” you ask, slowly looking at Miguel.

“I think I would’ve noticed it,” Miguel answers. “But, I also didn’t see any of our friends do that, so…” Miguel looks at you, trailing off for a few seconds. “I have no idea how it got there.”

Meeting Miguel’s gaze, you nod in the dimly lit room. You suddenly become aware of the crackling flames from the fireplace and the scent of baking still present. “I don’t know either,” you answer softly, noticing Miguel’s crimson eyes and how they seem to shine because of the flames. You swallow softly, slowly smiling at him out of — something. Amusement? Shyness? Disbelief that you’re both under mistletoe again? A mixture of everything? You don’t know.

Gently, Miguel smiles, too. His gaze sweeps over your face, locking every detail into his memory the way you’d try to memorize every feature about a touching and beautiful work of art; how the fire’s flames cast light on your face, caressing you; the way your eyelashes frame your eyes; and how your eyes look at him with a glimmer in them.

Still smiling at each other, you both chuckle quietly.

“Well…” Miguel starts. “There’s mistletoe.”

“Again,” you say, exhaling softly.

“Again,” Miguel confirms, remembering you’ve now found yourselves under mistletoe twice. He’s also, unwillingly, reminded of that moment with Reilly earlier. Out of instinct, his hand closes into a fist just thinking about it, but he pushes the memory aside, not wanting that bad memory to taint this lighthearted moment.

“It’s everywhere,” you continue, amused, still staring at Miguel.

“It seems so,” he answers, gazing at you.

A few seconds pass and you’re both still staring at each other, unable to look away. Maybe it’s exhaustion, or something else, but you both begin to lean closer without realizing it. Your heads gradually move closer and closer, completely unaware of how the distance is growing shorter and shorter with every breath from your lungs. In that moment, even the crackling from the fireplace ceases and all you can both focus on is each other, almost in a trance.

“Hey, guys!”

Startled, Miguel and you turn to the front door, now fully open thanks to Peter, who has his arms high in the air to make an entrance. He freezes at the sight, eyes widen as Miguel and you stand up from the couch.

“Peter!” you start. “I thought we were dropping Mayday for you?”

“Ah…” Peter trails off, looking between you and Miguel, who is suddenly busy folding a blanket. “Yes, but Mary Jane and I literally decided, like two minutes ago, that it’d be better for me to pick her up since you guys have done so much for us today. I’m sorry if I startled you, that wasn’t my intention.” Peter says before he spots the mistletoe, it adding even more fuel to his thoughts. “Uh… Seems like I should’ve messaged you before showing up?”

“No, it’s okay,” Miguel says, now picking up an empty bowl that had popcorn earlier. “Some of the spider group, who stayed for dinner and a movie, just left.”

“Yeah, you missed them by like thirty seconds or so,” you add.

“Literally, like thirty seconds,” Miguel confirms, for some reason having the need to emphasize that you were both in company of others up until now. “We just finished watching the movie.”

“And Mayday has been asleep for about fifteen minutes or so. She’s exhausted form the day,” you continue.

“Uhuh, I can imagine,” Peter replies, slowly grinning. “I bet you guys had an exhausting yet fun day together.”

“We tried to. I think we succeeded,” you reply with a smile, feeling like you’re explaining yourself when there’s no reason to. Right?

“I would say so,” Miguel adds, coming to stand next to you. “By the way, you have a new family member besides Benjamin.”

“Oh?” Peter inquires simply.

“Binx,” you say, gesturing to the stuffed animal Mayday is still holding on to while sleeping.

“You guys bought her a reindeer plushie?”

“Miguel,” you clarify.

“Dulzura helped Mayday choose, so it was a team effort,” Miguel counters.

“Love the team work,” Peter replies with a full blown grin. “Well, I’ll go ahead and take Mayday, and let you guys rest for the remainder of the night. I imagine you’re both a bit tired after looking after a kid.” He walks past you two and approaches his daughter, picking her up effortlessly and cradling her along with Binx.

At the door, Miguel hands him Mayday’s backpack, too, finalizing the day. “You don’t need help?” Miguel asks.

“Thanks, pal, but I got it from here. You two continue on with your night,” Peter replies, stealing a glance at you and half smirking. “Enjoy the holidays. I’ll see you guys after Christmas at HQ.”

“Say hi to Mary Jane,” you state. “And again, if you guys need something — anything at all — let me know.”

“Yeah, please remember that,” Miguel says, scratching his neck. “We’re here. If we can help somehow, we’d be happy to.”

Smiling, Peter nods. “I know. Thank you, guys. We truly appreciate it. And, thank you for looking after Mayday and Mr. Binx, too.”

“It was a pleasure,” you answer with a smile.

“Any time,” Miguel replies.

“Thanks, guys! I’ll get going now. Have fun and continue to enjoy your vacation!” Peter calls out as he walks out of the cabin. “See you soon!” With his webs, he closes the door shut, leaving Miguel and you alone for the first time since this morning when you woke up in the same bed.

Alone, you both look around before the mistletoe catches your attention again.

The sight of it leaves the two of you rooted to the ground, next to each other. Moments ago, you were sitting beneath it having just learned of its existence and you were staring at each other, laughing about it. It was funny, you internally tell yourselves. Although there is the question of how it got there and by who, but as you both continue to stare at it, you discover that you don’t care to know. It’s harmless and innocent and it’s not like something happened, you tell yourselves, oblivious to that moment, where your heads were inching closer before Peter arrived.

A second later, you yawn softly out of exhaustion. “M’sorry, I guess I’m beginning to feel tired,” you start softly. “Should we quickly clean up and then head to sleep?”

Miguel nods, redirecting his attention from the mistletoe to you. “Yes, or if you wish to go to sleep already. I can clean up on my own.”

“I’m not leaving the cleaning to yourself,” you quickly answer. “We’ll get it done faster together.”

As always, the team effort goes smoothly. Miguel and you leave the living room and kitchen spotless, especially when you remember that tomorrow is your last day in the cabin.

A short while later, you walk into your bedroom donning pajamas. Rubbing hand lotion on your hands, you look up and find Miguel on the bed already. He’s leaning against the headboard while reading a book, lost in the words. Pausing a few steps in, you gaze at him respectfully, or at least you hope so anyway. Miguel’s shirtless once more, apparently not cold, and wearing sweatpants that sit at his waist.

Massaging the rest of your lotion into your skin, you look away and breathe out after seemingly holding your breath. For some reason…

At last, you approach the bed, noting that Miguel has already placed the covers in a way so you can easily slip in. You hum quietly when you’re under the same covers, finding that the bed is warm already, even though Miguel has probably only been on it for a few minutes. Regardless, you embrace the warmth and allow it to embrace you back as you get comfortable.

Next to you, Miguel uses his bookmark and closes the book before he puts it away on the nightstand. He yawns softly and looks down at you, taking note of your sleepy gaze.

“Good night, Dulzura,” he murmurs quietly to avoid startling you. “Sleep well.”

With a small and sleepy smile, you respond. “Good night, Migs. Sweet dreams.”

-♡-

Outside, the heavy snow falls off trees’ branches. Pine cones drop and decorate the ground. Somewhere, wildlife roams the beautiful land that is their home, leaving footprints of their strolls. A silence unknown to most cities is loud in this vast land; no helicopters roam above, no lousy cars speeding off, and there’s no sight or racket from bustling streets filled with beings.

There is silence, a peaceful kind, and with it, a heat.

It’s an inviting, blazing, and amicable heat. The kind you wish to bask in on a cold winter morning until noon. The kind of heat that grows from two individuals’ bodies laying so close together, it lulls you straight back to sleep.

It’s that heat Miguel and you are responsible for as you lay together under the same sheets. Your heads rest on the edge of your respective pillows; your faces merely separated by a few inches.

Slowly and comfortably, Miguel and you wake up at once. With a soft yawn here and a low murmur there, you both slowly open your sleepy eyes and simply embrace the moment. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re both very much still filled with sleep, or perhaps it’s due to something else entirely, but the two of you remain still.

Neither of you move an inch; not when you slowly realize your fingers are intertwined and that your faces are so close together, it would make people talk. Minutes pass and with each one, the more conscious you both become. You finally reach a point of awareness that makes you discover something else: the intimate tangle of your legs, with one of yours between Miguel’s.

It’s until then that it truly dawns on you; your unconscious disregard for Miguel’s physical boundaries. A second later, your eyes go wide. “Oh — Oh, I’m so sorry,” you suddenly say, speaking for the first time today. You quickly move your leg away and remove your hand from Miguel’s before scooting away. “I’m so sorry. I just realized.”

With your sudden and too soon departure from him, Miguel sits up and shakes his head. “Don’t worry. It’s alright,” he answers, his voice deep from just waking up. “People can’t help what they do while they’re sleeping,” Miguel reassures you, curling his fingers into his palm, the ones that were intertwined with yours just now. He exhales softly, feeling the loss of your warmth and touch instantly, and wishing there had been a warning to prepare himself for it.

“I — I know, but still,” you respond, covering your face with your hands because you feel hot in the face out of embarrassment and regret. “I hope I didn’t make you too uncomfortable.”

“Dulzura,” Miguel starts, waiting for you to lower your hands so he can see your face. “Dulzura,” he calls again, much more gentler, when you continue to hide behind your hands. “Can you look at me, please?”

Slowly, you lower your hands when you hear the gentle pleading of his voice. “Yes?”

Miguel smiles, lazily. “Don’t worry about it, please.”

“Your boundaries are —” you start.

“Fine,” Miguel gently interrupts. “I’m fine. You seem to have forgotten that my hand was also there, with yours,” he says, pausing when he admits that, feeling an extra warmth rush to his cheeks. “And, my legs were also, you know, tangled with yours, so… I think it’s safe to say, I was more than comfortable,” Miguel admits softly. “So, don’t worry on my behalf. Or, about my boundaries. Please.”

“I…” you trail off, staring at him to gauge his reaction, to see if he’s truly not upset about the unconscious physical touch. With each second, you realize he’s truly okay with it. Miguel was and is comfortable with the much more intimate touching. You nod and give him a small yet sheepish smile after a few seconds. “Alright. Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” Miguel answers, smiling back. “You’re… Always so considerate. So much, that sometimes you stress yourself too much, Dulzura. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone as considerate and respectful as you, you know?”

Smiling slightly, you shrug and look away. “It’s the least anyone can do, to be respectful.”

“And yet, there are some people who lack such quality, so thank you,” Miguel continues before his expression turns more serious. “But, just because I’m alright with it, doesn’t mean I expect you to.”

“Wha—What?” you ask softly, noticing the way he’s serious now when it comes to your comfort.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable at all. I know yesterday I also—” Miguel starts.

“I’m alright, too, Miguel,” you say, interrupting him now. “I was worried about you. I’m… Personally alright.”

Miguel nods, visibly relaxing when he hears the honesty in your tone. He slowly smiles. “I’m glad we can talk like this.”

You tilt your head slightly. “Talk like this?”

“That I’m able to communicate with you better than I used to,” Miguel explains.

“I’m glad you do, too,” you answer, recalling how Miguel kept a lot to himself in previous years, but how with time, he’s slowly opened up to you.

“Something else to thank you for,” he says, still smiling at you. Staring at you, Miguel thinks about that for a few seconds and how he’d have pages full of reasons to thank you for. He hums and slowly gets out of bed, deciding to start the day. “Now, since we’ve discussed that, let’s discuss something else. It’s our last day here and we leave by noon. How about we go get breakfast at the diner before we head home?”

“That sounds like a great way to end our trip,” you answer, kicking off the covers and climbing out of bed with a clear conscious.

After getting ready, Miguel and you decide to do a few things before heading out. You both pack your bags and make sure all the rooms are tidy, leaving them the way they were before you arrived. Fortunately, the broken bed won’t be an issue with the owners since Miguel notified them yesterday at some point, and they admitted they had noticed strange noises coming from it during cleaning. So, he was assured no charges would be added since it was an issue on their end.

Eventually, the two of you make it back to the same diner from yesterday and have a lovely breakfast together whilst enjoying the over the top Christmas vibes from the village.

“I got something sticky on my hand,” you say softly when you’re both done eating.

“Could it be that shiny thing you have on your lips?” Miguel asks since he noticed that you applied something glossy today.

“It’s a lip oil, meant to hydrate my lips due to the weather,” you answer with a smile, amused that Miguel has called it a ‘shiny thing’.

“Right. Lip oil,” Miguel answers, storing that away in his mind because it’s related to you. “It looks pretty on you.”

“Thank you,” you reply with a shy smile. “But it’s not that, it’s something else.”

“Maybe it was from passing me the salt and pepper,” Miguel says, thinking about earlier when his eggs needed a little more seasoning. “It felt weird when you handed it to me. Too many people touch it.” At that, you make a playful little face and mouth ‘yuck’, which makes Miguel laugh. “You should go wash your hands. I’ll pay and then go wash mine before we head out.”

“Alright, I’ll be quick,” you say, slipping out of the booth and heading to the restrooms, remembering the way from yesterday.

After seeing you make it to the restroom, Miguel heads to the register to pay. It doesn’t take him very long, considering there’s no line of customers, so he’s soon headed to the restroom to wash his hands. A minute later, he walks out and spots Ben Reilly leave your side and head his way, to the restrooms. For an unknown reason, Miguel gets a bad feeling, which only grows when he notices Ben wipe his mouth.

“Miguel, hey,” Reilly greets him as he reaches the restroom area.

“Hey, Ben,” Miguel answers, staring a little too closely at Reilly. It’s that, however, which allows Miguel to notice that Reilly has something shiny around his mouth. Something like a lip gloss, or a lip oil. Miguel swallows, his hands curling into fists at his sides at the sight. “Doing well?” he asks.

“Yeah, today has been a great day so far,” Reilly answers, briefly looking over his shoulder before facing Miguel again with a grin.

“That’s great. Glad to hear it,” Miguel responds, wondering why Reilly’s grin irritates him so much suddenly. He wishes he could wipe it off.

“I hope you’re doing well, too,” Reilly says, still grinning.

“I am, thank you,” Miguel replies without a smile on his face. “The past few days have been great with Dulzura, that’s my nickname for Y/N,” Miguel clarifies with a little smirk. “And with our other friends. We’re going home today to celebrate Christmas, but we definitely enjoyed our stay. This place is great,” he adds for some reason, noticing the grin disappear off Reilly’s face. Finally.

“Oh. You guys are going home,” Reilly says, clearing his throat. “To celebrate Christmas together. That’s great. So great for you guys... Well, I’m glad you enjoyed your stay. Happy Holidays to you.”

“Happy Holidays to you, too,” Miguel replies with a nod, watching Reilly slip inside the restroom with a frown on his face after wearing that frustrating grin. He huffs, annoyed with Reilly before he walks straight to you, thinking about the shiny stuff on his face. He pushes the thought away, but it comes back to him when he spots you reapplying your lip product, and mistletoe hanging from the ceiling just a few feet away from you. A sinking feeling washes over Miguel as he unwillingly connects those two facts with Ben and the shiny stuff on his face.

“Hey, you took a moment there. You alright?” you ask when you notice him, putting away the lip product into your pocket.

“… Yes,” Miguel answers, inhaling deeply and trying not to think too much about the reason why you just reapplied the product to your lips.

“I ran into Ben and what’s her name,” you start as you both exit the diner. “Everyone calls her Spider-Canada.”

“Spider…” Miguel trails off, not remembering her name in this moment. “Yeah, Spider-Canada. She was here, too?”

“Yes. Her and Ben were having breakfast. I ran into them while waiting for you.”

“Oh, that’s good for them,” he answers, swallowing. He glances your way as you both walk back to the cabin, noticing that you seem relaxed, a little too much, despite what may have just happened between you and Ben. He wants to ask and yet, at the same time, he doesn’t. What if you kissed and it was non-consensual from you? What if Ben disrespected you? He wants to know if Reilly has done that, but at the same time he doesn’t because he’d be upset.

He’d be upset that Ben disrespected you like that.

That’s the only reason he’d be upset; the sole reason for the sinking feeling Miguel carries with him all the way to the cabin.

Right?

Despite his curiosity, Miguel doesn’t dare to ask if something did happen. Not even when you’re both back home in Nueva York and done making plans regarding the cooking for Christmas Eve.

-♡-Christmas Eve-♡-

On the first morning back to Nueva York, Miguel surprises you with pancakes and other sides like fruit for breakfast. You both enjoy the meal at the dining table while talking, though you can sense that something has been on Miguel’s mind since yesterday right before you left the other universe. It made you wonder if Miguel had changed his mind and wanted to stay longer at the cabin, but when you asked if he was unhappy to leave, he answered no and seemed to mean it.

The rest of the day went smoothly once you arrived home, but still, you could tell something was, and still is, bothering Miguel. With the day ahead, you decide to give Miguel space regarding the matter, especially when he seems his normal self when he’s engaging with you or cooking. You figure he will share with you whatever is on his mind, at his own time.

At around noon, Miguel and you launch into action and begin prepping for the festive dinner.

Tamales with different fillings, and pozole [hominy] are cooked. Fruit is chopped and the dry ingredients are gathered for the ponche before it's all added to a pot with water to boil [hot fruit punch]. The champurrado is carefully prepared by Miguel, who tells you about his mom’s recipe [Mexican beverage]. Buñuelos [fried dough fritter]are also made, filling the kitchen with the sweet scent of piloncillo syrup [a type of cane sugar]. Since it’s one of your favorites, Miguel also cooks tinga with your help [Mexican dish]. For another dessert, you bake one of Miguel’s favorite cakes.

Hours later, you’ve both showered and dressed in more appropriate clothes for dinner to celebrate Christmas. With happy and joyous Christmas music playing from Miguel’s record player from the living room and the table set, you have dinner together, officially making it the third year you’ve done so.

Thinking about that, you chuckle at yourself and how nervous you were that first year.

“What’s so funny?” Miguel inquires with a raised eyebrow and a soft smile.

“I was thinking about the very first time I came here — to your home,” you answer, grabbing your glass and drinking. “I don’t know if you knew, but I was nervous about coming here.”

“I could tell,” Miguel responds, lowering his fork and recalling that moment from three years ago. He smiles fondly at you, feeling tenderness for you. Who would’ve thought that you’d be here three years later, having dinner with him again? Miguel clears his throat, suddenly feeling a knot begin to form. “When Lyla told me that you had been sent to deliver food and asking about my whereabouts, she mentioned you looked nervous. And, when you arrived, I could tell. You apologized for coming here before you explained that the Morales’s had sent food with you.”

You smile slowly and nod. “I was the chosen one. For some reason.”

