Just A Girl Who Loves Her Sports And The 49ers!!💜

You pause. It's probably the only thing he could have said that would keep you on the line and he knows it. 

"If you are fucking with me, Pope I will close all of your credit cards and donate your life savings to PETA." 

Your heart rate is already thrumming, the spike a clear sign that you don't really think he's dumb enough to make that joke. 

"I really wish I was. We could use your help."

If it was anyone else you might have told him to paddle with his hands. But Benny was the only one who stayed in touch after Santiago unceremoniously dumped you without so much as a single word of explanation. The rest of the guys, Frankie, Tom, Will, they all made it clear they were team Garcia. But Benny, pure of heart, remembers your birthday. Still makes plans with you when he's in town. Never (ever) mentions Santiago by name.  

"Where are you?"

"I'll send you our location through secured server. Get here as soon as you can and bring your gear." 

A moment after he hangs up the door bell rings and your phone buzzes. The address is a two hour drive, you know it well. You can eat in the car. 

The safe house is a shitty looking trailer that nobody would think to look at twice if they happened this far from the main road, which no one does. It was an oft used location to meet at when you used to work with Pope and the guys. Off the book mission the government would deny any knowledge of even if that is where the funding flowed from. It would take someone with your particular skill set to figure that out and you were paid well enough not to look. You park the car a mile away near a commonly used hiking trail. Your backpack contains your computer, an external power source, a scrambler, a signal scanner, and a booster. Plus a toothbrush and a change of underwear. 

You hike through the backwoods, a trail that’s been overgrown a 100 times over but still gets you to where you need to be. Before you’re within 50 feet of the trailer the door opens and Tom is standing there, firearm pointed in your direction.

“Exactly the welcome I was hoping for.”

Tom lowers his gun. 

“Good to see you, Charlie.”

Charlie is a nickname, or maybe a call sign, though you’re not sure you earned that. 

For the first seven months you worked with the guys you were nothing but a disembodied voice on a com giving them assignments and opening doors (literal and figurative) for them. Santiago came up with the name. You were Charlie and they were your angles. It stuck even after you started getting sent on missions with them. Even after Pope started making excuses to hang back after the mission was over. Hotel rooms booked under fake passports that you holed up in for a few precious hours, fucking on squeaky beds and rickety desk chairs. 

“Redfly.”

He opens the crooked screen door wide so you can enter. Inside, Will, Frankie, and Pope are huddled around a small table with a map spread out over it. All three of them look at you. Will is the first to move. To your surprise he wraps you in a hug. 

“Thanks for coming, Charlie. You don’t know how much I appreciate it.”

You nod against his shoulder until he releases you. 

“I’m sure Ben just lost his cell phone in the local brothel. We’ll find him.”

The tight smile says he doesn’t believe that. Neither do you. 

You nod once at Frankie. “Fish.” Is all you say to acknowledge his presence. You don’t look at Pope. 

“So, fill me in.”

One Year Ago

“Confirm your location, over.”

“Alpha team in position, over.”

“Delta team in position, over.” 

“You will have three and a half minutes from my countdown to secure the package and get out before you have company. Coms will go silent. You will have to clear 50 yards from the building perimeter before you have com access again. Does everyone understand? Over.”

One by one they confirm. Pope last.

“See you on the other side, Charlie.”

“Happy hunting, angels. You’re clear in three, two, one, over.” 

The doors to the facility unlock, the cameras shut down, the alarms are disabled and the signal jammer you installed there yesterday triggers, guaranteeing that no one inside the building can call out for reinforcements when they realize the building’s security has just been compromised. However, the security system is on a loop, it pings the other facilities every three minutes. When that doesn’t happen, big men with guns get sent to lock down the building. It takes forty-five seconds. You know because you did a dry run of this five months ago in preparation for this mission. 

You wait back in the safe house, tapping your fingers nervously on a formica kitchen table. The countdown on your computer screen drawing ever closer to zero. The numbers go red and start counting negative. Your foot starts to tap too. 

The thing is, there’s nothing you can do. If no one pings you on coms you have to assume the mission is compromised. Your only course of action is to pack up and get the hell out. There’s no extraction team coming. No back up. No plan B. 

At negative thirteen seconds your com buzzes. 

“Charlie, this is Redfly. Package acquired. All members of Alpha and Delta teams accounted for, over.” 

You take a subtle breath. 

“Roger that, Redfly. Good work, angels. Meet you at the rendezvous, over.” 

Now all you have to do is wait. Redfly and Ironhead will get the package to the drop. Pope, Fish, and Benny will make their way to you, one at a time, each taking a different, circuitous route. 

Pope arrives first. It’s not an accident. 

“We have exactly forty-five minutes before Benny shows up,” Pope says as he drops his gear by the door. He wastes not a single minute of it. He backs you into one of the bedrooms, pulling off your clothes, his need to feel your lips on his the only thing slowing him down. The adrenalin of a mission always drives his need for you, though, recently, you’ve been noticing something more. 

“Full disclosure,” Pope says as he spreads you legs wide on the bed. “The condoms I have with me are expired.” 

His fingers drag through your center. You arch, needing him closer even as he slides a finger inside you. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t notice until after I was on the plane and then it was too late.”

“It’ll be fine,” you assure him. And even if wasn’t you’re not sure you would care at this exact moment. 

He leans over you, your thighs bracketing his hips. Dark eyes drawing closer to you until his tongue is in your mouth. He grinds against your with his sheathed cock. Your pussy flutters, desperate to be filled. 

“Are you sure?” He asks, forehead pressed against yours, his cock teasing at your entrance.

You wrap your fingers around him and guide him in. 

He lets out a sound half way between a groan and a laugh. 

"I guess that's a yes." 

"Thirty-two minutes, Pope," you say after looking at your watch.

He thrusts into you, holding himself just above your chest. The kiss is soft, almost impossibly slow, like he might just do this for 32 minutes. And if you weren't on the clock, and if your body wasn't burning with need, maybe you would let him take all the time he wanted. Instead, your hips move underneath him, muscles contracting and squeezing. He follows your tempo, your bodies colliding, the only sound in the room the meeting of your flesh and the rocking of the wood-framed bed. 

It's been just over a year since you started this, whatever this is. At first it was simple. Pope was a flirt, incorrigible, really. One night, after a few drinks, when the rest of the squad had gone off to bed, you just gave into it. Into him. It was easy, uncomplicated. He never changed the way he treated you when the others were around. Followed your instructions to a T when on mission. And then, when it was just the two of you, he would take you apart. He would look at you like no one else existed. All of the focus that made him a good soldier made him and even better lover. 

He finishes moments after you do. He's quick to disentangle himself and throw away the condom, being careful to bury it in the garbage where attentive eyes won't see it. Before you can sit up to get dressed he's pushing you back into the mattress and wrapping his naked body around you. 

"We still have ten minutes." 

He skin is warm on yours. The rough edges of his jawline scratch against your neck where he has buried his face. Easier to deny the reality of your situation, you suppose. You let him stay. Would let him stay longer if it were just up to you. But you don't want the complication of the others finding out. Because if the higher ups find out they'll assign you to a different team. And while you don't think any of the guys would tattle on you (well, maybe Will) you don't want to put anyone in a compromising situation. 

So this thing, whatever it is, stays between you and Pope. 

"I want to see where you live." 

You lift your head, forcing Pope to look at you.

"What did you say?" 

"I want to see where you live," he repeats. 

You let your head fall back to the mattress and you stare up at the ceiling. 

"It's not very impressive. A small house on a block of other small houses." 

"Yeah, but it's yours and I want to know what its like." 

You have follow up questions, but you know Benny will be here any moment.

"Okay." 

Pope sits up, a smile on his face like he just won an argument. He kisses you again before he gets up to get dressed. You watch him, amazed at how he looks the same but somehow everything has changed.

Present Day

You rub your eyes, the strain behind them from staring at your computer screen for too long finally forcing you to pause. 

"Here." 

Pope sets a mug down next to you.

"I don't think I can consume anymore caffeine." 

"I know, it's herbal tea." 

You look up to find his worried face staring back. 

"Thank you." 

Its the longest conversation you've had since you arrived three hours ago. 

Ironhead did most of the talking since he seemed to have the most information. Ben had taken a job with a crew, private ops, lead by James Butler. You all knew Butler from previous work, which is how you all knew he is a pompous, self-righteous, asshole who couldn't plan a mission to the grocery store for snacks. Will begged Ben not to go but Ben shrugged him off.

"Butler's not so bad. Besides, it's a simple snatch and grab. Could probably do it with a team of monkeys."  

And maybe that is what he was working with because within 24 hours of touching down in San Jose, Ironhead had lost contact with him. According to him, he should have been state side yesterday. 

Will had looked right at you. 

