#danny has two obsessions | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

geminiwritten · 23 days ago

Text

safehouse ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: you're an ex-assassin trained by hawkeye and black widow, and your old friend sam needs your help on a mission alongside his new protege... but things don't go exactly to plan and you end up indefinitely stuck in a safehouse with joaquín

notes: danny ramirez has me in such a chokehold, he made me write smut!!! kind of... upon reread, i feel like this might flop? and i'm a little extra nervous about it because it's my second first attempt at smut, so i hope it doesn't suck! please, please, please let me know what you think! i need feedback! and also, sorry if it's shitty, i'm so out of practice with marvel, i'm just feral for this man...

warnings: swearing, sexual tension (lots), mention of guns / weapons, very minor descriptions of violence, italics, mention of a toxic ex and toxic behaviour, very out of date marvel knowledge, super horny, and SMUT-ish? (masturbation, dirty talk, thigh riding) so 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 15295

“I’m going to do a quick sweep,” Joaquín says. “Make sure we weren’t followed.”

You nod once, doing your best to flash the hottest man you’ve ever seen a cool, easy smile.

“Copy,” Sam says as he walks further into the house. “Echo, you’re with me. Let’s clear this place.”

You roll your eyes and follow Sam deeper into the safehouse, forcing yourself not to glance back as Joaquín slips out the front door.

“That’s not my name anymore,” you mutter, sheathing a dagger in your thigh holster. “And would you slow down?”

Just an hour ago, you were waiting at a secret meet-up spot for Sam to fill you in on this special mission he needed your expertise for. You weren’t keen on coming out of retirement, but he’d practically begged you over the phone—and you had no excuse good enough to say no.

So there you were, waiting, when all hell broke loose. You don’t know who they were, but they came at you hard and fast, raining hellfire just as Sam—and his stupidly gorgeous protege—showed up. You fought your way out and found refuge in this safehouse. Now all you need to do is make sure you’re actually safe before figuring out what the fuck just happened.

“All clear,” you tell Sam as you return to the landing just inside the front door of the old townhouse.

He nods. “Looks like we’re good.”

You tuck your gun away and start fiddling with a strap on the sleeve of your jacket, keeping your gaze locked on Sam beneath a furrowed brow. You’ve always been particularly good at death stares, and if Sam was a lesser man, he’d probably keel over by now.

But instead, he grins. “What’s that look for?”

“You know damn well what this look is for,” you mutter.

He raises his brows, waiting for you to snap.

It doesn’t take long.

“What the fuck is your problem?” you hiss, just in case Joaquín is within earshot. “Two weeks ago you just happen to be in town, we catch up for a drink, and I drunkenly confess that I think your little protege is hot. Then all of a sudden, there’s a mysterious mission that requires both of us?”

He chuckles quietly, eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’d call that a coincidence,” he says. “Oh, and I think your exact words were a walking wet dream with a stupidly perfect smile.”

You narrow your eyes. “Whatever you’re playing at, stop it. I’m here now, so I’m going to help us get out of this mess—but that’s it.”

“Would you calm down?” he sighs, leaning back against the wall—awkwardly, thanks to the shield on his back. “The kid has a thing for you too, so I just thought—”

“What?”

He rolls his eyes. “He’s like... obsessed with you. As soon as he found out I was catching up with you the other week, he wouldn’t shut up about it. Kept saying how he used to track your missions when you were working off-book with Hawkeye and Widow.”

You raise your brows, crossing your arms. “Oh, cool. So he’s a stalker obsessed with a version of me from years ago? When I was training every day and hadn’t just been dragged out of retirement.”

Sam gives you a flat look. “Would you stop calling it retirement? It was an elective hiatus—at most—and you’re still in your physical prime.”

“Yeah,” you scoff. “Tell that to my knees.”

Sam smirks. “I’m sure Joaquín won’t mind if you can’t get on your knees. Laying down would be just as—”

You cross the room in one step and punch him in the shoulder. “Dude! Seriously?”

He chuckles. “Okay, look, I wasn’t lying about the mission. I really do need your help on this. And so what if maybe you find a little love along the way? You’re both into each other and I know you both very well. You’d be great together. Plus, you’re both equally irritating, so really, this is an entirely selfless act. Why would I want to double your annoyingness?”

You sigh and lean back, propping one arm on the post at the end of the stair banister. “It just doesn’t work like that, Sam. Not for people like us. We don’t date—it’s not realistic.”

He rolls his eyes again and pushes off the wall. “Whatever you say, Echo. But I can see the way you’re looking at him. So if you want me out of the house, just say so. I’ll go for a walk or something.”

Then he winks and turns into the small living room, making the cheap furniture look ridiculously tiny compared to his broad, geared-up physique.

After a hot minute of seriously considering whether or not you could get away with ditching this mission entirely, you sigh and follow Sam—stripping off your gear as you go.

You unzip your jacket and shrug it off, tossing it over the back of the couch as you pass through the living room. There’s a narrow archway leading into the kitchen, where Sam is already cracking open the fridge like he owns the place. You stop at the island counter and reach up to slide your weapons harness off your shoulders. It drops into your hands with a familiar weight before you set it on the bench.

Next, you unclip your belt and bend down to unfasten the straps of your thigh holsters, tugging them free one at a time. You reach lower, dragging a short dagger from your boot and adding it to the pile. Then your gloves—peeled off and tossed carelessly onto the heap of weapons—before grabbing the hem of your long-sleeved tactical shirt and yanking it over your head.

You’re down to your compression shirt—tight, unforgiving, and clinging to your body like a second skin—as you lean one hip against the counter and finally let out a breath.

“Damn,” a voice says behind you—Joaquín.

He’s standing just shy of the archway, making it look comically small with the bulk of his gear. His cheeks are flushed, dark curls damp with sweat, and his lips curved into a soft, crooked smirk.

You want to say something snarky—ask if he sees something he likes, maybe point out a non-existent drop of drool on his chin. But you can’t. Because you’re giving him the exact same look—all heat, all want, no shame.

Joaquín isn’t just gorgeous, he’s fucking badass too. You nearly lost your cool when he wrapped you in his arms during the earlier ambush, just before rocketing into the sky. You weren’t scared—just absurdly, wildly horny for the hot guy with mechanical wings flying you to safety.

“Alright, you two,” Sam says, dropping a half-empty bottle of orange juice on the counter. “Save the saucy looks for later. First, we need to get in touch with the Secretary of Defence—see if we can start an investigation into whoever attacked us. Then we’ll figure out how long we’re stuck here.”

Joaquín eyes the juice suspiciously. “How do you know that’s not expired?”

Sam lifts it up. “Oh, it’s very expired.” Then takes a swig anyway, grimacing as he swallows.

“Gross,” you mutter, turning toward the sink.

You twist on the tap and squirt a half-crusted blob of soap from the sad little pump bottle on the windowsill, scrubbing the dirt and dried blood—thankfully not yours—off your hands.

“Alright,” Joaquín says, “how do we contact the Secretary?”

Two weeks. It’s been two whole weeks of living in this godforsaken townhouse in bum-fuck suburbia, with barely any information on the assholes who forced you into hiding.

All you do know is that they were after you.

Yep. Someone’s been holding a serious grudge, just waiting for you to crawl out of retirement to make a move. So Sam made the call—told you to lay low at the safehouse, use an alias in case any nosy neighbours came sniffing around, and to simply wait while he tries to dig up more information on whoever sent the thugs.

And the worst part? He assigned Joaquín as your full-time protection detail.

Which means not only are you stuck in this crusty old house, but you’re stuck with one very attractive, very tempting man who apparently has no idea just how goddamn gorgeous he is.

“You finished with this?” Joaquín asks, brows raised as he slowly reaches for the plate in front of you.

You’re standing at the kitchen island, bent forward with your elbows on the bench and your chin resting in your palms. Across from you, Joaquín is washing dishes. Shirtless. Wearing nothing but a loose pair of grey sweats, skin still damp from the shower, curls sticking to his forehead, and looking like every fantasy you’ve ever had come to life.

“Hello?” he says, waving a soapy hand in front of your face. “Anyone home?”

You blink and force your eyes away from the absurd perfection of his body, dragging them up to his equally unfair face.

“Sorry,” you mutter, cheeks warming. “Yeah, I’m done.”

He flashes that boyish grin, picks up the plate, and turns back to the sink—letting you go right back to ogling him in peace.

Your eyes drift over the muscles in his back, watching them roll and flex as he scrubs. You’re nearly tempted to dirty another dish just to keep the view going. Because this? This right here—domestic Joaquín, shirtless and glistening—is enough to keep your imagination busy for a very long time.

Not that you’ve had much opportunity to indulge those fantasies, because Joaquín is here all the damn time. He only leaves when Sam calls him out—usually for groceries, clean clothes, or a quick intel drop.

You’re almost never in the house alone.

Which means your fantasies have been... limited. Mostly to rushed moments in the shower or late at night, when you’re pretty sure—hoping—that he’s asleep.

“You know,” he says, breaking you out of your dazed—and admittedly filthy—thoughts, “if someone told me a few weeks ago that I’d be stuck in a safehouse with the Red Echo, I probably would’ve fainted.”

You frown curiously, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Really?”

He nods. “Really.”

When he turns around, your breath catches. Yeah, okay, you saw his abs like five minutes ago, but that doesn’t make them any less ridiculously sexy.

“Why’s that?” you ask, determined not to let him fluster you any more than he already has.

His cheeks flush, eyes dropping to the dish towel he’s drying his hands with. “I was, like... obsessed with you. I’m sure Sam mentioned it. Used to track your missions with agents Barton and Romanoff. Thought you were the coolest assassin ever.”

You let out a soft laugh, straightening up and leaning a hip against the counter. “Do I live up to the legend, then?”