“And I’m… I’m thankful you were,” Miguel softly answers. “I’m thankful you came that night and that you accepted my invitation for dinner. That was the first year I celebrated the holidays here in my universe after not doing so for many years. It was the first time I wasn’t alone on those days since Gabriel passed away. It meant, and still continues to mean, so much to me.”

You look away, feeling your eyes water. After clearing your throat, you look up and nod. “It meant so much to me that you invited me to stay. That you showed me the holographic tree and how holographic ornaments are designed. And, how you invited me the next day for the recalentado,” you answer [Mexican/Latin tradition].

Miguel smiles. “And we’ve kept it a tradition, haven’t we?” he whispers, a tear slipping down his face.

“We have,” you whisper back, a tear of your own running down your cheek.

“Don’t cry, Dulzura,” Miguel whispers, reaching over the table and offering your special gesture; his pinky finger. When you wrap yours around his without any doubt or questions, Miguel reciprocates. “Please, seeing you cry, makes me want to cry.”

“Sorry,” you whisper, wiping your eyes with your free hand, but a few more tears roll down your face out of nostalgia. Things have changed since that night three years ago, for the better.

“I know,” Miguel murmurs, raising his free hand to your face to gently wipe the tears away. He clears his throat, another tear slipping out of his eye. “We've come a long way.” He smiles again, thinking about three years ago. So much has happened and changed since then. He's smiled, laughed, and cried with you. He's made memories he'll carry, cherish, and protect for the rest of his life.

When he thought he was meant to be alone, in walked someone who didn't give up on him; someone who has had the patience of a saint with him; and someone who extended their hand and kept it offered until he was ready to accept it, or at least, a pinky finger.

“We really have. Three years later and we're here,” you answer. Three years ago, you visited the penthouse for the first time and now, you have a bedroom upstairs. There are reminders and personal touches of yours all throughout the space, like the gallery wall in the living room and the mugs from your universe in the kitchen cupboards. “Thank you for trusting me,” you murmur.

“Thank you for not giving up on me,” Miguel murmurs back.

With a tender smile, you respond. “Never.” You smile at each other, tears still brimming in your eyes. “Let’s finish dinner. Everything, as always, turned out so delicious. And we still have the Christmas show to watch, don’t we?” you ask excitedly, trying to lighten up the mood.

“We do. It’ll start in a few hours.”

“I wonder if you’ll be part of it again,” you answer, making Miguel chuckle.

“Maybe. I’d be surprised if I am for a second year in a row,” Miguel answers, noticing your pinkies are still attached. “Either way, I hope you enjoy it.”

“I’m certain I will,” you answer, giving Miguel’s pinky a squeeze before slowly and reluctantly releasing his finger.

“You up for tinga?” Miguel asks, following your attempt to lighten the mood.

With no more tears shed, you continue to have dinner and enjoy the amazing food you both cooked. After the Christmas holographic show, which did include Miguel once more, you find yourselves in the living room, your usual hangout place. Sitting on the ground, you stare at the Christmas tree’s lights, admiring the beautiful tree and feeling the Christmas spirit. You’ve been talking about your short vacation, recalling each moment from the ice skating to the snowball fight you had with the spider gang.

It’s all lighthearted and fun, but of course, talking about the trip reminds Miguel of the whole thing with Ben from yesterday — about whether you kissed. Miguel has tried his best not to think about it and he’s been successful, or so he thinks, but the thought has come back thanks to the conversation.

And he must know.

Did Ben kiss you?

“Dulzura,” Miguel starts, trying to find the right words. “I know you’re a strong woman. That you can take care of yourself and have no need for someone to physically help you, but…”

“What is it, Miguel?” you ask, curious as to where this is going. One moment you’re talking about the trip and now the conversation has shifted to something completely different and unexpected.

“You would tell me, even if you can take care of yourself, if someone… Took advantage of your kindness, right?”

“Wh— What do you mean?” you ask, confused. With furrowed eyebrows, you shift your body to face and look at Miguel better.

“If someone… If someone was to take liberties with you,” Miguel answers, unsure if he’s using the right words or if he sounds crazy right now. “Like, kissing you without your consent.”

That makes you raise an eyebrow. Where is this coming from? You nod regardless. “I… Yes, I would if that happened. I would confide in you if such situation took place.” You blink a few times, still trying to understand why Miguel has brought this up.

“If that happened,” Miguel repeats, now uncertain if Ben did anything at all, or if he did but with your full consent.

“Why are you asking me this?” you inquire.

Miguel sighs, running a hand through his hair and deciding to be honest. “I ran into Ben at the diner yesterday, too. At the restrooms. I noticed he had something like lip gloss on his mouth and then, when I went back to you, you were reapplying your lip oil. I also noticed there was mistletoe near you, so… I couldn’t help but think that you guys…” Miguel says, trailing off.

“Kissed,” you finish, everything clicking in your head with Miguel’s confession. “No, we didn’t.”

“Oh,” Miguel replies, relief running through his body. “I was worried he had and that it hadn’t been with your consent,” Miguel continues, releasing a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Ben can be… A little clueless sometimes, and impulsive. So, I was worried he had kissed you in the name of mistletoe without your permission.”

Suddenly, you realize this is what has been bothering Miguel all along since yesterday. You smile and shake your head, understanding now where Miguel is coming from, and feeling something warm and fuzzy bloom in your chest at the fact that Miguel has been worried about you being in an uncomfortable position due to a man.

“He didn’t kiss me, but he did kiss Spider-Canada. I still can’t remember her name,” you pause, frowning and trying to remember. “I was under the mistletoe with him at some point and he was just about to tell me about it when I stepped away to look for you. When I looked back at them, Spider-Canada was already next to Ben, right under the mistletoe, so they kissed once they gave each other clearance to do so. She was wearing lip gloss, or something of the sort, which Ben tried to wipe off, but he ended up spreading it all over instead. That’s when he excused himself to go to the restroom.”

“I see,” Miguel answers, smiling slowly and finding the situation somewhat funny now, though Ben’s attitude still seems a bit annoying to him. “I’m glad it was consensual,” he continues, telling himself that he’d be saying the same thing, even if it was you in Spider-Canada’s place.

“Me, too. So yeah, no kisses for me.” You chuckle. “Except you know…”

Miguel raises an eyebrow, wondering if he missed something along the way.

“The one you and I…” you say, trailing off.

“Ah, yes, yes,” Miguel answers shyly, his cheeks feeling warmer suddenly. “Just that one.”

“But thank you for thinking about me,” you continue. “I appreciate your concern.” You sigh softly. “And I would’ve told you if something like that happened to me. You’re my… Best friend, after all.”

“And you’re mine,” Miguel answers with a small smile. “I’m glad you’d feel comfortable sharing that kind of situation with me. I know you can take care of yourself, but still. I would — I would defend and stand up for you, or stand next to you and help when you request aid. Whichever way you prefer, I’ll be here for you. Always.”

“Same goes to you,” you reply, touched by his words. “Always.”

Smiling, Miguel sighs. He’s glad that he finally asked you about the situation and relieved that nothing happened. For your safety and well being, of course! With that out of his mind, he thinks about the trip again and how much he enjoyed getting away with you, even if it was just for a few days. “Can we do this again next year?” Miguel asks. “Take a getaway trip, and then come back and celebrate Christmas at home?”

“If you'll have me and I'm still around, it's a yes from me,” you answer, staring at the lights.

“I'll have you,” Miguel quickly responds, holding back from saying that he’ll have you every Christmas, every single one until his last one, if you allow him to. “So, you better be here.”

You laugh softly and turn to face Miguel, smiling. “I'll do my absolute best to be here.”

“Good,” he answers, turning to face you, too. “Or, I’ll go and find you. Wherever you are.”

Chuckling, you continue to stare at Miguel. “Likewise, solecito [little sun].”

At the nickname, Miguel feels his cheeks grow warm. It’s been over a month since you gave him the new nickname and since then, you’ve used it a few times here and there, but no matter how many times you’ve said it, Miguel still feels over the moon each and every time he's heard it. He smiles at you, a fuzzy and fluttering ****feeling stirring in his chest. It's familiar, yet somehow it’s stronger here in this moment.

“Should we… Stay here and maybe watch a movie?” you ask, gesturing to the living room that looks absolutely cozy and magical due to the decorations.

“If you want to,” Miguel answers. “I don’t mind. Staying, that is.”

“Hmm,” you hum, thinking. “I wouldn’t mind either.”

“It’s settled, then,” he states. “I’ll be right back. Wait for me here.”

You watch Miguel stand up, wondering where he’s going, but you don’t have to wonder for long because two minutes later, Miguel comes back from upstairs with pillows and blankets. Smiling, you help set up since you’ll be spending the night in the living room, together.

Once settled, and after you've completed your night routines, Miguel and you decide on a movie to watch, but an hour later, you've both fallen asleep next to each other.

-♡-Christmas Day-♡-

Snowflakes swirl down from the sky, adding to the already thick white blanket that covers the city of Nueva York. Inside the penthouse, the fireplace is still on, keeping the space warm and toasty. The Christmas tree and other festive decorations are still on, creating a lovely and welcoming ambiance. Everything looks the same, except for the gifts beneath the Christmas tree that were left during the night by each of you at different times.

“It’s Christmas time!”

Miguel and you startle awake by the loud voice of… Lyla, of course.

“What time is it?” you sleepily ask, rubbing one of your eyes.

“You didn’t have to startle us like that,” Miguel grumpily and sleepily says, sitting up with a huff.

“But it’s Christmas time! All the families in Nueva York are waking up right now, so you guys should, too!” Lyla eagerly says. “Plus, I really want to see what you got each other for Christmas. It was soooo cute seeing you guys wake up in the middle of the night to put your gifts under the tree. Like, so adorable. I took photos, of course.”

“Lyla,” you mutter. “Please tell me you didn’t because I’m sure we probably don’t look good in them.”

“Yeah, that’s unfortunately the truth. You guys look like you’re sneaking around, which I guess you were to avoid waking each other up? But anyway… Open the gifts!”

“I think we both need coffee first,” Miguel says looking at you rub away the sleep from your eyes, looking so sweet and endearing.

“Mhm,” you confirm. “A cup. Or, two.”

Miguel chuckles deeply before he yawns. “I’ll make it for us. If you want to lay down for a few more minutes, go ahead. I’ll bring it over here once it’s done.”

“Are you sure?” you ask, looking up at Miguel as he stands up.

“I’m sure, Dulzura,” Miguel answers, looking down at you with a soft and sleepy smile. “I’ll get it.”

You nod and watch him head to the kitchen to make the coffee. With a yawn, you lay back down and close your eyes.

“Isn’t he so sweet?”

You open your eyes again, finding Lyla laying on her stomach in mid-air next to you. “What?” you ask, sleepily.

“Miguel. Isn’t he so sweet? Letting you sleep a few more minutes while he makes coffee for the two of you?”

“Yes,” you answer, nodding. “It’s very sweet of him.”

“I think he’d make a great husband,” Lyla continues, smiling. “Don’t you think?”

“He would,” you respond, sleep fading away due to the conversation. “He really would.”

“That’s what I’m saying. If he ever marries, that woman will be lucky,” she continues, raising an eyebrow at you.

“She would,” you answer, slowly sitting up again.

“Anywayyyy,” Lyla continues, checking her nails before glancing at you. “Something I thought about just now. Well, my duty here is done. I’ve woken you two up.”

“I thought you wanted to see what we gifted each other—” you say, but are interrupted by Lyla.

“I see everything, unless deactivated, so no worries. Merry Christmas,” Lyla says with a little smirk before disappearing.

After a few seconds of silence, you sigh and shake your head, putting thoughts of Miguel marrying away. You glance at the windows, noticing the falling snow. With a smile, you stand up and walk to the windows to take a closer look, finding everything covered in snow.

“Una blanca Navidad [a white Christmas],” Miguel states from behind you, finding you in front of the windows. He pauses for a moment to take in the sight of you before approaching.

“A white Christmas,” you repeat with a smile, accepting a mug when Miguel offers you one. “Thank you for the coffee.”

“Always,” he answers. “We definitely need it since someone rudely woke us up. Wait — where's Lyla?”

“She's already gone. She said she can see everything unless deactivated.”

“Lyla,” Miguel mutters, shaking his head before drinking from his mug. He turns to gaze at you again, smiling when he remembers. “Want to open the gifts?”

“Yeah, why not?” you answer with a smile, gesturing to the tree.

With your mugs, you both approach the tree and carefully sit down on the ground.

“Alright, let me see which one I want to give you first,” Miguel says, looking at his carefully wrapped gifts. He picks up a box and hands it to you. “Let’s start with this one.”

“And you with this one,” you answer, accepting his gift to you and handing him his from you. Looking at the box, you smile when you see ‘Dulzura’ written in Miguel’s neat handwriting on a name tag, along with a cute bow.

Together, you unwrap the first gifts together, revealing new music records for each other.

“Seems like we had the same idea,” you say, looking at the different artists’ names.

“Great minds think alike,” Miguel answers with a soft smirk, thankful for your gift. “Thank you for the new records. I’m more than ready to listen to them.”

“Always. I hope you like them,” you respond with a smile. “Thank you for mine, too. I have no doubt I’m going to enjoy them.”

With a grin, Miguel nods and hands you another box. “I hope you do. I went back to the record store you took me to on my birthday. Mr. Stanley asked about you,” he says, accepting another gift box from you. “He asked where… Um.” Miguel pauses as he gently begins to unwrap the box. “Where I left my girlfriend at.”

“He asked me where I left you at, too,” you reveal with a chuckle. “I went earlier this month to pick up a few things from his store.”

“I did, too,” Miguel shares with a smile. “Told him I was picking up some gifts.”

Finally opening the gifts, and being completely fine with the fact that you’ve both casually accepted someone’s assumption of a romantic relationship between you, you both pull out sweatshirts.

“Hey!” Miguel says with excitement as he unfolds the sweatshirt to see the full design, revealing Spider-Woman merch from your universe. “Merch of my favorite Spider-Woman,” he says with a smile. “I love the design and how soft it is.”

Unfolding yours, you find that the sweatshirt is also merch of Miguel with Spider-Man 2099 on it. “And I got my own of Spider-Man 2099. How did you know I’m a big fan of him?” you playfully ask.

“I had a guess,” Miguel answers with a soft smirk. “I hope you like the design and color though. If you don’t, we can return this one and get another one.”

“No, no, I love it! Thank you, Migs,” you reply, touching the fabric. “You’ll be seeing me wearing it often, that’s for sure.”

After exchanging a few more gifts like books, cute fuzzy socks and pajamas with one of your favorite characters on them for you, and a tool set for Miguel among other gifts, Miguel and you each have a box left.

“Here,” Miguel gently says, offering his gift, the most vulnerable of all. “I hope you like it.”

“For you,” you respond, handing him your last gift for him.

At the same time, you accept each other’s final gifts and begin to open them. From the size alone, it seems that whatever you've gifted each other is small and delicate. When the paper is off, jewelry boxes are revealed, making you both look up at each other with equal surprise and amusement. The latter fades, however, when you each open the box and find a similar, if not the exact, gift.

Carefully, you take the bracelet out of the box to admire it. Much like the one you’re giving Miguel, the bracelet is simple except for a single knot in the middle.

“We got each other the same thing,” Miguel states softly in astonishment. With gentleness, he takes it out of the box before looking at you. “Well, mine is meant as a matching…”

“Matching bracelet,” you finish, pulling out the one meant for you out of a pocket from your pajamas's bottom. Your plan was to surprise Miguel with matching bracelets before wearing your own.

“You…?” Miguel starts before he pulls out a bracelet from his sweatpants’s pocket, having the same plan as you. “I got mine from here — this universe, I mean.”

“And I got mine from my own,” you answer in awe.

Silently, you slip on the bracelets you already had, the ones meant for yourselves, before slipping on the ones you’ve gifted each other. Seconds later, you extend your hand out and so does Miguel, your wrists side by side now wearing two bracelets that are fairly similar except for the thickness.

Miguel chuckles as he continues to stare at both your wrists, finding it amusing yet again, but mostly endearing. “What a coincidence,” he murmurs, that of everything you could’ve gifted each other, you both went for matching bracelets. And not only that, the matching bracelets are the same in design with its single yet elegant knot.

“Truly,” you answer with a smile. “But I love the gift regardless. Thank you, Miguel.”

“Always,” Miguel replies, still smiling, before he thanks you for his.

“Merry Christmas,” you tell him.

“Feliz Navidad, Dulzura [Merry Christmas],” Miguel responds with a smile. “Do you want to have breakfast now? I can cook something for us and then, we can put together the puzzle I gifted you. Seems like it’ll keep us busy.”

“That sounds like a wonderful plan,” you answer, picking up the puzzle he gave you. You stare at the picture on the front, admiring it since it’s a pretty puzzle of flying butterflies colored in a way that makes it look vintage. “I’ll help you!” you offer, standing up eagerly to have breakfast with Miguel.

The two of you walk to the kitchen together, the matching bracelets safe around your wrists.

“Wait, really?” Lyla asks, appearing near the tree and watching you enter the kitchen. “You guys didn’t even ask about the knot and the significance.” She huffs. “You’ll figure it out sooner or later, I guess. Hopefully, sooner rather than later, though,” she says with a smirk before disappearing again.

You spend the rest of the day together in the comfort of the penthouse, the very same place Miguel once found cold and desolate, but now feels like home because of you. Time is spent on the puzzle, café de olla is drank, and amazing food is reheated and eaten. Talks about New Year’s Eve comes up with both Miguel and you looking forward to it and knowing that no matter where you spend it, you’ll be together to welcome the new year and everything it has to offer; adventures, personal growth, laughs, special moments, and memories to cherish for years to come.

And perhaps, Miguel thinks to himself later that night as he lays in bed alone while playing with his bracelets, the year to come will be the year he finally says goodbye to those physical boundaries of his.

Miguel rolls on his side, facing the empty spot next to him. Mindlessly, he caresses the cold and empty spot with his hand before his fingers find your sweatshirt, tugging it closer almost instantly. Miguel sighs and closes his eyes, your scent much closer now. For a few seconds, he remains like that before he grabs a pillow to slip your sweatshirt onto. At last, Miguel pulls the pillow close, to his chest, and hugs it.

Embracing the pillow, Miguel thinks about you sleeping in the next room, so close but much farther away than the last few days at the cabin.

Miguel sighs again and hugs the pillow closer, wondering. Could this upcoming year, be the year he finally crosses that final line when it comes to his physical boundaries with you?