"You know Ben, he wouldn't go radio silent for no reason." 

You were bound to agree with him. Ben would find a way to call, if for no other reason than to keep his big brother from flying down to Costa Rica and searching for him. 

So you got to work. The private ops company who was running this shit show was a joke. You were behind their firewall in under ten minutes, you know paranoid gamers with more secure setups. You got mission plans, lodging, travel arrangements. Shit, this idiot had made a dinner reservation for the night they arrived under his own name. You tracked their coms to a small town in the Limón Provence right on the border with Panama at the edge of the national forest. 

You talked them through all of this information and set up a satellite loop to continuously ping their last known com signal. Then the four of them bent over a map, started making plans and calling in favors. You kept working, searching for out of phase communications and hidden packets of data in otherwise unsuspicious messages. 

"We're going to head out. We got a lift from a private not far from here. Thanks to you, we know where to start." Pope was still standing over you.

You put your tea down and close your laptop. 

"I'm coming," you say as you stand.

 Pope looks back at Will. 

"We got it from here," Ironhead assures you. 

But you've already made up your mind. You start putting everything into your pack. 

"He has a 24 hour head start on you. I can get you closer if I'm down there." 

Pope opens his mouth, the objection clear on his face without his words. 

"I'm coming," you say again. "Ben would do this for me." 

And maybe you emphasize Ben just a little bit. Sure, none of these assholes would save you from Panamanian gun runners, but Ben would hack his way through miles of untamed jungle for you. This is the least you can do for him.

Pope looks at Ironhead one last time for reinforcements. But Will just shrugs and hikes his bag on to his back. 

"Let's go."

One Year Ago

You never thought much about your home. Considering how much you travelled for work, sometimes it felt more like a hotel then a home. But now you're looking at it through Pope's eyes. The photos on the wall of you and your sister. Another one from when you were a child with both your parents. A painting hung above the couch that you bought at a gallery in Oaxaca. A small statue made from white jade from a bazar in Marrakesh. The crochet throw blanket that your grandmother made when you were a baby that adorns the back of your couch. All of it paints a life. Your life. 

Pope takes all of it in. Studying, carefully. It's been almost six weeks since you were last with him on a mission. You thought he would forget about his request to see where you live. A post-sex moment of softness that he would quickly regret. But two weeks later he called and held you to it. 

Now you realize, with him here, you're not sure how to act. Outside of this moment you've always been sneaking around. A countdown ticking the minutes away until one of you had to leave. On to the next mission, the next job, the next gig. 

Finally, Pope turns toward you, sly grin on his face as he wraps his arms around your waist. 

"Do you have a good takeout spot near here?"

His lips find your neck, his tongue darting out to lick the sensitive skin there.

"There's a good Thai place." 

The words are soft, half spoken as your body reacts to Pope. He pulls you flush to him, palms sliding down to your ass.

"Excellent, then we have no reason to leave this house all weekend." 

He smiles as he maneuvers you down to the couch, tugging off your shorts and underwear as he goes. Without another word he settles himself between your legs, gripping your thighs to open you wide so he can takes his mouth to your center. He works slow, teasing his tongue through your folds, taking the time he never gets to on missions. He builds you up, your muscles burning with tension as you try to move underneath him, but his hands grip you tight, refusing to give you control. 

"Pope," you whine, the sound desperate and undignified. 

"Don't call me that," he whispers against you. 

The request is so quiet you almost miss it. Your head is so foggy with desire it takes you a moment to understand what he wants.

"Santi," you say. Soft and aching. You fingers grip his hair, thick and black between your fingers. 

He growls, the sound vibrates against you. You're so close. You beg him, hips desperate for just a little more friction until finally he gives in. His tongue moving fast against you until you break. A cry that sounds like his name. He laps at you as you shudder through your orgasm. 

He crawls up your body, sucking on the soft skin of your stomach and breasts until he arrives at your lips. His are swollen and wet, his tongue tastes like you as it enters your mouth. 

There is a part of you that wonders why it took so long to do this. Be together outside the confines of the mission.  But there’s another part that wonders why this is happening at all. 

The first time you slept with Pope you were sure it would be a one time thing. Men like him aren’t interested in relationships. They just have a scratch to itch and you were the closest set of finger nails. You were okay with that. But each time he came back into your orbit he found a way to be alone with you. And each time you would learn a little more about each other. He told you about his sister and his two nephews who never gave her any peace. He told you about meeting Frankie in basic and the bond they shared over deadbeat dads. He told you he loved to cook, his favorite movie was A Few Good Men, he could play the guitar. 

Without you realizing it was happening, you were falling in love. 

Present Day

The cargo plane gets you to San Jose. From there, Ironhead has a van waiting for you to take you south toward the Panama border. It’s a windowless transport van without seats in the back. Out of chivalry, they offer you the front seat. You tell them it makes more sense for Pope and Fish to take the front since they’re both fluent in Spanish and you have work to do that might arouse suspicion if you’re up front. They agree with you logic. Or they’re just used to doing what you tell them from previous missions. Either way, you find yourself on the uncomfortable floor of a transport van with Ironhead and Redfly for the next three hours. 

You ignore their silence and get to work. Piggybacking off a wireless network you check back into the search algorithm you initiated before you left the States. 

“I got something,” you say as you begin to download communications between two outposts of the syndicate Benny and his crew were going after. You run them through a translation app so you can read them first. 

You tap on the sliding door that separates the front of the van from where you’re sitting. 

Pope opens it, turning to look at you. 

“I’m sending you encrypted communication. I have a translation, but there's dialect and I don't know how accurate it is.” 

Pope nods at you.

“What does the translation say?” 

Ironhead is leaning forward. You know he’s nervous. You know because the expression on his face is one you’ve never seen before. 

“I want Pope and Fish to confirm—"

"Charlie, tell me what it says.” 

You look up at Ironhead. His steel gray eyes hold your gaze. 

“It confirms Benny’s unit infiltrated the compound. But it sounds like they were expected and ambushed. Out of the five unit members, two were killed and three are being held. There’s no information on their status other than they’re alive.” 

You says this as clinically as possible. You don’t offer an assurance that one of the two men killed wasn’t Benny. 

Pope sticks his head through the opening.

“I can confirm that’s what it says.” 

Ironhead nods once. “This is still a rescue mission.” 

Redfly squeezes his shoulder. “Damn straight it is.” 

“I think I can triangulate the location of the compound that Benny’s unit is in. I just need a little more time.” 

What you don’t take into account is what riding in the back of a van with no shocks and no seats while trying to stare at a computer screen is going to do with your body. You make it twenty miles before you need Fish to pull over and let you out to puke. 

Redfly gives you water and crackers from his pack when you get back in the van. He even gives you a sympathetic smile. 

“The first time I hitched a ride on a frigate to an undisclosed location in the middle east, I puked for three days straight,” he confides. 

Ironhead laughed at the memory. 

“I thought we were going to have to airlift him out of there with an IV in his arm.” 

“I imagine the open ocean is a bit bumpier than this,” you say, refusing to let yourself off the hook.

“Not really,” Redfly says. 

You appreciate their camaraderie even more when, after another thirty miles you need to pull over again. 

This time Pope gets out of the van. You’re leaning on a tree about thirty feet from the road washing your mouth out with water. 

“You okay?” 

You spit the water out of your mouth.

“Peachy.” 

“We can stop for a bit. Let you take a break. I know these roads are tough.” 

You’re not looking at him. You don’t want to see the pity on his face. Or worse, the condemnation for insisting on coming along just to hold them back. 

“No, I’m fine. We have to keep going. Benny is waiting for us.”

“Benny is tough, he’ll be okay.” 

You know Benny is tough. You know because you ran enough missions with him to know he didn’t flinch. You also know the version of him that would come over and crash on your couch and eat popcorn and watch The Golden Girls with you when you were having a bad day. That version of the man can’t wait for your stupid stomach to get it’s shit together. 

“I’m fine.” 

You turn to head back to the van without realizing how close behind your Pope is standing. You end up walking right into him, already unsteady on your feet. He grabs you to keep you standing. 

“Fine?” 

“Yes,” you say stepping away from him and his grip. “And if I wasn’t, you aren’t they one I’d be coming to for help.” 

You’re surprised with how hard that lands. The hurt on Pope’s face is obvious. He looks down to keep you from noticing but he can’t hide it fast enough. You don’t know why it makes you feel bad. After all, he’s the one that left you. 

One Year Ago

Soft morning light spills out through the crack where your curtains don't quite meet. But that's not what wakes you up. Santi's fingers are tracing slowly down your bare stomach. His fingertips gently pressing into the flesh around your hip bones. The sensation is just enough to makes you sigh and roll sleepily toward him. His fingers continue their caress, so light that you think you might fall back asleep, your face pressed against his chest. But then he says your name, your real name, not the nickname you've become accustomed to answering to. It falls from his lips as he pulls you even closer to him.  