His eyes widen as he nods. “Oh, yeah. You’re badass.”

You feel your cheeks heat even more, quickly dropping your gaze to hide the stupid smile trying to sneak its way onto your face—just because he called you badass.

Despite living together for two weeks, you’ve mostly avoided getting too personal. Most of your time has been spent in companionable silence, watching TV or reading. When Sam’s over, you all talk and joke, but when you’re alone, you let the tension do the talking. Exchanging nothing more than heated glances and softly spoken words.

You’re not entirely sure why you’ve kept your distance—maybe because you know this is temporary, and you don’t want to get too attached. But it’s getting harder by the day. Joaquín is charming. And so painfully attractive that playing it cool is starting to feel impossible.

“It wasn’t that badass,” you say, folding your arms. “Working with Clint and Nat, I mean.”

He frowns, unconvinced. “I find that hard to believe.”

“No, really,” you insist. “It was brutal, mostly. I got beaten up, like, a lot. I wasn’t raised an assassin like they were—I had to learn. So if I wasn’t getting my ass handed to me in combat, it was one of them kicking my butt during training.”

He chuckles. “Really? Who was worse?”

You bite your lip to keep from smiling—his grin is stupidly infectious—and tilt your head in thought.

“Hm,” you hum. “I know I should say Nat, but... it was probably Clint.”

Joaquín raises a brow. “How?”

“Oh, he was like a drill sergeant. Had me learning everything, all at once. My hands were bleeding from archery, my limbs were bruised from hand-to-hand, and my head was always throbbing from getting slammed into mats. And he didn’t let up. Told me the enemy wouldn’t, so why should he— unless I was genuinely wrecked. Nat was a little more forgiving. I think her childhood made her more empathetic when it came to training. She didn’t want to push me too far. Clint, though? He needed me to be tough. It was a good dynamic—very good cop, bad cop.”

“Wow,” Joaquín murmurs, eyes a little dazed as he just stares at you.

You pause, brow furrowing. “What?”

He shrugs, tearing his gaze away as he turns to hang the dish towel over the oven handle.

“Nothing, just...” He looks up at you again, all warm eyes and stupidly perfect cheekbones—like he doesn’t realise how dangerous he is. “You’re really cool.”

“You’re pretty cool too, Falcon,” you say, letting a small smirk curl your lips. “With or without the wings—I know you’re a badass too.”

He meets your stare with dark eyes full of challenge. “I am pretty badass. Could probably give you a run for your money.”

The mood shifts, the light teasing between you pulled tighter—tension creeping in, hot and deliberate.

You arch a brow. “You think?”

He nods, arms crossing over his bare chest in a way that makes your thighs clench. “I do.”

“Bold, Torres,” you murmur, narrowing your eyes. “Care to prove it?”

He steps around the kitchen island—two strides and he’s in your space. “Name a time and place, cariño.”

“Right now,” you say, holding his heated stare. “Backyard.”

That panty-melting smile flashes across his face as he leans in. “You’re on.” Then his voice drops—lower, rougher, almost lethal. “Be lying if I said I haven’t been dying to get my hands on you.”

Your heart lurches, then takes off, sending a hot rush of blood straight to your head.

“Professionally, of course,” he adds quickly, and you might’ve believed the cool confidence if it weren’t for the blush creeping up to the tips of his ears.

“Of course,” you echo, your voice soft—breathless.

The air between you thickens, crackling with heat as your eyes lock—tension simmering, slow and dangerous.

Then his phone chimes, and you both flinch.

He moves to check it while you step back, letting out a breath you hadn’t realised you were holding.

“Just Sam checking in,” he mutters, glancing up. “Should I tell him I’m about to kick your ass, or...?”

You roll your eyes. “Try it first. Before claiming victory.”

Then you turn and head into the small living room, taking a right at the front landing and making your way down the hall toward the back door.

The backyard isn’t much—patchy grass, some cracked pavers, and a chain-link fence that barely shields you from nosy neighbours. But right now, with Joaquín standing across from you, shirtless and barefoot in the glow of the setting sun, it might as well be an arena.

“You sure you’re ready for this?” he asks, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, all cocky grin and coiled muscle.

You roll your neck and stretch out your arms. “Oh, I’m ready.”

He waits a beat before making the first move—a quick step in, testing you with a light jab. You dodge easily, grabbing his wrist and twisting, using his momentum to spin him around. He grunts, surprised, but recovers fast, sweeping a leg toward yours.

You jump, laughing as you land and press your body into his from behind, locking an arm around his throat in a loose hold. “That all you got, Torres?”

He chuckles, low and warm. “Just getting started.”

He bucks back hard, breaking your hold, and in the scuffle, you both stumble—him catching your waist, you grabbing his shoulder—and suddenly, you're tangled, chest to chest, breathing hard.

“Careful,” he murmurs, his breath hot on your skin, “you might enjoy this a little too much.”

“Speak for yourself,” you shoot back, but your voice is ragged, traitorous.

He smirks and tries to pin you, but you twist at the last second, hooking your leg around his and taking him down—landing right on top of him.

Straddling him.

You both freeze.

Your thighs press against his hips, your palms on his bare chest, heat sparking where your skin meets. His hands hover near your waist, not quite touching, but God, you can feel the tension in his fingers, the flex of restraint.

“Not bad,” he says, voice low and uneven.

You smirk, grinding your hips just slightly—for dominance, of course. “Say it.”

He looks up at you like he’s starving. “You’re dangerous.”

“And?”

His hands finally settle on your hips. Firm. Possessive.

“And you’re really, really hot when you’re trying to beat the shit out of me.”

Your next breath shudders out of you.

And then the back door creaks open.

“Am I interrupting something?” Sam asks, arms crossed as he stands on the porch.

You jump off Joaquín like you’ve been burned, nervously brushing non-existent dust from your knees.

“Nope,” you say, way too fast. “Just sparring.”

Sam raises a brow. “Sure. Sparring. What’s that move called? Cowgirl?”

Joaquín, still on his back in the grass, just grins up at you. “Maybe we could try reverse later.”

You narrow your eyes, pursing your lips to keep from grinning. “Without an audience, preferably.”

“Promise?” he asks, his gaze shameless.

You can’t stop the quiet laugh that slips out as you shake your head, leaning forward to offer him a hand. Joaquín takes it, and you help him off the ground before turning back to Sam.

“So, Cap,” you say. “What’s up?”

“Just checking in,” he replies, eyes flicking suspiciously between the two of you. “I texted Joaquín to let him know I was dropping by.”

Joaquín scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “Yeah... not gonna lie, I didn’t fully read the text.”

Sam raises his brows. “Distracted?”

His tone is playful, but you catch the underlying suggestion—it’s a test. Joaquín is still on duty. He’s your protection detail, and he’s supposed to be focused.

“It was my fault,” you jump in. “I bet him he couldn’t take me in hand-to-hand.”

Sam snorts. “Please. All you’d have to do is flash him a smile and he’d be on his knees.”

Joaquín’s jaw drops, his cheeks going a deep, furious red.

You turn to him, grinning. “Is that true?”

He stares at you with wide brown eyes. “I—I mean, well—no, but—”

“Save it, man,” Sam laughs. “You’re just digging yourself deeper.”

Despite the nerves fluttering in your chest, you keep your cool. You pat Joaquín’s bare chest—your palm lingering just long enough to feel the heat of his skin—before turning back to Sam and walking toward the porch.

It takes Joaquín a full minute to remember how to move, but eventually he follows. You all make your way inside and settle into the cramped little living space, listening closely as Sam delivers a brief—and rather disappointing—update.

They still don’t know much about who ordered the hit on you, but they’re not giving up. New leads might turn up in New York, and they’re even considering reaching out to the Winter Soldier and his new team.

“So what does that mean for us?” you ask, gesturing vaguely between you and Joaquín. “We’re surviving just fine, but I’d really like to get back to my life. And I’m sure Joaquín would—”

“Actually,” Joaquín cuts in, flashing that crooked grin that threatens to short-circuit your brain, “I think I’m having more fun here.”

He even throws in a wink for good measure.

You feel your cheeks warm, but Sam keeps talking, mercifully ignoring the exchange.

“I know it’s not ideal,” he says, “but it’s the safest place for you right now. And I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you. I was the one who dragged you back to work, so I’m going to be the one to find these guys and stop them.”

You take a deep breath and let it out slowly, sinking back into the couch. “Alright, fine. But if we’re stuck here indefinitely, I’ve got a list of demands.”

Sam nods. “Anything. Just say the word.”

The next afternoon, Sam returns with everything you asked for. He brings a large duffel packed with the exact clothes you requested, a trunk full of groceries—including all the pantry staples that the house has been lacking—and the box from under your bed containing... personal items.

“I had a Secret Service agent swing by your apartment,” Sam says, setting the box on the coffee table. “No one opened it, but something definitely started... buzzing on the way over.”

Your eyes go wide as you snatch the box off the table. “What the fuck, Sam?”

He chuckles. “Hey, you’re the one who needed it.”

“Yes,” you snap, cheeks burning. “Because it’s got personal shit like tampons and pads—which I’m going to need if we’re stuck here for another two weeks.”

Joaquín’s laugh carries from the kitchen, where he’s putting away the groceries. “What else is in the box?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder, eyes narrowed and lips twitching. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“Cool it, you two,” Sam says. “You might be stuck with each other for a while. Don’t make it weird.”

The next week is nothing if not weird. And tense. And so full of heat and frustration, you’re surprised the walls haven’t caught fire.

Because after that little spar in the backyard, something shifted—snapped, like a rubber band pulled too tight. Now, you and Joaquín just can’t seem to stay out of each other’s way, no matter how hard you try.

