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almost wasn’t

joaquin torres 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐬 / 𝐭𝐰 – 18+, MDNI, mutual pining, friends to lovers, teasing and tension, dirty dancing, grinding, thigh riding, piv sex, creampie, slight angst, happy ending ofc, slow burn word count: 14k Summary: You and Joaquin have been best friends since the Air Force—shoulders pressed side by side through deployments, shitty rations, late-night confessions, and every almost that never became something more. You’ve seen him fall in and out of love. He’s seen you pretend you don’t need more than friendship. You date other people. You go on double dates. But every time, you end up right back next to each other—too close, too familiar, too full of everything you won’t say. Until one night, everything breaks open. And it turns out, the only thing worse than wanting him all this time… is realizing he’s always wanted you too. notes – not proofread tags: @eeveedream @anxiousscribbling @pancake-05 @borhapparker @dreammiiee @benbarnesprettygurl @insidethegardenwall @butterflies-on-my-ashes @maplesyrizzup @rockwoodchevy @jasontoddswhitestreak @loganficsonly @overwintering-soldier @hits-different-cause-its-you @eclipsedplanet

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The first time you meet Joaquin Torres, he’s grinning through a busted lip.

There’s blood on his chin and dirt smudged along one cheekbone, and he’s still cracking a joke with the instructor like he’s not one misstep from failing out of the course. The sun is high and brutal, hanging over the tarmac like punishment. Your sweat-stuck shirt clings to your spine. You’re already tired. Already irritated.

He looks at you like you’re a dare.

“Guess we’re partners now,” he says, offering a hand that’s scraped raw across the knuckles. “Hope you can keep up, mami.”

You almost don’t shake it. Almost tell him to go to hell. But something in his tone—something cocky, sure, but not mean—softens the edge just enough. You grip his hand.

“Don’t hold me back, flyboy.”

He laughs, bright and stupidly charming. You hate how easy it makes you smile.

That first day, he nearly gets both of you benched. He moves too fast, talks too loud, tries to jump the mock wall without waiting for cover. You yank him down by the back of his shirt, hissing, “Are you trying to get us both killed?”

But he only grins. “You’re cute when you’re mad.”

“Dead men don’t flirt,” you snap, dragging him behind the barricade.

He winks. “Only with you, baby.”

By the end of the week, you hate him slightly less. He brings you water without asking, learns your favorite MRE and trades for it at lunch, and stops making mami sound like a taunt and starts making it sound like a secret.

By the end of the month, he’s your best friend.

You don’t know when it happens. Somewhere between long shifts and longer nights, the shared silence of exhausted bodies sprawled in the same tent, the way he always finds your eyes after a rough drill like he’s checking to make sure you’re still breathing.

He starts sleeping near you—just close enough that your shoulders brush in the dark. He always finds you, even in the chaos of rotations and reassignments. Always.

There’s a night he finds you outside the barracks, sitting on the curb with your knees pulled to your chest, hands shaking from a call home that didn’t go well. You don’t say anything. Don’t even hear him approach.

But then there’s a sweatshirt draped over your shoulders. His.

He sits beside you. Doesn’t ask questions. Just leans in until his shoulder presses yours and stays there.

That’s when it starts. Maybe.

-

Years later, you still haven’t figured out when the line between friend and something else stopped feeling so clear.

Now, you’re both out. Still close. Too close, probably.

You work in the same world—government-adjacent, Sam’s new crew, helping out when things get messy. The kind of life that keeps you moving, but never far from each other. You share intel, comms, sometimes cars. You’ve slept on his couch. He’s slept in your bed. You’ve learned not to count.

You live across the hall. He makes you coffee when he gets back before you. You make him pasta when he’s too tired to fake being fine. He leaves his hoodies in your apartment. You stop giving them back.

He flirts constantly. Teases you in Spanish. Calls you mi cielo when he wants something and mami when he doesn’t. You tell yourself it’s harmless. It’s just how he is.

You’ve been telling yourself that for years now.

But then there’s tonight.

He’s sitting on your couch with one leg stretched out, socked foot knocking lightly against yours, scrolling through his phone with a soft little smile curling at the corner of his mouth.

He doesn’t say her name, but you know who it is. You don’t need to look.

Lea’s the only one who ever makes him smile like that. That lazy, distant kind of smile. The I know I shouldn’t want this kind. The but I do anyway kind.

Your stomach twists.

“Dinner plans?” you ask, keeping your voice neutral. Easy. Friendly.

He hums. “Just catching up.”

“Cool.” The word lands heavy in your mouth. You force your eyes back to your laptop.

He leans back, stretching, fingers curling behind his head. “Lea texted first,” he offers, as if that makes it better.

You nod without looking at him. “You gonna go?”

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Figure I owe her that much.”

You don’t ask why. You already know the answer. Because he still feels something. Or thinks he does. Because the past is easy to romanticize when you’re tired and lonely and still bleeding from things you never say out loud.

You shut your laptop and stand. “You want to take leftovers?”

He blinks up at you. “You cooked?”

You shrug. “Enough to feed a maybe-girlfriend.”

He snorts. “Don’t be like that.”

“I’m not being anything,” you say, crossing to the kitchen. “I just didn’t realize we were back in that phase.”

He watches you from the couch, head tilted, brows drawn. But he doesn’t push.

You hand him a plate even though he said he had plans with her. He takes it anyway. Eats like it’s the first real meal he’s had all week. You sit beside him and pretend your heart isn’t trying to claw out of your chest.

Halfway through the movie, he leans into your side. Familiar. Thoughtless. Your body goes still.

He doesn’t notice. Or maybe he does and pretends not to.

You sit there for an hour, his thigh warm against yours, his plate balanced on your knee, his breath slow and steady beside your ear.

And all you can think is: Don’t go to her. Please, don’t go to her.

But you don’t say it.

You never do.

-

The moment your date says the words “I’m an alpha, you know,” you know you’re texting Joaquin the second you hit the bathroom.

It had already been bad. The restaurant was too dark, the booth sticky, the wine list a joke. He talked over you through the first course, interrupted your story about Sam with something about stocks, and made three separate jokes about therapy—none of which landed.

But the alpha comment? That’s the final nail.

You step away to the restroom, screen already glowing in your hand.

you: abort mission you: send evac you: i’ll throw myself into traffic otherwise

Joaquin doesn’t respond right away, but he never takes long.

When your phone buzzes two minutes later, it’s a single line.

torres: 10 mins. fake emergency ready.

You exhale. Tuck the phone into your clutch. Go back to the table and fake a smile while your date tries to show you something on his phone—an NFT? You don’t know. You don’t care. You nod and laugh and drink just enough wine to blur the edges of your irritation until you see headlights sweep past the window.

Your escape hatch.

“Shit,” you gasp, grabbing your purse. “That was my friend’s car. Something came up—mission-related. Sorry!”

You don’t wait for a response. Just kiss the air beside his cheek and walk fast enough to feel the wind behind you.

Joaquin’s already got the passenger door open when you reach the curb. You slide in without thinking, dress pulling taut across your thighs. You’re flushed. A little buzzed. And when you turn to look at him, he’s already grinning like he’s proud of you.

“Mission successful,” he says, putting the car in drive.

You sigh and sink back into the seat. “You are a gift.”

“I know.”

“You’re also full of yourself.”

He shrugs. “Comes with the territory.”

You glance sideways. He’s in a hoodie and joggers, baseball cap turned backward, hand steady on the wheel. His wrist is tanned, scarred, strong. You think about kissing it. You think about a lot of things when you drink.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“Place we like,” he says. “Comfort food and healing vibes.”

You smile. Of course. Dumplings and bao from the hole-in-the-wall joint you’ve shared after every breakup, every disaster mission, every bad day. It smells like fried heaven and safety. He orders for both of you like always.

“Extra chili oil?” you ask, leaning over the counter, your shoulder brushing his arm.

“Already added,” he murmurs, without looking at you.

You don’t realize you’re still leaning on him until you feel his breath shift. You straighten, suddenly aware of the warmth in your cheeks. Blame the wine.

Back in the car, you balance the takeout bags on your lap and open the windows. The air smells like spring and distant pavement. He hums along to a song on the radio—off-key but sweet.

“Tell me everything,” he says.

You groan. “The man referred to himself as an alpha.”

“Shut up.”

“I’m serious. Like, looked me in the eye and said, ‘I’m an alpha, you know.’ I laughed and he didn’t.”

Joaquin snorts, head tipped back against the headrest at a red light. “Oh, baby. I’m so sorry.”

“He explained crypto to me. Twice.”

“Jesus.”

“And he kept touching my shoulder like he was going to brand me.”

“You should’ve stabbed him with your fork.”

You laugh, reaching across to slap his chest lightly. “Don’t joke. I considered it.”

“You get real feisty when you drink,” he says, glancing at you with a teasing glint in his eyes. “And touchy.”