You like the way his voice sounds in the morning. You like the way his skin feels pressed against yours. The way he slowly lifts your leg around his hip and his fingers brush your center. 

“Santi?” 

Your voice is barely more than a whisper. Your hips roll lazily against his hardness, trapped between your bodies. 

“Yeah, baby?”

“Fuck me.”

You can't see his face but you can hear the smile on his lips. 

“Oh, I see. My baby likes it a little nasty in the mornings?”

You nod against his chest, your eyes still closed to the day. 

Santi reaches behind him for a condom. You hear him tear open the wrapper. You feel his hand snake between your bodies. 

Then he’s rolling you on to your stomach and letting his weight press you into the mattress. He drags your hands above your head, trapping them there, wrists bound between his fingers. His hard cock sits nestled between your ass cheeks. It should feel overwhelming. Confining. But it doesn’t. You just feel safe underneath him. You know without a doubt that everything he does will be to make you feel good. 

He shifts down just enough to plunge his cock into your wet pussy. Without pausing he begins hard, shallow thrusts, never quite pulling out, just hammering against that sensitive spot inside you. Your moans are muffled by the pillow your face is pressed into but they're enough to urge Santi on. His pace picks up. His breath is heavy against your ear.

"Pussy feels so good, baby. Wanna fuck it every morning, make it mine." 

Santi's words burn through you. The edge of your orgasm throbbing at your core. Your fingers curl around his, nails digging into his flesh. He squeezes your hip with his free hand, a low growl vibrating off your neck. Your breath is caught in your chest as your muscles coil tighter and tighter until, finally, you snap. The air punches from your lungs and you cry out your pleasure. 

Santi lets out a strangled sound as he follows you over the edge. His body weighs heavy on yours for a moment before he rolls over. 

You turn your head to look at him. He's staring up at the ceiling, chest rising and falling as he pulls in air. 

"Every morning should start like that," he says. 

He looks over at you. The smile across his face infects you. You wish you could start every morning with it also. You swallow down that thought, too sentimental for the moment. 

"You inviting yourself over again?" You ask instead. 

"You love having me here." 

He reaches over and pinches your side. You squeak and move away but not fast enough. He rolls overs and pulls you toward him, traps you against his body and nibbles on your neck. No matter how much you squirm and laugh he won't let you go. 

"You have such a crush on me," he teases. 

You don't deny it. 

Finally he releases you and heads into the bathroom to dispose of the condom. You catch your breath while he's gone. Laying on your back and staring at the closed bathroom door. You still can't believe that he's here. 

After a few minutes he comes out. Something has changed. The smile is gone from his face. He looks at you like he's trying to solve a puzzle.

"Does anyone else live here?"

"No, why?" 

He shakes his head. "No reason." 

He puts on a pair of shorts from the floor, making it clear he's not coming back to bed. 

"Do you want some coffee?" You ask, sitting up. 

"Uh, sure. But then I probably need to get going. I'm shipping out tomorrow." 

"You are?" This is the first he's mentioned it. You thought you'd have at least the rest of the day with him. 

"Yeah," he answers without looking at you. "Official military business." 

"Is it dangerous?" 

You can't figure out what changed in the last few minutes but Santi is acting like a stranger.

He shrugs. "Could be." 

Finally he stops moving around the room. 

"Do you have anything you want to tell me before I leave? You know, just in case?" 

"Jesus, Santi." 

You move to the edge of the bed and reach for him. He lets you take his hand in yours. You look up from his fingers entwined in yours to find him watching you. Dark eyes intent on your face. Looking for something, though you're not sure what. 

"I... I'm really glad you came this weekend. And I would really like it if you came back. Will you be able to call while you're overseas?" 

Santi pulls his bottom lip between his teeth. Whatever he wanted you to say, that wasn't it. 

"Maybe." 

He pulls his hand away from yours and keeps packing. 

"I'll go make coffee." 

"Thanks." 

Standing in your kitchen, rotely making coffee, your throat tightens up with tears. When Santi comes out of your bedroom, dressed and packed, you have to clench your jaw to keep from crying. 

You're not trying to manipulate him, but it does have that effect. He drops his duffle bag and wraps his arms around you, tucking you against him. 

"You know, you can tell me anything. I'll always be here for you, no matter what." 

His words swirl with confusion in your chest. 

"I know," you say. But you really don't. You feel like he's waiting for you to tell him a secret. And you would, if you had one to tell.

"I'll be back in a few weeks. We can talk then." 

He presses a kiss to your forehead and leaves. He doesn't even ask for coffee. 

Present Day

The van gets you as far as it can go. You have coordinates for where you think Benny and the others are being held. 

(Because Benny is definitely still alive). 

But to get there will be an eight mile hike through jungle terrain. 

The conversation from earlier repeats itself.

"I'm coming." 

"No, you're not. It's dangerous just getting there. And once we're there, you have no combat experience." Pope is taking a harder line this time. He's not looking at anyone else for support. He made his decision and that's final. 

Except it's not. 

"I'm not going to storm the castle with you. I'm not an idiot." 

Pope opens his mouth like he might argue that point but you don't let him. 

"I can make the hike just fine, and once we're there you will need my eyes and ears to get you past the electronic security." 

"Its a stash house in the middle of nowhere. How much electronic security are they going to have?" Pope asks. 

"According to this heat map I found? A shit ton." 

You open your computer screen to them and show them an areal view of their target. The building is red hot, lit up from the inside out with a clear electronic fence perimeter giving off it's own signal. 

"Shit, where did you get this?" Redfly asks. 

"That's need to know." 

Redfly raises an eyebrow at you but doesn't push. 

"We get close enough for me to shut all of this down. Then I'll wait quietly and hope I don't get eaten by a jaguar while you guys go be heroes and rescue Benny. Deal?" 

All of the guys look at Pope. He knows he's out numbered. Still, he scrubs his hand down his face letting his palm rest over the dark shadow of a beard that's been there since you first saw him 12 hours ago.

"I hate this." Is all Pope says. 

"Tough titties," you say as you pack up your bag. 

Ironhead can't help the small smile that graces his face. 

"Missed you, Charlie," he whispers as the other are walking ahead. 

"At least someone did," you mumble to yourself. 

When you said you could make the hike "just fine" that was probably and overstatement. But you do make it and you convince yourself you don't slow them down too much. Three hours in relative silence. Just the bird song above your head and the sound of insects chirping from below. Every once in a while you heard something larger that makes you move faster to keep up with the pack. 

You stop when you pick up the signal for the stash house. Everyone one hunkers close to the ground behind a thick outgrowth of trees and ferns. 

The building should be about a fifty yards southwest of where you're stopped. But the sun is starting to get low. You estimate you only have about an hour and a half of sunlight left. And then this jungle is going to get very dark. You try not to think about that and instead focus on getting past the bunkers security. 

You work quietly and quickly. Poking at the firewall until you find what you're looking for.

"Gotcha," you whisper. 

You let your code in through the backdoor and let it loose on their electric grid. 

"Okay, I can't guarantee how long this will work so you better get moving. I'll manage what I can from here."

The guys all check their weapons and their coms. Each one nods at you before they head out. Except Pope.

Pope hands you a small firearm. 

"I was only kidding about the jaguars," you say. 

"I'm not worried about the jaguars. If someone approaches and doesn't identify themselves, you shoot them. And if we're not back in thirty minutes, you run. Okay?" 

He grabs your wrist, turning your hand so he can place the gun there. 

"I don't—" 

"For once, just do what I say. Please?" 

His face is drawn close to yours, his fingers still wrapped tightly around your wrist. For a moment, you think he might kiss you.

"Okay." 

He sighs and then he's on his way, chasing after the rest of the team. 

You look down at the gun and then at the computer screen. You watch as the electrical grid goes down. 

You click on your com.

"Angels, all clear, over." 

Then you sit, back against a tree, computer in your lap, gun at your side, and wait. 

One Year Ago

Santi never called. The only reason you knew he was back in one piece was because you got called for a job with a different team. When you asked why you weren't with Redfly's team you were told they requested someone else on coms. 

It felt like being punched.

The other team was fine but it wasn't the same. They didn't treat you like you were one of them. You were just a machine spitting out code. Nobody gave you a nickname. 

A two months later, Benny shows up at your house. You open the door and he immediately envelops you in a hug, squeezing you until your feet lift off the floor.

You laugh, you can't help it. 

"What are you doing here?" 

"I missed you!" He says without missing a beat. 

You know that's not the reason. 

He looks you over as you let him into your home. 

"They gave us some new nerd. He's lame. Never laughs at any of my jokes. Also, he's not nearly as good at the job as you are." 