He’s everywhere. In the kitchen when you’re trying to make coffee—shirtless and smug, all lean muscle and unintentional teasing. He’s always leaning in too close, brushing your waist with his fingertips, pressing his body against yours to reach for something he absolutely does not need that badly.

And the couch. That small fucking couch that leaves no real space between the two of you. His leg against yours. His arm slung casually behind your shoulders. The whole tiny room suddenly suffocating with his heat, his scent, the sheer proximity of him turning your brain to static.

Then there’s the time you turned the corner just as he was grabbing his towel out of the dryer—both of you freezing as you came face to face with damp skin, low-slung fabric, and absolutely zero shame in his smirk.

In that moment, you decided—two could play at this game.

So, you stopped wearing pants. Not all the time—just before bed. Sometimes it’s little booty shorts, or cute boyleg underwear. But mostly, it’s just an oversized tee and nothing else.

And the way his eyes track your bare legs like he’s a man starved? Yeah. You’ve noticed.

But then there was the morning you’d opted for a bath instead of a shower—to deal with the ever-building frustration twisting low in your belly. You were already settled in the steaming tub, surrounded by bubbles, one of your favourite toys waiting on the vanity… when he fucking walked in.

You both froze. Eyes wide. Lips parted. His gaze drifted to the magenta-pink silicone on the counter. And then he grinned—slow, wicked, and impossible to look away from—before dragging his eyes back to yours.

You shouted at him to get the hell out. Which he did. Eventually. Without even pretending not to sneak one last glance at the toy.

That was the final straw.

You need boundaries. Rules. Anything to help you survive this unbearable, unrelenting tension crackling between you. Before one of you snaps and professionalism goes flying out the window.

“I think we need to set some ground rules,” you say, planting both hands on the kitchen island.

Joaquín turns away from whatever he’s stirring on the stove, brow raised and an amused smirk tugging at his lips. “Rules?”

You nod. “Yes. Boundaries. Something—anything—if we’re going to survive this.”

He chuckles under his breath. “Alright. What kind of boundaries?”

“First,” you say, narrowing your eyes at his bare chest, “you need to start wearing shirts.”

His brows lift, brown eyes sparkling with mischief. “Really?”

You nod again, firm.

“Okay,” he says, “then you have to wear pants.”

“Fine,” you mutter.

“Fine,” he echoes, turning back to the pot on the stove.

“And you need to knock,” you add. “I don’t care what room it is, or if you just saw me walk away. Knock.”

He laughs, shoulders shaking as he stirs. “Noted. Must knock.”

“Good.”

You hesitate, debating how to phrase the next rule without admitting just how badly you want it.

“And no—” you clear your throat, “no touching.”

That gets his attention. He turns back around, smirk softer now, more curious than cocky. “No touching?”

“Exactly. If you need to get past me, just say ‘excuse me.’ And we can get Sam to bring over a bean bag or something. That couch is way too fucking small.”

He watches you closely, tongue dragging slowly across his bottom lip before he catches it between his teeth. The sight alone steals your breath—but then he moves. He steps away from the stove and toward you, all heat and intention, bringing with him that warm cinnamon scent that scrambles your thoughts and short-circuits every nerve ending in your body.

“You really don’t want me to touch you?” he asks, voice low.

“There’s…” you swallow, “there’s no need for you to touch me, so…”

He tilts his head. “Nothing you need that might require a little contact?”

You freeze, like your brain just blue-screened—unsure whether to slap him, kiss him, or straight-up combust.

“No,” you manage, though your voice is breathy. Traitorous.

“Okay,” he says easily. “I won’t touch you.” Then he leans in, voice low and smooth. “Not until you’re begging me to.”

Your breath hitches, eyes narrowing. “Excuse me?”

He straightens, grin cocky. “You heard me.”

“You think I’m going to be begging you to touch me?”

He nods once. “Oh, yeah.”

You scoff. “No chance, Torres. If anything, you’re the one who’s going to crack first.”

“That so?” he says, arching a brow. “Sounds like a challenge.”

You take a step back, crossing your arms. “You’re on.”

His gaze tracks your face like he’s memorising it, heat pulsing between you. One wrong move and this whole damn place could go up in flames.

“Any other rules?” he asks.

“Not yet,” you reply, letting your eyes drop to his chest. “Now put on a shirt.”

He arches a brow, gaze dropping as he steps back just enough to get a better look. “Then you better put on some pants.”

“Fine,” you huff, turning on your heel and storming out of the kitchen.

Behind you, he lets out a low whistle, voice pitched just loud enough for you to hear. “You are fine.”

And the worst part? It still makes you blush. That smug little comment sparks something inside of you, heat curling low in your belly—warm, aching, and impossible to ignore.

You’re pretty sure you’ve just made the dumbest bet of your life.

After pulling on a pair of sweats and giving yourself a whispered—but stern—pep talk in the bathroom mirror, you head back downstairs. Joaquín’s got a shirt on now and is ladling something hot and delicious-smelling into a bowl.

“Smells good,” you say, stopping on the other side of the island counter.

He wipes the edge of the bowl with a dish towel before sliding it toward you. “It is good.”

Then he hands you a spoon before fixing his own bowl and standing across from you at the bench, just as you’re gently blowing on your first spoonful.

“Sopa de fideo,” he says. “Mexican noodle soup.”

You take a cautious taste—and nearly moan, just barely stopping the sound from crawling up your throat. But Joaquín isn’t stupid, he sees the way your eyes glaze over and your shoulders ease in quiet bliss.

“Told you it was good,” he says, wearing that infuriatingly smug look.

Your cheeks warm under his gaze—those big brown eyes locked on you as he lifts his spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be erotic. And yet, the way his lips close around the spoon before dragging it out again sends heat straight between your legs.

You swallow hard and prepare your next spoonful, letting it cool while praying he can’t read you as easily as you suspect he can.

“So, you cook and you fight. What’s your angle?”

He cocks an eyebrow as he swallows. “My angle?”

“You’re almost too good to be true,” you say, fighting the urge to melt at that stupidly gorgeous smirk. “So why are you single?”

He shrugs, casual as anything. “Just waiting for the right girl.”

Your brows lift. “Oh, really?”

He nods and takes another spoonful like it’s no big deal.

“What’s she like, then?” you ask, trying to match his calm confidence.

He grins—mischievous and warm, with a spark behind his eyes that makes your chest tighten.

“Oh, she’s awesome,” he says. “Total badass. Ex-assassin. Worked with the Avengers. Can definitely kick my ass—it’s super hot.”

You roll your eyes and shovel more noodles into your mouth before your smile gets out of hand.

“She’s stupid pretty too,” he adds. “But obviously doesn’t know it.”

Your face heats to an impossible degree, and you drop your gaze to your bowl, pretending to study the swirling noodles.

“And she’s smart,” he goes on, completely unperturbed. “Witty as hell. The verbal warfare? Honestly, it’s better than foreplay.”

You almost choke, barely managing to swallow without incident. When you look up, he’s just standing there, all cheeky and red-faced like he didn’t just soak your underwear with three lines of dialogue.

“Wow,” you mutter. “She sounds pretty great. Sure you’re up for the challenge, though?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” he says, leaning forward and bracing his elbows on the counter. “I know her weakness.”

You lean forward too, the corner of your mouth twitching. “Kryptonite?”

He shakes his head slowly, eyes darkening. “Me.”

It’s just one word, but it slides in sharp and smooth—curling under your skin and lighting you up from the inside.

You want to reply—say something snarky, or at least tell him he’s full of shit—but you can’t. Your voice is stuck somewhere in your chest, tangled up with the fire burning hot and bright for the man grinning at you. And goddamn, he might just be right.

You finish your dinner in mostly comfortable silence, too flustered to manage much more than the occasional hum of agreement while Joaquín talks. His smile never fades, and that infuriating sparkle doesn’t leave his eye—not for a second. He knows he’s got you breathless, rattled, right where he wants you. And if you’ve got any hope of winning this bet, you’re going to need to flip the script.

“I’ll wash up,” you say, already rounding the island toward the sink.

He steps aside, placing his empty bowl into your outstretched hand with a note of hesitation.

“You sure?”

“You cooked,” you say with a nod. “I’ll clean.”

He moves a few more steps around the bench, trading places with where you’d eaten your dinner.

You turn to the sink and start the tap, sliding the plug into place before adding a generous squirt of dish soap to the growing pool of hot water. Then you move to the stove, wiping it down with a sudsy cloth and scrubbing at a few stubborn spots where the sauce had dried.

Once the sink is full, you plunge your hands into the bubbly water and start with the cutlery. You keep your head down and your eyes on the task, refusing to give in to the weight of Joaquín’s stare burning into your back.

“So,” he says after a beat, voice laced with something devious, “you clean and you fight. Why are you single?”

You roll your eyes, grateful he can’t see the stupid smile tugging at your lips.

“That’s kind of a long story,” you reply.

He chuckles. “Baby, we’re stuck here indefinitely. No story could be that long.”

Your heart stutters at the pet name. It’s tossed out casually, with no serious intent—but it still leaves you feeling way too warm.

“I guess not,” you say with a breathy laugh. “I’m single because I choose to be—after a series of poor decisions. And I became single after my last boyfriend because... well, apparently my taste in men needs work.”

“How bad are we talking?” he asks.

You shift a handful of soapy cutlery into the empty side of the sink and rinse them under the cold tap.

“Short version? He was a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent turned HYDRA,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “The long version involves a lot of weird behaviour, some questionable kinks, too many fights to count, and probably one of the most violent breakups in history.”

Joaquín raises his brows. “You kicked his ass, right?”

“Oh, yeah,” you reply, turning back to the sink.

“Good,” he says simply.

You reach back into the water, feeling around for any remaining cutlery when—

“Fuck,” you hiss, yanking your hand out of the sink.

Blood smears across your knuckles and trickles down your wrist in a messy streak of crimson and bubbles.