The mere idea of it makes his heart race, but not out of anxiety like in previous years before you, when people tried touching him to offer comfort. No, Miguel’s heart races out of excitement at the possibility. It’d be so much progress for him, and Miguel knows it. It’d be another step forward in his healing journey.

And… It would also mean, that at some point, at last, Miguel might finally be ready for something you’ve been ready for a while. He recalls now, how nearly a year ago, you made that clear to him with a sudden confession made out of exhaustion.

It was the day your apartment complex caught on fire. You were already here at the penthouse, showered and free of the smell of smoke, but you were exhausted after hours of helping tenants evacuate the building, and Miguel could see it. He made you breakfast so you could eat something before you went to sleep and it was afterwards, when you were going upstairs to the bedroom, that you stopped at the doorway of the kitchen and dining area.

He wondered then if something was wrong before you thanked him for his kindness and the fact that he had respected your choice of declining backup. You thanked him for helping you transport your belongings to this dimension and for offering his home. And then, you said something that Miguel knows you would’ve kept to yourself had you not been so tired.

“… offering me to stay here and trying to make me feel at home,” you said that day, your voice wavering. “It means so much to me and I wish — I wish I could give you a hug — a really tight one — just to emphasize with more than words — how much it means to me.”

That confession, made out of your exhaustion, messed with Miguel so much. He remembers the effect it had on him after you apologized for revealing it. He wondered then, what would it be like to embrace and be embraced by you? To feel your warmth? His hands itched to touch and before he knew it, he was rushing upstairs, but he found you already fast asleep and that rush calmed at the sight of you peacefully resting at last, in his home.

It stayed with him, that confession. And it had such an impact on him that day, that Miguel made his special gesture for the first time ever.

The pinky hug.

Miguel swallows, holding the pillow wrapped in your sweatshirt. You expressed that day your wish to embrace him, meaning you've been ready for it.

But is Miguel ready, too?

Miguel asks himself that before he surrenders to his sleep, lulled by your lovely and familiar scent. Somewhere in his slumber, he murmurs something.

“Yes.”

Previous ⋅ ♡ ─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ── ♡ ⋅ Next

A/N: hiii my lovely pookies!!

Very quickly (because if you read this far, I've already taken an hour or so of your time), I want to say thank you for reading yet another chapter! This is now the second Christmas I’ve spent writing this fic, which is insane, actually. I know I probably sound like a broken record (I’m an emotional/sensitive person, so I just, yeah 🥲), but anyway, thank you so much if you’ve stuck around to read this fic that was meant to be 4 chapters, and for spending another year with me! For those who joined this year, thank you, too! 🥹❤️

I look at where this story is now and I find it unbelievable, yet so fulfilling. I have written many things over the years from fanfic for other fandoms to personal works since I was about 14yrs (wait, the way I started this fic when I was 24, and I'm now 26...? 😭), but to this day, this is by far my top favorite project.

A big reason for that is due to you lovely readers! I'm incredibly thankful that so many of you are still reading this fic despite the slow and/or super long updates sometimes; the slow and torturous slowburn that this fic is; and the lack of romantic and physical love right now that often repels/discourages many readers because of the need for instant spice.

So, thank you for supporting this fic! It has been a privilege to be here and to share my writing. I look forward, God willing, to completing this fic in 2025 and giving it a satisfying and well deserved ending, which will most definitely make me sob my eyes out, but in a happy way ((:

To conclude, thank you for your kindness and love, and for being a safe space for me!! Also, Happy New Year!! I hope that this year treats you with love, kindness, and patience, and that you experience nothing but great things!!

I love you all!! Pls take care and I'll hopefully see you for the next chapter! 💕💖🥹

Alondra❤️

p.s. how normal are Miguel and Dulzura about each other? 😅 And what do we think about Miguel's thoughts at the end? 😌

Taglist:

@loverlorn @saturnknows @d1lf-loverrr @eddiestitmiguelsbigdick

@arithestrawberry @scaleniusrm @haradasaya @spidermanismyfav

@bitchykittenconnoisseur @thecraziestcrayon @obi-mom-kenobi

@natsury-kazuki @coraline750 @edgycatx @safixiovi @sunnyx07

@nxrdamp @rorel1a @oceanstar19 @happishark @carmilla01

@somebodyelsethanyouthink @adora-but-ginger @angie2274

@vampi-amora @tired-writer04 @plzfeedmebread

@shadow-pancake9 @tynakub @faretheeoscar @giulscomix

@luvstuffies @coffeeauthorvibing @lauraolar14 @bl0osclues

@pinkiemme @lil-cinn @mashiromochi @loveletterfrommwah

@muzansucker @theleftkittycollection @kikookii

@www-interludeshadow-com @holographicang3l

@aisyakirmann @bucky-to-my-barnes @geraskier-thots

@l3laze @yujyujj @taylorsmakingfuckingmacandcheese

@damhanallagorm @heyohalie @kaliuea @moonsua1

@darksidescorner @geminis93

@1800-get-alife

@hrrtkreuz @oharasfilipinawife

@dropyoursocksandgrabyourcrocss

@may4ri @t4naiis @f1-hoff @llumetrii

@nina-from-317 @kavimoo

Bonus Message ... because I meant to write this on an earlier chapter, but since I posted the last 3 chapters in a weekend (oh, who is she?), I forgot to. A lovely new reader caught some symbolism I was really excited about in chapter 18 (beach episode) regarding the mention of butterflies and birds, and since I mentioned butterflies in this chapter, I figured it would be ok to mention it here, too.

As some of you may recall, both Miguel and Dulzura have had encounters with birds when they're at the cemetery. As one reader guessed in the past, these birds represent Gabriel and Peter (Dulzura's Peter), visiting and listening to them.

In chapter 18, Dulzura visited Peter's grave with Miguel, and they both saw a bird (same color as before for her) before it fluttered its wings and flew off.

After doing little research, birds can oftentimes represent freedom and spirituality. Due to that, I decided to convey Gabriel and Peter's spirits/souls through birds. In the end, this bird (Peter) fluttered its wings and flew off after chirping for a bit and staring at M and D, symbolizing Peter's true departure. Why? Up to that point, Dulzura had always gone to the cemetery alone, but that day, Miguel went with her and formally 'met' Peter. The happy chirping for M and D before the bird flew away symbolized his happiness, approval, and acceptance of them -- allowing Peter to fully move on knowing Dulzura is in good hands ��

As to the butterflies that flew over Peter's grave as M and D were walking away, these symbolize M and D. Butterflies symbolize rebirth, personal growth, transformations, new beginnings, etc. M and D are individuals who have gone through a rebirth after the losses and pain they have experienced. Together, they're forming a new beginning/life.

As to the puzzle in that chapter that they put together while discussing the possibility of love and having children, it symbolizes them piecing a future together.

And that's it! Thank you for reading that, if you did. I was really excited about the symbolism in that chapter just to forget about it lmao💀😭

[broshe-memes]

[shirks-all-responsibilities]

Oh my GOD the INTENSITY of this in-progress fic, everything has such fateful WEIGHT, I liiiiiiive for it in fic, I was as completely absorbed and sucked into their world as they are with each other, everything dropping away while reading and in parts I couldn't be bothered to tend to anything IRL because I HAD TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED NEXT AT ALL COSTS AND NOTHING ELSE MATTERED cuz the tropes and the whole angsty-soulmates-fatefully-finding-one-another-to-roughly-and-obsessively-fuck-the-sadness-and-pain-out-of-each-other-but-ope-it's-become-so-much-more GIVES ME LIFE, whew!! This is what fic is forrrr! It's JUST what I was looking for to distract myself from certain recent events. And that masterlist summary you wrote? Masterful, who wouldn't be instantly obsessed with this fic reading that?

Reading this I was constantly in awe of a line, a phrase, of a WORD, of the way meanings and feelings and reflections are seemingly found around every corner of the page.

And like all great smut, you write with such interiority about how things FEEL physically and emotionally to be the recipient of our BIG BOY Frankie and allllll that entails for reader and her past traumas and ways of dealing with pain. These two FUCK my godddd!! But there is really something special here that I can't explain.

And this line???? THIS LINE?????? "He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his." HE NEEDS TO FIND YOU IN THAT PLACE WITHIN YOURSELF AND WRECK YOU THERE? *stares at wall for 40 minutes in contemplation*

The Frankie worship in this is just *chef's kiss." I mean: "You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become. You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls." YAAAASSS GIRL GIMME A SOLILOQUY.

And in so many places I was just in awe of the sentiment of the idea being expressed, like this: "Your mind keeps wandering to the previous Friday, when you sat nestled into Frankie’s side as he drove aimlessly. To the smooth fabric of his jacket under your cheek, to the heat of his chest, to his solid breadth. You stop it. The memory is always a thought away. But it shouldn’t be summoned at random. You can’t risk its erosion. There won’t be another one." WHAT A WAY of treating a memory!! Of giving a memory such precious and irreplacable importance that the sheer thought of it might corrode it. Obsessed with this.

I love her inexperience, those lines about how "no one seems to notice" that's she's different after having done something so supposedly unlike her when really she has had a life of having no sense of self or what she really wants.

And then there was the way you wrote reader's pain. That scene with Adrian when she wakes up from the hospital is one of the most quietly but viscerally upsetting scenes I have read, it made me SO uncomfortable and upset for her that I was practically crawling out of my skin, the way she is so vulnerable and the sinister way he completely and contemptuously disregards her needs and comfort and humanity, the REAL fear and anxiety she feels and how unsafe she feels was PALPABLE. And the way the beeping of the heart monitor/equipment is woven into the scene was ABSOLUTELY MASTERFUL, I was just STUNNED, to have it culminate at the end of the scene with the beeping underscoring the sheer horrifying panic she feels that she may lost Frankie forever? INCREDIBLY DELICIOUS ANGST AND SCENE BUILDING. And that line about her feeling like a "butterfly pinned in a glass case" was just…

I feel like I haven't even scratched the surface of all the great things about this fic, about how you characterized the reader, about Frankie's dark edges and softness all within him, about all the details…there's SO much in this fic that I think most of us are intimidated to even try to respond. Loved this one.

And I'm just looking at the masterlist seeing there there is only ONE more chapter and then only an epilogue like 👀👀👀👀. SOOOO beyond excited to read what you have in store for the last two installments of this story!!!

Tonight you belong to me, chapter 5

Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town. Time flies, in room number 2. How much longer do you have, just for the two of you?

Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)

Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.

A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange bedroom besties 🧡 It's been a hot minute, I sincerely apologise. Thank you to everyone who stuck around, I hope it was worth it, and thank you to everyone who just passed by 🧡 @frannyzooey my love, thank you for your help on the Americanisms, invaluable as always 🧡

Word count: 13.8k

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Chapter 5: Time in a bottle

It’s late when you pull into the parking lot. Dusk cloaks the motel in its fuzzy veil, the surroundings fading in diffuse shadows. The single-story building stands out in the twilight, akin to an old ship. Wooden poles for masts, hanging lamps swaying gently in the briny breeze, their lights blurry in the muggy air. Tacky and warm, it wafts in through your car’s open windows, dampening the exposed skin of your forearms and the back of your neck. 

On the passenger seat, your iPhone’s screen glows in the semi-darkness with an incoming call. 

Adrian.  

“What now?” you sigh, through clenched teeth. 

Your eyes dart up to Frankie’s truck parked in front of you. The word FORD stretched in chrome letters on the tailgate, shining bright in your headlights. 

The familiar pull awakens between your constricted lungs. A pounding, greedy little tug compelling you to get out of your car and cover the distance to the room as quickly as your step will carry you. But you want to calm your nerves first. Slow down your heart rate, deepen your breathing. 

That discussion you had with your father, earlier this afternoon, still clings to your frame. The humiliation conveyed by his carefully chosen words like tar, black and viscous. You can almost smell its foul stench. And you don’t want to bring any of it inside. 

It’s only the third time Frankie gets here before you, if you count that very first Friday back in September. And the second, since you came back from Colorado earlier this month. The pressure in your rib cage eases at the memory of that sweet evening. 

All day long, you had rushed through your counting routine. Through the long, icy corridors of your glass prison. Rushed on the 589 northbound. Rushed to strangle the uncertainty of his presence there. 

It was a few minutes past 7pm when you parked next to his truck, his early presence cranking up your anxiousness. You got out of your car with an anguished scowl, and you all but ran toward the porch, toward the brass number 2, shoes scuffing the gravel. 

The door swung open the very second you stepped under the overhang. A flash of dimple, and his arms wrapped around your waist. He scooped you up from the floor, swift and easy, carrying you inside. Hungry kisses, teeth scraping at your jaw, down the line of your neck. A throaty husk of Happy New Year, Lee Abbott, as he tugged your clothes off your body that thrummed with his scent and his voice and his arms and his taste. 

With the density of him. 

He lifted you again, your short, giggly yelp bouncing across the room as he hauled you over his shoulder with an easy force. His steps long and balanced, as if your weight was inconsequential to his strength. 

In the dim bathroom, he put you down directly into the tub. There, he unbuckled his belt and slid down his jeans, looking at you with a mischievous grin you’d never seen before and that fitted his gorgeous face a little too well. 

“Told you I’d fuck you in this shower.” 

Thirty seconds later, you were standing together under an aggressive stream of scalding water, his broad back shielding you from the high pressure, steam blurring the tiles and the mirror. You pressed your face into his neck, hands splayed over his chest, feeling it heave with his low, rumbling chuckle. 

“ That’s the best I could do. This place is trash,” he scoffed, lips grazing your ear. 

“ It’s perfect,” you laughed. 

Another notification lights up your screen, yanking you back into the stifling cab of the sedan, to the nagging cramp poking your rib cage, to your hindered breathing. 

It glowers at you, bold black letters over a steel gray rectangle. 

MESSAGES 

Adrian

Your eyes flicker back to the red truck, your face crunching into a grimace. 

“Shit,” you grit, grabbing the phone and quickly pressing the home button before you can change your mind.  

The lock screen fades as the message app pops open. You squint against the brightness of the glowing white screen. 

I made it, babe. I fucking made it. You’re talking to the new senior partner of Balmer & Steigt.  Fuck yeah. I finally get what I fucking deserve.  

The gray ellipses start blinking underneath the bubble. You frown, bracing yourself. 

I couldn’t have made it without you. This is your victory as much as mine.

You scoff, but the dread-inducing ellipses keep bouncing happily. Fantastic. There’s more coming.

I got you something. Something fancy for my fancy girl.

“Oh, hell no.”  

Leaning down, you pick up the roomy I ❤ NY tote bag Ava got you as a Christmas present and dump your phone into it, before stuffing the bag under your seat. 

If only you could take a full breath. If only your chest would expend. It’s not that bad, really. A few months back, you would have been physically unable to keep going with your day after that conversation with your father. Let alone drive. You’d have suffocated, chocked up on your panic, until you’d been left with no choice other than to gulp down a pill, or two, or three, topped off with a swig of gin. The bitter taste of surrendering. 

Is that what it means, to give oneself some grace? You’re doing good, you’re doing better, you’re doing your best.

Closing your eyes, you exhale through pursed lips and ease down your shoulders. 

He had you called into his office by his secretary, as you were about to leave, bag in hand, counting steps. 

But you were expecting it. In all honesty, you’re surprised it’s taken him this long. Four weeks since you came back from Beaver Creek. Four weeks of defying his strict, outdated, misogynistic dress-code. 

The very first morning, you stepped out of the mirror-lined elevator on the 15th floor wearing high-waisted, wide-legged slacks and a loose button-up, the sleeves folded high on your forearms. And flat derbies.  

Nervousness, sitting heavy and queasy in the pit of your stomach, beating loud against your eardrums. Prickling under your armpits, raising the hair on your nape. 

Kaytee’s eyes widened as she caught sight of you walking by her office, before she remembered to police her expression. The shock on her face turned into something else, something worse. Lurking in the lift-up corner of her lips, in the smugness coloring her cheeks. Something sardonic. Condescension. 

“ You can’t spend your life trying to be someone else. ” Ava’s words through the receiver the previous night were a dizzying swirl inside your head, as you walked down the glass corridors, coworkers and subordinates watching you with a similar shocked expression, that blurred their features into one subdued, frightened face. 

But who the fuck am I, Ava? you wanted to ask, the only sound on the line that of your short breathing. How did you know who you were? Always. From the very beginning of your life. How did you know how to be so unapologetic about it? 

Had it been your gift to her? Does self-confidence require love? Or guidance? Is it innate? 

All you know, at this point in your life, is that wearing clothes that you chose for yourself seems like a sound first measure. One that you can actually undertake. 

And with that in mind, you stepped into your father’s office, your heart pulsating in your throat, to take a seat across from him, his clear desk standing like a wide canyon between you.

Now, your steps are nearly silent on the shifting gravel, as you walk across the parking lot, fingers brushing along the cool metal of the truck as you pass it by. That pull toward Frankie propelling you forward, inescapable, irresistible despite the nasty sensation oozing down along your legs like thick-flowing tar, weighing your gait. 

On the porch, you pause. On Friday evenings, this is when you shed your old skin. Healing wounds, scar tissues. When you set your eyes on the canopy as it swallows the sun, pink-orange dusk fading to dark. Grainy photographs, forgotten vacations. This is when your spine straightens, when you take in the horizon and let it deepen your breathing. When you ready yourself for the life you’ve chosen, between the brown carpet and the yellow curtains and his arms. 

But it’s already night. The darkness has erased the horizon and your old skin won’t shed. 

The door opens, a draft ruffling your hair.  

The first thing you see is the crease between his brow. The tick of his whiskered jaw, and then, his dark brown eyes, appraising the tension that winds up your body, appraising your silence. His grunt, like an echo, distant. 

“You sat in that car forever. I was about to come out and get you.”

The concern in his voice rattles something deep inside your belly. You’re not bringing any of it inside that room of yours, you think, as he pushes away from the door to let you in, as you cross the threshold, but it’s stuck to you. Your father’s voice. The tremendous power it still holds over you. His disappointment. Your failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

His hat is set on the desk. His suede jacket is draped over the back of the angular wooden chair. Your gaze lingers on it, you can almost feel the comforting softness of the fabric under the pads of your fingers.

He stands a few feet away from you, giving you space. Dark mahogany searching your features, your posture. His hands propped on his hips, like that other night in the parking lot, after he’d seen the fresh scar in your hairline. 

You face away from him. The smell of the room is familiar, in a comforting way. Musty. Dust and the faintest perfume of industrial laundry detergent coming from the starched sheets. He’s pulled the bedspread off the bed. It’s folded neatly on the floor underneath the window. It rises tears along your throat, the idea of him prepping himself, prepping the place, alone in this room where you’ve waited for him countless times and hours. Guilt scrambles your brain, over what, you’re not entirely certain. Keeping him waiting? You failures, plural. All the wrong choices. 