You're not sure why Benny is offering this olive branch but you take it.

"Thanks, Ben. It means a lot." 

"So," Benny says, putting an arm around your shoulder and walks you around your own living room like he's looking for something. "How have you been? Feeling okay?" 

You squint up at him, the question doesn't sit right. 

"Honestly? My feelings are hurt." 

Benny stops moving and turns to you. 

"I am really sorry." 

"I don't think you're the one who is supposed to be apologizing. Can you at least tell me what happened? Did I do something wrong or did he just get bored?" 

Benny steps away, his head tilting back. He pushes his hair away from his face and then looks at you with those clear blue eyes. 

"I don't think I can give you that answer." 

"Can't or won't?" 

Benny doesn't respond. He has the decency to look guilty. 

"Look, if you just came here for proof of life, you got it. You're off the hook, you can go now." 

"Hey, hey, hey," Benny reaches out and grabs both your hands. "I really did come here because I missed hanging out with you. Can we be friends? Outside of all the other bullshit?" 

You pause because you're not sure the answer to that question is yes. Having Benny here feels like a reminder of everyone who isn't here. But he is looking at you like you stole his favorite toy so you give in.

"Yeah, we can be friends." 

He smiles wide. "Sweet. Now take me to your favorite bar!" 

You're three rounds in, you've lost count of what Benny's on but you're definitely not trying to keep up with him. 

"I should be better at this," Benny says as he whiffs another dart wide. 

"You really should be." 

Your dart lands on double 20s. You walks to the score bored and close out the circle. 

"That's game." 

"Damn!" Benny says. "You just kicked my ass!" 

You laugh. He looks proud of you. 

"I played this a lot growing up. Unfair advantage," you say with a shrug. 

"I was top of my unit in marksmanship. I thought that would count more in darts." 

He looks genuinely confused and you think maybe Benny's never been bad at anything before. 

"Next time." 

Benny throws an arm around you. "Hell yeah, next time I'm gonna kick your ass."

Benny shares a cab back to your house. You flop down on the couch, tipsier than you've been in awhile. You look up at Ben. You're suddenly struck by a feeling of grief. The missing of a life you thought you might have. With Santiago. Going out with the guys then coming home, just the two of you. Maybe you have no right to grieve something that never really existed. But it makes you sad none-the-less. 

It must show on your face because Benny sits down next to you. 

"Don't be sad," he says as he puts an arm around you. "Please?" 

You wipe your eyes as best you can pressed against Benny's chest. 

"I'm sorry. Stupid alcohol." 

You lean back and find Benny's worried face focused on you. 

His pretty, worried face. Pale blue eyes and dimples that hide at the corners of his mouth. 

Benny's lips press together. 

"I know that look," he says. His tone is light and playful. 

You wrinkle your nose. "Sorry, can I blame the alcohol for that too?" 

"I don't want you to think I'm turning you down..." 

You shake your head. "It would just be revenge sex. That's not fair." 

"I don't think revenge sex will make you feel better in the morning." 

"No, you're probably right." 

You know you should be embarrassed. You just, drunkenly, made a move on your ex's best friend. But Benny is still smiling like nothing weird happened. 

"How 'bout some revenge cuddling and a movie?" 

He opens his arm wide, letting you know where you belong. 

You grab the remote on the coffee table and settle into his side. 

When you wake up the next morning you're in your bed, alone. You walk out into the living room to find Benny on your couch. He opens one squinty eye at you. 

"That couch is not big enough for you. You could have slept in my bed. I would have behaved." 

Benny stretches and sits up. 

"Hey, I said revenge sex wouldn't make you feel better. Doesn't mean it wouldn't have made me feel better." 

He's got a goofy grin on his face and his hair is matted to the side. It's not a bad sight to wake up to. It's just not the sight you want.

"Coffee?" 

"God yes. I feel like I drank a whole brewery last night. Did you beat me in darts?" 

"Twice." 

Benny spends an easy morning at your kitchen table talking to you about everything but Santiago. When he finally goes he hugs you tight. 

"Meant what I said. I like having you in my life. Don't be a stranger, okay?" 

You nod. 

"Thanks, Benny. I really needed this." 

He shrugs as he walks down your front steps. 

"You'd do the same for me." 

Present Day

The sun is getting lower in the sky. The darkness of the jungle settles in around you, a claustrophobic feeling you have to take deep breaths to loosen. The light from your computer screen is looking brighter by comparison and you realize that you'll need to turn it off or risk giving away your location. Before you do you confirm the grid is still down. At least you could do that much for your angels. You look at you watch.

Twenty-two minutes.

The computer sits dark on your lap and the gun sits cold in your hand. You pull your knees up, sandwiching the laptop between your thighs and your chest. Your heart is beating faster. You press the gun between both hands. Then you hear it. 

Movement off to your left, the direction of the bunker. You hold your breath, listening. The sounds is getting closer. Someone or something is definitely moving through the jungle toward you. 

You quietly stand and face the direction the noise is coming from. Squinting in the low light, waiting for a sign. You raise the gun, your finger on the trigger. 

"Charlie?" 

"Benny?" 

Your arms drop to your side and you move as quickly as you can toward the noise. Finally he's close enough to make out. All six-foot-four of him lumbering toward you. He nearly falls into you. Only managing to stay standing with your help. 

"Hey, it's okay, I got you." You help him back to the small clearing where you've been waiting with all of the gear. 

"Where's everyone else?" 

"Coming," Benny says as he sits. "They wanted to clean the place out before they left. Told me to come find you." 

In the dim light you examine his face. Swollen and bruised. But not so badly that he can't offer you a half smile. 

"Fancy meeting you here." 

"Goddam it, Benny," you shake your head but there is no anger in your words. Nothing could replace the relief you feel having him here, solid beneath your finger tips. "You scared the shit out of me." 

"I can't believe you came." 

You can hear movement coming from the same direction as Benny came from. Before you can grab the gun you hear Ironhead. 

"Charlie, you here?" 

"Yeah, and I have Benny." 

A moment later Ironhead, Redfly, Fish, and Pope come crashing through the trees. 

"Time to go," Redfly says. 

You catch the look Pope gives you and Benny where you're seated on the ground with Benny practically in your lap. 

Ironhead wastes no time, he lifts Benny up from the waist, getting him on his feet. 

"Can you walk?" 

"Yeah." 

"Charlie, which direction are reinforcements going to come from?" Fish asks as he hikes his pack on. 

"Behind us. The other base is in Panama, about twenty miles away. If they're on foot we should have a good head start, even moving slowly. If they're using a com I'll pick it up." 

Fish nods at you. "Nice job." He pats your back as he moves to head up the squad. 

You and Pope trail behind him with Ironhead and Redfly in the back helping Benny stay up right.

You're heading back the way you came, not that you would be able to tell. Between the encroaching darkness and the thick of the jungle you would be completely lost out here on your own. The thought makes you stay closer to Pope, even as you keep looking back to make sure Benny isn't far. 

"He'll be fine," Pope says quietly. "Thanks to you." 

"What about the other two guys?" 

Pope looks down. "Didn't make it." 

Guilt tightens your chest. "If I—"

But Pope grabs your forearm. "No. The only 'if' here is if you hadn't helped us Benny would be dead too." 

You look down at where he holds you. He lets go.

"You don't know how much it means to me. To all of us." 

Your gaze is focused on the uneven terrain in front of you but you can tell Pope's attention is on you. 

"I know I'm not, like, one of the guys. But I care about Benny too." 

Pope is quiet for a moment and you think he's going to leave it at that. 

"Are you sleeping with him?" 

"What?" You say too loudly. Your hand immediately comes over your mouth like it can quite the word you already said.

"First of all," you go back to whispering, "you have no right to give a shit who I sleep with. And second of all, no. Why would you even think that?" 

Pope doesn't get a chance to answer. The transponder in your hand starts to beep softly. You look down at it.

"Shit, angles, we have company." The moniker slides out of your mouth without thought. 

"How many?" Fish asks, stopping to let you catch up.

"Two and they're only about a hundred yards behind us and gaining." 

"We must not have gotten everyone at the bunker," Ironhead says. 

"Okay, we're not going to outrun them, so we're going to ambush them," Redfly says. 

Benny hides with you behind a tree about fifty feet away from where the others set up. 

"Why does Pope think we're sleeping together?" You whisper into Benny's ear.

"I might have told him we did once. Just to make him mad." 

"Benny," you hiss his name to match the disappointment on your face.

"Sorry, but he hurt you and it pissed me off. He deserved to feel at least a little shitty about it." 

You sigh. "Thanks, Benny." You kiss him on his bruised cheek. 

"You're welcome, now be quiet and get down." 