“What happened?” Joaquín is beside you in an instant, his eyes wide, hands hovering like he wants to help but isn’t sure where to start.

“It’s fine,” you say quickly. “I’m fine. It’s not that deep—it just looks worse with the water—”

“Pause the bet,” he says firmly, cutting you off as he steps in and gently wraps his hand around your wrist.

“Joaquín,” you sigh, “I’m okay. I’ve had worse.”

He doesn’t look up. His eyes stay fixed on your hand, brow furrowed. “I don’t care. I’m helping you.”

He leaves your side for only a second to grab the first aid kit from the cupboard above the stove. Then, without a word, he takes your uninjured hand and leads you to the lounge.

“Sit,” he says, voice low.

You do as you're told, sinking into the cushions as your heart thunders in your chest. He sits beside you—close. Too close. His thigh presses against yours, his warmth wrapping around you like a blanket. And his scent—ugh—like fresh-cut cedar and rain-damp leaves. But there’s heat beneath it, too. Something rougher. Like sweat, smoke, and the kind of trouble that finds you even when you hide.

“You alright?” he asks, opening the kit on the coffee table.

You straighten, quickly realising that you'd been slowly leaning into him.

“Yeah,” you mutter. “I’m good. Sorry.”

He chuckles softly, then takes your injured hand again—holding it in his lap like it’s the most important thing in the world. He works quietly, carefully, seemingly unaware of the tension crackling between you as his fingers graze yours with the utmost care.

It’s almost hypnotic, the way he moves—cleaning the blood, dabbing antiseptic, wrapping your knuckles with gauze. But even when he’s finished, he doesn’t pull away. His touch lingers, his thumb stroking softly over the delicate bone in your wrist.

His eyes flick to yours, then drop to your mouth—lingering there as he leans in.

“You know,” he murmurs, “if it weren’t for this bet…”

His hot breath brushes your lips, and your heart starts to beat so hard you wonder if you’ll survive it.

"You’d what?" you ask, trying to sound steady—but your voice betrays you.

“I’d kiss you,” he whispers.

Your breath catches. Your chest aches. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—so loud you can’t hear a single thought.

You want to let him. You want to close the space between you and let him do every wicked thing he’s thinking. But you can’t. You won’t. You need to win.

Instead, you smile—slow and dangerous.

“Bet’s back on, Torres,” you say, standing as you slide your hand from his.

You head back to the kitchen, steady and deliberate, refusing to let him see just how much he’s gotten to you.

Behind you, he exhales a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “You’re gonna kill me,” he mutters.

You don’t look back, but your grin is smug—and you just know his is cocky. He’s loving the chase just as much as you’re loving the game.

Back at the sink, you crouch down to rummage through the cupboard for the pair of rubber gloves you know you saw earlier. Once you find them, you slide them on with a snap and return to washing up, ignoring Joaquín’s protests.

Eventually, he gives up with a dramatic sigh and grabs a dish towel, falling into step beside you to dry and put things away. The air between you simmers with silence—thick and heavy, like steam clinging to your skin. You exchange the occasional quiet ‘excuse me’, the barest brush of hands, and a few glances that linger a second too long. But mostly, it’s just tension. Hot and unbearable.

The kitchen is too small. The space between counters is too narrow. And Joaquín is far too fucking attractive to focus on anything else. That soft smile. Those gentle, dark eyes. The sharp cut of his jaw, dusted with just a hint of stubble. And his curls—God, those curls. They make your fingers twitch with the urge to sink in and pull.

As soon as you finish wiping down the sink and peeling off your gloves, you open your mouth to say you’re heading to bed—but Joaquín beats you to it.

“I think I’m gonna call it a night,” he says, already edging out of the kitchen. “I know it’s early, but I’m... spent.”

You nod, heartbeat still a little too fast. “Yeah. Me too.”

“I’ll be quick in the bathroom,” he adds, flashing a soft smile. “Good night.”

“Night, Torres.”

And then he’s gone.

You wait a few minutes before following, keeping yourself busy by wiping down the benches—again—and tidying the lounge room. Once you hear the soft click of his bedroom door shutting, you quietly pad upstairs and slip into the bathroom.

You’ve each got a drawer in the vanity now, and you’ve promised not to look in the other’s... though the curiosity is killing you. Not that you really care about toothbrushes and dental picks—because of course he uses them. Have you seen those teeth? No, what you’re more interested in is whether there are any... toys. Or condoms.

Because really, why would he need condoms at a safehouse?

To fuck you, maybe?

God, you hope so.

Barely clinging to your restraint, you brush your teeth, wash your face, and tiptoe into your room.

The house is almost too quiet tonight. And oppressively warm. You’re not sure if it’s the creeping summer heat—or just the tension between you and Joaquín—but either way, you need to let off some steam.

There’s only one thin wall between your room and his, which isn’t ideal for what you’re about to do—but you’re pretty sure you’ll go insane if you don’t. So you suck in a deep breath and quietly slide the box from under your bed, picking out your quietest—you hope—vibrator before climbing up onto the mattress.

Every shift of the sheets and every sharp inhale feels too loud in the dark room. You try to stay still, to keep calm, but your body won’t listen. It’s too wound up. Too eager.

You shimmy out of your underwear and toss them toward the foot of the bed, letting your knees fall open as you move the toy to the apex of your thighs. You’re just about to press the little button when—

A groan.

Soft. Clipped short. But it definitely happened.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, scrambling onto your knees.

You know Joaquín’s room mirrors yours—bedhead pressed against the same wall—so you inch up and press your ear to it, holding your breath. Listening.

There’s the quiet rustle of sheets. Barely audible. The faint whisper of wind—your window, probably. And then—a sigh. Soft and breathy.

Your eyes widen as you lean impossibly close.

Another groan—louder this time. Not stifled.

Oh, God. Is this real?

Then you hear it. The quiet slap of skin on skin. A steady rhythm, fast and getting faster.

Holy fucking shit.

You drop back onto the mattress, toy still in hand, and resume your position. You suck in a breath as you press the cool silicone to your core, hissing it out through your teeth at the contact.

Then—a hitched breath. Sheets shifting. Silence.

Oh. He heard you.

Fighting a wicked grin, you press the button and the toy hums to life in your hand—a soft whimper escaping your lips as you melt into the pillows.

Through the wall, you hear a strangled, “Fuck.”

Your heart leaps—racing now, pounding against your ribs.

You squeeze your eyes shut and picture him. Sprawled on the bed. Eyes dark and dazed. Boxers shoved halfway down his thighs. Hand wrapped tightly around his cock.

It makes your thighs quiver.

Another groan rumbles through the wall, and you arch into the toy, pretending it’s him instead—his hand, his mouth, his breath hot on your skin.

“Oh,” you sigh, all hesitation gone. “Joaquín.” His name slips from your lips like a prayer. Barely audible—but you know he hears it.

Because his rhythm falters—then quickens. His breath is shallow and sharp now, rough and uneven.

Normally, you’d take your time—drag it out until the ache is unbearable. But not tonight. You can’t stop. You won’t. Not with the image of him burning in your mind—eyes squeezed shut, brow furrowed, lips pink and parted as he pants.

You’re already close. So close.

And by the sound of his soft whimpers—threaded with your name—he is too.

You bite your lip to hold in a moan, desperate to hear his sounds over your own, but it escapes anyway—soft and broken.

Then you hear him. A low groan. Raw and wrecked.

You writhe against the sheets, your hand shaking as it clutches the toy. Whispers. Sighs. Soft moans—some his, some yours. At this point, you can’t even tell. All of it winds tight behind your hipbones, pressure threatening to burst.

Then his breath hitches. Stutters. Breaks. And your name—your name—leaves his mouth in a low, guttural groan.

It isn’t quiet.

It isn’t hesitant.

It’s loud. And it’s enough.

You break.

His name tumbles from your lips, over and over, a reverent chant as you fall over the edge—boneless, breathless, and blushing.

You wake too hot and far too exposed, sunlight spilling through the blinds you forgot to close. It takes a moment for your eyes to adjust, your thoughts still slow and hazy—

Then you bolt upright, the memory of last night burning fresh in your mind.

Fuck.

The sound of the bathroom door closing—right across the hall—makes you jump. Your head snaps toward your own door, left ajar in your rush to get to bed. God, that was stupid.

After a solid ten minutes of berating yourself for acting like a cat in heat, you finally drag yourself out of bed and pull out some clothes. You wait until you hear Joaquín leave the bathroom before darting across the hall and practically slamming the door behind you.

You spend longer than usual in the shower, one eye on the door through the fogged glass. You’re not sure what you’re hoping for—maybe that he’ll walk in by accident again. Or on purpose. Maybe join you. Show you exactly what he’d been doing to himself last night.

The thought alone makes you ache, your thighs pressing together instinctively.

You shut off the water, dry off, get dressed, and brace yourself to face the man who starred in every hot dream you had last night.

Maybe you need a new house rule: no mutual masturbation through the wall.

“Morning,” Joaquín says the second you step into the kitchen.

He’s leaning against the counter beside the coffee machine, one hand cradling a mug and the other braced casually behind him. His eyes are dark and wicked, glinting with something that makes your heart stutter.

“Morning,” you mutter, keeping your gaze low as you head for the fridge.

“Sleep well?” he asks.

You swallow hard, willing your cheeks not to flush. The asshole knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “Great sleep. You?”

“Best I’ve had since getting here.”

You nod, lips pursed as you pretend to study the fridge’s pitiful contents. “That’s good.”

A beat of silence follows—thick and humming with everything you’re both refusing to say.

Then he breaks it with a simple, “Coffee?”