You freeze for half a beat. Your hand is still resting on his chest, over the soft cotton of his hoodie, where his heart beats steadily under your fingers.

“I’m affectionate,” you say, trying to play it off. “You like it.”

His voice dips. “Yeah. I do.”

You don’t move. Neither does he.

The air goes thick, just for a moment. Then he taps your hand, a little too gently.

“Come on. Let’s eat before it goes cold.”

-

You end up back at your place. Sitting cross-legged on the floor with dumplings between you, dipping sauces lined up like a battlefield. You’re still flushed from the wine and the laughing. He steals the last pork bao and you fake rage. He fakes surrender and feeds you a bite with his fingers.

“You’re lucky I’m hungry,” you mutter around it.

“You’re lucky I like you,” he fires back.

The silence that follows isn’t awkward—it’s warm. Familiar. You finish your food. End up sitting back against the couch, side by side. His knee knocks yours. You don’t pull away.

“Don’t date losers,” he says suddenly.

You tilt your head toward him. “You offering to set me up with someone better?”

He meets your eyes. His voice is quiet now. “Maybe.”

You open your mouth to say something—something flirty, or funny, or clever—but nothing comes out. Your brain’s gone soft around the edges.

So instead, you sigh and tip your head onto his shoulder. “Next time I text you mid-date, bring a taser.”

He chuckles, settling in. You feel him press his cheek against the top of your head.

“Next time, don’t go on a date,” he murmurs. “Just hang out with me.”

You don’t answer. Your chest is too tight.

You just let your hand find his. Let his fingers curl around yours. And let the silence hold everything neither of you is brave enough to say.

-

The door opens with the ease of someone who doesn’t need permission.

You glance over your shoulder, blinking sleep out of your eyes as the deadbolt turns and Joaquin steps inside your apartment like he’s done it a hundred times before—which, to be fair, he has.

He doesn’t call out right away. Just drops his keys into the bowl by the door, then sets a brown paper bag on the kitchen counter with a quiet thump. There’s a heaviness to the way he moves—shoulders tense beneath the hoodie, jaw tight. Like he’s holding something in his mouth he doesn’t want to taste.

He finally speaks, voice softer than usual. “I brought food.”

You shift upright on the couch, legs bare and half-tucked beneath your worn oversized t-shirt, hair still a little messy from a nap you didn’t mean to take. The room smells like lavender and soy sauce and something unspoken.

He walks into the living room, eyes skimming over you quickly. He notices the sleep in your eyes, the flushed imprint of the couch cushion on your cheek. His mouth twitches.

“Sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” you lie, rubbing your face. “I was just… resting my eyes.”

He doesn’t press. Just crouches down beside the coffee table, setting out containers from your favorite spot. Garlic noodles. Veggie spring rolls. That crispy tofu he used to mock you for but now steals from when he thinks you’re not looking.

You pull yourself up and sit beside him on the floor without thinking, your shoulder brushing his. Close, like always. Too close for comfort, but not close enough to matter.

“Everything okay?” you ask after a few minutes, your chopsticks hovering over a spring roll.

He pauses, container halfway to his mouth.

You watch his jaw work, the muscles clenching once, twice.

Then he says, “She called again.”

You don’t need to ask who she is. You lower your chopsticks, rest your hand against the cushion beside you to anchor yourself. “What did Lea want?”

He exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a bitter laugh. “To talk. To see me. To maybe—” he waves a hand, “—start over.”

You’re careful. Quiet. “And… are you thinking about it?”

His silence is answer enough.

You try not to show it—how that silence lands like a weight in your gut. How the idea of him going back to her feels like watching a storm come in slow across the water. Inevitable. Distant. But you feel the pressure building anyway.

“She says she misses me,” he murmurs, mostly to the noodles. “That she didn’t get closure.”

You swallow hard. “Do you need closure?”

He shrugs. Doesn’t answer. Just shifts his weight, leans back against the couch behind him, and stares at the muted TV screen playing something neither of you are really watching.

You nod slowly and pick at your food again. “Right.”

You don’t say, You’ve been sleeping on my couch three nights a week. You text me first every morning. You bring me soup when I’m sick and groceries when I’m too tired to shop. You hold my hand when I’m scared, and you never let go unless I make you.

You don’t say, How can you want her when you already have me?

Instead, you clear your throat and ask, “You want a beer?”

He looks at you. For the first time since he walked in, really looks at you. His eyes drift down—over your bare legs, the collar of your shirt stretched loose at the neck, the sleepy flush still in your cheeks. Something flickers behind his expression, there and gone before you can name it.

“No,” he says, voice low. “I’m good.”

You nod again and reach for the remote, turning the volume up a few clicks—not enough to fill the space, just enough to dull the silence.

By the time you finish eating, the light outside has faded to navy. That thick, late-evening blue that makes everything feel closer. Quieter. You’ve both migrated to the couch, feet up, bodies relaxed but angled toward each other.

Joaquin’s slouched low, legs stretched out, hoodie rumpled around his waist. You’ve got one of the throw blankets half-draped over your legs and the other over his lap, tossed there casually when you got cold. Your knees touch beneath the fabric. You haven’t moved.

The TV glows in front of you, flickering shadows across his face. He’s watching, sort of. Mostly, he’s just still. Like he doesn’t want to risk the wrong movement shattering whatever this is.

You glance at him, letting your gaze linger.

He looks tired. But it’s more than that. He looks worn. Like he’s been carrying something for a long time and doesn’t know how to set it down.

“Hey,” you whisper. “You okay?” His answer is too quiet to hear the first time. You shift closer, knees knocking his. “What?”

“I’m just… tired of feeling like I owe people parts of myself.”

Your breath catches. “You don’t owe her anything, Joaquin.”

His jaw ticks. He looks at you then, eyes dark and soft all at once. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “I know.”

You don’t know what to say to that. Not really.

So you move. Carefully. Slowly. You shift toward him and tuck yourself into his side like it’s instinct—like your body already knows the path. He doesn’t flinch. Just curls an arm around your shoulders and lets you lean in, your cheek against his chest.

You stay like that. His thumb drawing slow, idle circles on your arm. His chest rising and falling beneath your ear. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat. A lullaby you didn’t know you needed.

“You’re safe with me,” you whisper.

The words slip out before you can stop them. Quiet. Steady. Heavy with everything you’ve never said out loud.

And for once, he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t smirk or deflect.

His hand—where it’s been tracing slow, thoughtless circles over your arm—goes still. You feel the change in him instantly, like something inside him has turned to face you.

His breath hitches, the faintest catch in his chest. You feel it under your cheek. Then the subtle ripple of a swallow, like he’s forcing something down—emotion, maybe. Or want. Or words that don’t quite make it to the surface.

“I know,” he says, so soft you barely catch it.

You tilt your face up before you’ve even made the choice to do it. You just need to see him.

His profile is half-lit by the television’s glow—his lashes casting shadows on his cheeks, the faint crease in his brow still present, even now. He’s looking ahead, but not at the screen. Not at anything.

Just… still.

Your face is so close to his you can feel the ghost of his breath across your lips. Warm. Steady. Familiar in a way that makes your chest ache.

Your noses nearly brush. One twitch closer and they would. Your legs are tangled under the blanket. His fingers still rest against your waist, just under the hem of your shirt, unmoving but firm. Like he doesn’t know he’s holding on, or like he’s afraid to let go.

The air buzzes—hot and tight between you, electric with all the things neither of you have ever said. All the chances you’ve never taken. All the time you’ve spent not doing this.

You wonder if he can feel your heart racing. You wonder if he knows it’s been his name inside it for years.

Your lips part just slightly. Not in invitation. Not exactly. Just… readiness. Waiting. Bracing.

You don’t move.

And neither does he.

But something shifts. Deep and quiet and undeniable. Like the entire room has tilted four degrees and nothing will sit quite right again.

He exhales, low and shaky, and the breath dances across your mouth like a promise almost made.

And still—nothing.

No kiss.

No lean-in.

Just the ache of something so close it feels like it touches every nerve in your body.

You let your head rest against his chest again, slowly. Carefully. Like lowering a bridge that almost caught fire.

Neither of you speaks but you both feel it. The moment that didn’t happen. And the weight of what it means.

-

You wake sometime later, slow and disoriented, caught in the kind of sleep that doesn’t feel like rest.

The room is quiet, except for the low hum of the fridge and the muted murmur of the TV—still playing something you’d long since stopped watching. Outside, distant city sounds bleed in through the windows: a car passing, a siren somewhere blocks away, the low bark of a dog.

Your cheek is pressed against warm cotton. Joaquin’s chest.

Your arm is draped across his stomach. His is curled around your waist, heavy and solid, hand tucked just beneath the hem of your shirt where your skin is soft and bare. His fingers aren’t moving, not quite—but they twitch every now and then, a subtle flex against your lower back, like some part of him is still holding on in his sleep.