“Lee.”

His voice seeps in through the blackness coating your skin, like warm and persistent little droplets of sweet amber.

You turn to face him, at last. An awkward upper-body twist, feet rooted to the brown carpet, teeth clenched around the lump in your throat. He’s wearing that gray threadbare t-shirt you love, the one with a v-neck, and your eyes find the dip at the base of his throat, the fireworks of freckles between his collarbone. Tears well up, too strong to hold back, and you shut your eyes to the muffled sound of his booted steps on the matted carpet.  

You’re drifting, enveloped in his warmth, his scent, leather and musk. The contact of his skin as he curls a large hand around your nape, tucking your face into the curve of his strong neck. 

His arm wraps around your waist, drawing you closer, flush to his chest, and he presses his chin to your temple. You let go, surrender, honey dripping thick and golden along your loosening limbs. 

His pulse beats solid and steady against your cheek. You breathe him in, a hindered inhale at first, and when your shoulders begin to drop, a deeper one. A single tear escapes. It rolls down the round of your cheek into his skin. Your palms skim up to the plane of his back, soaking in his heat, and he presses you in harder, his forearm aligning with your spine, fingers spreading at the base of your skull. 

Time stretches. He holds you. You lean in. 

Later, after he’s helped you climb into the cab of his truck, you keep your eyes on him as he rounds the red hood.

Sitting behind the wheel, he puts the key in the ignition and, looking at you, tilts his head to the left. 

“C’mere,” he says, and you scoot next to him, biting down a relieved sigh as you slide over the seat bench. 

He leans over your lap, grabbing the middle seat belt, and buckles you in, then himself. You settle in, with your head against his shoulder, and your hand on his thigh, soft cotton, worn denim. Under your touch, his firm muscles ripple as he drives you into the night, into oblivion. The steady motion lulling you to sleep.

Alongside the deserted road, trees and bushes roll out in the headlights as the truck swallows miles and miles of asphalt. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble after a while, fighting drowsiness.

“Don’t be. You wanna talk about it?” he adds after a pause.

“No.” 

You shake your head, your voice so low you’re not certain he’s heard your answer.

“Doesn’t have to be now,” he says. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Your head bobs with his bunching muscles as he releases the wheel to bend his arm at the elbow, fingers threading through your hair. Without lifting his eyes off the road, he leans in, and pecks a pointed kiss on the crown of your head. 

Your eyes close. The image of the bedspread neatly folded underneath the window flashes through your mind. You can’t seem to get used to his tender gestures, to his attentions. You hope they will never stop. You hope you will never get used to them. 

The emotion washes over you, a soft wave, and you float with it. In the cab of his truck, in his scent and his hold, you feel free of all doubts. Fear and pain cannot find you here. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever experienced so far, a strange feeling, potent and all encompassing, albeit one that doesn’t need to be dulled or tamed. 

The words come out of your mouth as a surprise. 

“I think I don't want it to define me anymore. My family, I mean. Where I come from.”  

This is a new state of mind. Or perhaps it’s been there for a while, a mere shadow on the wall, something you couldn’t clearly discern. Suddenly simple to comprehend and articulate.

“Yea. I get it,” he says.

And you know he does. 

You open your eyes, and take in a deep breath, fill your lungs with that distinct old leather scent that clings about him, and the smell of vintage Bakelite from the dashboard, so specific to his truck.  

“Music?” you ask.

“Sure, good idea. You like Jefferson Airplane?”

You nod, brushing your cheek against the cottony fabric of his t-shirt, leaving a little bit of you there, for him to find later.

“Yes. I like them.”

“Jefferson Airplane it is, then,” he answers. 

Gently, he bends forward, mindful not to nudge you too much, and turns on the stereo. His thick fingers push the tape that’s already there into the slot, and your lips curl with an explicit thought, unlike any you used to have before meeting him. Crude, but welcome pictures that now constantly crowd your brain. 

He keeps the volume low, and with the round rumbling of his quiet humming, your mind slowly drifts off again. 

You’re about to fall asleep when a thought surfaces, skirting the edges of your consciousness. 

“Frankie?” you quietly call. 

“Mmh?”

“Are you… Were you in the military?”

The humming stops, his silence abrupt, and his shoulder tenses under your cheek. Pushing away from it, you risk a sleepy glance at his face, plunged in the semi-darkness. It’s not dark enough that you don’t recognize the cocking of his jaw. 

“Frankie?” you ask again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“I’m a pilot,” he cuts in, pausing to inhale deeply. “I was in the Army for nearly twenty years. I got a discharge a couple years back.” 

You remain silent. His eyes flicker quickly between you and the road, and you give his thigh a strong squeeze with your left hand, before resting your cheek against his shoulder, eluding his searching gaze.

Volunteers is crackling through the speakers, but you don’t hear the music. Fully awake now, your mind is reeling with those scattered, minute parts of him you picked up Friday after Friday to stash them away in your subconscious. His puzzle of shadows. All the things that now make perfect sense, and the ones you’re dying to unravel. 

His quiet assertiveness. His hands, quick and sure. His silences. His commanding tone. That long, sideways scar etched on his left flank. 

His early rage, and his anger too. The flight forward, dimming his eyes, where deep rich mahogany now glimmers. 

The zip ties. Your eyes grow wide, a gasping sound catching in your throat. You’re not ready to address how much you appreciate this particular skill of his, considering where he picked it up.  

Your imagination produces a clear vision of him in a US Air Force uniform, the fabric stretched over his broad shoulders, and you bite your lip, your entire body covering in chills. 

Frankie has yet to say another word. Something raises your consciousness, something in the scowl sharpening his features as he scanned your face for a reaction. 

Images flash through your head. The 8 × 10 picture displayed in your father’s office in its platinum frame, for every visitor to admire. Smooth faced and confident, his sleeves rolled up high on his lean forearms, your father’s shaking hands with Reagan in front of a colorful assemblage of containers, in the industrial quarter of the Tampa Bay Harbor, during the 1984 campaign. His coldly handsome face split by a smile, larger and more genuine than any of those he ever addressed you, let alone Ava. 

Recollections of those dragging hours you spent in church as a child, beads of sweat dripping along your spine as you sat in the sweltering heat on a hard wooden bench, rigid and still like a marble statue for fear of being reprimanded. 

The hateful, vehement speeches your father would burst into at random, your mother pinching your arm for you to listen, this is important. The uneasy feeling sitting in the pit of your stomach, like bile, like nausea. Wrong. This is wrong. A feeling, not an idea yet. It grew with you, expending, to become impossible to see past by the time you started high.

The list of names in your father’s neat handwriting, scrawled on a crisp piece of paper, that he handed you before driving the entire family to the polls for your very first election. The sheer terror, primitive in its hold over you, prickling on your nape as you systematically disregarded his instructions, choosing the names followed by the three letters DEM. 

The rare political meetings you secretly attended in college, the pamphlets in loud colors and bold letters, that you read hidden from your roommate’s prying eyes, as if they were satanic verses. Reproductive rights! Demilitarization Now! No to privatized prisons! End gun violence! 

Petitions you signed with a shaking hand, because what if your parents found out? What if they heard of it? A dread so profoundly anchored at the very core of your psyche that you have never told Ava any of it, even when she would chastise your lack of interest in politics, your lack of involvement, lest she’d reveal your treason to them in the heat of an argument.

Could this be when you started finding yourself? In your diverging convictions? Could it be enough? Could it count? 

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask tentatively.

He huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head. 

“You’re a hell of a fast learner, aren’t you?”

“I have a very good teacher,” you shrug, trying to ignore the sharpness in his tone. 

Curiosity overthrowing your ingrained fear to displease, you ask, “What kind of aircraft do you fly? Planes? Helicopters?”

He simply nods, and your cheeks heat again at the notion, your heart racing. 

“I’m very impressed,” you whisper. “I can barely parallel park.”

“I’m sure you got plenty of other skills,” he answers, softer. 

“No. I really don’t.”

—

Frankie walks briskly across the parking lot, carrying a take-away bag and a six-pack of beer. His head hung low to shield his face from the thin, mid-February drizzle. His denim shirt sticks to his back with humidity, and sweat from the drive. It’s pulled uncomfortably taut across his shoulders. 

He steps onto the porch, hands too full to open the door or even knock on it, so he gives it three light kicks. A tiny screw pops out from the curved top of the brass number two. The whole thing swivels upside down, swinging like a pendulum.

“Jesus christ, this fucking place,” he scoffs.

The door flies open, and you’re here, with that bright, earnest smile and your wide, luminous eyes. You’ve tied your hair up in a casual do, but you’re still fully dressed. He likes those slacks on you, snug on your curves, wide on your legs. It fits you so much better than the tight pencil skirts you used to wear when he first met you. Those made you look like an 80s porn producer fever dream. But these trousers transform your gait, your entire demeanor, into something more relaxed. More confident. He could watch you strut around the room for hours. If only there was more time.  

He catches a glimpse of the mesh fabric of your bra, peeking out from the cleavage of your open shirt, and he mentally curses the corporate fucks who get to work all week around you.

“Hey, Frankie.”

The sharp, familiar pang rips through his chest at the sound of your voice, light and cheery. That ache he waits for seven excruciatingly long days to experience again.

“Hey, baby.”

As you let him in, he feels the tip of your fingers brushing his thigh, as if you need to make sure he’s here in the flesh. The miracle of you wanting him, still. 

“What’s in the bag?” you ask, dragging the chipped chair away from the desk, so he can set down his bounty. 

His eyes fall on your graceful nape as you crane your neck to see what’s inside the bag, too well-behaved to touch it without having been invited to do so. 

“Didn’t have time to eat. I took something for you too, I hope you don’t mind. Did you eat? Are you hungry?”

“I don’t usually eat before I come here,” you admit. “I drive in straight from work,” you add, heat visibly creeping up your neck and ears.

He takes off his hat, ruffling a hand through his hair to conceal a smug smile. 

“And you’re not starving, by the time I’m finished with you?”

“Quite the contrary, actually. I feel pretty full when you leave.”

Your lips stretch into a wide grin you’re ineffectively trying to hold back. 

“That so?” he chuckles, propping his hands on his hips. For countenance. 

Pride glimmers in your eyes, as it does every time you make him laugh. He knows it’s mirrored in his eyes. Your levity is his reward. 

Everything about you is unbearably endearing. He’s not sure if he’s hungry for food anymore, or if he’s not going to go straight down on you. You’ve already prepared the bed, that ugly bedspread neatly folded under the window. He could lay you prone on your stomach, lower your trousers to your knees, perk up your pretty ass and eat your sweet cunt from behind.

His hunger for you sizzles along his spine, sparkling in his loins, imperious and distracting. The sensation is delicious, and for once, he takes the time to revel in it. He’s so used to barging in here and just taking. He doesn’t savor, not really, not until after he’s had you at least once. 

He’s not proud of his unbridled hunger, the consequence of seven days’ worth of pent-up frustration, chasing your perfume on his clothes and the ghost feeling of your cool, smooth skin under his palms. That ever-growing obsession for your scent, for your eyes, and that crippling craving for the sounds you produce when he moves inside you. That high he gets when he makes you feel good. Every time he gives you what you want. 

And there’s the absolute black-out on all communications between you throughout the week that drives him out of his mind. He knows that’s the tacit deal the two of you struck at the very beginning. No phone number, no address, no marks. Hell, he didn’t even know your name until you gave it to him at Christmas. Only, he’s left in the dark for seven consecutive fucking days, with no means to check up on you, and no way to make sure you’re safe. 

He understands the necessity for secrecy. But the more time passes, the less it makes sense. 

So come Friday night, he needs to crush you under his weight. Needs to feel your flesh gushing through his splayed fingers and hear you mewl his name, eyes rolling to the back of your head, your body tensing up in his hold before it shatters around his cock. 

He needs to fuck you deep and full, find you in that place within yourself and wreck you there. He needs to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re real. Make sure you’re his. 

And his control might be tenuous, but he sure loves the way you lean into it. 

You’re still smiling when he takes a step closer behind you. Lowering his face into the curve of your neck, he inhales you there, that spot behind your ear, where your subtle scent becomes heady. He feels your chest rising with your own deep breathing, and he pictures your eyes fluttering shut. His hand skims the curve of your hip, sliding up to the swell of your breast over the smooth fabric of your shirt, gripping you roughly as he takes your earlobe between his lips and sucks on it. His hips move against your ass of their own volition, his cock half-hard, fucking twitching.

“Frankie,” you whine.

“Yea?”

He licks a broad stride up your neck, collecting the tangy taste of your skin, mixed with the chemical one of your perfume. 

“What’s in the bag?”

“What bag, baby? Oh, right.”

It’s a beat before he can detach himself from you. His cock is beating hard and angry against the confining fabric of his jeans. With a light brush of his knuckles along your side, he reminds himself there’s also pleasure in the anticipation. The word sits in the back of his throat, like a knife ready to bleed him dry. Concupiscence. 

Ripping the paper bag open in the middle, he smooths both sides neatly over the desk, and points at the three rolls wrapped in tin foil.

“Took three burritos, and some fried beans. There’s one beef, one pork, and one vegetarian, in case you don't eat meat.”

You look at him with a twinkle in your eyes, your grin getting wider than he’s ever seen it. He braces a hand flat on the desk. 

“Oh, I eat meat, I thought you’d know that.”

The words have barely left your mouth that you burst into a fit of giggles, covering your face with both hands.

“Christ, woman!” he laughs. “Alright, sit down. Let’s get proper food into that mouth of yours, for once.”

Together, you unfold the bedspread and arrange it over the foot of the bed. The thing is already stained, and you mutually agree there’s no need to make a mess of the white sheet just yet. 

Letting you pick between the two richer ones, he takes the vegetarian burrito, and you start eating together, two open cans of beer at your feet. 

His bites are ravenous, while you nibble gingerly at your food, holding the burrito with two hands, the foil crackling between your fingers. After a few bites, however, you start eating in bigger chunks. 

“This is delicious,” you moan with your mouth full. 

Is he getting jealous of a fucking burrito now? Is that where he’s at?

“What, you never had a burrito in your life?”

You wince, and he immediately regrets the teasing skepticism of his tone. 

Setting the food down, you dab a paper towel to the corner of your mouth, catching a fleck of sauce. There’s grace in all your movements, even the tiniest ones.  

“My mother monitored everything I ate. God forbid I put on any weight,” you explain, a hint of bitterness in your voice. 

He lowers his hands, eyes trained on your averted gaze. 

“I know what you’re thinking,” you tell him, looking up at him.

There’s that quiet resignation painted all over your face. 

“Try me.”

“You’re thinking I’m a grown woman, old enough to make her own decisions.”

He shakes his head. “Was actually thinking your mother sounds like the exact opposite of mine.”

Your mouth curves into a sad attempt at a smile.

“I don't judge you, Lee. We all do what we can with what we got dealt with.”

A slight frown knits your brow, as you seem to consider his words. 

He has spent a lot of time, lately, reflecting over his own choices, and the many places where they’ve led him, for better or for worse. 

Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria. Libya and the most dangerous places in sub-Saharan Africa. Nearly everywhere in South America. Twice over.

Over the fucking Andes, and to Tom’s funeral. 

Choices that also made him Lua’s father. 

Crossroads that have taken him all the way to that shithole bar, last year at the end of August. Conscious decisions that brought him here, into this room. Into your arms. Into your life.

A chain reaction he wouldn’t alter, he knows it now, even if he was given the chance for a do-over. 

He used to consider things as definite. Choices as absolute and irrevocable. It took him becoming a father, and meeting you, to understand his mother’s words. Paso a paso, she’d say, watching him with a tender, knowing smile as he rushed toward his life. Paso a Paso, Francisco. 

You eat in silence for a while, and he keeps watching you. That sharp pain solidly entrenched inside his chest, blooming through his heart, he has to make a conscious effort to breathe around it. 

He bought you the food you’re eating right now. Drove to his favorite place, stood in line and placed his order with you in mind. And you’re enjoying it. In fact, you’re demonstrating an impressive appetite, hungrier, messier with every bite. Sauce dripping down your chin. Pink flashes of tongue licking it from between your fingers. 

He could get used to that. Providing for you. Taking care of you. In more than just one way. Sharing the mundane routine of a daily life together. 

But this is not real. Whatever is happening between the four walls of this shitty motel is not ground for life-altering choices. 

“Do you want to share the pork one?” you ask, crinkling the tinfoil wrapper into a compact ball. 

“I’m good, baby,” he answers with a soft smile. “You can have it. Just make sure you’re still hungry for more meat when you’re done.”

—

Adrian has gifted you a new purse from another French luxury brand. It’s a square-shaped thing cut from some grayish reptile skin, with a matching tag and a decorative lock hanging from its handle. It looks insanely expensive and ridiculously vulgar, its tackiness almost cruelly ironic. Like a rich people’s inside joke.  

Somehow, you’re vaguely aware this model is exclusive and can’t be bought online or even in stores, however high-end. It has to be ordered, and there’s a waiting list. Useless knowledge you probably gathered from one of your mother’s magazines. A family of four could most likely live comfortably for a whole year for the price of this thing. 

Incidentally, there’s a new perfume clinging to Adrian’s clothes when he comes home late at night. The first time you caught a whiff of the heady fragrance, intense vanilla and white musk, it reminded you of the stunning blonde with feline hazel eyes. 

The gift immediately felt less like an expression of gratitude for your support than like a reward for your silent compliance. But it’s of little to no importance. The bag sits idly at the bottom of your walk-in dressing. Unused, containing what’s left of the love and respect you once harbored for the man. 

Every so often, you think about it, as you cruise along the 589. It makes you smile. A wide, Cheshire cat grin, one that bares your front teeth, and you wonder if it’s cruel of you to smile about the end of something that used to mean so much. Something that meant nearly everything. You wonder if you’ve ever been cruel before. Intentionally, that is. 

Then, you conclude you don’t care. This particular kind of cruelty feels far too good. Too righteous. You could get used to it. 

And you keep cruising along the 589 northbound. 

—

“Mark Twain or Lewis Carroll?”

“Oh god, Frankie, I don’t know…” you moan, too distracted to think straight. 

Teeth ghosting a bite over your neck, he wraps a kiss around your skin, sucking on it. Not sharply enough to bruise, but enough for you to clench hard around him.

In the past few weeks, he’s become playful. It’s new to you. Was it always a part of him, constituent but buried underneath the scars and the years, or was it born from your touch? 

He’s become talkative, too. Talkative, and curious. But then again, perhaps he always was. Only, not with you. 