Your stomach growls in response, and when you glance over your shoulder, it feels like all the air has been knocked out of you by just how downright delicious he looks. He’s in a muscle tee, arms bare and still gleaming from the shower, curls damp and falling over his forehead. His smile is devastating—lazy and knowing—and has no business affecting the parts of your body that it is.

You snap your eyes to the machine instead, clearing your throat. “Yes, please.”

He nods, sets down his mug, and reaches into the cupboard for a clean one. You stay planted on your side of the kitchen island, knowing damn well that you might not make it out of this room with your dignity intact if you get any closer to him.

It doesn’t take long before he sets the steaming mug of fresh coffee on the bench in front of you.

“Thanks,” you murmur, wrapping your hands around it.

He nods, watching as you blow gently across the surface of the liquid.

When you glance up, he raises his brows—a silent question.

“It’s hot,” you say simply.

He chuckles, low and warm. “Like last night.”

Your eyes go wide, and you nearly drop the mug.

“The temperature,” he amends quickly. “Just couldn’t cool down. Summer is definitely on its way.”

You narrow your eyes, carefully setting the mug back on the counter as you drag your tongue along your top teeth. He just stands there—smug and unrelenting.

“What happened to boundaries?” you ask, arching a brow.

He laughs again, and the sound is somehow hotter than the coffee. “What do you mean? A wall is a boundary, isn’t it?”

Then he turns, drops his mug in the sink, and flashes you one last, infuriating wink before strolling out of the kitchen—like he didn’t just fry every nerve ending in your body.

You spend the rest of the day avoiding him.

You can’t so much as be in the same room without seeing mental images of him sprawled naked on his bed, getting himself off to the thought of you.

And God, doesn’t he know it.

The smug smile on his lips hasn’t faltered in hours. Every time you pass him—every time you glance at his stupidly handsome face—there it is. Those pretty pink lips, curled into the most delicious, insufferable smirk you’ve ever seen.

If Sam doesn’t find whoever’s trying to kill you soon, you might just die stuck in this safehouse with Joaquín.

Then it hits you.

You’re out on the back porch, a book in your lap, pretending to read when the idea flashes through your mind like a lightbulb flicking on. Your eyes go wide and you shoot up from the old porch swing, your book dropping to the ground as you sprint into the house.

“Joaquín!” you call. “Joaquín, I think I know who it is!”

You turn into the lounge room—empty.

Then duck into the kitchen—also empty.

When you spin around to double back and check the other side of the house, you run right into him. Chest-first. Firm, warm… and damp.

You glance up. “What the fuck?”

He’s in gym clothes, sweat trailing from his cheekbone to his jaw, curls sticking adorably to his glistening skin. He must’ve been working out. Where? You have no idea. But whatever he was doing was clearly working his body, and it’s probably a good thing you hadn’t witnessed it. You might’ve dropped dead on the spot.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, slightly breathless, a hint of panic in his tone.

You step back quickly, dragging your eyes up to his face—away from the tight gym clothes that are making your mouth water.

“I—I think I know who it could be,” you say.

He frowns. “Who?”

“Whoever’s after me.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Remember last night, I told you about my ex?”

He nods.

“Well… when we broke up, it was messy. He tried to get me to join HYDRA. Told me he loved me and couldn’t live without me. Said I didn’t know the whole story, but once I did, I’d want to join them.” You hesitate. “I told him to eat a bag of dicks. Then it got physical. We fought. He almost had me—but I got lucky. I couldn’t kill him, though. So I let him go.”

You feel almost stupid admitting it, but Joaquín doesn’t look even remotely judgmental.

“The last thing he said to me,” you continue, “was that he’d never give up. That he’d find a way to get me back or—”

“Or what?” Joaquín prompts.

“Or he’d kill me.”

His brows shoot up. “Oh. Okay. Yeah, that’s probably something you should’ve told Sam earlier.”

You shrug, sheepish. “I kind of forgot. I didn’t take it seriously. He always said stupid, dramatic stuff like that.”

Joaquín blinks hard, like he’s physically stopping himself from rolling his eyes. “You really need better taste in men.”

You glance up at him through your lashes, dragging your bottom lip between your teeth. “I’ve got much better taste now.”

He inhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut like you’re dangling a drug in front of a recovering addict.

“You’re going to kill me,” he mutters, stepping back. “We need to call Sam.”

You nod, eyes shamelessly glued to his ass as he turns away. “Yeah. Call Sam.”

A few hours later, under the cover of darkness, Sam arrives, and you all gather around the small kitchen island to discuss the possibility that your ex is behind the attack.

It all seems to add up, and Sam quickly calls the contact in the Secretary’s office who’s helping him. He explains the situation, gives your ex’s name, and starts organising a team to locate and apprehend him.

You want to ask if you can come along—this is your mess, after all—but you know he won’t say yes. And a small part of you wants to stay here, in the house with Joaquín, because suddenly this little townhouse feels a lot less godforsaken than it did before. And you don’t really want to leave…

“Alright,” Sam says, sliding his phone into his pocket. “They’re looking for him now. They’ll let me know as soon as they have any leads, and then we’re going in. He’s been mostly MIA for the past few years, but when he’s popped up, it’s been suspicious.”

You nod. “So, he’s still HYDRA?”

Sam shrugs. “I’m not even sure HYDRA is still operating. But whatever he’s up to, it’s definitely nothing good.”

“Why?” Joaquín asks, his eyes locked on you, a playful smirk trying to appear but looking a little forced. “Thinking about getting back together?”

You narrow your eyes, lips pulling into a soft, amused smile. “Torres, are you irrationally jealous of my ex?”

He scoffs. “No. Absolutely not. Just—”

“Oh, man,” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “What the hell have I done leaving you two alone for this long?”

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, Sam.”

Joaquín chuckles.

Sam’s eyes narrow at you, amusement written all over his face. “Did I hit a nerve?”

You ignore him and turn to leave the kitchen.

“You know,” he calls after you, “you have my blessing. If you two want to fuck, I don’t—”

“I’m going to shower now,” you cut in, shooting a lethal glare over your shoulder before disappearing around the corner.

You hear them both giggling as you ascend the stairs, rolling your eyes again when you reach your room. You grab some clean clothes and carry them into the bathroom—only to realize your towel is still in the dryer. You start the shower, letting it heat up, then duck out and begin heading downstairs to get to the laundry.

But then you hear your name and freeze mid-step, leaning over the banister to listen closer.

“So,” Sam says, “you two haven’t… you know?”

“No,” Joaquín replies. “We haven’t slept together.”

Sam chuckles. “You sure? Because you can practically taste the sexual tension in here.”

There’s a brief pause, then a heavy breath—Joaquín’s, you assume.

“Something… kind of happened last night.”

Your eyes go wide. No way he’s about to tell Sam—

“We could hear each other,” he says, “through the wall.”

Another pause.

“Doing what?” Sam asks slowly, as if unsure he really wants the answer.

“You know,” Joaquín says. “Getting off.”

“Oh, my God!” Sam exclaims.

You drop your head into your hands, cheeks burning against your palms.

“Shut up, dude!” Joaquín hisses. “I doubt she’d want me to tell you that.”

“Then why did you?”

“You basically asked!”

Sam scoffs. “I asked if you’d slept together. Not if you’d jerked off on opposite sides of the wall. Jesus Christ, how old are you? Eighteen?”

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters, his voice muffled like he’s covering his face.

You start quietly continuing down the stairs, deciding you’ve eavesdropped enough. Until—

“Okay,” Sam says, “so if you’re into each other, why haven’t you slept together?”

“I don’t know, really,” Joaquín replies. “She’s cautious, I think. And I don’t want to pressure her. But God, it’s so fucking hard.”

Sam chuckles. “I bet it is.”

“Dude,” Joaquín says, deadpan.

“What?”

Joaquín sighs, exasperated. “Look, I really like her. She’s so much cooler than I ever imagined. I don’t want to blow it by—”

“Blowing it?” Sam cuts in.

“How old are you?” Joaquín fires back, and you can almost picture him narrowing his eyes at his mentor.

“Sorry,” Sam mutters, though he’s still laughing softly. “I’ll stop.”

“Good,” Joaquín says, taking a deep breath. “I’m going to ask her out properly once all this shit is over. I want to try actually dating her. Like, romantic-styles.”

Your heart thuds harder in your chest, your pulse pounding in your throat.

“Romantic-styles?” Sam repeats.

“Yeah. Like flowers and dates, stolen kisses, late-night talks, anniversaries, handmade cards—”

“Making love under the moonlight?” Sam interjects, voice dramatically wistful.

“Yes,” Joaquín says firmly. “I want to make love to her under the moonlight, goddammit. I want all the dumb, romantic, cheesy shit you see in movies. Because I like her. A lot.”

Sam whistles under his breath. “Damn, son. I think you’re whipped.”

“Shut up,” Joaquín mutters.

You’re frozen halfway down the hall toward the laundry. Your cheeks are burning, your heart is racing, and you can’t remember how to breathe. Everything Joaquín said is possibly the lamest thing you’ve ever heard—in real life—but somehow, it’s making your head spin and your chest ache.

Then you hear footsteps.

Startled, you hurry down the hall, silently thanking your years of training for lightning-fast reflexes. You duck into the laundry, grab your towel from the dryer, check the hall is clear, and bolt back upstairs.

Then you lock yourself in the bathroom. Panting like you’ve just run a marathon and blushing like a fool in love.

After an intentionally cold shower, you throw on a pair of sweats and an oversized tee before making your way back downstairs. The house smells like roasted garlic with a hint of herbs—rosemary and thyme, you think—and the closer you get to the kitchen, the richer and more mouthwatering it becomes.

By the time you step into the kitchen, you’re practically drooling. And not just because of the drop-dead gorgeous man at the stove, cooking like it’s his own personal brand of foreplay.

“Damn,” you sigh. “That smells incredible.”