You don’t move.

You barely breathe.

It should be uncomfortable—too intimate, too exposed—but it’s not. It’s warm. Familiar. Dangerous in a way that feels like home.

You can feel his heartbeat, steady and slow beneath your ear. It lulls you. Grounds you.

You wonder if he can feel yours. How fast it’s racing. How hard it’s trying not to hope.

You stay like that for a long time, eyes half-closed, watching the shadows dance across the walls. His breath brushes the crown of your head each time he exhales. One of his legs is tangled with yours beneath the blanket. Your thighs are pressed together. Your whole body fits against his like it was made for this.

And you think—This could be everything. This could be it.

If only.

Eventually, your chest tightens too much. The stillness becomes too loud. You feel the weight of your own desire folding in on itself like a collapsing star.

Carefully, reluctantly, you shift.

You slide your arm from across his stomach, moving slowly enough not to wake him. You lift your head from his chest. His fingers twitch again, just slightly, like some part of him senses the loss of you even in sleep.

He stirs, brow pulling faintly. Mumbles something in Spanish—soft, low, slurred with sleep. You can’t quite make it out. Maybe your name. Maybe a dream. Maybe something you were never meant to hear.

Then he rolls onto his back, sighing. The arm around your waist slips away, falls limp beside him. The blanket shifts.

And suddenly the warmth is gone.

You sit up fully, pulling your own limbs close, arms hugging your knees to your chest. Your shirt slips off one shoulder, cool air brushing your skin.

The room feels different now. Too quiet. Too cold. The air between you somehow filled with the ghost of what almost happened.

You stand, slowly, and cross to the window. Arms wrapped tight around yourself. You stare out into the dark city street, but your eyes catch on the reflection in the glass—your silhouette beside his on the couch. You, upright. Him, sleeping.

You, wide awake with everything you can’t say.

He looks so peaceful like that. Eyelashes fanned against his cheeks. Mouth parted slightly. One hand resting palm-up where you used to be.

He looks like yours.

He isn’t.

And that’s what breaks you a little.

Because he feels like home. And you’re still sleeping in the guest room of your own heart.

You press a hand to the cool glass of the window and close your eyes.

And you wonder—how long can something stay unspoken before it becomes unbearable?

How long before the silence between you splits wide enough to swallow you whole?

-

It’s already warm when you walk into the bar, and it only gets hotter.

Bodies sway shoulder to shoulder under the amber haze of low lights. There’s a thin layer of sweat clinging to your collarbone before you’ve even finished your first drink. The bass from the speakers thrums through your chest like a second heartbeat, low and insistent, steady enough to pull you toward it.

He finds you in the crowd without looking.

You spot him first—leaning casually against the high-top near the back, dark shirt clinging to his chest, a chain catching the light at his throat. His curls are still damp, falling into his eyes in soft, messy strands. His smile finds you the second your gaze meets his.

God, you wish he wouldn’t look at you like that. Like he knows something you haven’t let yourself admit yet.

“About time,” Joaquin calls as you slip through the crowd toward him, the familiar rasp of his voice slicing through the music, warm and low.

“You’re early,” you say, sliding into the space beside him.

“Had a feeling you’d be late.” His eyes flick down, briefly, to your bare legs, then back up—slowly. “You wore that dress.”

You glance down at it. Black, short, skin-hugging. You picked it because you liked how it made you feel. And maybe—just maybe—because you knew he’d see it.

You lift a brow. “You got a problem with it?”

“No,” he says, too quickly. His tongue clicks behind his teeth. “Not even a little.”

You look away before he can see what that does to you.

The night blurs at the edges. A round of drinks. Someone from your group orders shots. Laughter curls like smoke in the air. You loosen slowly, like film unraveling from the spool—one beat, one sip, one sidelong glance at him at a time.

He’s magnetic. Always is. People orbit him. But he keeps coming back to you.

His elbow bumps yours as he leans in to whisper something you don’t catch because the music is too loud. You turn your head, and your faces end up too close, his mouth inches from yours.

You don’t breathe.

He just smirks. “Dance with me, mami.”

You shake your head. “No one’s dancing.”

He nods toward the crowd, where couples sway and grind in a barely contained pulse of heat and sweat and need. “They are.”

You hesitate for one breath too long.

Then you nod.

And follow him in.

The music is sticky-slow now, heavy with bass and syrupy synth, the kind of rhythm that coils low in your stomach and spreads like warmth through your limbs.

Joaquin turns to face you as you step into the center of the dance floor. The world narrows. There are people all around you—laughing, moving, bodies pressed close—but the second his hands find your waist, you forget how to think about anything but him.

His touch is grounding—hot and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, fingers pressing in like he’s measuring the shape of you through muscle and memory. He pulls you closer, a smooth drag of your hips against his. His breath is slow and controlled, but his hands aren’t.

You settle your palms on his chest, just over where his heart beats slow and strong beneath your touch. His shirt is soft from wear, clinging in places where the heat has melted it to his skin, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breath under your fingertips.

Your hips begin to move—slow at first. Testing. His body matches yours without hesitation, like he already knew where to find your rhythm.

The space between you disappears.

Your chests brush. His thigh slips between yours, and you let it, let yourself move with him, let your body find that perfect friction where your thighs part and settle over the thick press of his leg.

You roll into him, just once, and the sensation—sharp, electric—shoots through you so fast it steals your breath.

His fingers tighten on your hips.

He leans in, voice low and hot against your ear. “You’re not usually this quiet.”

“I’m not usually this—” you start, then swallow hard. His thigh flexes between your legs. “This drunk.”

He makes a low sound, almost a laugh. Almost a groan. “You’re not drunk.”

“I’m buzzed,” you counter, but your voice is thinner now, breathier.

“No,” he murmurs, lips grazing the edge of your jaw. “You’re feeling me. That’s not the same thing.”

You inhale sharply when he shifts—subtle but deliberate—and the pressure between your thighs spikes. Your pulse thunders in your ears. You grab at his shirt, curling your fingers into the soft fabric at his shoulders, nails digging in just slightly when your hips grind together again.

His hand slips lower on your back. Not quite possessive. But close.

He guides you now, slow and deliberate. Rocking. Teasing. Your stomach clenches with every drag of your body over his. You’re barely dancing anymore. This isn’t for the crowd. This isn’t for the music.

This is you and him—wrapped in heat and breath and restraint that’s seconds from slipping.

“Joaquin…” you breathe.

He pulls back a fraction. Enough to see your face. Enough to make your chest heave from the loss of contact.

His eyes sweep over you—your parted lips, your flushed cheeks, your dazed, hungry stare—and his expression softens into something dangerous. Like he’s remembering every time he wanted you and didn’t touch. Every time you smiled and he looked away. Every time he could have.

He brushes his thumb along your jaw. The pad of it grazes your cheekbone.

“Tell me to stop,” he says.

His voice is low. Rough. Edged with something close to please.

You should. You know that.

But his thigh is still pressed between yours, and your dress is still riding up, and your whole body feels like it’s straining toward him, like it needs him.

You don’t tell him to stop.

Instead, your hand slips up the back of his neck, into his curls, soft and damp with sweat. You curl your fingers there. You tug him down.

And then you kiss him.

Your breath catches against his lips. His jaw flexes. His fingers tighten. You kiss him like you mean to end him. Like this has been building between you for years.

It’s not careful. Not sweet. It’s messy, desperate, soaked in tequila and sweat and all the almosts you’ve survived up until now.

He groans the second your mouth slants over his, low and guttural, like the sound rips out of him without warning. His lips part, tongue swiping against yours in a kiss that’s already too much, too deep, too real. His hands are everywhere—one curling around your jaw, the other flattening low on your back, pulling your hips into his with a grind that has your thighs trembling.

You gasp into him, and he chases the sound, mouth sealing over yours again, swallowing every breath like it’s the last one he’ll get.

The music and the bodies around you disappear. All you can feel is him.

You don’t know who moves first, but suddenly he’s walking you backward, lips never leaving yours, hands tight on your waist as he guides you off the dance floor. You stumble into the shadows of the bar, around the corner behind a pillar near the back wall. It’s dim. Private. Hidden from view.

He presses you into the wall like he can’t not touch you. His thigh pushes between yours again and you rock down without thinking, chasing friction.

Your dress hikes up your legs, hem catching high on your thighs. The rough fabric of his jeans hits exactly where you need it, and when your hips grind against him, you whimper.

He drags his mouth down your jaw, open-mouthed kisses along the line of your throat. “You’re gonna ruin me mami,” he breathes, voice rough and wrecked. “You don’t even know.”

“I do,” you gasp, hands tugging at the hem of his shirt, sliding underneath. His skin is hot, slick with sweat, muscles shifting beneath your fingers as you run your palms up his torso. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

He groans again—head tipping back like he’s trying to catch his breath, like he’s already lost it. His hand slides down, gripping your ass, lifting you until your back arches and your hips grind down on his thigh again, harder this time.