Benny pushes you closer to the ground and covers your body with his own. You want to push him off right up until the sound of gunfire rips through the air. Then your body instinctively makes itself smaller and your hands come to cover your ears. You feel Benny press himself against you, covering your head with his hands. 

When it finally stops you find you're shaking, even with Benny's heavy frame around you. He gently helps you sit up. 

"You okay?" 

You nod. 

"Welcome to your first firefight. You did great."  

Pope is kneeling at your side before you can respond to Benny's joke.

"You okay?" He is asking, but he's already got his hands on you checking for wounds like he might not believe what you say. 

"I'm fine," you insist. "Really. We're both okay." 

"Of course he's okay, that asshole is indestructible." 

Pope helps you to your feet but leaves Benny on the damp ground. 

"Tell that to my kidneys. Pretty sure one of them is rattling around loose in there." 

"You'll be fine. Quit complaining," Will say as he helps Benny up. 

"Could we maybe not joke about major organ damage?" 

"We alone out here?" Redfly asks you. 

You look down at your transponder. Silent. 

"So far as I can tell." 

"Great. We still got two more miles to go and it's not getting any lighter." 

When you make it back to the van it feels like coming home. You crawl into the back, sitting up and helping Benny lay down with his head on your lap to make him more comfortable. 

"Do we have a first aid kit?" You ask.

"You wanna play nurse with me?" Benny asks. 

He is smiling but his eyes are already slipping closed with exhaustion. 

"Yeah, gonna start by sewing your mouth shut." 

Benny smile grows shallow as he continues to fall further into sleep. 

You let your body rest against the cool interior of the van. Unlike the trip here your body is too exhausted to even consider getting sick. 

When you wake up the van has come to a stop. The back door opens and Fish and Pope are standing there. 

"We have a place to crash here. It's safe," Ironhead assures you and he gently wakes Benny up and shifts him off your lap. You stumble getting out of the van. Pope sticks his arm out to catch you. 

"You okay?" 

You're getting tired of hearing that question.

"Yeah, legs are asleep, that's all." 

Pope leads you into the small, nondescript house. 

"I'll take first watch," Redfly says. 

"I thought this place was safe?" 

"Everything is relative. Bedrooms are down that way," Redfly says as he takes a seat at the small kitchen table.

"I'll take the couch and second shift." Fish doesn't leave this up for debate as he stretches out on an uncomfortable looking sofa.  

Will keeps his arm around Benny as he guides him into one of the bedrooms. That's when you realize there are only two bedrooms. 

"Come on," Pope says, ushering you into the empty one. 

A single full size bed sits in the middle of the room. Thin blankets and two pillows the only dressing. 

"I'll take the floor," Pope says as he grabs a pillow.

"Don't be an asshole. We can share the bed." 

You tug off your boots and your mud covered pants and shirt leaving you in your underwear and a tank top. You lay down on one side of the bed and stare at Pope expectantly. Finally he follows your lead. Leaving his boots near the door and his clothes folded on a chair. The mattress moves underneath you as he lays down. 

"Maybe we can talk tomorrow?" He asks, staring into the darkness across the room. 

"Maybe we can talk now." 

"You're tired it can—“ 

“Why did you leave me?" 

You hear Pope sigh. He still doesn't look at you. 

"I thought our relationship was one thing and you thought it was something else. I just needed to end it before I..." He sighs again. "Before I fell in love with you. Which, for the record, didn't work." 

You roll on your side and tug at him, forcing him to turn toward you. 

"What are you talking about? I was in love with you. I'm sorry I hadn't said it yet but I thought it would scare you off." 

Pope curls on his side and traces his fingers over your cheek. 

"You didn't love me. Maybe you wanted to but you didn't, not really." 

This makes you mad. Who is he to tell you how you felt? Still feel. 

"If you really loved me you would have told me about the baby." 

"What?" 

"Because if you felt like I felt you might have been excited about the idea. Even if the timing was wrong." Pope squeezes his eyes closed for a moment. "Because I know the timing wasn't great but I would have supported you no matter what decision you made. You didn't even give me the opportunity to prove myself. To hold your hand at the doctor's office. You just—"

“Santi! What are you talking about. What baby?" 

You can see the way his brow furrows at you. 

"Don't lie to me. I saw the pregnancy test in the garbage in your bathroom. I may not be as smart as you, but I know what a positive pregnancy test looks like." 

The whole morning comes rushing back to you. All of his weird questions and the shift in his demeanor. You press your fist against you’re forehead so you don’t punch him.

"My sister. My sister was pregnant. She came over a few days before you did to take the test because she didn't want her husband around when she did it because she already had three kids and they weren't trying for a fourth." 

"Your sister?" He doesn't sound completely convinced. 

"Yes! And if you need proof, she decided to have the baby. You can count backwards from her birthdate if you want." 

"But the expired condom." 

You cover your eyes with your hand as you roll back. 

"I have an IUD. That's why I told you it was fine." 

“But—“ 

“But you're an idiot. Why didn't you just say something to me?" 

"Because I was waiting for you to say something to me! I just thought, that, if you didn't want to tell me that I had to respect that wish. And I tried to but it fucking hurt. That you didn't care about me like that." 

Now Santi is propped up on his forearm and neither of you are trying to be quiet. 

"But I did care about you like that." 

"Then why didn't you call me? It's not like you didn't know how to find me." 

You close your eyes. You don't know if you should be angry, or sad, or relieved. 

"I just figured you were bored with me. People get bored with me. I didn't want to hear you give me an excuse about how it's not me it's not you, so... I didn't give you the chance to." 

"How could I possibly be bored by you? You once built a video game with all of us as players while we were away on a mission for three hours. Your brain moves ten times the speed of mine. If anyone is going to get bored, it's you." 

You open one eye to find Santi hovering over you. His eyes are glassy staring down at you. 

"I would tell you if I were pregnant," you say softly. 

"Unless it's Benny's. Then I don't want to know." His mouth ticks to the side, a smile he can't quite contain.

"I'm not sleeping with Benny." 

"He was just fucking with me?" 

You nod. 

"I had a feeling. He's such an asshole." 

"Hey, that asshole is why I'm here." 

Santi lowers himself until his nose brushes against yours. 

"I don't want to talk about Benny anymore."

"Me neither." 

Santis lips are soft on yours. They press there for a moment, letting you remember the shape of them. Then he's opening his mouth, begging entrance with his tongue. You eagerly open your mouth and let you legs spread so his thigh can can drag between them. You bury a moan against his teeth as his leg moves up and down, your center arching up, desperate for friction. 

"At a minimum, Redfly is going to hear us," Santi whispers against your skin. 

You stop moving. "Do you want to keep this a secret?" 

"Me? God no. I want everyone to know. I don't care if they hear you three blocks away, baby." 

You smile as he kisses you again. 

"I'll try to confine it to this building." 

"You'll have your work cut out for you. I have fucking missed you so much." 

He is pulling your clothes of and settling between your legs. His cock rocks against your clit and he sucks on your nipple. You grip his hair between your fingers, your hips raising. You need him inside you. You drag his face up to yours. There will be time for other things later. Right now you just want to feel him fill you. When he does slide in something in the back of your brain relaxes. A weight you hadn't realized you were holding. The simple feeing of belonging. 

Your legs wrap around his back as he pulses into you. The bed shakes under you, dragging against the wood floor has you both move in time. You don't care about the noise, or who might hear. You just care about the twisting cord in your abdomen that is so close to snapping. 

"Don't stop," you beg him. 

"Never," he says, "never again." 

He rocks into you harder and faster until your nails are scratching down his back leaving red, raised skin. You bury your mouth against his shoulder as your orgasm hits you. He chases his own, holding firm to you hips as he fucks you, spilling inside you and collapsing forward, pressing you both into the mattress. 

You stay like that, holding each other in the warm room, an errant streetlight illuminates part of the bed. Sodium-yellow light highlights Santi’s features as he lifts himself enough to look at you. 

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should have given you the benefit of the doubt. I made it about my own insecurities.” 

You trace his eyebrow, his cheekbone, his lips. 

“I think I might have done the same thing. I’m sorry too. From here on out, we share the things that scare us. Okay?” 

Santi nods and nips at your fingers where they rest against his mouth before he settles next to you to sleep. 

The next morning you and Santi emerge from the bedroom to a round of applause from the rest of the angles. 

“Fuck you guys,” Santi says. 

You cover your mouth with embarrassment. But Santi only pulls you closer to his side.

“You have no idea how unbearable he’s been this last year,” Frankie says to you. 

You peek over at Santi. 

“There may be some truth in that.” 

“Just a whiney little bitch,” Tom piles on. 

“Alright,” Santi says with a hand up. 

“Charlie this and Charlie that,” Will says. 

“He just cried. All the time,” Benny says.

You can’t help laughing at their teasing. You slide your arm around his waist and tuck yourself against it. 