Joaquín grins over his shoulder, flipping something in the pan without even looking. “Garlic and herb roasted chicken, with caramelised onion and sweet potatoes.”

You lean forward and rest your elbows on the kitchen island, propping your chin in your hands. “It’s like you walked straight out of some lonely housewife’s favourite sexual fantasy.”

Sam chuckles from across the room, one shoulder braced against the wall. “You sure it’s not your fantasy?”

You roll your eyes. “Why are you even still here? Shouldn’t you be out looking for my asshole ex?”

“I’m off the clock until we’ve got a confirmed location,” he says with a smug grin. “And Joaquín invited me to stay for dinner.”

You stand upright, crossing your arms and scowling at him. “This is a safehouse, Sam. We’re supposed to be undercover, not hosting dinner parties.”

He raises a brow. “If you want to talk about the stuff you’re not supposed to be doing in this house, we can—”

“Okay!” Joaquín cuts in, just a little too loudly. “Dinner’s ready. Let’s plate up.”

You and Sam both glance at him with narrowed, knowing eyes. His cheeks are pink, brows lifted, and his mouth is pressed into a tight smile.

With a sigh, you decide to let it go and start laying out plates and cutlery while Joaquín serves. Each of you gets a full plate of the mouthwatering dinner he’s somehow whipped up, despite constantly complaining about the grocery situation Sam leaves him with. Then you all move into the dining room on the opposite side of the entrance hall from the lounge. You’ve barely used it since hiding out here. It’s small, just like the rest of the house, and wouldn’t comfortably seat more than four people around the circular table.

It’s quiet at first—the only sound the soft scrape of cutlery on plates as you all dig into what is, frankly, an obnoxiously delicious meal. You can feel Sam’s eyes flicking between you and Joaquín, that annoying little half-smirk tugging at his lips.

You can also feel the heat of Joaquín’s thigh brushing close to yours—because for some stupid reason, you decided to sit next to him instead of Sam.

“She’s all tough now,” Sam says, leaning toward Joaquín and eyeing you as you sip your wine, “but just wait until she’s had two more glasses.”

You set your glass down with a little more force than necessary. “I will bury you in the backyard, Wilson.”

Joaquín chuckles, eyes still on you even as he mutters to Sam, “Pretty sure that’s the fourth time today she’s threatened someone with murder.”

Sam raises his brows, that smirk deepening. “And you still want to date her?”

Joaquín grins—all cocky charm and perfect teeth. “Are you kidding? That’s half the appeal.”

Your wide eyes snap to his, heat rising from your chest right up to the tips of your ears.

“What?” he says with a casual shrug. “It’s true.”

You squeeze your eyes shut and pinch the bridge of your nose, silently begging the floor to swallow you whole—just to escape his stupidly perfect face… and Sam’s insufferably smug one.

After a beat of silence—far too brief for your liking—Sam starts up again, eyes locked on you and sparkling with mischief.

“So, what happens if it is this ex-boyfriend of yours?” he asks.

You raise a brow, swallowing your mouthful of food before replying, “Isn’t that your job, Captain America? Last I checked, lowly civilians like me don’t get to decide the fate of the bad guys.”

“But if you could,” he presses, propping one elbow on the table, “what would you decide?”

You bite your lip, gaze drifting to a blank spot on the wall behind him as you consider it.

“I’d probably kill him,” you say simply. “Or send him to the Raft.”

Sam’s brows lift. “Really? That harsh?”

You nod, stabbing a piece of potato like it insulted your bloodline. “He’s an asshole. And obviously a dangerous one. So if it’s between my life and his? I pick mine.”

“Wow,” Sam mutters, glancing down at his plate.

You frown. “Why is that surprising? He’s a dirtbag.”

“I mean, now he is,” Sam says with a shrug, his eyes sliding—none too subtly—toward Joaquín, “but from what I heard, the two of you were pretty serious. Like, real serious.”

“From what you heard?” you echo, incredulous.

“Yeah. Barton and Romanoff used to mention it. Apparently, you were talking marriage. Settling down. Getting out of the game.”

You drop your knife and fork like they’ve scalded you, lips parting in disbelief at the sheer nerve of the man across from you.

Joaquín shifts beside you, visibly tense. His jaw works as he stares down at his plate, knuckles white around his cutlery.

“Seriously, Sam?” you ask, leaning forward. “You’re asking me if I’m still in love with the man we think just put a hit out on me?”

Sam just nods and pops another bite of chicken into his mouth, utterly unfazed.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then—

“Are you?” Joaquín asks.

Your eyes snap to him, brow furrowed. “No, you idiot. I’m not.”

Then you turn back to Sam, who’s clearly seconds away from laughing. “And you—what the hell was that? Just because I once considered marrying someone I was in a committed relationship with doesn’t mean I’m still hung up on him. In fact, if he wasn’t actively trying to kill me, I wouldn’t even be thinking about him right now. Because you know what? The only goddamn thing on my mind lately is this—” you shoot a pointed look at Joaquín, heat blooming in your chest— “this unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions—which, by the way, you are one hundred percent aware of.”

Sam makes a choking noise, but you don’t stop.

“So don’t play dumb. Or coy. Or whatever little psychological warfare tactic you think you’re running to stir shit up. We don’t need your help turning up the tension in this house.” You stand abruptly, flustered and flushed. “It is already stifling in here. And I swear to God, I am this close to snapping.”

Then you pick up your plate, turn on your heel, and storm back through the house toward the kitchen—heart pounding in your ears, and face so hot you’re amazed you haven’t already burst into flames.

“What did she just call me?” you hear Joaquín ask.

Sam chuckles. “I believe it was an unholy combination of soft curls and filthy intentions.”

Joaquín laughs quietly, and you hate the way the sound alone makes you smile.

“Damn,” he mutters.

“She likes you, Falcon,” Sam teases. “The big bad assassin lady likes you.”

You roll your eyes and drop your plate on the kitchen island, deciding to finish the annoyingly delicious dinner before cleaning up.

Fifteen minutes later, once you’ve decided you’ve regained enough dignity to face them again, you move your empty plate to the sink and head back to the dining room. Without saying a word, you stack their plates in one hand and grab your wine glass with the other, downing the rest of it in two bitter gulps.

Then you return to the kitchen to start washing up, half-listening as their conversation drifts from the dining room to the lounge.

Once everything is clean, you refill everyone’s wine glasses and join them in the lounge room, dragging a chair in from the dining room since there’s no space left on the tiny couch.

Thankfully, the conversation doesn’t stray far from work. Joaquín asks Sam about the plan once they manage to locate your ex, and Sam reassures him that they—whoever he’s working with—have it covered. You can tell from Joaquín’s steady stream of questions that he’s worried. And it’s not just the standard concern for civilian safety. He’s worried about you.

And damn if that doesn’t make your heart ache a little.

Eventually, Sam flicks on the TV and picks a movie. You can tell he’s had enough of Joaquín’s interrogation, so you play along and pretend to be invested in whatever crappy comedy he’s chosen.

On your way to refill everyone’s glasses, you grab a spare blanket and lay it out on the lounge room floor. Then you steal two cushions off the couch and settle down on the blanket, wine in hand, pretending to watch the screen while trying very hard to ignore the weight of Joaquín’s gaze.

An hour and almost two bottles of wine later, the movie ends, the screen bathing the dark room in soft white light as the credits roll.

“Alright,” Sam sighs, tipping the last of his wine into his mouth. “No way I’m getting home now. I’ll crash on the couch.”

You and Joaquín snap toward him in unison—eyes wide, lips tight.

“What?” he deadpans. “I’ve had too many drinks and I don’t feel like catching a cab. You two can keep it in your pants for one more night.”

Joaquín takes a long breath through his nose, his jaw flexing with tension. You’re not sure what shifted in the last couple of hours—maybe Sam’s meddling worked—but the tension in the room is unbearable. Your heart won’t slow down, your skin feels too hot, and honestly, if you don’t feel Joaquín’s hands on you soon, you might actually go feral. Claws out, back arched, hissing kind of feral.

“Alright,” Joaquín mutters through clenched teeth. “Take the couch.”

You collect the empty glasses and take them to the kitchen while Joaquín grabs the blanket from the floor and drapes it over Sam, who’s settling into the world’s smallest couch like he owns the place. Then you move quietly back through the lounge room and meet Joaquín at the bottom of the stairs. The air between you is practically humming—so thick with tension one spark might blow the whole house sky-high.

“G’night,” Sam mumbles, entirely too smug.

“Night,” Joaquín replies, clipped.

“Night,” you echo, with a glare over your shoulder. “Hope your back hurts in the morning.”

Sam chuckles behind you, completely unbothered by the two of you stomping up the stairs like thunder.

You head straight for the bathroom, flicking on the too-bright light before stopping in front of the vanity and grabbing your toothbrush from the cup beside the sink.

Your reflection is a perfect mirror of how you're feeling—which is absolutely and completely wrecked. Your hair’s a mess, your lips wine-stained, your cheeks flushed, and your eyes wide and dark with an unrecognisable kind of hunger.

It’s almost laughable, the way your reflection exposes just how utterly undone you are by the man standing beside you.

Joaquín grabs his toothbrush and silently takes the tube of toothpaste from your outstretched hand. Then you both take turns wetting your brushes before wordlessly starting to brush your teeth.

You glance at him in the mirror, shamelessly studying the pretty features of his perfect face—soft curls, straight nose, sharp jaw, and those same wide, hungry eyes staring intently at his own reflection.

His elbow brushes yours, but he doesn’t seem to notice—not in the same way you do, at least. A sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm and through your shoulder, making you shiver.

He catches your eye in the mirror and pauses, quirking a brow—just the tiniest, stupidest smirk. But it still sends your heart vaulting into your throat.