The seam of his jeans presses against your center and it’s too much—perfect in a way that makes your breath catch and your eyes flutter shut.

He must feel it. Must feel the way you shudder. How wet you already are.

“Fuck, baby,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to yours. “You’re soaked.”

You nod, desperate. Hips still rocking. Mouth parted, panting into his breath.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Please, don’t—”

And he doesn’t. Not right away.

His mouth crashes back onto yours, kiss deeper, rougher, hand sliding up under your dress to grip the back of your thigh, the edge of your panties, fingers digging into the soft heat of your skin.

You’re moaning now, helpless against the press of his body and the way his tongue curls against yours and the thick, perfect pressure of his thigh between your legs. You roll into him shamelessly, chasing that edge, one of your hands buried in his curls, the other dragging down his chest, clutching at anything you can find.

You want him.

Here. Now. Against this wall. In the dark.

You shift, grind down harder, and your head tips back against the brick with a quiet, broken sound.

“Joaquin—”

And that’s when he breaks.

He jerks back like it hurts, chest heaving, eyes wild.

“Fuck,” he says again, this time like a warning. “This isn’t nothing, mami.”

“What—?” You blink at him, dazed, lips swollen, your thighs still trembling from the loss of him.

He steps back. One foot. Then another. Hands still hovering like he doesn’t want to stop touching you but has to.

“If we keep going…” he pants, voice low and frayed at the edges, “I’m not gonna stop.”

Your body stills. Every nerve ending still sparking. You blink at him, dazed. Still drunk on the heat of his mouth, the pressure of his thigh, the way your body nearly unraveled in his hands.

He lets out a short, shaky breath, dragging a hand through his curls. “Jesus. We’re—fuck, we’re not doing this. Not here.”

You laugh. It sounds breathless. Too high.

“Yeah,” you echo, heart slamming against your ribs. “Yeah, that would’ve been… wow. That would’ve been a terrible idea.”

“Like. Hall-of-fame level bad.”

“Bad decisions in dark corners of bars? Never ends well.”

He nods quickly, swallowing, trying to straighten his shirt, trying not to look at your thighs where your dress is still bunched up, at your lips still wet from his mouth.

“We should, uh…” he gestures vaguely toward the exit, or maybe toward time rewinding.

“Rejoin the group,” you say at the same time. Too fast.

“Right,” he mumbles.

Neither of you moves.

Then you laugh again, too loudly this time, shoving your hands through your hair. “We really need to stop pre-gaming tequila.”

He huffs a laugh, smile twitching, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Next time we’re sticking to beer. And boundaries.”

You nod. “Right. Boundaries.”

You pretend that the word doesn’t land like a bullet in your chest. You tug your dress down. He adjusts his sleeves. And then you walk back into the noise and light, side by side but never touching.

You’re both still flushed. Still buzzing. Still wrecked by what almost happened.

But you say nothing.

Because if you did, it might become real. And you’re not ready for that.

Not yet.

-

The next morning is quiet.

You’d expect a text. Something dumb. Some callback to tequila or dancing or—God forbid—the way his thigh felt between yours.

But there’s nothing.

No meme. No “still thinking about that guy grinding behind us” joke. No voice note where he laughs and pretends his voice isn’t hoarse from moaning into your mouth in the dark.

Just silence.

You wake up still aching. Body heavy with the aftershocks of almost. The taste of him still on your lips like a secret. The place between your legs still tender from where you chased friction against him, so close to coming undone you could barely stand.

You press your face into your pillow.

And you don’t call him either.

-

Two days pass.

You fill them with errands and laundry and the kinds of tasks that feel productive but really just help you avoid thinking.

You keep your phone on you like a lifeline. Check it too often. Try to stop. Fail.

When it finally buzzes with his name, your chest seizes.

Torres: Headed out with Sam for a run. Might be a few days.

No emojis. No voice note. Just… that.

Short. Casual. Dry.

It shouldn’t sting. It does anyway.

You type and delete a dozen replies before settling on:

You: Stay safe.

He doesn’t answer.

-

The next update doesn’t come from him.

It comes from Sam. Mid-afternoon. A phone call you weren’t expecting.

“Hey,” he says, voice low. Tense. “Wanted to give you a heads up. Torres is okay—he’s okay—but he took a hit. We’re bringing him back in tonight.”

Your whole body goes cold.

“What kind of hit?”

“Caught some shrapnel. Shoulder and ribs. Nothing life-threatening. He was conscious the whole time, just banged up. But I know you’d want to know.”

You nod even though he can’t see you. “Yeah. Thanks, Sam.”

Your voice comes out calmer than it should. He hangs up after a few more assurances. But you’re already pacing. Already pulling on shoes. Already at the door before your brain catches up with the fact that you don’t even know where they’re bringing him yet.

-

You find him at the safehouse. Small, tucked on the edge of the city. Sam texted the location twenty minutes later, and you made it there in fifteen.

Joaquin is on the couch when you arrive. Shirtless. Wrapped in gauze. His hair is damp with sweat, curls flattened to his forehead, eyes half-lidded like he hasn’t really slept yet.

He doesn’t hear you come in.

He looks… wrecked. And still, somehow, so fucking beautiful.

You kneel beside the couch before he notices you. Place a hand—soft, careful—on the edge of the cushion.

He blinks. Sees you.

You try to smile.

“Hey.”

His lips twitch. “Hey, mami.” The nickname makes your throat close. It feels different now. Too tender.

You swallow it down. “Sam said you were okay.”

He shrugs. Winces. “Define okay.”

Your eyes sweep over him—slow, searching. Bandages across his ribs. Gauze at his shoulder. Bruises darkening along his side. His fingers twitch slightly, like he’s still wired, like his body doesn’t know how to stop fighting.

“You look like shit.”

He grins. “You always know what to say.”

You reach out, tentative. Brush a strand of hair off his forehead. He leans into it without thinking.

“I would’ve come sooner if—” You stop. Breathe. “I didn’t know.”

His smile fades, just slightly. “I didn’t want you to worry.”

“Well,” you murmur, hand still in his hair, “too late for that.”

You expect him to tease again. Make a joke. Pretend. But he doesn’t.

His eyes drop to your mouth, then back to your eyes. And for the first time since that night, he looks like he might actually say something real.

Then he exhales, and just like that—it’s gone. “Help me sit up?” he asks, voice thin with effort.

You nod. Slide in behind him, letting him lean against your chest as you help shift him upright. He groans as his muscles pull.

“Careful,” you murmur, arms around him. “Don’t be a hero.”

His head tilts back against your shoulder. His breath fans over your collarbone.

“I missed this,” he whispers.

You stiffen.

“This?”

“Being around you.” A pause. “You smell like home.”

Your heart twists.

You could say something now. Me too. I was scared. I thought maybe you regretted it. I didn’t want to make it worse.

But instead, you laugh—soft, almost shy. “Still high on pain meds?”

“Definitely.”

And that’s the story you’ll both stick to.

-

Later, when the pain meds finally start to pull him under, he grows quiet.

Not just tired—quiet in that way Joaquin only ever gets when he doesn’t want you to know how bad it really is.

His head is heavy where it rests against your shoulder. One arm loosely bandaged, the other draped across his lap. The bruises along his ribs are starting to darken into something angry. His breathing has evened out, but every now and then, he winces when he shifts, like his body won’t let him forget.

You brush your fingers through his curls, soft and slow, and he makes a sound—almost a purr. Eyes closed, lips parted, too relaxed to be pretending anymore.

“You should lie back,” you whisper.

“No,” he murmurs. “Comfortable.”

“You’re going to mess up your back.”

“Don’t care.”

You shake your head but don’t push it. He’s warm against you. Steady. Too much. Not enough.

A few minutes pass in silence, just the soft hum of the fan in the corner and the weight of his body against yours. You think maybe he’s drifted off—his breath is steady, eyelids unmoving.

You shift a little, adjusting your leg under him.

His hand shoots out. Finds yours. Grabs it.

Your heart skips.

He doesn’t open his eyes.

“Stay,” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep. “Just—don’t move.”

You blink, startled. “Joaquin—”

“I’m not sleeping if you let go,” he says, clearer now. Dramatic. Almost pouty. “Swear to God, I’ll fight you with one working arm.”

You stifle a laugh. “You’re literally half-conscious.”

“Doesn’t mean I won’t win.”

You roll your eyes and squeeze his hand. “Fine.”

But he doesn’t let go.

Not even after you settle deeper into the couch. Not even after his head tips forward again, breath soft against your collarbone. His hand stays locked with yours—firm, possessive, a silent tether.

Like if he lets go, he might drift somewhere he can’t come back from.

You don’t try to pull away again.

Instead, you trace your thumb slowly across his knuckles. Watch the way his fingers twitch, even in sleep, adjusting to keep you close. He mumbles something too soft to catch—your name maybe, or just a breath of it.