Santi doesn’t fight back, he just shakes his head and takes it.

“I’m sure he’s going to be a complete delight now,” you offer. 

The guys laugh at Santi’s expense. Santi’s only response is to press a kiss into your forehead. 

Waiting on the tarmac for your ride back to the States, you rest your head on Santi’s shoulder. 

“My contract is up in six months,” he says. “I’m not going to renew it.” 

You turn to him.

“What are you going to do?” 

“I don’t know,” he says with a shrug. “But I know I’m done doing this.” 

You remain quiet, waiting to see what else is on his mind.

“I do know,” he finally says after a pause, “that whatever comes nexts involves you. If you’ll have me?” 

You nod. “I’ll have you.” 

We didn't move from our spots by the pit. The fire had settled into a steady, low hum, its smoke hanging heavy in the space between us. Scattered bottles littered the ground, the lingering wreckage of a good night built on loud laughter and the familiar chaos of old friends.

Now, it’s quieter, the silence stretching tight like it’s waiting to snap. Santi is sitting in his chair, one arm draped lazily on the armrest, the other loosely holding the bottle in his lap. Yet nothing about him feels relaxed. He’s studying me, steady and unreadable, like he’s trying to figure me out while waiting for me to be the first one to give.

I keep my gaze fixed on the center of the pit, watching a piece of oak split open and spill fresh glowing embers into the ash. I think I’m hiding it well, the hollow ache in my chest, the humiliation, the exhaustion of trying to figure out where it all went wrong.

But Santi knows how to read me.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he finally speaks, his voice barely carrying over the steady hum of crickets.

I offer a simple shrug in response, looking down and wiping away the condensation on my drink with my thumb. “Just thinking.”

He exhales, disbelieving, before he shifts, easing out of his sluggish sprawl and into a more focused stance, elbows settling onto his knees.

“You’ve been staring a hole into that log for thirty minutes,” he says. “And I know you. When you get this deep in your head, it’s never about anything good.”

He sets his drink down between us with a quiet click.

“Talk to me,” he urges, his voice softening.

The fire pops, sending a brief scatter of sparks up into the night. I follow them instead of looking at him.

“Come on. I’m starting to think the fire’s better company than me. My ego can’t take that kind of hit.”

A tiny, reluctant smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “I’m sure your ego will do just fine, Santiago.”

I finally glance at him, a weak challenge slipping through.

“Keep looking at me like that and it might actually survive the night,” he responds, a faint, teasing glint in his eyes easing some of the weight in my chest.

I press my lips together, fighting a smile. “If your ego gets any bigger, it’s going to need its own chair.”

Santi lets out a low, huffed laugh, the sound rumbling deep in his chest and breaking clean through the quiet. A smile traces his mouth as he settles back, easing into his seat like the tension has drained out of him. One elbow hangs off loosely as he folds his hands, lazy confidence returning to his posture.

“There she is,” he murmurs, eyes crinkling. “My little smartass.”

Something in my chest twists at how easily he says it.

But the humor quickly fades, and what’s left between us turns heavier again.

Santi knows about the breakup. He knows I’ve been drowning in the aftermath, moving around our group like I’m afraid I’ll crack if anyone looks too closely. He hasn’t pushed, and I haven’t offered much, but he’s been there anyway, in the small ways that don’t feel small at all. In the way he kept handing me drinks without asking. The way he stepped in before anyone else could crowd me. How he just let me exist without making it a thing.

The awareness of it sits heavy in my throat.

“It’s embarrassing,” I admit quietly, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

“What is?” he prods, quick but quiet.

“That I’m still upset over somebody who clearly didn’t care about me that much.”

My ex-boyfriend hangs between us in the silence that follows, his name unspoken but still somehow taking up space in the air.

Santi’s expression settles differently. The joking version of him is gone in an instant, like it never quite belonged in this part of the conversation anyway.

“He cheated on you,” he says flatly. “You’re allowed to be upset.”

I let out a small breath, too quick to mean anything.

“I mean... yeah,” I mutter, trying to shrug it off like it’s nothing. “It’s just one of those things. It happens.”

I swallow, thumb picking at the edge of the label of my drink.

“Or maybe it doesn’t just happen,” I add quieter, the words turning on me before I can stop them. “Maybe I made it easy to do it. I don’t know. People don’t usually just…do that unless something’s missing.”

“You really think that’s why he cheated?” he asks, brows drawn tight in a way that makes the question sound less like curiosity and more like disbelief.

Heat creeps up my neck. I squirm in my chair, suddenly aware of my hands, my face, the way I’m sitting like I’ve said things I shouldn’t have out loud.

“That’s not how that works,” he says firmly. “And you know it.”

“Do I?” I try, like I can deflect my way out of the truth.

“Yes.”

There’s no hesitation in the word. It lands hard between us.

“You were not the problem,” he adds. “Not even close.”

A quiet, disbelieving huff slips through my nose, like I don’t quite know what to make of that.

“He cheated on you,” he repeats matter-of-factly. “That’s on him.” He pauses, his jaw tightening like he’s holding back more words than he needs. “Not you.”

I look down at my bottle, turning it slowly in my hands like the motion can give me somewhere to put this. Heat crawls up the back of my neck again, slower this time, heavier, like I’ve been caught doing something I didn’t realize was visible.

“He blew it because of his own shit. Not because you were lacking.”

My fingers tighten around the glass. I hate how immediate the instinct is to argue, to find a crack in it, to make it somehow less absolute.

“And I’m not going to sit here and watch you carry that,” he adds, his tone leaving no room for argument. “You don’t get to take the blame for his mess.”

My eyes flick away from him again, like I can physically avoid the point if I don’t look straight at it.

“I know you're hurting, but you're too smart for this,” he adds. “You're sharp, you're funny without trying, and you usually see right through bullshit.”

My throat tightens a little, but I keep my face still, giving him nothing except my attention.

“And, hermosa…” His voice drops lower. “You’re fucking beautiful. Stupidly so.”

I force a dry, awkward chuckle, shaking my head because I don't know what else to do with a compliment like that. It feels completely misplaced. But he doesn't laugh with me. He shakes his head once, his expression shifting like he knows he shouldn’t be saying what he’s about to say.

“Seriously. Half the time you walk into a room, I forget what the hell I was saying.”

My breath catches slightly, and I hate that it does.

“And yeah, most people wouldn’t know what to do with you,” he continues, voice tightening. “Because you don’t fit into whatever easy little box they’re looking for. But that’s their problem, not yours.”

A strange, uneasy warmth flickers through me.

“If you were with me…”

He exhales through his nose, like he almost doesn’t want to finish the thought, but does anyway.

“You wouldn’t be sitting here talking about yourself like this. Because I’d make damn sure you felt like you’re enough.”

The words land differently. He seems to realize it too. His jaw flexes, like he’s irritated by how honest it came out.

“All I’m saying is… Don't start letting his mistakes make you doubt who you are. You are more than enough.”

For a second, I don’t know what to do with the feeling that follows. It’s too warm, too sudden, like my body reacts before I can decide what I’m supposed to make of it. My heartbeat stumbles, then picks up again in a way I absolutely refuse to examine too closely.

So, I default to the only thing I trust in moments like this.

A small, shaky breath of laughter slips out of me. “You sound like a damn motivational poster.”

His mouth quirks. “Yeah?” He leans back a fraction, still watching on me. “Want me to put it on a sunset background for you? I could print it out. Frame it. Hang it on a wall so every time you walk past it you get a little boost.”

That does it.

A real laugh breaks through this time. It’s small, reluctant, but honest. It cuts the tension clean in half, like a thread finally snapping.

I shake my head, still smiling. “Please don’t.”

“I’m thinking bold font,” he continues. “Maybe cursive if I’m feeling dramatic. ‘You are more than enough.’” He gestures vaguely like he’s already hanging it up. “Right above the TV. Or your bed. Somewhere you can’t escape it. Maybe then it’ll sink into that pretty little head of yours how completely, undeniably enough you are.”

I laugh again, sharper this time.

“You are so drunk,” I say, pointing lightly at him. “You are absolutely not allowed to be in charge of decorating my house while you’re drunk.”

He looks offended in the most performative way possible. “What? I’m still sober.”

“Mhm,” I hum, still smiling. “Sober people don’t design inspirational poster walls for their emotionally damaged friends. So, please, for the love of God, leave the interior designing to the experts.”

“I wouldn't say I'm drunk enough for interior design,” he argues, pausing to take a slow sip of his beer. “But for this? Yeah. I’m at the perfect level.”

Shaking my head, I tilt my face up toward the stars, searching for a distraction in the dark sky. Anywhere that isn’t him. Because with Santi, it always feels like everything is one breath away from tipping into something else neither of us is pretending to control.