The heat in your cheeks intensifies as you duck your head and focus on rinsing. The water is cold as you splash it over your mouth, but it does nothing to cool the fire simmering beneath your skin.

“This is torture,” he mutters.

You dry your mouth on a towel before straightening, frowning at him in the mirror. “What?”

He gives you a flat look. “This. You. Me. Captain fucking America sleeping on the couch.”

Your breath stutters, and you have to grip the counter to steady yourself. “It’s one night. We can do one more night.”

Joaquín blinks, then turns toward you—actually looking at you, not your reflection. “One more night,” he says quietly. “Then what?”

Your eyes drop to his lips, lingering there as his tongue flicks between them. “You know what.”

“Say it,” he mutters, stepping closer.

Your breath hitches, still locked on his mouth.

“One more night,” he repeats slowly. “Then… what?”

You let out a shaky breath and take a reluctant step back. “Then…” You swallow, lifting your gaze to meet his. “Then you fuck me so hard I forget why we waited this long.”

He stops breathing.

His eyes go wide—impossibly dark. His whole body goes still.

Your stomach flips. Your knees wobble. But somehow you keep moving, brushing past him and walking straight into your room.

You feel the heat of his gaze on your back. The phantom drag of his fingers down your spine—even though he hasn’t touched you. Not properly. Not since you made up that stupid, wildly ineffective rule.

You shut the door without looking back, not trusting yourself to survive what you’d see—him, still standing there. Mouth open, eyes black, foamy toothbrush dangling stupidly from his lips.

God, even dental hygiene is sexy when he does it.

You fall face-first onto the bed, groaning into the sheets.

It’s going to be a long fucking night.

You spend an hour trying to fall asleep. Tossing, turning, blankets on, blankets off. One pillow, two pillows, fluffed pillow, no pillow. Nothing helps.

Sleep evades you.

You’re too hot. Too wound up. The wine and the tension are thrumming through your veins like electricity. Your pulse won’t slow. Your breath won’t settle. All you can think about is Joaquín—his stupid smile, his eyes, his lips, his hands. The way all of it would feel against your burning skin. The way he’d unravel the knot sitting low and tight behind your hipbones, slow and deliberate and maddening.

It’s too much. You can barely breathe.

You need to do something.

After what feels like an eternity, you throw the blankets off and lean over the side of the bed, reaching underneath until your fingers find the box. You slide it out and fumble through its contents for your little bullet vibrator. It’s not the quietest, but it’s efficient—and at this point, you don’t care what Joaquín hears. You just need release.

You use your phone’s flashlight illuminate the box, but after a few seconds of empty searching, you remember… it’s in the bathroom drawer.

Of course it is.

With a quiet sigh, you swing your legs off the bed and pad softly to the door, careful not to let the squeaky hinges whine too loudly. You don’t bother with the lights as you tiptoe into the bathroom, stepping up to the vanity and slowly sliding open the top drawer—your drawer.

You quickly find the small vibrator and wrap your fingers around it before gently shutting the drawer. Then you turn and tiptoe out of the bathroom, your bedroom door in sight when—

Joaquín steps into your path. Shirtless. Curls a mess. Nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants slung dangerously low on his hips.

You duck your head and try—feebly—to sidestep him, but he moves with you, crowding into your space until your spine meets the bathroom doorframe.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low and rough.

He steps in closer, slow and deliberate, and the hallway suddenly feels too small. Too warm. His face is cast in soft shadow, but you can still see every perfect line—sharp cheekbones, full lips, that frustratingly elegant nose. The kind of face sculptors dream of and sinners pray to.

But it’s his eyes that undo you.

Dark. Wild. Burning with something untamed. Hunger, yes—but barely restrained. Like he’s holding himself back with a single fraying thread, one you’re both terrified and desperate to snap.

You manage the smallest nod.

He edges even closer, his bare chest now just a breath from your peaked nipples beneath your thin cotton shirt.

“You’re not wearing a shirt,” you murmur, voice embarrassingly breathless.

His jaw ticks as he looks at you—like he’s trying not to do something reckless. Then his tongue slides slowly across his bottom lip. “You’re not wearing pants.”

“Guess we’re both breaking rules,” you whisper.

He lifts a hand to your face, knuckles grazing from your cheekbone down to your jaw. “What’s one more, then?”

Your breath hitches, heart pounding in your throat. “Which one?”

He hums softly, his eyes trained on his fingers as they ghost along your jaw and down the column of your throat.

“Guess,” he says quietly.

Then he grips your chin. Hard. Fingers digging into your jaw, forcing your mouth open.

“You have no fucking idea how hard it’s been not to touch you,” he growls.

Then he surges forward and crushes his mouth to yours, all heat and hunger and pent-up fucking agony. It’s not soft. Not sweet. It’s a collision—teeth and tongue and a groan so guttural it vibrates against your lips. You gasp into him and he swallows it whole, devouring you like he’s starving.

Your head hits the doorframe with a soft thud, but you don’t care. You’re too far gone. His hands find your hips, rough and possessive, gripping you like he wants his fingerprints embedded in your bones.

You whimper—and that’s all the encouragement he needs.

He shoves a knee between your legs, pressing his thigh up against your core. The pressure punches the air from your lungs—hot and perfectly placed—and your hips grind down on him before you can stop yourself.

He groans into your mouth, deep and wrecked, and then his teeth catch your bottom lip in a sharp, punishing bite. Not enough to break skin, but enough to make you gasp.

“Shh,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Gotta keep it down, baby. We’ve got guests.”

Then he kisses you again. Harder. Desperate and possessive. Like he’s trying to brand you with his mouth alone.

You try to lift your hands—to touch him, to feel—but he’s faster. He catches your wrists and slams them above your head, pinning them with one hand as the other slides down and cups your breast, rough and reverent all at once.

You gasp against his mouth, a shocked, breathless sound that he swallows greedily.

Then he stills.

His eyes drag up to where your hands are trapped. To the shape pressed between your fingers—small, hard, and anything but innocent.

He pulls back just enough to uncurl your grip, slow and deliberate. You try to pull away, but he’s stronger—too strong—and within seconds, he’s holding the little vibrator up between two fingers. Right in front of your face.

“This what you came out here for?” he asks, voice ragged, low, thick with disbelief and something darker.

You can’t answer. You’re too stunned. Your breath is coming in shallow gasps, your chest rising and falling like you’ve been sprinting.

He drops his gaze to your lips, then back to your eyes. And smirks.

“Nah,” he murmurs, voice like smoke. “You don’t need that.”

The vibrator drops from his hand, hitting the floor with a soft, humiliating thunk.

For a moment, neither of you move.

Then he’s on you again.

His mouth crashes into yours—devouring, claiming—like he needs you more than air. Like kissing you is the only thing keeping him alive.

You moan into him, fingers twitching with the need to touch, to claw. He releases your wrists and you drop them instantly to his shoulders, then into his curls, grabbing hard enough to make him groan.

His hands find your hips again, rough and greedy, dragging you closer until his thigh slots back between your legs. The pressure is maddening. Perfect. You grind down with a gasp, hips rolling instinctively against the solid muscle.

He pulls back just enough to smirk against your mouth, that dark, cocky glint flashing in his eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “Just like that.”

His fingers tighten on your hips, guiding you into another slow, filthy grind. The drag of fabric against your clit electric. You whimper and drop your forehead to his, your breaths mingling in the heat between you.

Every rock of your hips sends sparks shooting up your spine, the ache between your legs growing unbearable. His thigh flexes beneath you—deliberate, teasing—and you feel his breathing start to match your own, ragged and fast.

“Gonna cum on my thigh, baby?” he asks, breathless but teasing.

You can’t form words. You just whine—a needy, broken sound that ghosts past your lips and makes him chuckle, low and dangerous.

“That’s it,” he mutters, guiding you a little higher on his thigh. “That’s my girl.”

You grind harder, chasing the friction, the pressure, the devastating edge that’s so close it hurts. His hands are locked on your hips, dragging you over him like he wants to leave bruises behind.

“You feel that?” he rasps, mouth brushing your jaw as he speaks. “How fucking wet you are for me?”

You nod—frantic, breathless—but it’s not enough. He growls low in his throat and suddenly pulls you down harder, his thigh flexing beneath you. You bite down on a cry, head tipping back against the doorframe as your body trembles.

“You’re so fucking hot like this,” he breathes, watching your face like it’s the most obscene thing he’s ever seen. “Soak my leg, baby—come on.”

One hand slips up your shirt, calloused fingers grazing the bare skin of your belly before cupping your breast—no bra, just heat and softness and a tight nipple begging for attention. He rolls it between his fingers, rough and greedy, and your hips jerk in response.

“Jesus, you’re so fucking responsive,” he mutters, leaning in to bite down on the soft skin beneath your jaw.

You gasp, nails digging into his scalp, dragging him closer.

“Please,” you whisper, not even sure what you’re begging for—release, more, everything.

He lifts his head, eyes dark and glittering with wicked intent. “You wanna cum for me, baby?” he asks, voice thick and taunting. “Wanna make a mess all over my thigh like a needy little slut?”

You whimper—pathetic and wrecked—and he smirks. “Then take it. Rub that desperate little pussy on me like you mean it.”

He moves his thigh up harder, fingers biting into your hips as he guides you, using your body like it’s his to play with. And it is.

You’re grinding shamelessly now, panting into his mouth, broken noises falling from your lips as the heat builds. You’re close—so fucking close. Muscles tightening, vision going spotty—

“Cum for me,” he growls. “Right fucking now.”

And you do.

With a strangled whimper, you break—hips jerking, thighs quaking, mouth falling open in a silent scream as pleasure tears through you like a live wire. You bury your face in his neck, biting down on a gasp, desperate to stay quiet.