And still, he holds on.

Like he’s afraid you’ll leave if he doesn’t.

Like somewhere deep down, even beneath the denial and the laughter and the half-spoken nothings, he already knows.

So you stay there. Hand in his. Heart unraveling slowly in your chest. And you let him hold on.

Even if neither of you is ready to admit what it means.

-

Joaquin’s healing.

Physically, anyway.

The bruises along his ribs have gone yellow at the edges. The stiffness in his shoulder only shows when he thinks no one’s looking. He walks the stairs two at a time again. Smiles more. Flirts more. His laugh is back—loud, whole, dangerous.

But the space between you hasn’t healed at all.

You still talk every day. You still know his order before he says it. You still bring him protein bars he likes and roll your eyes when he tells you he doesn’t need them.

But something’s changed. And neither of you will name it.

-

He comes by late.

Almost midnight.

He knocks like it’s nothing, like this isn’t the first time he’s shown up at your door since the kiss. Like the air between you hasn’t shifted so fully that even breathing the same space feels dangerous now.

You open the door in your sleep shirt—one of those oversized, threadbare things that hangs off one shoulder and smells like detergent and summer. You weren’t trying to look good. You weren’t trying to tempt him.

But the way his eyes pause on you says you did anyway.

He clears his throat. “Forgot my external charger.”

You arch a brow. “You own, like, three.”

He shrugs, the corner of his mouth tugging into that familiar half-smile. “Yeah, but this one’s my favorite.”

You step aside to let him in. The apartment is quiet. Dim. The glow from the kitchen spills down the hall like a whisper. You move ahead of him without a word, padding barefoot over tile, shoulders loose with exhaustion you don’t quite feel.

You pour a glass of water at the sink, and when you turn, he’s still there—leaning against the counter like it’s habit, eyes following your every movement.

His gaze drops.

To your thighs, bare beneath the hem of your shirt. To the curve of your shoulder where the fabric slips. To the place where your lips part as you bring the glass to your mouth.

You hand him the charger like it’s a lifeline. Like it might give you something to hold onto.

“You’re good now?” you ask, voice light. Easy.

He nods. “Back to mission-ready, according to Sam.”

“That’s good.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. It feels brittle. Forced.

He doesn’t leave.

He lingers in the quiet, something heavy settling into the space between your bodies—familiar and foreign all at once. Then he says it, too casual to be casual.

“Lea called again.”

You blink. Slowly. Like you didn’t hear him.

But you did.

You always do.

Your stomach knots before the words finish landing. That slow, cold twist you know too well. You open the fridge to give your hands something to do. To hide the way your expression falters, just for a second.

You stare into the light, at rows of neatly arranged condiments, and say, “What’d she want?”

Behind you, he shrugs. You hear the soft rustle of fabric. The creak of the counter as he shifts his weight.

“Just to talk,” he says. “Said she missed me.”

You shut the fridge a little harder than necessary. The sound echoes.

You don’t look at him. You just lean your hands on the counter and stare down at the pale stretch of tile, the pattern you’ve memorized. The silence pulls taut between you, like thread stretched to its limit.

You tell yourself: If he wanted you, he’d say something.

You tell yourself: He already had his chance.

But your throat is tight. Your skin is flushed. Your pulse won’t slow.

You take a breath and finally turn toward him. He’s already watching you. Not in the teasing way you’re used to. Not with a smile or a smirk. But still. Quiet. Unreadable.

His eyes catch yours and hold. And in that pause—drawn out, aching, so heavy you feel it in your chest—you wonder if he’s waiting for you to say it.

For you to break first.

Because he’s looking at you like he knows.

Like he’s already read every line of your silence and decided he’d rather live in it than force either of you to say the one thing that might unravel everything.

You blink.

He doesn’t.

And for a moment, the whole world shrinks to the space between you, the weight of your longing, and the truth neither of you dares to name.

-

You start dating again the following week.

At first, it’s defiance. A kind of protest you carry in your posture, your lipstick, the tilt of your head when you smile just a little too easily. You say yes when a stranger buys you a drink. You swipe right on someone who seems decent. You respond to texts with emojis and exclamation points. You even laugh out loud on the first date—partly because he’s funny, mostly because you don’t want to be thinking about anyone else.

But you are.

Always.

Even when you’re sitting across from Eli, who’s all clean lines and expensive cologne, you find yourself watching the door, thinking how Joaquin always shows up ten minutes late with some half-assed excuse and a grin that makes up for it.

Eli’s sweet. Polite. He opens your car door, asks about your work, orders a second glass of wine only when you do. He smiles when you talk, really listens. His teeth are a little too straight. His opinions a little too smooth. His fingers, when they brush yours, make you feel nothing at all.

You say yes to a second date anyway.

Mostly because Joaquin hasn’t asked about the first.

You don’t know what makes you more bitter—the fact that he didn’t ask, or the fact that he clearly noticed.

You catch him glancing at your phone one afternoon when it buzzes on the armrest between you. Just a flicker of his eyes before he looks away. But you see it.

You always do.

He doesn’t say a word.

You don’t either.

You keep talking about the mission Sam wants him on. You keep sipping your iced coffee. You keep acting like the string between your ribcage and his hasn’t grown taut enough to snap.

-

The invitation comes two days later, and of course, it’s her.

You’re on your balcony, ankles crossed, a blanket wrapped around your legs. The sun’s started its slow descent, painting the sky with blush-pink clouds. You’ve got a mug in your hands, something lukewarm and too sweet. You’re trying to read, but your eyes keep skating across the same line.

Your phone buzzes.

Unknown Number: Hey :) Joaquin said you’re seeing someone?? Eli?? Thought it could be cute if we all went out together sometime! Me, him, you, your guy. Like a double date but not awkward. Just fun!

What do you think?

You reread it four times. Your stomach drops on the first. You start to laugh on the second. By the third, you’re wondering if this is some kind of cosmic punishment.

And by the fourth, you feel nothing at all.

You don’t respond. You don’t even move. Your thumb hovers over the screen, motionless, until another message pings—this time from the contact that matters more than it should.

Torres: Lea got excited. Said it might be “healing.” I told her I’d ask you. But we don’t have to.

Your chest tightens at how careful he’s being. How neutral. How unassuming.

You know he’s waiting. Waiting for you to call it off. To say no. To admit it’s too messy. Too weird. Too fucking painful.

But you don’t.

Because you’re not sure what you’re more afraid of: saying no and him pulling away, or saying yes and having to watch him touch her across the table.

You don’t answer right away.

You stay outside until the sun sinks below the skyline and the warmth fades from your mug. By the time you go back inside, it’s already decided.

And somehow, the plan is in motion.

You, Eli.

Lea.

And Joaquin.

-

You meet him for coffee the day before the double date.

Neutral territory. Daylight. Public. All the safeguards in place to keep your heart from doing something stupid.

He gets there first, which is rare. You spot him through the window before you push the door open—head bowed slightly, fingers curled around a paper cup, his other hand idly tapping at the lid like he’s got something restless beneath his skin.

His curls are messy. Sunglasses pushed up into them like he forgot they were there. Chain loose at his throat. Hoodie sleeves shoved up his forearms.

Too casual. Too him.

You swallow hard and make your way over.

He stands when you approach. Hands you your drink without looking you in the eye. The contact is brief—warm fingers brushing yours—but your pulse leaps anyway.

You sit across from him and take a long sip, pretending you don’t notice how stiff your spine has gone. How wide the table suddenly feels between you.

“This is weird, right?” you say eventually, with a laugh that sounds thinner than you meant.

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “Only if we make it weird.”

You nod. “Right. Totally.”

A beat of silence stretches between you. You stir your drink even though there’s nothing in it that needs stirring.

“You seem okay,” you say, keeping your voice light.

“I am,” he says. Then he tilts his head just slightly, eyes meeting yours for the first time. “Are you?”

You freeze.

Your fingers tighten around the cup. Your heartbeat stutters.

You look at him—really look at him.

At the soft curve of his mouth, the faint bruise still healing at his jaw. The little freckle just beneath his left eye that only shows when the sun hits right. The way his hoodie collar hangs open just enough to expose the glint of chain against collarbone, skin you remember tasting. Wanting.

You remember how his thigh felt between yours. How his breath caught when you moaned into his mouth. How he pressed you against the wall like you were the only thing holding him up.

You remember what he said—I’m not gonna stop—and how you almost let him prove it.

And you remember the silence that followed. The careful steps backward. The joke. The laugh. The way neither of you brought it up again.

The way it’s still there, buzzing beneath your skin like it never stopped.

“I’m fine,” you lie.

He nods.

Doesn’t press.

Doesn’t call you on it.

But his eyes linger on you a moment longer. Long enough to make your stomach flip. Long enough to make you wonder if he’s trying to ask a different question entirely—and neither of you knows how to answer it.