Thus, there are new rituals between you. Secrets exchanged behind the shielding partition of the yellow curtains. Murmurs shared underneath the droning of the ceiling fan, in the golden lighting from the quaint bedside lamps.

Some of his questions can pose a challenge. You’re not always certain about the proper answer. The right one. You were raised to say what was expected of you. Taught to speak to please, not to speak your mind. To wait for your cue, and hold your thoughts in between.

Frequently, you hesitate, afraid to trip on your words. 

But he doesn’t easily relent. He’s playful and curious. But above all, he’s patient and persistent.

“I don’t know,” you repeat.

“You know. Come on.”

“Okay, um… Lewis Carroll. I love– I love Alice.”

“Oh yea? You do? You like following big white rabbits to strange places, huh?”

His chest shakes with his raspy chuckle, and you laugh, until he pulls you in closer, sheathing himself deeper inside you, and your laughter plummets into a throaty groan.

Seamlessly, these new ceremonials have replaced the old ones, the ones that were carried out under wary gazes, in appraising silence.  

Now, you don’t always count your steps on Fridays, but you leave work earlier, and when you arrive at the motel, you try to engage Raul in conversation. His discomfort is obvious, bordering on annoyance, as you disrupt his concentration while he’s busy drawing charcoal landscapes of jagged mountains. But these past two weeks, he seems to have loosened up a bit. Either you’re wearing him off, or he’s trying to get rid of you faster. 

On the porch, in front of room number 2, you watch the sun slowly sink into the canopy of trees in an explosion of tangerine pink. Every week, the sunset creates a different palette of orange, but your emotion continues to be whole and unaltered. 

Before stepping in, you flick the upside-down brass number. It smiles in greeting, swinging on its one remaining screw.

You wish the place carried Frankie’s scent. It never does, of course. As you fold the comforter and prop it under the windowsill, the only smells wafting around are that of laundry detergent, dust, and the faintest hint of mold. 

There’s nothing tangible for you to hold on to in his absence, and this is by far the most difficult. It creates a vacuum, a fertile soil for foul, festering thoughts. Doubt, dread, agitation. During those seven days apart, there is no text or voicemail on your phone you can turn to for reassurance. No photo booth pictures stashed inside your wallet. No clothes of his to drape over your body and keep you warm and safe. Keep you sane. 

Every so often, when you cannot find sleep, you convoke the memory of his gray t-shirt, the one with the v-neck and the pilled fabric. The sensation of the slightly rugged cotton under the pads of your fingers. The immediate comfort gently lulls you to sleep. 

There is one thing, one thing only: the receipt from the burrito place, that you retrieved from the wastebasket after he’d left, that one time he brought you food. It’s tucked between two pages of your Moleskine planner. You’re not sure whether it’s cute or downright pathetic.  

You had thought the want, the yearning, would ease with time. It only kept spreading to every corner of your existence, every aspect of your life. Instead of only missing his touch, you now miss his voice, too. His choice of words, the cadence of his speech, the pace of his gait. His crinkled-eyes, dimpled smile. The way he rolls up his sleeves, leaves the top buttons of his shirt open, and the way he undresses. His three-finger hold on his glass. His long reflecting pauses before he speaks. The freedom and safety you experience with him.

You just became better at handling the longing. Recently, you have become very good at handling numerous things. Quietly but steadfastly defying your father’s injunctions to comply with his dress code. Adrian’s glaring eyes of blue, their silent judgement. Ava living a life of her own, far away from you. 

Reading helps. You hadn’t read in years, and you hadn’t realized how much you’d missed it. Now, you carry a book with you everywhere in your I ❤ NY tote. In these last moments before he walks into the room, you lie on your side across the motel bed, your head propped on your hand, and you read.

And when Frankie arrives, everything makes sense again, everything is justified. 

The wooden door creaks open, the brass number swiveling frantically, and his relief upon seeing you lights up the dim room. Hushed greetings, his large hands curling at your waist, pulling you into him, a husk of Hey, baby, his lips barely leaving yours while he tugs at your clothes, undressing you already. 

There’s rarely any other form of preamble beyond an occasional variation of Fuck, I really missed you, Lee , his teeth trailing down the line of your throat, sinking in just shy of a bite. Out of breath, out of time. 

The wait is over. 

Does he still come here to escape? Does he come here for you? His urgency hasn’t abated. But his intent feels different.

Stop me, skin on skin, chest to chest, the weight of his body covering yours, calloused hands hooked on your shoulders for purchase, pounding into you loud and ruthless. 

Stop me, crouched over you like a devouring beast, his face buried into the crook of your neck, shallow breaths and gripping hands, grinding deep inside your heat. 

Stop me, and what you hear is, I trust you. 

Deep grunts thrumming out of his throat, tumbling from his plush lips into your skin, a searing branding, an invisible mark. 

His plea. Lee.

He comes right after you do, pulling out just in time to spurt hot and thick over your arching body, or inside your wanting mouth. 

Later, when his spend has dried on your skin, when he’s kissed the soreness better, when your breathing has slowed, he brings you a glass of water, and waits until you’ve drank it all to bury his face between your legs, or fuck your throat if you begged him to. 

And on some Fridays, he goes by the desk to sit on the rectangular chair. He positions it sideways from the framed mirror. Says the reflection distracts you. It’s true. 

You could spend hours watching him. Watching him move, watching him sleep. Watch the care he puts in the way he handles his clothes and his truck and your pliant body. Watch him button up his jeans or tie his belt around your wrists. Watch his curls catch the light as he combs his fingers through them, the working of his throat, the pulsating throb of his heartbeat in his strong neck. The dip in his collarbone. The darker scar on his side. The muscles of his shoulders and his back, rippling under his freckled skin. Watch, and map those freckles with your lips. 

You could spend the rest of your life with him.

“C’mere,” he beckons, with a little tilt of his head, and a light pat on his thigh.

You get up from wherever he left you lying, the bed, the rough carpeting, the bathroom tiles, and walk over to him on wobbly legs. There, he draws you into his lap in a face-away straddle, his hands on your waist guiding you, firm and gentle, as he makes room for himself inside of you. The tip of your toes barely reach the carpet once you’re seated, and you have to rely entirely on him for balance. You like that. 

He braces his strong arms around you, and you keep your fingers curled around them, reclining against him, against his warmth. You like the sticky sensation of your combined sweats gluing your loose bodies. Your back molds to his chest like it was shaped for this very purpose. 

Your head tips back onto his firm shoulder, and he props his chin in the curve of your neck. The slight swaying of your hips is languid and slow, barely perceivable, in the same way the earth’s revolution around the sun is imperceptible to its inhabitants. 

Time lingers, in long lazy stretches, infinite moments in the amber lighting of the room, in the friendly shadows. In the heart of the night, and the folds of your existence. The low husk of his voice like honey in your ears, his words vibrating from his chest to your back, to your core. 

You can hear the smile in his tone. If you close your eyes, you can see it.

He asks about your taste in books, music or movies, food and entertainment, and tells you about his. Silly games of Would you rather? and Never have I ever. 

Scrunching up your nose under your pinched brow, brain cells scrambling back together inside your hazy brain, you try to produce coherent answers as his lush lips trace intricate patterns along your skin, your throat, your shoulders, nimble fingertips rolling your nipples into hardened peaks. A scrape of his teeth, followed by the wet glide of his tongue, soothing over your flushed skin.

Sometimes, you feel so full it’s overwhelming. The sensation, the emotion strangles the air out of you. Your cunt flutters around the thick, stiff girth of him, and he lets out a gravelly groan, cock throbbing inside your snug walls. Your slick pools down onto the coarse curls at his base. It’s like a virtuous circle. Everything feels right with him. 

After a while, when you’ve melted inside, when amber twirls in your bloodstream and your thoughts have turned to swirling molasses, his hand slides down along your stomach. His calloused fingers parting your folds, he starts rubbing at your clit, telling you that it’s time to come for me, baby. 

And when you do, he comes with you, shoving you down and deep onto his pulsating length, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your hips. His mouth pressed to that sensitive spot over your pulse point, his feverish grunts sizzling against your damp skin. 

When he comes inside you, when you come together, you are made brand-new. Anything’s possible. There’s nothing you can’t do. 

The elating sensation is your favorite daydream, sitting at your desk, over dinner, stuck in traffic, or in the blue hours before dawn. It sustains you throughout the week. The promise of it tingles in tense anticipation, from the crown of your head to the tip of your toes, when you watch him walk over to the desk and fold his tall, massive figure into the ugly chair. 

Week after week, question after question, you come into focus between his arms. It’s terrifying, and exhilarating. You keep getting better at it.

It’s a bittersweet ache, tender and addictive, to learn about his existence outside this room of yours. The borderless confines of his life. Of him. The details he chooses to confide in you, about his childhood, his past, and his present, in the dead of the night, his body wrapped around yours, chasing the contact of your skin. Chasing your touch, your softness, your understanding, when he used to grunt away from it. Like a threat, with bared teeth, and a shake of his head. A forbidding. A not yet. 

It makes sense to you now. There’s an absolute about him. An all or nothing. You’re not sure when it happened. The tipping point. Perhaps in the bathroom, on that sunny morning after Christmas, when he crowded you against the sink with a wolfish look turning his gorgeous face dark and threatening. You think it was meant to scare you. One last attempt. Your last chance to recoil and escape. 

You didn’t. You kept blooming, unfurling into your own limbs under the dark depth of his gaze, reflected in the black-edged mirror. You pressed back into him, the solid, steadying bulk of his body, of his broad chest. You pushed back and sunk deeper into his world. 

Today, he had to scoop you up from the floor where you were lying, boneless, in the wet mess he drew out of you. 

When he stormed into the room, you could still hear the engine of the truck revving. A scowl shadowed his face. Fidgety, tightly wound up, he began undressing you without a word. Unceremonious in his need, an echo of those early days, when he was imprisoned in his past, when his strength was unrestrained, when violence was his sole language. 

Fingers digging into the tense muscles of his shoulders, carding through his hair, you sought eye contact, softly cooing, I’m here, Frankie, I’m here, until your voice got through him. Until he heard you, slowing down, drawing you close. His forehead smearing sweat over your temple, his ragged breathing fanning the shell of your ear. His fist clutching the fabric of your shirt in a ball, with a push-pull motion, torn and primal, I need it, Lee. Please, I need you.

You relented, gave into it, lose and pliant as he bent you over the desk with a press of his palm, flat between your shoulder blades, as he pulled your panties to the side and lined himself up, as he thrust into you in one ruthless shove, down to his base. The clasp of his watch biting into your flesh. He was still fully clothed. 

Pulling on your wrists with an iron grip, he drilled into you at a brutal pace, skin catching at your entrance along his length, and you bit your lips through it, nearly drawing blood, until, at the very center of you, the pain turned into something blindingly pleasurable, bright and searing. A shockwave, erupting from your core, fast spreading along your limbs, lighting up every nerve-ending. 

Tensing under his constraining hold, bucking against his grip, you cried out his name, your back achingly stiff. Slick gushing out of you fast and hot, as your legs trembled uncontrollably, and through the din of it all, his rumbling growl, a guttural string of Fuck, before you slumped onto the desk and he fucked his own release into you. 

When he let go of you, he had to lay you on the carpet, where he collapsed next to you, chest heaving with exertion. Time blurred, you might have spent the whole night lying there, staring blankly at the popcorn ceiling, but he got up to undress.

He’s cradling you on his lap now, gently rocking into you. The slow and steady rhythm of his heartbeat aligned with yours, you’re bathed in his warmth, enveloped by his musky scent. You play along, searching your brain for answers. To his questions, and yours.  

There’s no evidence of his earlier outburst, saved for his thumbs drawing circles on your wrists where his fingers left a bruising indent. And of course, the wet spot on the carpet. 

Nuzzling your jawline, he trails a path of messy, lazy kisses down the column of your neck, capturing the tender skin between his plush lips, his tongue peeking through them.

“I should read it again. Alice. Read it so long ago. When I was a kid.”

Humming distractedly in agreement, your head lolls back on his shoulder. 

“Did I hurt you, earlier?”

Your eyelids fly open. His voice is barely a murmur, no more than warm breath grazing your ear, and you feel him throb inside you. 

“I don’t want to hurt you. I never want to hurt you.”

The vulnerability in his words shoots through your heart like a bullet. You free your arms to twine your fingers with his. 

“What happened today, Frankie?” 

His chest stiffens underneath you. 

“Nothing. Nothing happened. It’s more… It’s the date.”

The overhead fan hums over the room, louder than your breathing, louder than his. 

“A year ago, I agreed to a mission. With my former teammates. It was… It was bullshit. From the start. Nothing went as planned.”

He pauses and you wait, still and silent. 

“One of us got killed.”

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, squeezing his hands with all of your strength.

A chilling, bone-deep dread settles over your body in the sweltering heat, so cold he can probably feel it. You don’t want him to. 

“You said you resigned a couple of years ago?” 

“I did. I worked for the private sector, on occasions. It’s over now.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Fuck no,” he snarls. “But some of my friends did. I– I had to go.” He clears his throat. “I chose to go.”

“Do you miss him?”

He doesn’t answer for a while. Lifting his hand in yours, you give his knuckles a long, open-mouthed kiss. His forehead rests heavy against the back of your head, his eyelashes a fluttering caress on your nape. 

“For a long time, I felt responsible for his death.”

His words are dense with defeat. With sadness, and fatality. They sink heavily into you, into your bloodstream. You don’t need a mirror to know what his face looks like at this very moment. Your body will remember it, even if you live long enough to forget your own name. The pitch-blackness of his beautiful eyes, the stern crease splitting his brow, imploring for your touch. The tightness in his jaw. The downward curve of his plush lips.

That first night at the motel comes back rushing like a flood, like a wildfire. His roughness, the urgency saturating his actions, the anger in his grief. His bleeding wounds, invisible, evident, glaring. He reached for you through his despair, clutching your body, clinging to the idea of you. 

Are you real?  

I don’t know. 

A dry sob wells up in your throat, but you swallow it down. 

“What do you think now?”

“I think it doesn’t matter who’s responsible for his death. His girls are still orphaned.”

Between your lungs, the wild creature curls up into a ball. Its tears fill up your heart. There isn’t any pill or alcohol strong enough to numb this pain of yours. But it doesn’t matter. You want to feel what he feels.

You turn around. You kiss him.

—

“What about this one?”

He should be leaving soon. But your body’s soft and relaxed, curled into his side on the rumpled bed. Pleasantly cool in the muggy atmosphere of the motel room, in the dawn’s indigo hues. Your thin fingers hover gracefully over his skin, tracing the outlines of his scars, and it’s like you’re reshaping his entire body, all of his wounds, and his whole life, with the gentle touch of your fingertips.

“Frankie, what’s this one?”

He should be leaving soon. The sun’s about to come up. 

“Did you save it for last because it’s the largest?” he deflects with a smirk.

Folding an arm over his chest, you prop your chin over it, frowning exaggeratedly with your jaw shifting to the side. He laughs so hard that your head bobbles with his shaking belly.

“That supposed to be an impression of me?”

“You recognized yourself,” you smile, sitting up next to him.

He should be leaving soon. And you know it. You’re giving him the space he needs to get up and get out. He fucking hates it.

“Stay here,” he says, curling his fingers around your arm as you’re about to get down from the bed.

The look you give him awakens the pain in his chest. You peer through the curtains, into the blue morning sky, and your gaze returns to him with a silent question. 

“Come on. Please. Just a little longer.”

It’s not lost on him that he should be the one getting up. Not pleading.

The mattress creaks in protest as you move over it on your knees, sitting in a straddle across his hips. 

“Yea, that’s better,” he smiles, smoothing his palms over your thighs. His left hand slides up to palm your breast, and he notices he hasn’t taken off his watch, tonight. It’s the second time this month.

“What’s this one?” you ask again, entirely undistracted, measuring up your hand to the length of the darker patch of skin. 

“Okay,” he sighs, “I crashed a chopper near– wait, I can’t actually tell you that.”

“Jesus, Frankie,” you gasp, spreading both hands over the old wound, as if to stop a ghost bleeding. Your eyes have grown so wide, they eat up half your face.

“It’s okay, baby, it’s old. Wasn’t a big deal.”

It had been a big deal, at the time. There had been talks of awarding him a Silver Star for that mission.

“Did it hurt?”

“Mostly my pride. It wasn’t that bad, don’t worry. Nothing compared to what my sister threatened to do to me if I didn't leave the Army.” 

“I can’t say I blame her. I would have probably done the same.”

“Ok, my turn. What’s this one?”

His left thumb skims along the thin line on your inner thigh, and he feels you tensing under his touch.  

“It’s nothing,” you snap, taking your hands off his skin as if you just got burnt. 

He presses his thumb into your soft flesh. The pain in his chest accentuates, radiating down to his stomach. 

“You’re cheating,” he says, as softly as he can. 

You face away from him, gaze flickering up to the window again, and you start moving away, but he holds you firmly in place with both hands on your waist. 

“Lee. Tell me what it is.”

Seconds turn into minutes, the only sound in the room that of the ceiling fan’s motor, and the pain grows stronger, pulsating from his neck to his gut. Your eyes remain trained on the window, lost somewhere beyond the curtains. 

“I had several more like this,” you start. Your tone is detached, your voice distant. “Smaller ones. On the back of my arms. When I was 17, my mother took me to a dermatologist. He removed them with laser treatment.” 

You pause, and look down at him. 

“She got me fixed, so I could find a good husband.”

His fingers dig into your flesh. It’s a full minute before he remembers to breathe, through his nose, because he can’t unclench his jaw. The chest pain turns into blinding, white-hot rage. His truck is parked outside and in his mind, the sequence of actions is crystal clear. Get you dressed. Get you in the cab. Drive away with you as far as the road goes, and never come back here. 

“It burnt like hel—“

“You’re perfect, you know that?” he cuts in. 

“I’m really not, Frankie,” you calmly answer. “What I am is a coward.”

He sits up with a cinch, cupping your face so you can’t recoil from him. Somehow, this would be easier if you looked upset. If you were crying. Showing any kind of emotion, really. But you’re far beyond that. 

“I can’t let you say that. Not when you risk everything to come here every week.”

“Alright, so I’m a selfish coward,” you say with a joyless little smile. 

“No. You’re perfect. You’re my perfect girl. Say it.”

It’s there. Your unbending will, your steel-hard determination. In your defiant gaze and your pinched lips. In the distance you're trying to put between your body and his. 

“Okay, fine. Don’t say it. I’ll keep repeating it until you believe me. I can be fucking persistent, you know?” he adds, falling back onto the pillows.