“Promise me something.”

“Hm?” I look in his direction out of the corner of my eye.

“You’re never going to let anyone make you feel small ever again,” he says, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. “You hear me? You like this, with your guard down, it looks too damn good on you.”

His words settle in me in a way I don’t immediately have words for. I don’t let myself react to how much I feel them.

“That could absolutely go on a poster,” I say, pointing at him lightly. “‘Never let anyone make you feel small.’ Maybe you should run some of these by Will.”

That earns a quiet exhale of laughter from him.

“I’m serious,” he says, like my deflection didn’t even register.

“So am I,” I counter back. “Can you imagine Will rolling up to a recruitment assembly with motivational posters like that? He’d make it maybe two minutes before someone dragged him off stage. Fuck, what I wouldn’t give to see that.”

Santi shakes his head. He’s watching me like he means it in a way that isn’t just playful anymore.

“It’s kind of unfair, you know.”

“What is?” I ask, my laughter dying.

“How you sit there like you don’t know what you do to people,” he replies. “Like you don’t realize what you do when you walk into a room. Everything changes a little.”

My stomach flips. I go still without meaning to and force my gaze down to the bottle still in my hand, trying to focus on anything but him. Because I can feel it, this thin, dangerous edge beneath the moment, the sense that if either of us leans too far into this, we won’t just be talking anymore.

“Oh, stop,” I say teasingly, reaching for distance. “That’s how you flirt with everyone.”

“Not everyone,” he replies immediately.

I give him a slow, exaggerated look of disbelief. “Please. I’ve seen girls line up for your attention.”

“They’re interested,” he says flatly. “I’m not.”

I tilt my head. “Sure.”

The word comes out slow and skeptical, dragged out by the alcohol buzzing warmly through my system.

His eyes narrow a little. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I shrug, taking another sip. “Nothing. Just figured if you keep taking girls home, there must be a thing or two you like about them.”

Santi huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head.

“They’re easy,” he replies. “No pressure. No expectations. Everybody knows what it is.”

“Mm.” I glance at him over the rim of my beer. “Because God forbid anything be serious.”

His face goes still in a different way.

“You think I can’t do serious?” he asks quietly.

I hesitate just a second too long. In that empty beat, the truth catches up to me. I know Santi too well to doubt him. His loyalty is a heavy, fierce thing. He can keep promises. But he already means too damn much to me. Taking a risk on anyone else is one thing, but with Santi, the stakes are too high. If I were to ever let myself believe him and it somehow falls apart, it’ll ruin me.

“I can do serious,” he assures me after a beat, voice lower now, steadier in that way that means he’s actually thinking before he speaks. “I just don’t want to waste it.”

“Right,” I say lightly.

“I just… I’m waiting,” he finally reiterates, quieter. “That’s all.”

I blink at him, caught a little off guard by how serious he sounds. “Waiting for what?”

His attention holds mine a second too long, the firelight cutting sharp lines across his face, his stubble, mouth, the steady set of his jaw all softened and deepened by the glow, like he’s not in any rush to look away.

“The right girl.”

My stomach flips, a dizzying reaction to the beer and the sheer weight of his attention. He’s looking at me like I’m the only thing left in the entire world, a focus so intense it leaves nowhere to hide. I force a rough laugh, trying to shake the feeling before it takes root.

“Oh my God,” I snort softly, sinking back into my chair. “Who are you and what have you done with Santiago Garcia?”

A slow grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “He’s around here somewhere.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “And what exactly are you looking for in this right girl?”

The question comes out lighter than I mean for it to, teasing almost, but there’s a tightness curled underneath it. Because part of me wants to hear his answer more than I should, and the other part is already bracing for it. Afraid he’ll describe someone I could never be. Afraid he won’t.

He sinks back into the chair, loose-limbed and quiet, but his dark eyes remain pinned to mine.

“Someone who doesn’t take shit from anyone. And definitely not from me.”

I huff out a laugh. “Well, that already eliminates at least eighty percent of the population.”

A flicker of amusement crosses his mouth.

“She’d call me on my bullshit the second I earned it,” he says.

Another laugh. “So, you're looking for someone to keep you in line.”

His mouth twitches. “That's not what I said.”

“It’s exactly what you said.”

“Pretty sure it's not.”

“All of you assholes need someone to keep you in line. Otherwise, things quickly become a total shitshow. And frankly, I’m tired of bailing all of you out of trouble.”

He holds my gaze for a second, his expression deadpan, before the tough-guy act cracks. A low laugh rumbles out of him. “Fair.”

I lean back, a small smile tugging at my mouth. “What else?”

“Probably a bit of a spitfire,” he says. “Smart mouth. Doesn’t back down. And doesn’t fall apart when things get hard.”

He pauses, like he’s deciding how honest he wants to be.

“Okay, sometimes she does,” he says, his voice dropping low, a trace of rough amusement in his chest. “But not for long. She’s too damn proud to let anyone think they broke her, or that she can’t handle her own shit.”

“Tough girl,” I murmur, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. “Sounds like she’d be a pain in the ass. You sure you can handle that?”

A quiet laugh slips out of him. “Yeah. I think I could.”

My gaze holds his a beat too long before I look away. “We’ll see about that.”

“I hope we do,” he replies, voice lower, the words lingering between us.

“Is that all?”

A faint breath of a laugh slips out of him, like he’s trying to keep it light and failing a little.

“She’s beautiful,” he says, the admission coming out quiet and rough, like he couldn't have held it back if he tried. He looks down at his beer for a split second, then right back up.

“But she’s completely blind to it,” he continues, his tone absolute. “It’s the kind of beautiful where she’s just going about her day, totally oblivious, until someone actually says it out loud. And then she just looks at you like you're speaking a different language.”

“Right. A gorgeous girl to make gorgeous babies,” I say, tossing him a dry smile. “Classic. I should have known that was on the checklist.”

Santi blinks once, then lets out a short, surprised laugh, more air than sound.

“Wait,” he says, leaning back a fraction like he’s recalibrating. “Are you saying that I’m gorgeous?”

There’s a flicker in his expression, something quick and unguarded before he reins it back in.

My eyes widen slightly when I realize what I just fed him.

“Slow your roll, Santiago,” I say immediately, cutting my eyes toward the fire to break the connection. “The kid's only hope is getting her genetics.”

“Damn,” he swears, shaking his head a little like he’s trying to shake the comment off. “Maybe my ego won’t survive tonight after all.”

I take a long, slow sip of my beer, letting the cold glass press against my bottom lip while I try to ignore the heat crawling up my neck.

“Well, whoever she is, she sounds exhausting.”

“She’s worth it,” he says, the words rough and certain in the quiet yard. “Trust me.”

The answer comes too fast. Too honest. Naturally, I deflect.

“You know,” I say, pointing at him, “most normal people would’ve just said ‘blonde’ or ‘brunette’ by now.”

His mouth curves slowly, eyes warm with amusement.

“Yeah, probably,” he replies. “But I don’t think the right person can be narrowed down to hair color.”

I release a small, skeptical hum. “That’s a very philosophical answer for a casual conversation.”

A quiet laugh slips out of him. “You asked.”

I exhale through my nose, lifting my bottle like I can toast the sentiment away.

“Well, I hope you find her. And I hope she’s prepared. Sounds like she’s got a whole lot to live up to.”

My words are meant to steer us back, but it doesn’t work.

Santi just watches me, his head tilted slightly, the firelight carving shadows under his cheekbones that make him look older, wearier, and more intense than usual. He lets the awkward silence hang there for a beat, letting my attempt to defuse the moment drift away like smoke, before he finally speaks.

“That’s the problem,” he murmurs, his dark eyes locking onto mine so intensely it almost makes my breath catch. “She doesn't get that she's been enough since day one.” He holds the silence, his voice falling to a rough whisper. “You really don't see it, do you?”

The fire pops, a sharp crack that sounds like a gunshot in the sudden, suffocating stillness. I freeze, my hand halfway to my mouth, the beer forgotten as the words settle over us.

I wait for the punchline, for the grin, the wink, the smooth deflection that turns this back into a joke, a tease between friends who have known each other for too long. But it doesn’t come.

Santi just stays there, his eyes boring into mine with an intensity that feels almost physical. The lazy, charming facade he usually wears has completely vanished.

"Santi," I breathe out, the word barely more than a whisper. My heart is hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "Don't."

"Don't what?" he asks, seeming as though he isn’t going to back down. "Don't say it out loud? We've been dancing around this for years, and tonight you’re sitting here wondering why you weren't enough for some asshole who never deserved to breathe the same air as you. I'm done watching you do that to yourself."