-

That night, you try on three dresses.

Then four.

Each one gets discarded more violently than the last.

Too short. Too low. Too soft. Too obvious.

You finally settle on a black one. Simple. Clean lines. High neckline. Just enough curve to pretend you’re not hiding in it.

You tell yourself you’re going neutral. You’re being respectful. But really, it’s that you don’t want him to look at you the way he did in the bar. Don’t want to feel the way you did when his thigh pressed up between yours and he moaned into your mouth like he was starving.

Because you don’t know what you’d do if it happened again. If he looked at you like that in front of her. If he touched you like that when someone else is watching.

You pull your hair up and change your earrings three times before giving up completely. Your skin is too warm. Your stomach’s in knots.

And when you check your phone, there’s a text from Eli confirming the time for tomorrow.

Under it, there’s a heart emoji.

And all you can think is:

It’s not from the right person.

You set your phone face down and stare at the mirror, wondering how the hell you’re going to survive sitting next to him tomorrow.

Watching him flirt with her.

While pretending you didn’t already taste what he sounds like when he can’t catch his breath.

-

You arrive first.

Eli’s hand rests at the small of your back as you step into the restaurant—upscale, dimly lit, all amber tones and soft jazz that makes you feel like you’re trapped inside a movie you didn’t audition for. You let him lead you to the hostess stand, let him say your name, let him touch you like it means something.

You feel none of it.

You spot them before they spot you.

Lea’s laughing—head tilted, red lipstick perfect, long nails curled around a wine glass like she’s posing for a lifestyle ad. Joaquin is beside her and he’s already looking at you.

Has been, apparently.

You meet his gaze across the room. One second. Two. Long enough to register the tension in his jaw. The way his eyes flick to where Eli’s hand still lingers on your back.

He doesn’t smile.

Neither do you.

Then she notices you and waves—bright, enthusiastic, like none of this is strange. Like your stomach isn’t already twisting into something ugly.

You follow Eli to the table, plastering a smile on your face that feels like it might crack if anyone looks too closely.

Joaquin stands, pulls your chair out like a gentleman.

“Hey,” he says softly, only to you.

You glance up at him, trying not to breathe in the warmth of him, the way he smells like spice and cologne and something you still dream about.

“Hey,” you echo.

You’re seated across from him, just like she planned—perfect symmetry, like this was supposed to be cute. Eli beside you, smiling easily. Lea beside Joaquin, laughing too loud, tossing her hair like she knows she looks good.

Joaquin hasn’t said much.

He offers short replies when spoken to, but mostly he drinks from his water glass and watches the candles flicker. His jaw’s tense. His smile comes late, if at all. His shoulders haven’t relaxed once since you sat down.

You try not to watch him too closely.

Try not to notice the blue of his shirt—the one that makes his skin look more radiant. The way he shaved, but not too clean. The tiny scar at the edge of his chin that only shows when he tips his head just right.

You try not to think about how his mouth felt against yours.

You fail.

Eli is telling some story about a surf trip to Baja, and you’re nodding politely, sipping wine you don’t care about, when you see it.

Joaquin’s leg is bouncing under the table. Fast. Restless. The way it always does when he’s anxious or overthinking.

You’ve known that tic since you were nineteen.

Without meaning to, without even fully realizing what you’re doing, you shift in your chair and stretch your leg out beneath the table—pressing your calf against his.

The movement is slow. Deliberate. Your knee brushes his first. Then more of you touches him.

The bounce stops instantly.

You feel his body go still. The sharp inhale he doesn’t let out.

You don’t look at him right away but you don’t move your leg either. You stay connected, just like that—calf to calf, knee to knee, warmth pressing into warmth beneath the white linen tablecloth, hidden from the people who don’t know any better.

Eli keeps talking. Lea laughs at something and bumps Joaquin’s arm with hers. He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t lean in either.

You glance up, finally.

And find him looking straight at you.

Not just looking—seeing.

His mouth parts slightly. His brows pull together, just the faintest crease between them. And his eyes—God, his eyes—are full of something unreadable. Something wrecked. Something like regret. Something like realization.

For a second, the restaurant fades.

You’re not on a date. You’re not seated next to other people you don’t want.

It’s just the two of you.

The pressure of your leg against his. The memory of his breath in your mouth. The pulse you can feel between your legs. And then someone says his name—Lea’s voice, light and oblivious—and he looks away.

The moment passes.

But you don’t move your leg.

And neither does he.

-

The night eases into something smoother than expected.

Soft jazz hums overhead. Candlelight flickers low across the table. The air smells faintly of citrus and red wine and something richer beneath it—something warm. Familiar.

Lea’s voice drifts across the conversation, layered with Eli’s easy baritone, both of them carrying on, talking about some new art exhibit, or maybe a weekend hike—they’re words you nod along with, but barely track.

Because across the table, Joaquin says something under his breath and you snort before you even catch the full shape of it. Your glass stills midair. Your mouth pulls into a grin without your permission.

The laugh bubbles out of you anyway.

“I did not almost get arrested,” you say, pointing at him across the candle.

He arches a brow, smug and lazy. “You scaled the embassy gate in a blackout hoodie and forgot you had three knives on you.”

“One was decorative,” you shoot back.

“It was pink.”

“And glittery.”

“And illegal.”

You roll your eyes, fighting a smile. The table chuckles around you, but you’re not looking at them. You’re looking at him. And he’s looking right back. His eyes glint—low, amused, golden in the soft light.

It feels like breathing for the first time in weeks.

You don’t even realize your knees are still pressed together beneath the table until he shifts—reaching for his drink, leaning in just slightly—and the press of his thigh against yours deepens.

The contact sparks.

Sharp. Immediate.

You don’t move. Instead, you let your shin slide against his, the slow drag of flesh on denim, heat on heat.

A pause.

Then—you feel it.

The inhale.

Barely a breath. His throat working around it. The soft twitch of his fingers on the glass as if he almost forgot how to hold it.

You look down. Then up. Catch him mid-sip, his eyes cutting sideways toward yours.

You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

There’s a ghost of a smirk on his lips now. Something private.

And you should look away but all you can think about is the way his hands felt curled around your thighs. The taste of his mouth, hot and impatient. His breath at your ear, the rasp of his voice when he groaned into your throat like he needed you just to stay upright.

His leg shifts slightly. Yours follows. Neither of you flinch.

The others are still talking. Laughing. Clinking glasses.

And between you and Joaquin—beneath the tablecloth, in the quiet hum of your locked knees and sliding calves—there’s a conversation happening no one else can hear.

And you remember, all over again, just how easy it is to fall into rhythm with him. You think about the soft rasp of his voice when he said, “This isn’t nothing, mami.”

And the way he said nothing at all afterward.

And how impossible it’s becoming to pretend it doesn’t mean something.

-

When the night ends, there are no dramatic goodbyes. No outbursts. No tension you can’t smooth over.

The others talk about meeting up again.

You laugh, say something noncommittal. Joaquin opens the door for you as you leave.

He says, “Get home safe,” low and quiet.

You murmur, “You too.”

And when you pass him, your arm brushes his. He turns his head.

But he doesn’t say anything.

And you don’t look back.

-

You’re sitting side by side on your couch two weeks later, two takeout containers balanced across your thighs, legs kicked up on the coffee table, some mindless documentary playing in the background. Joaquin’s thigh brushes yours now and then, like always. You pass the sauce back and forth. You argue about whether or not the narrator’s accent is fake. It feels normal.

You almost convince yourself it is.

Until he says it.

“Lea asked to talk tonight.”

You freeze with your fork halfway to your mouth. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. FaceTime. She said it’s important.”

You don’t ask what it’s about. You already know.

Or at least—you think you do.

You imagine it before he can explain: her, bright-eyed, soft-voiced, asking him to finally make it official again. That this time, she means it. That this time, they’ll try for real.

You imagine his fingers on her waist instead of yours. His smile, easy and golden, reserved for someone else. You imagine how easy it would be to lose him—really lose him—and still have to sit across from him like it doesn’t tear something vital out of you.

You force a nod. “Cool.”

Cool. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you’re not already bracing for something to end.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. Just glances at you, his eyes heavy, unreadable. His hand twitches like he might reach for yours.

But he doesn’t.

You don’t look at him.

You just keep eating, eyes on the screen, heart sinking slow and quiet into your ribs.

He doesn’t tell you when the call is. Doesn’t say if he’s nervous.

But he doesn’t finish his food either.

And you sit there together, close and silent, pretending this moment isn’t about to change everything.

-

You’re barefoot when he knocks.

The wineglass in your hand is nearly empty. Your legs are curled beneath you on the couch, some show droning on in the background that you’re not really watching. Your phone is face-down on the coffee table, ignored. You’d already decided tonight was going to be one of those quiet, aching nights—where you keep the lights low and pretend the pit in your stomach isn’t growing.