“I know you can,“ you say, lifting a leg off the bed.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he nearly growls, a bruising grip on your thigh, “I’m not done with you.”

His clipped tone appears to be more effective on you. You sit back down, let your shoulders relax, and the palm of your hands find his skin again. Distant gaze, cold touch.

“What’s this one?” he asks, the blunt fingernail of his thumb grazing the grid-shaped scar on your left knee, his tone barely a question, and to his surprise, you come alive with a spark in your eyes. 

“Oh! This one’s a good scar. I like it.”

You adjust your position over him, slotting your folds over his resting cock, and a coiling heat stirs in his loin.

“I had a bicycle when I was a kid. The most beautiful bicycle in the entire world. Red, the exact same shade as your truck. With a round cushion protection on the frame, I don’t know how you call that, and the letters MBK painted in white over it, you know the kind?”

He nods, and you continue talking. 

“I would spend hours riding it. I would disappear for entire afternoons. It was heaven. And maybe you’re not going to believe me, but I was pretty reckless on that thing.”

“Oh, I believe you.”

You’re smiling again. 

“Well, one day, I was too reckless. I hit the brakes too abruptly and I skidded over gravel. I flew ten feet away from the bike and I tore my knee open. I got home covered in blood, my parents were furious.”

A vengeful smile curves your lips, one he’s never seen on your face.

“They confiscated the bike. My mother said it wasn’t ladylike, and my father said– I can’t remember his exact words, probably 'you can’t damage my property,’ or something along those lines. They never let me on a bike again after that.”

“How’s that a happy story?” he frowns.

“I didn’t say it was a happy story. I said it’s a good scar. I got to keep this one. It reminds me of what I’m capable of. Even when I want to forget.” 

The sun is rising. A new day colors the sky in vivid bronze. The light filters into the room through the yellow curtains, dust particles suspended in the air, suspended like Frankie’s life when he can’t be with you. 

He should leave, but instead, he’s going to fuck you one more time. Pump you full of his come. Brand you with his essence, mark you as his in the only way he can before he has to let you go back to face those people who put murder on his mind.

His hands skim along your thighs to the swell of your ass, roughly kneading the round of your cheeks. His grip settles on your hips, and he bucks up into you, ever so lightly, his length hardening between your lips. He sees it on your face, on your profile bathed in the first ray of sunlight. The moment when you register his intention. The shift in your body, the echo to his desire. So powerful, so immediate, it’s almost like black magic. Your mouth parts open, your back arches. You press down on him. 

“That serves him well, your father,” he says, sliding you slowly over his cock.

“How’s that?” you ask, voice laced with lust. 

“Look what you’re riding now.”

—

The pillow is damp underneath your back, sweat exuding from your every pore. The last days of March have been unforgiving. You find yourself longing for a room with a proper air conditioning system, instead of the motel’s weak, outdated fan that only swishes hot air. 

Frankie’s searing touch doesn’t help. Stroking the back of your arm in a repetitive up-and-down motion, he’s laying across the bed, his head resting heavy on your lap, his long hair curling in every direction in this sweltering atmosphere. 

Instead of shying away from the discomfort, you embrace it. With your fingers twined in his locks, you lean into his touch, focusing on his high forehead, and the crease in his brow. On his long eyelashes, the curve of his lips as he speaks, the working of his throat. 

Ignoring the dark blue rectangle of night sky, gradually lightening up behind the musty curtains.

Dawn used to be a deliverance. From your thoughts that the night painted black. From the wait, when Adrian wouldn’t come back. From a forced rest that never really came, another disappointment, another let down, another part of your life requiring the artificial help of chemicals. 

Now, you resent it. Dawn is when Frankie leaves you behind to go back to his family. Dawn is when he’s the happiest, with his child, without you, in a realm over which you have no grasp. 

A rational part of you acknowledges that it’s easier if he leaves before the sun rises. It prevents you from yearning for things you’re afraid to want. Things you cannot have. A life with him in broad daylight. A life without shame. 

Recently, he’s become increasingly reluctant to let go of you. Dawn finds him wrapped around your body. Last week, he stayed past daybreak, and fucked you in the sunlight. 

The brighter tone of his skin, the lighter shade of his curls, the depth of his mahogany irises hit by a sunbeam, everything was like a knife through your chest.

“Lee?”

The caressing timber of his husky voice brings you back to the soft amber light from the dusty lampshades, to the humming fan, and the blue rectangle. 

“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”

“I asked if you like it. Your job.” 

“God no, I hate it! Sales productivity statistics and accounting manager, can you picture me?”

He huffs his breathless chuckle, the one that sends tremors rippling through your chest. 

“Not really, no.”

“I’m terrible at it, and it’s a problem, but no one says anything because daddy runs the company. I don’t understand why he insists on maintaining me in this position. It’s like a power play. He needs me to be miserable.”

Frankie’s hand pauses, fingers digging into your flesh, and he cranes his neck to peer at your face. You give him a reassuring smile. A genuine one. 

“Is that what you studied at university? Accounting and statistics?”

You wipe your sweaty brow with the back of your hand, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

“Yes. But university was a golden parenthesis. I minored in Russian literature. Not a skill that easily translates to the employment market, but Richard was thoroughly pissed,” you say, wiggling your eyebrows. 

“My little punk.”

His smile is brighter than the midday sun. Your index finger darts to the dimple in his right cheek. 

“I really like this,” you whisper, your voice dropping, thick with heat and arousal. With affection. “And these,” you add, scraping your fingernail over the bare patches on each side of his jaw. 

“Mmh. I’ve noticed,” he says with a smug expression. 

“Oh, you have?” You try to laugh off your embarrassment, but what comes out is a quivering sound, betraying the want that hinders your throat. 

He grabs your hand and brings it to his mouth, closing his plush lips around your index finger, wrapping his tongue around it. Your belly quakes. You clench around nothing. 

He releases your hand, and you hope he’ll get up and move over you, but instead, he reaches for your arm again, resuming his rhythmic strokes. 

“So what would you do, if you didn’t do this?” he asks. 

You sigh, glancing up, and you catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror above the desk. 

“I’ve no idea, really. I never allowed myself to consider the possibility.” And before he can prod any further, you add, “What about you? What would you have liked to do, if you hadn’t become a pilot?”

The diversion doesn’t fool him, you know it. You’re acutely aware of his gaze, scrutinizing your face. You picture the familiar, pensive frown. His hand leaves your arm as he suddenly gets up, air hitting your damp skin where his head was lying. 

A few strides, and he steps into the bathroom, disappearing behind the partition wall. The tap runs for a moment, and there’s the distinct sound of wrung out fabric before he comes out, holding the hand towel. 

You watch him walk back toward you, his naked body glistening with sweat, highlighted in shadows in the warm lighting. You think about how beautiful it is, about your extensive, intimate knowledge of it. How it feels under your touch, every single part of him. How this knowledge is now constituent of the woman you have become. 

You know the callousness of his palms that catches at your clothes. You know the silkiness of his curls around your fingers, the smoothness of his chest against your breasts, the taste of his mouth and the bobbing of his pebbled throat between your lips. The thicker skin of his shoulders, tanned and freckled. The coarseness of the darker hairs under his navel, and how they feel rubbing at your clit. You know the weight of his cock in your hand, on your tongue, inside your walls. 

And if you know all this, then, isn’t he yours? 

He circles the bed over to your side, by the window, and sits next to you. 

Delicately, his fingers circle your wrist. He lifts your arm, and brings your hand to his lips, nuzzling the relaxed curl of your fingers open, to press a kiss inside your palm. His eyes briefly flicker shut as he inhales the transparent skin of your inner wrist. 

Lowering your arm, he starts running the towel along it and you jolt at the contact of the cold, wet fabric, letting out a short whimpering sound.

The sensation is sudden, seizing like an electrical shock, but the relief is immediate. The coolness radiates on the surface of your feverish skin, soothing your thoughts. Eyes fluttering shut, you relax into it. 

“Maybe an architect,” he starts, the towel gliding up to your shoulder, “or a carpenter. Build stuff, for a change. Instead of destroying them.”

Goosebumps break out along your arms, on your nape, as he skims the towel over the plane of your chest in slow, meticulous movements. As he rounds your breasts with reverent care, one, then the other, your nipples tightening in peaked buds, the low rumble of his voice filling your mind, his words boring into your heart.

The towel brushes up, tracing your collarbone, left, then right. Higher along the column of your throat, curling to the side of your neck. A droplet of water rolls down between your breasts, running along your stomach to end its course into your navel. You sigh.

“I could… run a small business, building houses or crafting furniture. In a small town, somewhere up north. Somewhere with seasons,” he says. 

The towel wipes over your trembling belly, over your mound, down your inner thigh. He’s slow, precise, thorough. Careful and gentle with your limp limbs. You’re sinking into the mattress, and floating over it all at once. 

You lift a heavy eyelid, your dazed gaze landing on his gorgeous face. He’s solemn, focused on his task. 

He readjusts his position on the mattress, so lightly the bed barely moves, and twists his torso to reach down your leg. 

“You could be my accountant.”

Your eyes shoot open. He’s facing away from you, wiping the towel under the arch of your foot.

“The last thing you want is to have me as your bookkeeper,” you whisper, your heart beating in your throat. 

He turns around, looking straight at you. Soft sad eyes, cold hard stare. 

“That’s all I want for the rest of my life, Lee. Be with you night and day.”

—

Everything seems to hinge on you now. 

His balance, his happiness, his redemption.

You filled a void, a hollowness inside his chest, he carries you with him wherever he goes. A pale shade of yellow and celadon green. 

He tries to convince himself it’s harmless. That he’s not doing anything wrong. That it’s easier this way. Easier than the drugs, easier than placing that burden on his daughter’s shoulders. He tells himself the peace you bring him makes him a better man, and a better father. Makes him worthy again. There might even be some truth to it. 

He’s not so sure if he deserves the second chance. If he deserves the parts of you that you confide in him. Your past, your regrets, your secret victories. Your hindered aspirations and the shores of your inner island, within his reach. The touch of your cool skin. The strength of your embrace. The veneration in your eyes. Your trust, your faith. Your time. 

But he wants to believe it. It’s more of a fundamental need, really. 

And as long as he’s with you, the illusion holds. When you’re sitting next to him in the truck, singing along to the tunes playing on the old crackling stereo as he drives to nowhere, when his body’s wrapped around yours in the dark, when he murmurs against your temple everything and anything that runs through his mind, when you’re coming undone between his hold, with his name on your lips. He believes he can be as good for you as you are for him. 

But it’s a thin fabric. One that tears the very minute he steps outside the room, leaving your sleepy form tucked under the starchy sheet. 

Day after day, until the next week, he’s left on his own to fence off the thoughts that plague him. 

The voice inside him, relentless, somber, asking how much longer this can last. How long before the consequences on your life are irreversible? How long until that man who’s not your husband finds out, and takes action? What repercussions would you face, then? 

He knows what he’d be capable of if he ever met him. He doesn’t like to think about it. 

You won’t open up about your life with him, no matter how much he prods and pry. He knows your strength. And he chose to trust it.

Seven months, and one week. He sat down with the cardboard calendar hanging above Lupe’s desk at work, and counted. His mind crowded, overflowing with what ifs. 

What if he took you out of this shitty motel, for once? Not just to drive into the night, but on a proper date. Dinner. A movie. Fucking lunch. A weekend somewhere. An entire vacation. 

What if he took you out of your life? 

Lupe started dating this Marcus guy back in December. Now she’s staying at his place every other night. The man is decent, one of the best paramedics he’s worked with, honest, reliable and steadfast. The kind of man Lupe deserves, and that he doesn’t mind around Lua. 

He should move out of the house. Lupe hasn’t said anything yet, but it’s just one more grace she gives him that he hasn’t earned. Every time they see each other, Will hints at it, the allusions becoming increasingly less subtle. 

The truth is, he sees no point in moving forward with his life if it’s not with you. If it’s not to take care of you, and provide for you. Watch you thrive, keep you safe.  

A couple of weeks back, when he’d first thought about it, he’d deemed the idea crazy, painfully aware of all the frustrations a couple’s daily life entails. 

Now, it’s the only choice that makes any sense to him. 

—

The airport terminal is bustling with flocks of tourists. Noisy families with children too young to travel, transient businessmen and women, groups of youths of dubious soberness flying out after spring break. 

Ava stands out in the crowd, her tall frame topped with a short bob of bright purple hair, and you spot her immediately. Standing on your tiptoes, you wave at her until she sees you and starts running in your direction.

She all but leaps into your open arms, and you both grab at each other, leaning into the embrace, laughing. You inhale her scent, searching for that baby smell in the crook of her neck.

“Oh my god, pup, your hair!” you exclaim. “You look terrific!”

“Yeah? You like it?” she asks with a broad smile, running her fingers through her locks. 

“I love it! It’s perfect for you!”

In turn, she takes you in, looking you up and down, and lets out a low whistling sound.

“You look good, too. You look better than good. You look gorgeous!”

“Oh shush,” you gesture bashfully, but you can’t hold back your own smile.

The two of you walk to the parking lot to retrieve your car, immersed in bubbly conversation, oblivious to the moving crowds around you.

Driving out of the airport, you glance at the sign indicating the 589 northbound and smile at your precious secret, before making a left turn south.

“Where are you taking me?” she asks, “I’m hungry! Feed me! Feedmefeedmefeedme!” she chants, before breaking into a high-pitched giggle.

“Alright, alright! Hold tight, I’m taking you somewhere special. Do you like burritos?”

“Who doesn’t like burritos? Wait, what? Burritos? Do you even eat burritos? Who are you and what have you done with my sister?”

You had to type the address from the crumpled receipt into your GPS. Until today, you’ve never allowed yourself to go there. Not on your own.

It’s a small cantina with tiled walls and concrete floors, colorful trinkets arranged in pyramidal displays behind the counter, chalkboard menus and an endless list of drinks. Star-shaped lanterns are hanging from the ceiling, and the staff is busy but jovial.

Lunchtime on a Saturday, the place is packed with couples and kids, and your pulse accelerates. You hadn’t considered the possibility of running into Frankie and his family. 

You place your orders, and after a short wait, you secure a spot in the back of the restaurant. Sitting on high metal stools behind a round table, you catch up on the past three months as if you hadn’t texted every other day, speaking with your mouths full, sauce dripping down your fingers.

The life she’s built for herself in New York treats Ava better than anything you could have hoped for, anything you could have helped her achieve, had she stayed here. A job in a cutting-edge art gallery, where her vibrant personality and her flair for networking are not only recognized but valued, a bustling social life, more thrilling projects than you can keep track of, all of it balanced by Polly’s grounding presence by her side. 

Your choices and sacrifices, justified.

Ava puts down the crumbling remnants of her vegetarian burrito to wipe her mouth, and takes a sip of her margarita.

“You sure you don’t want to drink anything?”

“I’m drinking something,” you answer, pointing at your iced tea.

“Whatever you say, girl,” she shrugs.

“It’s too bad you’re not staying with me. It’s idiotic, you’re only here for a couple of days and you have to sleep over at Jules’.”

“Listen, even if your douchebag of a fiancé had agreed to have me, which I know he didn’t, I don’t want to see his ass face.”

“Alright,” you concede, “valid.”

She nearly chokes on her margarita. Setting her glass down, she gives you a pointed stare, emphatically scrutinizing your face.

“Okay, seriously, what’s going on with you? How are you? I mean, that’s obviously the wrong question, you’re fucking thriving. What happened? What’s happening? New medication? Are you finally leaving him?”

“I’m not taking any medication,” you answer with unexpected satisfaction. “But no, I’m not leaving him.”

You catch yourself before you can add another word. 

“Are you still seeing that other guy?”

You nod, dipping your head, heat creeping up your neck. Why are you like this?

“I take it he likes burritos, am I right?

“You are correct in your assumption, detective,” you quip with a grin.

There’s a pause as Ava seems to consider her next question. It’s always so easy for you to forget that she’s a grownup now. That she knows you at least as well as you know her. That she has the capacity to outsmart you. The notion flares pride in your chest.

“Is he married? Is that why you haven’t run off together in the sunset yet?”

“I’m not sure if he’s married or not.”

“What does he do in life?”

“I don’t know.”

Ava throws up her hands. 

“Girl! What do you know?” she exclaims with only half-feigned exasperation.

I know what’s important. He’s a father. He’s a friend and a brother. A pilot and a veteran. He's thoughtful and observant. He’s organized and practical. And a reluctant sentimental. He learned to swim in the Pacific Ocean. He’s capable of cold-blooded violence, but it will break him. He’s capable of infinite tenderness. And it will save him. 

You pull a face, communicating how little you care about what you don’t know. Your sister shifts on the hard stool. She frowns, and when she speaks next, her voice is low, her tone conspiratorial.  

“Adrian doesn’t suspect anything?”

“Of course, he does. Or he did. His attention is elsewhere, for now. Seems serious.”

“Again?”

“Again,” you nod. 

Ava squirms on her stool again, probably trying to restrain her temper. 

Your mind wanders, jumping back through time at light-speed, to when you first met Adrian. To the way he used to hold your hand when you started dating, squeezing your fingers with his. Letting you choose the wine, opening doors for you. To the affection in his smile, and how fast he started calling you babe . The glimmer warming his cold blue eyes when he introduced you to his family. The way he leaves the bathroom mirror splattered in toothpaste every time he brushes his teeth. The way he lets his alarm ring off forever after he’s gotten up even if you’re still in bed, even on weekends. 

The ease with which he admitted to all his flings, whenever you confronted him, but never confessed to the one with his coworker, the ambitious young lawyer. 

Would you admit to having an affair? Would you use that ugly word that make you crawl out of your skin? Would you deny it? Could you answer No, I’m not seeing anyone? Could you bear the betrayal of denying Frankie’s existence? The truth of what you share, but can’t define?

“Your fiancé is a bag of dicks,” Ava finally says, shaking her head. 

“His obliviousness suits me for now,” you remind her.  

“I don’t understand why you don’t leave him,” she snaps back, forsaking her reserve. “He got his big promotion, he got what he wanted! And Richard loves him, it’s not like he’s going to fire him just because you two broke up, right? You don’t really love him anymore, do you?” she adds on second thoughts.  

The words spill out of you unchecked, once more. Just like in the truck with Frankie, back in January. Months, years for the idea to mature below the surface of your conscious thoughts, the reflective process unbeknown to you. 

“I’m scared, Ava. I’m scared shitless. I want to leave. I’ve been wanting to leave for so long. Adrian, the company, that fucking ugly apartment.” 

“Well then fucking do it, Lee!”