A muffled moan slips out anyway, ragged and breathy against his skin. He groans, low and wrecked, one hand fisting in your hair as your body trembles against his.

“Shh,” he murmurs, lips brushing your temple, even as his thigh flexes beneath you to draw out every last wave. “You’ve gotta be quiet, baby. Sam’s just downstairs.”

But you can’t stop shaking—your orgasm crashing over you in hot, relentless pulses—your nails clawing at his back, your teeth sinking into his neck to stifle another sound.

He holds you through it, breath thick and uneven, a dark smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he feels you unravel.

“So fucking good for me,” he whispers. “So sweet when you try to behave.”

He kisses you again—slow, filthy, coaxing you through the aftershocks with soft praise and a hot tongue. His lips drag along yours like he can’t get enough, like he’s trying to taste every noise you made.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he breathes, eyes half-lidded and burning. “So fucking sexy.”

Then, without warning, he lifts you—strong arms locking under your thighs, making you gasp as your legs wrap instinctively around his waist. You cling to him, giggling breathlessly against his shoulder as he starts walking down the hall.

His mouth finds your throat again, biting softly as he mutters, “You know I’m not stopping ‘til you’re ruined for anyone else, right?”

You let out a wrecked little laugh, and he grins—dark and dangerous.

“Gonna fuck you so good, baby,” he murmurs against your skin, voice wrecked and wicked. “Gonna make that pretty little mouth scream my name ‘til it’s the only word you know.”

You shudder—helpless, breathless—and he chuckles low in his chest, kissing the hinge of your jaw as he kicks open his bedroom door.

The door clicks softly shut behind you as you both step out into the hall, but neither of you move.

Joaquín’s back hits it a second later, pulling you with him—your chest flush to his, breath caught somewhere between a laugh and a moan.

“Joaquín,” you sigh, warning in your voice but no real conviction behind it.

“Mmh?” He leans in, mouth already dragging along the curve of your jaw, his hands low on your hips. “Just one more.”

You bite back a grin, threading your fingers through his messy curls as his lips brush yours—soft, slow, intoxicating. His tongue teases your bottom lip, coaxing it open, and before you can stop yourself, you’re kissing him again.

Deeper this time. Greedy. Sweet. A little wrecked.

His hands wander. Squeezing. Grabbing. Remembering every filthy, delicious way they unravelled you last night.

He trails kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, sucking a bruise into the dip of your collarbone as he lowers himself slowly.

Dropping to his knees.

You tip your head back, lips parted and panting softly.

“We—We have to go downstairs,” you murmur, though you don’t try to move.

“I am downstairs,” he mumbles, lifting the hem of his shirt to kiss your stomach.

You let out a shaky little laugh, your breath hitching as his tongue slides over your hipbone.

His hands slip up beneath the shirt, fingertips dancing over your hot skin like he’s thinking about dragging you back to bed. Again.

You’ve been trying to get downstairs for over an hour now. This is the furthest you’ve gotten.

“You’re not helping,” you hiss, voice catching as his knuckles graze the underside of your breast.

“I’m not trying to.”

You thread your fingers through his curls and tug, reluctantly pulling his mouth away from you. He looks up at you through thick lashes, eyes dark and hungry, grinning like a man thoroughly satisfied with his own choices.

“Come on,” you sigh softly, wanting nothing more than to have his head between your legs again like it was twenty minutes ago.

He rises to his full height with a playful eyeroll, slipping one hand into yours and lacing your fingers. Then he uses his free hand to cup your head and pull you toward him, pressing a tender kiss to your temple before turning down the hall.

“Let’s get this over with,” he says with a soft chuckle.

You giggle quietly, biting your lip to stop yourself from begging him back to bed.

Halfway down the stairs, he leans in, lips brushing your ear. “You realise I’m gonna spend all day thinking about what you sound like when you cum.”

You nearly trip, but he catches you easily—smug and warm behind you, his laughter a hot puff of air against your neck.

You elbow him, but you’re smiling, flushed and glowing and absolutely ruined.

You let him lead you into the kitchen, fingers still laced together, cheeks flushed and lips swollen. You try not to look like someone who’s just had every bone in her body melted and rearranged—but the limp in your step and the heat in your cheeks aren’t exactly subtle.

Sam’s already there, leaning casually against the counter beside the coffee machine, mug in hand. His eyes sparkle with that familiar, knowing mischief the moment you enter.

“Well, well, look who finally decided to join the land of the living.”

You pause at the edge of the kitchen, but Joaquín doesn’t.

“Morning,” he says easily, strolling over to the coffee machine like he hadn’t just threatened to make you scream his name five minutes ago. “Coffee?”

Sam takes a long, deliberate sip from his mug. “It’s probably cold by now. Didn’t think you two were ever coming down.”

You press your lips together, fighting back the embarrassed smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. Joaquín just shrugs.

“We got distracted,” he says, opening a cupboard and pulling out a mug. “Important business.”

Sam snorts, shaking his head. “Yeah, I heard. Whole neighbourhood did.”

You choke on your breath. “Oh my god.”

Joaquín turns to you, mug in hand, a smirk spreading across his face—smug and utterly unrepentant. “She’s loud when she’s happy.”

Your eyes go wide, and you’re surprised you don’t implode on the spot.

Sam groans, setting his mug down with a thud. “Jesus Christ. I take it back. You’re officially banned from happiness.”

Joaquín just grins wider. “Too late.”

You drop your face into your hands with a soft groan.

“At least one of you has the decency to blush,” Sam mutters as he walks past you.

You drag your hands down your face and shuffle further into the kitchen, stopping at the island across from where Joaquín is pouring two cups of coffee.

He nudges the mugs toward you, but neither of you makes a move to grab one. Instead, he steps around the island, slips his arms around your waist, and pulls you in—pressing you flush against him as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, breathing you in like he’s trying to memorise every trace of you.

All of it completely shameless, even with Sam just a few feet away on the lounge, sipping his coffee and looking vaguely traumatised.

Honestly, though? You can’t bring yourself to care either.

Your hands drift up Joaquín’s arms to link behind his neck.

“You hungry?” you ask.

His head snaps up, eyes dark with immediate interest. “Yes.”

You roll your eyes, thighs clenching despite yourself. “Not like that. I meant actual food. You know—sustenance.”

“The other thing is sustenance,” he mutters, mouth finding your neck again.

“I’m still here,” Sam calls. “And you’re still not quiet. Do either of you know how to whisper?”

Joaquín lifts his head and glances toward the lounge. “We didn’t invite you to stay. Feel free to leave anytime.”

Sam shakes his head, laughing in disbelief. “You two should be thanking me.”

You frown. “For what?”

“Introducing you,” he says, pausing like he expects applause. Then he sighs and adds, “And tracking down your shady ex.”

That gets your attention. Both you and Joaquín straighten, turning toward him.

“You have a location?” you ask.

Sam nods. “We’re organising a strike team. Intel says he’s been renting this place under an alias. Plan is to hit him when he’s not expecting it.”

“Tonight?”

“Tonight,” he confirms, pushing off the lounge. “Which means I’ve got a team to prep.”

He moves into the kitchen, drops his empty mug in the sink, and glances back at you.

“If your hunch is right and he’s behind everything… you’ll be able to go home soon.”

You nod, trying to ignore the tight knot forming in your stomach. “Great.”

Joaquín slowly releases your waist and lifts his coffee, taking a sip to hide what you know is a frown.

You wait for Sam to gather his things and bid you both goodbye, stepping out the front door with a knowing smirk and muttering something about ‘getting the house fumigated’ after you two finally move out.

When the door clicks shut behind him, you turn to Joaquín, who’s settled on the tiny lounge, elbows resting on his knees and fingers steepled beneath his chin.

“Hey,” you say softly, stepping in front of him.

His hands immediately find your hips, like that’s where they’re meant to be.

“Hey,” he murmurs, tugging you onto his lap.

You straddle his thighs, hands pressed to his chest. “You know,” you say, resting your forehead against his, “if you wanted to stay here a while longer… I wouldn’t be opposed.”

He huffs out a soft laugh, breath ghosting over your lips. “Yeah? You want to stay in this tiny house with paper-thin walls?”

“I’d stay anywhere with you,” you whisper, so quiet it barely registers—as if saying it aloud makes whatever this is feel real. Too real.

His breath stutters. His fingers tighten at your waist.

“Really?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“What about my apartment in D.C.?” he asks, leaning back to study your face with wide, hopeful eyes. “It’s not much bigger than this, but—”

“Okay,” you interrupt, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like an idiot.

His eyes go even wider. “Really?”

You nod again, giggling. “Let’s call it an indefinite sleepover. Just in case you get sick of me and want to send me back to my own place.”

He laughs too, the sound rumbling deep in his chest beneath your palms. “I’m never gonna get sick of you.”

“You sure about that?” you tease, shifting your hips to grind down against him.

His breath catches, lips parting in a soft sigh.

“Baby,” he whispers, “we’re just getting started.”

Then, before you can blink, he lifts you, flipping you onto your back and pressing you into the couch cushions. He hovers over you, lips finding yours like they belong there—sliding against yours and stoking that slow-burning flame deep in your belly. The same flame he lit the first day you met. The flame that now blazes so bright, your whole body glows—burning beneath his touch.

He pauses, forehead resting against yours, breath warm and uneven.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice thick with promise, “I plan on making you forget your own name by the end of today.”

You grin, tugging him down for one last kiss—soft, slow, but packed with everything you feel.

“Good,” you whisper against his lips, “because I don’t want to remember anyone else’s.”

END.

#joaquin torres #joaquin torres x reader #danny ramirez x reader #captain america: brave new world #joaquin x reader #falcon x reader #marvel #marvel x reader #captain america #danny ramirez #falcon #fanfic #fanfiction #one shot #oneshot #imagine

1K notes · View notes