Then comes the knock. Slow. Familiar.

You don’t even check. You already know.

When you open the door, he’s standing there—hoodie half-zipped, curls mussed like he’s been dragging his fingers through them, expression unreadable.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just looks at you. Like he’s searching for something. Like he doesn’t know what it is.

You step aside, and he slips past you without a word. His hand brushes yours as he goes by.

Your skin burns.

He drops onto your couch like his body finally gave out—sprawled wide, hands on his knees, head tipped back like he might sink straight into the cushions and disappear.

You stand there for a beat, watching the rise and fall of his chest. His leg bounces—nervous, always. He doesn’t look at you.

You head to the kitchen and pour him the last of the wine, lukewarm now. He takes the glass when you offer it but doesn’t drink.

Instead, he stares at the rim, thumb brushing the condensation.

“She met someone.” His voice is rough. Unfiltered.

“Lea?” You blink, not sure you heard right.

He nods once. You’re stunned. Of all the things you were bracing for—that wasn’t it.

She’s been wrapped around him since the beginning. Even when they were off, she always seemed one emotional voicemail away from crawling back into his lap. And he let her.

You expected a rekindling.

Not this.

You swallow around the twist in your throat. “What… what did she say?”

“Said she met someone a few weeks ago,” he says. His voice is too even. “That she didn’t want to leave things unclear. Said it was time to move on.”

You lower yourself into the armchair across from him, your wineglass forgotten in your hand.

“How do you feel about that?”

He looks at you then. And doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches you. Too long. Long enough that your skin starts to warm beneath his stare.

Your mouth parts like you might say something else, but you don’t. You just watch him watch you.

His gaze drops—for a moment—to your knees, bare and folded under your oversized tee. Then up, trailing over the soft slope of your shoulder where your shirt’s slipping just slightly off. The neckline’s too wide. It always hangs off you like that.

You hadn’t meant to look like this. You hadn’t expected company.

“I’m happy for her,” he says finally, with a shrug that’s too slow to be casual.

You nod, even as your stomach twists. “Are you sure that’s not, like… weird?” you murmur, trying to sound neutral. “I mean—she was always so… into you. And I thought you were maybe—”

He moves. A sudden shift. Not violent. But deliberate.

You stop talking. Because he rises from the couch with that soft, deadly grace he always carries on missions—like he’s not sure what he’s doing until he’s already doing it. And then he’s in front of you, lowering slowly, crouching at the edge of your chair.

His face is level with yours now. His hands rest on his knees. Then one lifts.

You don’t flinch.

He reaches forward, slowly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers graze the shell of it, warm and callused, and trail down to your jaw.

You can’t breathe. Not really. Not when he’s this close. Not when his touch is gentle like this, like he’s memorizing the feel of you.

His thumb lingers at your jawline.

You try to keep your face still, but you’re sure your eyes give you away. They always do.

He leans in—just slightly. His breath ghosts across your lips. You catch the faintest scent of him: soap, spice, something underneath that you’ve never been able to name. Something that always pulls you in.

The space between your mouths crackles. Charged. Fragile.

You don’t lean in. But you don’t lean back either.

Then—softly, with the hint of a smirk—you hear him say it.

“I’m here flirting with you,” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper, “so what do you think, mami?”

And your heart stutters. Because it sounds like a tease. Like the way he always says stupid shit when things get heavy. But his eyes are dead serious. His hand doesn’t move from your face. Your pulse thunders.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because this feels too close to truth. Too dangerous. Too much.

So instead, you smile like you always do when he’s too much. You reach up and gently, slowly, take his hand from your jaw.

“Joaquin,” you say, soft. Neutral.

He lets you. Lets you lower his hand to his lap, though his fingers linger—half-curled around yours for a beat longer than they should.

Then he shifts back, rising to his feet again, sighing like he’s not sure whether to laugh or swear.

You both let the moment go. At least, on the surface. But your chest is still tight. Your lips still burn.

And his eyes stay on you like he’s trying to decide something.

He doesn’t move back to the couch. Just stands there for a second, looking down at you—his hands curled at his sides, that same unreadable expression tugging at the corners of his mouth. You feel the weight of something building, coiling in the air between you.

Then, finally, he asks, “You still with Eli?”

The question is soft. Careful. His voice lower than before.

“What?” You blink up at him.

“Eli,” he repeats, eyes on yours. “You still seeing him?”

You almost laugh. Because of all the things you thought he might say next—that wasn’t on the list.

You lean back against the cushion, exhaling. “No. He ghosted me last week.”

Joaquin’s brows lift. “Seriously?”

You nod, swirling the wine left in your glass. “Haven’t heard from him since our last date. Didn’t really mind, though.”

That gets a faint smile out of him. “Cold.”

You shrug. “Selective.”

A beat of quiet.

He shifts his weight, then lowers himself back onto the couch—closer this time. Not touching. But the air between you has tightened again. His thigh is inches from yours.

You can feel the heat of him.

“Can I tell you something?” he says.

You glance sideways. “You’re gonna anyway.”

He smiles at that. A real one.

“I’ve been thinking about you.”

You freeze. Not visibly—at least, you hope not—but your breath stills in your throat.

“Not just lately,” he adds, voice slower now. “I mean… since the Air Force.”

You turn, staring at him. He’s not looking at you this time. His gaze is on the floor, brows furrowed, lips parted slightly like he’s working his way through the words.

“Back when we were nineteen,” he says. “Sharing shitty MREs in the back of that busted truck in Kuwait. You remember that?”

Of course you do. The dust in your hair. The blistering heat. The cold sweat from nerves neither of you wanted to admit. His thigh pressed against yours in the dark, his shoulder the only thing steady enough to lean on when the sandstorms hit.

You remember his laugh cutting through your exhaustion.

You remember wondering, once, if you’d ever feel safer than when his hand brushed yours in the dark—accidental, but maybe not.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I remember.”

“I used to think about kissing you back then,” he says, quiet. Blunt. Like he’s just letting it fall out now. “Didn’t let myself. Thought it would fuck everything up. Or that you’d laugh.”

“I wouldn’t have,” you say, almost before he finishes.

He looks at you now. You hold his gaze.

Neither of you blink.

His mouth parts, and for a second, you think maybe he’ll reach for you again.

But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

“I was an idiot,” he murmurs. “Letting you get that close and not saying anything.”

You nod. Your throat’s tight. “Yeah,” you say. “Me too.”

The silence stretches. Not empty. Not uncomfortable.

Electric.

Joaquin’s eyes flick from your mouth to your eyes and back again.

And still—neither of you look away.

“I kept thinking I had more time,” he says, voice low.

Your chest aches.

“You didn’t,” you whisper. “Not really.”

His hand twitches between you, resting on the cushion. Close enough that if you moved an inch—

You do.

You slide your fingers toward his, brushing lightly, the softest stroke.

He exhales sharply, almost like a choke, and in one breathless motion, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes into yours—not careful this time, not tentative. It’s a kiss full of wasted years and the ache of almosts. Teeth clashing. Hands greedy. Your wineglass falls to the carpet with a dull thud, forgotten, warm drops soaking the fibers.

Joaquin pulls you into his lap in one motion—your knees straddling his thighs, your fingers already fisting in the fabric at his shoulders. He groans against your mouth, low and guttural, as your hips roll against his without thinking.

It’s not sweet.

It’s not slow.

It’s starving.

His hands find your thighs, then higher—gripping under the hem of your shirt, dragging it up until your ribs are bare to the cool air.

You break the kiss long enough to pull the shirt over your head. His eyes drag over you like he can’t believe this is real.

Then you’re kissing again, harder now. His fingers splay across your back, his hips lifting to meet yours. The friction is maddening—heat grinding into heat, breath panting between kisses that don’t stop.

You tug his hoodie up.

He helps you rip it off.

His skin is hot. Familiar. You’d seen him shirtless more times than you could count, but this was different. This was want.

He kisses your jaw, down your neck, bites just hard enough at your shoulder that you gasp, clutching him tighter.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked. “I should’ve done this years ago.”

“You’re doing it now,” you breathe, your mouth dragging along his jaw, his neck, the edge of his ear.

His hands find your ass, pulling you tight against the bulge in his sweats, and you grind down, both of you gasping.

There’s nothing careful left.

He stands with you in his arms—lifts you without warning. You gasp, legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

“Couch?” he pants.

You shake your head. “Bedroom.”

He nearly stumbles trying to make it there, your body wrapped around him, your mouth on his jaw, his throat, his shoulder—any part of him you can reach. You both laugh breathlessly as he kicks open your door, backs you into it blindly, presses you against the wood with his full weight.

His hands grip your thighs like he’s claiming them. His forehead rests against yours, panting.

“You sure?” he asks, voice wrecked.