“If I leave, I have nothing. No job, nowhere to go.” 

And if you could give up a relatively comfortable life, would you be able to renounce the refuge of your sadness? Of your life between the folds? 

“You have money,” Ava counters. “You have shares. Sell them. Richard can’t stop you. Get a lawyer, if you have to. One that’s not on Adrian’s payroll. And then you can fuck your man Friday every day of the week, how’s that?”

You think about the folded bedspread under the windowsill. About the wet hand towel brushing up your skin. The trucker hat on the desk, and his fingers splayed on the steering wheel. The pleading arch of his brow. 

You think about that space between Frankie’s chin and collarbone, that contains your safety, your desires, and all of your hopes.

“I don’t… I don’t know if I should leave a man for another one,” you whisper. 

Ava’s eyes widen. She sits up straight, a smirk tugging the corner of her lips. 

“I don’t know either, but it looks like this one fucked some sense into you. The irony.” 

She’s withholding something, you realize. It’s in her uncharacteristic pauses, her sideways glances. Surprisingly, human interactions were simpler when pills kept you numbed and oblivious. Being attuned to everyone’s minute expressions is a daily trial. 

“Why don’t you move to New York with us?” she eventually asks. “We can take you in until you find a job there, for as long as you need.”

There’s that we again. People talking about you in your absence, judging your choices, plotting your future. 

“I don’t know how to do anything, Ava. I have zero skills.” 

“First off, that’s not true,” she retorts, relentless with her well-rehearsed arguments. “And then, Polly can help you find something. Lee, if you can leave this company, there’s literally nothing you can’t do.”

Suddenly, you feel exhausted. Weary and old. A bone-deep lassitude. And at the heart of it, the realization that this is a liminal sequence in your life. 

“Is that why you flew here for the weekend? To ask me to come away with you?”

“Are you mad?” she asks with a face. A little girl’s expression, afraid of being scolded. Your little girl. 

“No, I’m not mad, pup. I can’t be mad. You came back for me.”

“Of course, I came back for you. I was never going to leave you behind, silly.”

****

[venusdews]

𝑯𝑶𝑻 𝑺𝑼𝑴𝑴𝑬𝑹 𝑳𝑶𝑽𝑰𝑵 ' ݁₊ 𓆉 . ݁𓇼˖ . ݁

— 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑒𝑒𝑝𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑒 𝑠𝑚𝑢𝑡 𝑠𝑒𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠

❝𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐖𝐀𝐕𝐄 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆: 𝐰𝐚𝐭𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐮𝐭, 𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐞𝐬! 𝐋𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐨𝐧 𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫… 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐞𝐧 𝐫𝐮𝐧 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐝!

𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐒𝐏𝐅, 𝐩𝐮𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐛𝐢𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐢 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐭, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐰 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐞𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐧𝐠— 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐲!❞

WHO WILL BE YOUR SUMMER FLING?

TAKE YOUR PICK ... જ⁀➴

♡ . — ꒰ CANDIDATE #1: THE HOT NEIGHBOR ꒱

CALEB [夏以昼]

── . 𓇼 take a dip into the pool and sunbathe on a hot summer day. you never know, maybe this heat will finally push your hot neighbor to make a move on you.

CHECK THE TEMPERATURE: ☼

♡ . — ꒰ CANDIDATE #2: THE DREAMY LIFEGUARD ꒱

RAFAYEL [祁煜]

── . 𓇼 be a good samaritan and volunteer as a lifeguard at the beach. that bathing suit will have every man going crazy, especially your cute coworker!

HEATING UP...

♡ . — ꒰ CANDIDATE #3: THE MYSTERIOUS MILLIONAIRE ꒱

SYLUS [秦彻]

── . 𓇼 take a trip to a quaint island town and relax in the privacy of your own villa. oh, who's that mysterious hottie staring at you from the bar? wait, he looks familiar...

HEATING UP...

♡ . — ꒰ CANDIDATE #4: THE CUTE ADVENTURER ꒱

XAVIER [沈星回]

── . 𓇼 take a trip deep into the woods and enjoy the peaceful serenity with your situationship friend. luckily there's no one around to hear the sounds you'll be making tonight... 

HEATING UP...

♡ . — ꒰ CANDIDATE #5: THE CHILDHOOD CRUSH ꒱

ZAYNE [黎深]

── . 𓇼 or choose to stay home with this heatwave. but oh, no! your air conditioner is broken! luckily your recently reconnected childhood friend invites you over to cool off at his place— by taking your clothes off.

HEATING UP...

credits to cafekitsune for the divider ♡

[bacchuschucklefuck]

beautiful! majestic!

[backalleylemon]

Oops my hand slipped!

[lazyjellyfish300]

AHHHHH STANDING IN LINE TO GET MY PLATE HOLD ON!!!

Masamichi Yaga ~~~~~~~~~~~~ New to this online dating so please, bare with me.Single. Divorced once. One grown son. Educator. I love knitting and crocheting. Looking for a needle to thread (I am sorry, this is cheesy but it's true.)

6.7k words (jjk au, fluff, smut, Yaga is a green flag)

a/n: Yaga, Yaga, Yaga. What a man. I wanted to give him love during the season of love. Enjoy and thank you for reading!

“Hello. My name is Masamichi Yaga and this is my twentieth years coming at the International Knitters and Stitchers Expo.” He spoke into the small vlogging microphone and watched as the interviewer rambled.

This was actually it. Year twenty. Year 10 of no longer being married and coming to these things. He wasn’t sure if it was the big banner showing his knitting clubs faces or seeing some of his long time friends bring their little ones to it this time around. But the feeling of being single and walking around wasn’t a pleasant one.

“Yaga! Its so good to see you again!” The elderly woman who was 2 feet shorter came up and gestured for a hug from the large man. “We would’ve missed your expertise for this years ‘Stitch your hearts or die’ event!

Yaga bent down to accept the warm, motherly hug before she pinched his cheek. “Good to see you also, Tita.” He took the badge with his name from the table:

Yaga M.

2025 K&SE

GOLD PASS

He didn’t hate this hobby of his. It was probably his favorite thing in the world outside of working in education. Student need a button put back on? Principal Yaga’s got it. Need a hem? He’s got his emergency kit on hand. Four newborns in the neonatal unit need some warm foot and hand mitts? Masamichi Yaga is on the scene with ten sets because he knows he will get a call for six more before the end of the month.

But twenty consecutive stitch expos for a man in his 40s is beginning to feel…

“Betsy cross-stitched some of the cutest flags for each of our home countries so we can wave them around during roll call! Gotta rep!”

He gave a half smile. “Yes ma’am..gotta rep.”

His group encircled him, smiling and greeting him as they would while he tried his best to stay in the moment.

He forced a smile. Another year surrounded by over three thousand people and he felt more alone than ever.

__________________

Yaga settled into bed post shower. It felt nice to be back in his own home after 4 days of nonstop conversation and photo ops with the “worlds largest knitting needle” recipient. He fell back into his routine: cleaning up, checking emails despite being off work for another 4 days, and meal prepped for the week before his wind down officially started.

He stared down at the open web-page on his phone, brows furrowed in concentration. "The Foolproof Guide to Dating: Master the First Three Dates and Win Their Heart!" The title alone should have been a red flag, but it had been a long time since he'd gone on a real date—long enough that he figured a little structure wouldn't hurt.

Yaga sat up in bed, pushing his glasses up onto the bridge of his nose and began to slowly read.

He tried not to be too hard on himself, it wasn’t as if he had time to fumble his way through modern dating customs. Between his work and his students, romance had taken a backseat for years. Now, thanks to Nanami’s insistence, he had a blind date scheduled with a woman who was supposedly going to be good for him.

He let out a breath and scrolled further.

“Date #1: Set the Perfect Tone!

Choose a location that showcases your best qualities.

Maintain strong eye contact to establish dominance. Let her know you mean business!

Pay a subtle compliment, but don’t overdo it! Keep her on the edge so she chases you!

Keep the conversation lighthearted yet intriguing. Who doesn’t love a man of mystery.”

  Yaga rubbed his temples. This was nonsense, wasn’t it? Showcase his best qualities? What did that even mean? Was he supposed to take her to a classroom and demonstrate his ability to keep a rowdy group of students in check? Pull out a ripped pair of pants and sew a patch on? He laughed silently, his large shoulders shaking as he put a sound to the belly laugh he expelled.

He sighed.”A man of mystery.” he repeated in a huff, setting his alarm and sitting his phone on the nightstand. “There’s no pressure, Yaga,” he talked to himself sternly, almost like a father speaking to his son the night of prom. “Its a date, not a wedding. Just enjoy the experience.” he turned over, closing his eyes to try and imagine what tomorrows date could result in. It was too late to back out now. He had to go in full speed.

The café Nanami suggested was a quiet, bookish kind of place, which Yaga appreciated. The soft hum of conversation, the scent of freshly brewed coffee, and the rows of bookshelves lining the back wall made it feel comfortable. Approachable. He could work with this. He settled into the arm chair, feeling confident in the afternoon.

Then you walked in.

He spotted you almost immediately and smiled, something warm and effortless about you. You stepped in like a dream. You waved at the barista and smiled, dress flowing as if you’d paid the wind to make it move with each step you took. Breathtaking.

“Uhh let’s do a honey latte with coconut milk today. And two lemon cookies, please.” He wondered what made you want a honey latte. Was it the honey? Perhaps you weren’t one for the strength of just straight coffee? His mind filled with scenarios as he watched you wait for your order.

“Yaga?” An unfamiliar voice walked up to him while he sipped his coffee.

“He’s not here.” His eyes stayed on you, not flinching.

“Sorry? Nanami told me you were my date?”

Shit. He turned to her and felt that guilty gut feeling at the confusion that stirred on her face.

“Oh gosh, so sorry. Yes, I-” He stood up and held his hand out and let her shake it. “I thought I saw someone I knew. My apologies. Call me Masamichi.”

“Oh! You’re okay. Happens to the best of us.”

“Would you like a beverage? I’ll get it for you.” he offered the chair right next to his. “Anything you fancy most?”

She pondered for a moment then smiled. “An americano with an extra shot of espresso.”

“Bold. You’ve got it.” He gave a warm smile and went to the front counter, walking past you as you scrolled on your phone waiting for your order.

He’s seen the viral clips of men bothering women and being called out about it. Was it really worth disturbing your peace?

‘Its for the best. And you’re on a date. Just leave it alone-’

“What are you thinking about getting?”

Your voice cut through his own dialogue and he froze from the neck down, turning to see you just a few steps closer to him. Your eyes were gentle, your voice sweet as honey.

“An americano.” he gruff voice lightened with his response. “With an extra shot of espresso.”

You raised your brow almost surprised at his answer. “Very… intense.” You laughed gently. “If you need something to help balance it out, I suggest the chocolate chunk muffin tops they have here. The perfect sweet treat to wash that down.”

“Oh, this isn’t for me. Its for my blind date.”

Amusement flickered across your expression and you looked subtly over your shoulder to see the woman sitting, waiting for you. "Exciting. Or nerve-wracking?"

He exhaled a quiet chuckle. "Both."

“Well, good luck to you! May the odds be in your favor.” Your order was called out and you grabbed your latte first, raising it in mock cheers before grabbing your plate of cookies and walking to a nearby table.

-

He sat across from his blind date, doing his best to focus. She was an amazing person—Nanami had vouched for her, after all. She had an easy smile, a soft voice, and seemed genuinely interested in getting to know him.

And yet, he kept glancing in your direction.

He tried to shake it off, returning his attention to the conversation. The guide had emphasized eye contact, active listening, and finding common ground. So he nodded along, asking genuine questions as he engaged in the conversation, offering polite responses. But every so often, his gaze drifted—just a flicker of a glance, quick enough that he hoped his date wouldn’t notice.

But he noticed. He noticed how you tucked a braid behind your ear, how you smiled at your book and widened your eyes and gasped in hopes of no one hearing you. How you tapped your fingers lightly against your coffee cup. It was distracting, pulling at the edges of his mind even as he tried to stay present.

Halfway through the date, he knew. He knew there wasn’t a connection—not the kind he was wanted to feel. His date was great, but she wasn’t the one keeping his attention without even trying.

By the time an hour had passed, Yaga took a breath and made up his mind.

“This was really nice,” he started, rubbing the back of his neck. "You seem like a wonderful person, but… I don’t think there’s a connection here. I wanted to be honest with you before we parted ways."

His date blinked, then gave a small, understanding nod. "I appreciate that, actually. And I get it. No hard feelings. Good luck to your future dating trials."

They parted on good terms and Yaga walked her outside before he went back in to sit for a moment, tapping his fingers against the table trying to wrap his head around exactly what he was about to do.

He was never one to act on impulse. Impulsively buying a high dollar steak? Sure. But something in him told him he’d regret walking away without trying.

“Full speed ahead,”

So before he could talk himself out of it, he stood, walked over to your table, and cleared his throat.

"Hey. Uh." He shifted his weight slightly, suddenly aware of how ridiculous he must look—this broad-shouldered, serious-faced man struggling to find the right words.

You picked your head up from your book, a little surprised by his approach, “Americano! Hi!”

  "I know this might be a little unexpected, and I apologize. I know I told you I was on a blind date but… it has ended. I wanted to tell you that you are incredibly striking.”

Yous placed your bookmark and slowly closed your book. “Did you scare her off?”

“Oh no no. It’s just that there was no connection,” He tried to clarify his actions not realizing it may be doing more harm than good. “I found myself interested in getting to know you and I wanted to do it the right way.”

You couldn’t tell whether he was joking or just being a nuisance, but you were too intrigued to not find out.

So you sat quietly, smiling.

He cleared his throat. "Your, uh, shoes look sturdy."

A pause. Then, to his immense relief, you laughed.

"Wow. High praise. I was hoping to impress you with my charm after you decided to be so brazen, but if my footwear is winning points, I’ll take it."

Yaga felt some of the tension ease from his shoulders and laughed just loud enough for you to hear.

“To keep my momentum going, I’d love to take you out to lunch sometime to get to know you better.”

“What if I’m not single?” You stood up, letting your eyes trace over his defined shoulders and chest. “This would all be in vain.”

He hadn’t even thought of you being taken. His ears turned a shade of tomato red as he tried to figure out how he could recover from fumbling this badly. “I’ll pay for you next coffee if I’ve disrespected you and your partner. That wasn’t my intention.”

There was something endearing about this big man overthinking every other thought he had. It was obvious to you that he was not one for approaching strangers in public for things as informal as asking someone out. It was.. cute.

“After our first date, we can come here for a coffee then. I won’t say no to coffee with a handsome man with no name.”

“Cheeky.” You both laughed as he pulled out a card from his jacket pocket, passing it onto you gingerly. “Masamichi. And it would be my pleasure.”

=============================================

Six months. You’d been dating Masamichi for six and it was heaven on earth.

You’d come to know a mild giant for a partner. The perfect balance of love, laughter, and understanding. You’d complemented each other in every way imaginable, personalities intertwining like the branches of a sturdy oak tree, unshakable and resilient.

He was considerate, gentle, consistently showing that he would be there for you come hell or highwater. And you showed the same.

Two people swimming in the dating pool meeting by chance in a small pond.

Fate.

And now on your 6 month anniversary, you found yourself lost in thought, your mind wandering to the elephant in the room - or rather, the absence of it in your bedroom.

You sighed, tracing your fingers along the rim of the mug filled with now lukewarm green tea, a gift from Masamichi's grandfather. It was a small gesture, but one that spoke volumes about the sincerity and thoughtfulness that permeated your connection. Yet, despite the depth of your bond, there was one aspect of your relationship that remained unexplored, a chasm that seemed to grow wider with each passing day.

Masamichi was in the kitchen, the sound of pots and pans clattering as he prepared dinner, his humming a soothing melody that normally would have chased away any lingering doubts. But tonight, your mind was consumed by the gnawing uncertainty that had taken root in the pit of my stomach. You couldn't help but wonder if there was something wrong with you, if his hesitation to take your relationship to the next level was a sign of some deep-seated inadequacy.

You watched as he nodded his head along to the light jazz that filled the air. He was everything to you. And you didn't want to ruin the perfection you had cultivated together, the easy camaraderie and the deep respect that underpinned every interaction you’d shared all because it feels like you’re ovulating every other day.

But at the same time, the weight of the unspoken desires was beginning to take its toll, the deafening screams of wanting to be in the throws of passion grew louder with each passing day.

You knew you had to say something, to address the elephant in the room before it consumed you both. you took a deep breath, steeling yourself for the conversation that was to come, and made your way to the kitchen, determined to confront the fears and insecurities that had been plaguing your thoughts for weeks on end.

Masamichi looked up as you entered, a warm smile playing on his lips as he greeted you with a kiss on the cheek. "Almost ready," he murmured.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to find the right words. Masamichi sensing the uneasiness in your demeanor, set down the spoon he was holding and turned to face your fully, his brows furrowed in concern.

"Hey, is everything alright? You look like you've got something on your mind," he asked softly, his hand reaching out to gently squeeze your shoulder.

You nodded, swallowing hard before speaking. "Masamichi, we need to talk. About us, about... our relationship," you spoke with intention, your voice barely above a whisper.

His eyes widened slightly, and you could see a flicker of uncertainty in their depths. He took a step back, running a hand through his hair as he seemed to grapple with his own thoughts.

"I fear I know where this is going," he admitted, his voice tinged with a hint of frustration. “I know you said the crochet thing wasn’t a big deal but it becomes one. Its just part of me..” He untied the apron from around his waist and lifted it over his head. “I know it isn’t for everyone.”

What a man. You smiled, rubbing his bicep before pulling him to the couch. “No no. I like your hobbies. It isn’t that.” You sat him down, his dark eyes brewing a storm as he tried to figure out just what you could be referring to.”

“Chi, do you find me attractive?”

He looked shocked, almost offended at the question. “A goddess among us mere mortals. You are beyond gorgeous. Where is this coming from? Am I not calling you beautiful enough?”

“God, you make it real hard to be assertive when you’re this sappy.” biting your lip and faintly laughing, you cleared your throat to push through the conversation. "I know we haven't... I mean, we haven't taken that step, and I can't help but feel like I'm disappointing you somehow in the attractiveness factor or you may not be ready which is totally okay! I just want to at least talk about it."

He paused, his gaze dropping to the floor as he struggled to find the right words. "The truth is, I want nothing more than to be intimate with you, to express the depth of my love and desire for you. But I'm scared," he confessed, his voice barely audible.

Your heart clenched at the vulnerability in his tone, and you reached out to take his hand in yours, squeezing it gently. "Masamichi, look at me," you followed his eyes, waiting for him to meet your gaze.