You don’t even speak. You just kiss him. And then you say, “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He lays you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

Your sheets are cool, but his body is fire—warm, broad, solid as he crawls over you, lips never leaving yours. The kiss slows, deepens. Tongue curling slow against yours in a rhythm that makes your stomach twist tight. His hand cups your jaw. His thumb strokes your cheek like he can’t believe you’re real.

“Mami,” he breathes against your mouth. “I swear to God…”

You arch into him, gasping when your bare chest drags against his. His skin is hot, damp with sweat, his chain dragging across your sternum, and when your thighs part for him, his hips settle between them like they’ve always belonged there.

He grinds once. Slow. Deep. Measured.

You both break apart with a groan that sounds like pain.

“Fuck—Joaquin.”

He does it again.

And again.

Deep, sinful rolls of his hips, dragging the length of his cock through the soaked fabric of his sweats and your panties. You’re so wet the friction sends shivers up your spine. The pressure is maddening. Not enough. Just enough.

His head drops to your shoulder. “Been thinking about this since that night at the bar,” he groans. “You riding my thigh, whining in my mouth. Fuck, mami…”

You bite his shoulder. “You should’ve said something.”

“You should’ve said something.” His hand slides between you, tugging your panties aside. His fingers find you instantly—wet, swollen, aching—and he drags them through your folds with reverence.

“Jesus,” he whispers. “This all for me?”

You nod, eyes fluttering, hips arching into his touch. “It’s always been for you.”

He groans like it physically hurts him, then leans back, tugging his sweats down just enough to free himself. You can’t stop staring—hard, flushed, dripping precome. Your mouth waters.

But you don’t have time to speak.

He’s lining up, sliding the thick head through your slick folds, teasing you both with how slowly he moves.

And then—finally—he pushes in.

You both moan like you’re falling apart. Because he’s thick. Stretching you inch by inch. Filling you in a way that makes your body seize and melt all at once.

“Shit,” he hisses. “You’re so tight. So fucking perfect.”

Your nails dig into his back. You’re trying to breathe, to adjust, but he feels too good. Like he’s settling into a space that’s always been waiting for him.

He bottoms out.

Pauses.

His breath trembles against your cheek as he presses a kiss there. Then one to your temple. One to the hollow of your neck.

You can feel his heart pounding—inside you, against you, around you.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, voice wrecked. “Move. Please.”

And when he does—it’s slow. Deep. Measured.

Not rushed.

Not frantic.

Just devastating.

Each roll of his hips presses you deeper into the mattress. The drag of him against your walls is enough to steal your breath, to make your toes curl and your fingers claw at the sheets.

His hand slips under your thigh, lifting it high around his waist so he can sink even deeper.

He kisses you between thrusts—your mouth, your neck, the edge of your collarbone—like he needs every inch of you mapped onto his mouth, claimed cell by cell.

Your breath stutters.

His chain swings gently between your breasts with every grind. Cool metal against flushed skin. A contrast that makes you shiver.

“Mami,” he groans, voice ragged. “Se siente tan jodidamente bien. Voy a perder la cabeza.” It feels so fucking good. I’m going to lose my mind.

You don’t know the words—but the tone of them wrecks you.

Rough. Desperate. Reverent.

He groans again, the sound dragging from his throat like it’s being pulled out of him.

“You feel too good,” he pants. “I’m not gonna last.”

“You will,” you breathe. “You have to. You made me wait this long.”

His laugh is sharp and ruined. His next thrust is harder.

You gasp.

Your heel digs into the small of his back. “You trying to punish me?” he breathes, voice hot at your ear.

“A little.”

He kisses you again—open, filthy, needy. Tongue curling with yours, hand gripping your ass, grinding his hips slow and relentless, dragging you over every inch of him.

You’re soaked. So far gone. And when his pelvis rocks just right, the friction over your clit makes you moan, helpless.

“You close?” he asks, eyes dark, mouth swollen.

You nod, frantic.

“Touch yourself.”

You reach between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts.

“That’s it,” he breathes, watching you. Feeling you. “Let me see you fall apart, baby. Let me feel you come on this cock.”

Then—softer, like it slips out without him meaning to, he says, “Siempre ha sido tú. Desde el primer día. Nunca dejé de quererte.” It’s always been you. Since day one. I never stopped loving you.

You don’t know what he said, but it sounds ruined. Like confession. Like prayer.

Your body tenses.

The orgasm snaps through you—tight and deep and blinding. Your fingers dig into his shoulder, your mouth drops open around a cry, and he groans when he feels it, when your walls clamp around him, pulsing.

“Fuck—fuck, mami, I’m—”

His hips stutter. He thrusts once. Twice. Then buries himself to the hilt and stays.

You feel him pulse inside you. Feel him come—deep, hot, filling you with a broken moan.

He collapses onto you, gasping against your neck. His whole body twitching, hips jerking reflexively.

Still holding you.

Still inside you.

Then—barely audible, like the words were never meant to be heard, “Te amo tanto que duele.” I love you so much it hurts.

You don’t know what it means. Not exactly. But it sounds like love. It feels like surrender.

And you hold him tighter, like maybe that’ll help you understand. Because even if you don’t know the words—his body, his mouth, his hands—they’ve been saying it for years.

He doesn’t move. Just rests there, still inside you, head buried against your neck. His voice is soft when it finally returns. “You were always mine,” he whispers.

You close your eyes.

Swallow hard.

And then—because you can’t make the same mistake again—you answer.

“I’ve loved you since the Air Force,” you whisper, voice shaking. “Since you gave me your last bite of cold chili mac and made me laugh so I wouldn’t cry.”

His breath hitches. You tilt your face toward his, fingers still in his hair, forcing him to look at you.

“I’m not making the mistake of not saying it this time.”

His eyes—wide, glassy, stunned—search your face. And then he kisses you. Softer this time.

Like a promise.

Like a yes.

He pulls back just enough to look at you—really look at you. His hand brushes your cheek, thumb catching on the tear you didn’t realize had fallen.

“Te amo,” he says quietly. No hesitation. No performance. Then, in English, just as soft but more certain, “I love you.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Like he’s known it forever and only now found the courage to let it breathe.

“I think I’ve loved you since the first time you stole my dessert and didn’t even apologize.”

You laugh—wet, stunned, shaking. “You said you didn’t want it.”

“I lied. I wanted the dessert.” He leans in, kissing your forehead. “But I wanted you more.”

You breathe into his shoulder, overwhelmed. Anchored. Neither of you runs this time. Because there’s nothing left to outrun.

Just this.

Just home.

-

Sunlight bleeds through the curtain slats.

You feel it first on your cheek, warm and soft, pulling you out of a dream you don’t remember. The sheets are tangled beneath you. Your legs ache. Your mouth is dry.

But you’re not alone.

You shift slightly, and a warm hand flexes at your waist.

His hand. His arm. His chest against your back, breath slow and steady. One of his legs is tangled with yours, and his other hand is buried under the pillow you’re both sharing. His face is tucked into the crook of your neck, and when you sigh, content and sore, he makes a sound deep in his throat and tightens his hold like he’s not ready to wake up.

You stay like that for a while. Not thinking. Not bracing.

Just being.

It’s strange, how normal it feels. Like this has happened before. Like it’s always meant to happen.

Eventually, you roll to face him. His brow twitches at the shift, his lashes fluttering, and when his eyes open, they’re soft with sleep.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.

You smile. “Hey.”

He blinks slow, eyes roaming your face like he’s checking to see if this is real. If you’re still here.

You brush a curl from his forehead. His lips curve into a sleepy smile.

“You okay?” he asks, thumb finding the edge of your hip beneath the sheet. His touch is casual, but not forgettable.

You nod. “Are you?”

He leans in and kisses your jaw. Then your cheek. Then your lips. “Yeah,” he says against your mouth. “I’m good.”

You breathe a little easier at that.

For a while, you just lie there. Talking about nothing. The weather. The way your neighbor’s dog won’t shut up. The fact that your back’s probably going to be sore all day because of how hard he railed you into the mattress.

He laughs, smug and bright.

You smack his chest.

He catches your hand. Laces your fingers through his. Doesn’t let go.

It’s so easy.

So him.

And so familiar it should feel like surreal.

But it doesn’t.

Because here’s the truth: almost nothing has changed.

You’re still talking the same. Teasing the same. Moving through the kitchen the same as you both get up to make coffee, shoulder-checking and stealing sips. He still curses too colorfully when he burns his fingers on the toaster. You still hum the same stupid song when you rinse your mugs.

Everything’s the same.

Except now, he walks up behind you at the sink and wraps his arms around your waist.

Except now, when you pass him a towel, he leans down and kisses the corner of your mouth just because he can.

Except now, when he sits beside you on the couch, his hand finds your thigh like it’s always belonged there—and yours covers it like it knows.

And when he presses his forehead to yours later, eyes warm and full and unguarded, he doesn’t have to say anything.

You already know.

And this time—neither of you run.

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