He did, and you could see the anguish and self-doubt swirling in his eyes. "You could never disappoint me," you assured him, thumb brushing against his cheek in a tender caress. "What we have is so special, so perfect, and I don't want to ruin it by rushing into something you may not be ready for."

You took a deep breath, choosing your next words carefully. "Masamichi. I love every part of you, including your kindness, your patience, and your unwavering commitment to our relationship. Our intimacy, whenever it happens, will be a natural progression of the love and connection we already share."

Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "Thank you for saying that, for seeing me the way you do. I was so afraid that you thought there was something wrong with me, that I wasn't enough for you."

He pulled back slightly, his hands coming up to cup your face, his thumbs brushing the soft moon of your cheeks. "I love you so much," he murmured, his forehead pressing against yours once more. "I love your strength, your kindness, your unwavering faith in us. I don't want to mess this up, to do something that might hurt you or push you away."

You turned your head slightly, pressing a soft kiss to his palm before smiling. "You could never push me away, Masamichi. Your love, your respect, and your consideration for me are what make me fall in love with you more each day," You remarked, voice steady and sure. “And you’ll have to try harder if you want to get rid of me.”

Masamichi laughed, his wide shoulders moving as he enveloped you in his embrace. He closed his eyes, exhaling sharply with a shuddering breath. "Well you know I’m an older guy so it takes awhile to make sure my engines stay running for awhile.”

“Is there anything I could do to.. keep them running?” You were sincere in your curiosity.

Grinning and shaking his head, Masamichi squeezed your hand. “You could wink at me and the engine starts. Its just part of me getting a little older. I need time to..” He thought for a moment before continuing, “Time and maybe a boost to make sure the engine can run for as long as it needs to.”

“Oh!” you fanned him off, thinking you clearly understood what he meant until it actually clicked. Your brows raised. “Ohhhh..”

He chuckled, nodding. “Exactly.”

“Do you have that on like, standby? How does one obtain… engine boosting medication?”

“I’ll make an appointment and hopefully be seen next week. Easy as that.”

You hadn’t really thought about the implications of dating a ‘seasoned man’. He’s older, not old so you didn’t really think he’d need help I suppose. But it didn’t deter you by any means.

He was a one in a million kind of man and sex wasn’t everything to you. But he was.

“I want to do this right," he said, his voice filled with determination. "I want our first time to be perfect, to be a celebration of the love and intimacy we've built together. And I want to make sure that you're ready, that we're both ready, before we take that step."

“Respectfully, honey, I was ready the moment you picked up that love seat without breaking a sweat awhile back.”

“You’re an insatiable woman.” He leaned in, kissing you softly before lying you back onto the couch.

You nodded, a smile playing on your lips as you leaned in to press a soft kiss. “I’m sorry you are just too hot. I can’t help but be in awe of you.” you whispered against his lips.

“And just so we’re clear: I’ve thought of the many ways I want to ravish you. When I get my hands on you,” He ran his thumb ever so gently over your bottom lip. “I want you to be the only thing that can satiate my appetite.” His large hand traveled up your thigh, lightly allowing his knuckles to caress your soft skin until he stopped right at your inner thigh.

For the first time ever, you were rendered speechless, only nodding as he placed soft kisses across your collar bone and shoulder before meeting your lips.

His lips moving against yours with a tenderness and love that stole your breath away. "Together," he murmured, his arms wrapping around your waist and pulling you close. "We'll navigate this journey together, one step at a time, and build the perfect intimacy that we both deserve."

===========================================

As the candlelight flickered, creating the perfect cozy table for two, Masamichi couldn't help but steal glances of you from across the way.

The romantic dinner was going perfectly in his eyes. Dinner came out absolutely divine. He opted for the lighter style of Greek food to go along with the light and engaging conversation and playful banter flowing freely between the both of you. He had been looking forward to this moment for what felt like an eternity, his heart fluttering with anticipation and desire.

Reaching across the table, Masamichi gently took your hand, giving it a tender squeeze. "Tonight has been absolutely wonderful," he murmured, his thumb caressing your knuckles. "I'm so glad we could have this time together, just the two of us."

You smiled warmly, squeezing his hand in return. "I've been really looking forward to this," you admitted, a hint of mischief sparkling in your eyes. "And I don't just mean the delicious food and wine."

Masamichi felt a shiver run down his spine at the implication, his pulse quickening. "Is that so?" he asked, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Well, I think we both know where this night is headed, don't we?"

Slowly, deliberately, Masamichi stood up from his chair and walked around to his lover's side of the table. He held out a hand in invitation. "Dance with me?" he purred, wanting to feel your body pressed against his.

Accepting without hesitation, you rose gracefully to your feet. "I thought you'd never ask," you teased, melting into Masamichi's arms as he pulled you close.

He wrapped one arm around your waist, holding you flush against his expansive chest as he began to sway to the soft music playing in the background. His other hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face up to look at him. "You look stunning tonight." he whispered, his breath ghosting over your lips.

“Thank you. My boyfriend bought this for me.” You responded sweetly. “He said the color made me look like an ethereal beauty.”

He smiled down at you and continued to sway, the light air around him made him feel like he was in a romance film as you brought your lips to his, starting with a small peck that slowly moved into something more. He ran his finger tips down the center of your back, deepening the kiss the moment he felt your body shiver against him.

"I don't know how much longer I can control myself around you." He muttered against your lips.

Your eyes fluttered for a moment, a soft gasp escaping your throat. "Then don't," you breathed, leaning in to capture Masamichi's lips in a searing kiss. "I want you. So so badly.” you whispered into his mouth.

Masamichi's hands began to wander, exploring and caressing every curve of your body with a hunger that bordered on desperation. He slid his hands to the cutouts of your dress, relishing the feel of your soft, warm skin beneath his fingertips.

Breaking the kiss, Masamichi trailed his lips down the column of your throat, nibbling and sucking at the sensitive flesh. He could feel your pulse racing beneath his mouth, and it spurred him on, determined to mark you as his own.

Without thinking, he lifted you, an arm at the crease under your knees, carrying you bridal style towards his bedroom.

"Your skin tastes divine," he murmured against your throat, his voice rough with desire. "I want to leave my mark on every part of you, to show the world that you belong to me." He stepped to the edge of the bed and sat you down with the gentleness of a feather before he began to unbutton his shirt, his eyes never leaving you.

You could feel the heat of his gaze as he undressed. Watching the shirt fall to the ground your core tightened. That feeling flooded you.

His pecs were well defined, contoured by his chest hair. His body was hard, chiseled to perfection and for the first time, you were seeing it without any restrictions. He leaned over you, kissing the top of your head as he brought you up to your knees.

“Here. Let me help you.” He walked around to the side of the bed and sat on his knees behind you, running his knuckles along the straps of your dress, dragging slowly across the valley between your shoulders. He unzipped, leaving kisses on your newly exposed skin right until he got to your lower back

  He could feel you arching into his touch, your hands fighting to just reach behind you and pull him in by hair to hold him closer to you. "Yes," you hissed, tilting your head to give him better access. "Please, Masamichi… please..”

Masamichi groaned at the desperate plea, his hands sliding up to cup and squeeze the soft mounds of your breasts. He could feel your nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric of your dress, and he couldn't resist taking one into his mouth, sucking and flicking his tongue over the sensitive peak. He let the dress fall to your thighs and reached around, taking a nipple into his mouth and groaning at the contact.

As he lavished attention on your breasts, his other hand slid down your stomach, slipping beneath the waistband of your panties to cup your mound. He could feel the heat emanating from your core, and he knew you were just as aroused as he was.

*"You're so wet for me already," he purred, rubbing his fingers along your clothed slit. "I love how responsive you are to my touch. It drives me wild."

He continued his sensual battle, alternating between kissing, licking, and nipping at every inch of skin he could reach. He wanted to overwrite every thought in your mind with pleasure, to make it so the only thing you could focus on was the feel of his hands and mouth on your body.

Lie back, I’ve got you,” He whispered before stepping off of the bed, cradling you before crawling over you with a wicked grin. "I'm going to worship every part of you tonight," he promised, his eyes dark with lust. "I'm going to worship every inch of your body," he promised. "I'm going to make you scream my name until it's the only thing you remember."

Pinning you with his hips, he attacked your neck with open-mouthed kisses and sharp nips, licking your skin before blowing light breaths on each patch.

Masamichi gazed down at you, The sight of your bare body, the swell of your breasts rising and falling with each anticipatory breath, sent a surge of desire coursing through him. He quickly shed the rest of his own clothing, eager to feel your skin against his own.

He settled himself between your spread thighs, his hands immediately going back to your breasts. He cupped the soft mounds, kneading and squeezing the pliant flesh as he brushed his thumbs over your nipples, feeling them stiffen under his touch.

He took his time lavishing attention on them, rolling and pinching the hardening peaks until you writhed beneath him, your back arching off the bed. His hands then trailed lower, skimming over your plush stomach, feeling your tense muscles flutter under his fingertips.

His thick digits dipped between your thighs, his fingers gliding through the slick heat he found there. He groaned at the evidence of your arousal, his cock throbbing with the need to be inside you. "You're so wet for me already," he murmured, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb. "I've barely touched you and you're dripping."

You whimpered, hips lifting to grind against his hand, seeking more of that delicious friction. "It's because of you," you panted, voice high and needy. "The way you touch me...the things you do to my body...I can't help it."

Masamichi smiled, a wicked glint in his eyes. "And I plan to make you even wetter," he promised, before sliding two fingers deep inside your fluttering pussy.

Just his fingers, stretching you, filling you. He pumped his fingers in and out, curling them to hit that special spot that made you see stars. At the same time, he leaned down to capture one nipple in his mouth, suckling and flicking the sensitive bud with his tongue as he worked you over with his hand.

Your body was tensing and he could feel it. Your inner thigh muscles clenching around his invading fingers as you climbed closer and closer to your peak. He knew you were getting close already, and he wanted to push you over the edge.

Suddenly, he withdrew his fingers, ignoring your protesting whine but kissing between your breast then your lips.

“My beautiful angel,” he whispered against your lips, “Want to taste yourself?” He brought his soaked fingers between you, glistening under the dim light and smiled as you did. Running your tongue between his pointer and middle made his cock jump. “My good girl.” He brushed the back of his hand over your cheek and kissed you, twirling his tongue around yours to savor your taste.

His fingers dipped back between your thighs to rub slow, deliberate circles around your clit and you arched into him. He could feel how swollen and sensitive it was, how it throbbed against his touch like a tiny, aching heart. With that, he slipped one finger inside and continued his barbarous pace. You clenched around his digit before trying to form words, but nothing came out except more teary eyed moans.

He leaned down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, his tongue delving deep to claim every inch of your mouth. He swallowed your moans and whimpers, relishing the way you tasted, the way you felt pressed against him. He captured every whimper and moan as he quickened his pace, the sound of your wetness now being muffled by his hungry grunts and the sensation of that engine revving magic pill suddenly reaching the places it needed.

He continued to grind and rub, bringing you closer and closer to the edge. Just as he felt you start to tense, your body coiling like a spring ready to snap, Masamichi pulled his fingers away, stroking his cock with his now soaked hand while he reached for the pillow next you, then lined himself up with you.

“Are you ready?” He asked softly, eyes looking into yours.

“Are you?”

He looked down to where you two were almost meeting and chuckled at just how red the head of his cock was. “Maybe a little too ready.”

You lifted your hips and he placed the pillow underneath you. “Then please. Have me.”

With one powerful thrust, he sheathed himself fully inside of you, burying his cock to the hilt in your tight, wet heat. You both cried out at the sudden intrusion, body stretching and accommodating his thick length.

“God damn it.” He groaned, his hips pressed flush against the back of your thighs as he cautiously placed one leg over his shoulder.

The feeling of his hard cock buried deep inside you was almost too much to bear. You could feel every throbbing inch of him, stretching you wider than you ever had been before. It was a delicious mix of pleasure and pain, and you never wanted it to end.

Masamichi gave you a moment to adjust, fighting the urge to start moving. He could feel your inner walls fluttering and clenching around him, trying to draw him even deeper. It took every ounce of his self-control not to start pounding into you like a wild animal.

Instead, he leaned down to press hot, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulders and chest, his teeth grazing your skin. His hands slid up your sides to keep you with him, holding and caressing you as your heartbeat filled his ears.

Masamichi started to move, pulling his hips back until just the tip of his cock remained inside, before moving forward and burying himself to the hilt once more. He set a steady, deep rhythm, each thrust pushing the breath from your lungs in a rush.

"You feel incredible," he panted against your skin, his voice rough with pleasure. "So tight and perfect around my cock. I don't ever want to pull out."

The only thing you could muster was a moan in response, your body rocking forward with each of his intense thrusts. You reached a hand down to rub at your clit, desperate for the extra stimulation to push you over the edge.

Masamichi growled, a dark and feral sound, as he watched you lover touch youself. The sight of you lost in pleasure, impaled on his cock and chasing your own release, was almost enough to make him come undone right then and there.

He grabbed your wrist, pulling your hand away and replacing it with his own. He rubbed at your clit with quick, firm circles, feeling it swell and throb under his touch. His other hand gripped your hip hard enough to leave bruises, holding you in place as he began to pound into you with wild abandon.

"That's it, baby," he encouraged, his voice a low rumble in your ear. "Come for me. Let me feel you come all over my cock. I need to feel you squeeze me like a vice as you scream my name.”

Masamichi could feel his lover's body tensing, your muscles pulling taut as you teetered on the brink of climax. He doubled his efforts, pounding into you with short, sharp thrusts that hit that special spot inside you with every drive of his hips.

"Yes, that's it," he urged, his voice a low, seductive growl. "Come on, baby. Let go. I want to feel you come undone, shatter in my arms."

You let out a high, keening cry, your back arching as your orgasm crashed like a tidal wave. Your inner walls clamped down around Masamichi's cock like a silken vice, rippling and fluttering as you came harder than you ever had before.

Masamichi groaned, the sensation of your pussy gripping him so tightly almost enough to make him lose control. But he held on, determined to bring you through your climax and prolong this feeling of pleasure for as long as possible.

He gentled his thrusts, rolling his hips in a slow, sensual circle as he worked you through the aftershocks. His hand never stopped its relentless rubbing at your now sensitive clit, coaxing out every last bit of your release until you were boneless and spent beneath.

Masamichi leaned down to capture your swollen lips in a deep, passionate kiss. He poured all of his love and desire into the kiss, wanting you to feel the depth of his feelings.

“Please.” The faint sound of your voice filled his ears, The shudders and tremors started to subside, and he finally let himself go. “Please cum for me.” You reached up to drag your nails down his torso and he threw his head back, losing every ounce of willpower he tried to hold onto. With a hoarse shout of your name, he buried himself as deep as he could go and pulled out the moment the flood gates opened.

He covered your stomach, spurt after spurt of his hot seed, painting you white as he emptied himself completely. His hips continued to rock and jerk, working himself through the intense pleasure until he had nothing left to give.

Collapsing onto his hands, caging you in, he peppered your neck and shoulders with soft kisses, his hand finding its way to roaming over your curves with a tender, almost reverent touch.

He finally mustered the energy to get up. “One moment, I need to get you a towel to clean you off.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead and smiled before walking into the bathroom.

The grin on your face grew with each moment you lied there waiting for his return. The sound of the running water turning off made you sit up on and elbow.

His large figure walking back in made you feel butterflies.

“Hi.” you spoke softly, clearly giddy.

He grinned, sitting on the side of the bed and wiping your stomach with the warm towel. “Hello, darling.”

You giggled, bubbly and absolutely over the moon.

He finished cleaning you and went to toss the towel in a hamper before returning to your side, lying and immediately taking you in. You sighed contentedly, melting into his strong embrace.

You felt safe, cherished, and utterly fulfilled in his arms. His scent enveloped you, a mix of your own perfume and the musky aroma of sex, and it made you feel deliciously claimed.

His hands continued their gentle explorations, now soothing caresses rather than the heated touches of before. He ran his fingers through your soft coils brushing it back from your face, before trailing down to trace the delicate line of your jaw and the column of your throat.

The rise and fall of your chest pressed against his own, a soothing, hypnotic sensation that made him feel at peace.

Masamichi pressed a tender kiss to your temple, letting his lips linger for just a moment. "Being with you, like this...it's everything I've ever wanted."

You turned your head to meet his gaze, eyes soft and hazy with contentment. You reached up to cup his cheek, thumb brushing over his lower lip in a loving caress. "For me too," you whispered, a small smile playing at the corners of your mouth. "I never want this moment to end."

Masamichi turned his head to press a kiss to your palm, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment as he savored the taste and feel of your skin. "It doesn't have to," he promised, his voice a low rumble in his chest. "We can stay like this for as long as you want. I'll hold you all night long, if that's what you need."

Eyes shining with happiness. You snuggled back, tucking your body even closer to his own. "I want that,” you closed your eyes now, feeling the warmth of your deepened intimacy filling your heart. “I want that with you. Always.”

[umblrspectrum]

part 4 of a lot funnier in my head than on paper

[swoo0zy]

didnt even ask nicely just took n ran 😒

[2ndcitynightmare]

Learning to draw him 🫶

[hinamie]

someone asked if i had ever drawn gojo with his scars, now i have :>

[starry-bi-sky]

bruce and danny being fuckign nerds together,,,, they are being the BIGGEST nerds. geeks. if you will

these losers are color-coding the most inane bullshit. they are making diagrams for things you've never even thought of. they are having the time of their lives

"what are you two doing?"

Danny, sitting criss-cross on a table, hunched over a spread of papers and a bunch of different jello cups, his back is gonna hurt SO much: color-coding jello

Bruce, sitting in a nearby chair, also criss-cross, scribbling on a graph paper: hm [agreeing]

Alfred, already exasperated and SO fond: may i ask why? and on what parameters?

Danny: we're basing it off which flavors are the most mentally stimulating and for which subjects :}

Alfred, SO fond: ah. i see.

Danny, snapping his head over to Bruce and leaning over: wh- no-- no. Buzz, I told you: lemon-flavored jello stays strictly in the 'smelling salts' category--

Bruce, still writing on the graph paper: mn. no.

Danny, nearly sprawled across his back, faux-outraged: strawberry is NOT good for math-- you fucken HEATHEN--! Give me that pen!

Bruce, did that solely to rile up Danny, now trying not to smile: hnm.

[luckyjorabbit]

Coming soon, May 2025…. ✨🤖🌹🤖✨

[cakeofbake]

oh so stupy

Whos gonna tell him gang,,,,,,,,, all he wants is to give his sunshine a hug 💃💃💃

first chapter of cgm is here btw