I swallow hard, my grip tightening around the neck of my beer bottle until my knuckles turn white. "We're friends, Santi. The group-"

"I don't give a damn about the group," he interrupts, his tone fierce but steady. He sets his own bottle down on the table between us, entirely focused on me now. "And I haven't looked at you like just a friend in a very long time. You know that. Deep down, you do. And don't lie to me—I know you feel it, too."

The honesty of it feels like a physical blow. The safety net of our banter is completely gone, stripped away by a few words spoken in the quiet of the night. I look down at my lap, unable to hold his gaze any longer because it feels too exposing, like he's looking right into the bruised, aching parts of my soul.

"I can't do this right now," I utter, my voice trembling slightly. "My head is a mess, Santi. I'm still... I'm still trying to fix what he broke."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see him move. He abandons his chair and crouches in front of me instead, closing the space between us. He doesn’t touch me, he knows better than to push that boundary, but he’s close enough that I can feel the heat of him, steady and unavoidable.

“Then let me help you carry it,” he murmurs. “I’m not asking you to jump into anything. I’m not asking you to just… get over it. I’m just telling you where I am. Where I’ve been. So, when you finally look up, you don’t have to wonder who’s still here.”

I finally lift my head, my eyes searching his face. The shadows do nothing to hide the absolute sincerity in his expression. There’s no game here. No clever lines designed to get a girl into bed. Just Santi, completely raw and uncovered.

"Why haven’t you ever said anything before?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

A faint, wry smile touches his lips, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "Because you were always with someone else. Then you were with him. And as much as it killed me to watch, you were trying to make it work. I wasn't going to mess up your life just because I wanted you. But he threw you away. And I'll be damned before I let anyone else make you feel like you're the one who failed."

A single tear slips free, hot against my cold cheek. I wipe it away quickly, annoyed by my own vulnerability.

Santi’s hand twitches on the armrest of my chair, a clear instinct to reach out and brush the dampness from my skin, but he restrains himself, keeping his unspoken promise not to crowd me. The self-control itself speaks volumes. It shows a level of care that I haven't experienced in a very long time.

The silence returns, but it’s entirely different now, moving from the suffocating weight of my own misery to the electric, terrifying hum of a line that has just been permanently crossed.

Santi watches me, waiting out my shock.

"You're lying," I whisper, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. I shake my head, backing my shoulders deeper into the wooden chair, trying to create distance that doesn't exist. "You’re just... you’re being nice. You see me drowning and you’re trying to throw me a lifeline, but this isn't funny, Santi."

"Do I look like I'm joking?" His voice is dead serious, devoid of the usual easy cadence that makes everyone draw toward him. "I don't lie to you. I never have.”

"Everyone lies," I snap, a sudden flash of defense mechanism flaring up to protect the raw, bruised parts of my chest. "He said he loved me. He promised he’d never hurt me. He swore up and down that I was the only one, and look where that got me. Sitting by a dying fire, feeling like a ghost in my own life."

"I am not him," Santi says, each word a deliberate strike. "I don't make promises I can't keep. If I tell you you're the only thing I'm looking at, I mean it. If I tell you I'm going to be here, I'm not going anywhere. I promise you, if you give me a chance-"

"Stop. Just stop with the promises." I cut him off, a sharp, ragged breath leaving me. I look away, staring blindly at the edge of the brick firepit because looking at the sincerity in his eyes hurts too much. "I don't care about promises. I don't believe them anymore. They're just sentences people say to get what they want in the moment."

I squeeze my eyes shut, my throat tight and burning.

"I'm sorry, but I’m tired of words, Santi. I am so damn tired of them."

The confession hangs in the cool night air. I expect him to defend himself, to give me another speech, or to pull back into his usual protective layer of sarcasm. Instead, the yard goes completely still.

When I finally open my eyes and risk a glance back at him, the frustration on his face has cracked open, revealing something desperate. He’s looking at me like I’m a puzzle he’s dying to solve, like he’d tear his own chest open if it meant giving me a reason to trust him.

"Then tell me what to do," he begs, his deep voice carrying a rare, vulnerable edge. He reaches out, his hand hovering in the space between us for a heartbeat before he lets his fingers rest lightly against the edge of my knee, just a fraction of contact, but it feels like lightning. “How can I make you believe me?”

I swallow, trying to find the version of myself that knows how to joke this off, but it’s inconveniently missing.

“Santi,” I start, but it comes out quieter than I mean it to.

His thumb moves slightly, not pushing, not pulling, just there, waiting.

“Look. If you need space,” he says, voice gone rough around the edges now, “I’ll give it to you. You want me gone? Fine. You want to act like this was a mistake? I’ll play along.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, bitter and tired all at once, dragging a hand over his mouth before looking at me again.

“But if you’re asking me what I want…” His gaze lifts to mine, steady and unflinching. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Another pause, smaller this time, like he’s deciding whether to cross a line he can’t uncross.

“You want me to prove it?” he asks, his voice dropping into a rough, low growl that makes my chest ache. He looks at me like he wants to shake me, or kiss me, or both. “Fine. Tell me what you need, and I’m there. You want me to follow you anywhere? Done. You want me on my knees? Just say the damn word. I will do whatever it takes to make you believe me.”

His hand doesn’t move away. It stays there, warm and grounding on the denim of my jeans.

An aching sob catches in my throat, and I swallow it down, my eyes swimming as I finally look straight at him. I want to believe him. Every broken, exhausted piece of me wants to lean into the warmth he’s offering and stop fighting the current. I want to believe that someone could look at me and see everything he just described.

Because beneath all my panic, a stubborn voice in the back of my mind refuses to let me lie to myself. I’m afraid of the risk, yes, but I am not afraid of him. For all his massive size and lethal capability, Santi is the only person alive who makes me feel entirely safe. I know with absolute certainty that he would burn the world down before he ever let a single scratch come to me.

"No more words,” I whisper, my voice cracking under the weight of it. I look down at his hand on my knee, then back up to his gaze.

Santi freezes.

“Don't talk about it anymore. Just show me.”

For a long, agonizing beat, he doesn’t move. The easy confidence, the absolute certainty that usually radiates from him, falters. His jaw works, a muscle twitching violently under his stubble as he looks at me. He searches my eyes, his own dark and swirling with a sudden conflict. It’s the first time I’ve ever seen Santiago Garcia hesitate, and the sheer weight of it makes my breath hitch.

Finally, he swallows.

"Are you sure?" he asks, his hand tightening just a fraction against my knee. “Because you need to understand something. If I cross this line with you, that’s it for me. No going back to how it was. I’m not playing games with you, cariño, so don’t try to play with me.”

“I’m sure,” I reply, and I mean it down to my bones. I slide my hand over his where it rests on my knee, feeling the rough warmth of his skin. “I want to believe you, Santi. I do. I'm tired of running from it. I'm tired of pretending I don't want this.”

I reach down, my fingers wrapping around his wrist, feeling the heavy, unsteady thrum of his pulse under my palm. For a second, he just looks at me like he’s trying to figure out if I really mean it, or if I’m about to pull away again the second it gets too real.

When I tug his hand upward, he lets me. He just follows, slow, like he’s giving me the space to set the terms myself. My grip tightens a fraction, not letting him slip out of it.

“So, if I’m really the one you’re waiting for…,” I whisper, turning his hand over in mine and pressing his palm flat against my chest. My heart is hammering against his skin, frantic and uneven, but I hold his hand there anyway. “No more pretty words. I've heard them all before. If you want me to believe you, Santi... Prove it.”

It’s then that I finally look at him.

“Show me I’m all that you need.”

The hesitation snaps.

Santi reaches out, his large hands anchoring against the sides of my face. His palms are warm, rough, and completely steady against my burning skin. He gently tilts my head and brushes his thumb over my cheekbone, catching a stray tear before it can fall.

He doesn't have to say a word. The fierce, consuming focus in his eyes tells me everything.

Then, he leans in, and the space between us vanishes.

When his mouth finds mine, it’s a crash of heat and absolute certainty, a silent vow pressed against my lips that completely takes the air from my lungs. It’s fierce, hungry, and so deeply possessive it makes my head spin.

My hands act on their own, gripping the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer because the sudden rush of warmth is the only thing keeping me anchored.

Santi groans into the kiss, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates straight through my chest. One of his hands slides down from my face, his fingers tangling in my hair to hold me steady, while his other hand moves to the back of my neck, his thumb anchoring my jaw. He kisses me like he’s trying to rewrite every lie I’ve ever been told, tracing the seam of my lips with a desperation that leaves no room for doubt.

Every defense mechanism I’ve spent weeks building up simply disintegrates.

And then, as abruptly as it began, he pulls back just an inch. The breath leaves him in a ragged, uneven rush against my lips.

The dark, heated look in his eyes takes over completely, swallowing any trace of hesitation. The tough, unyielding soldier vanished, replaced by a raw, single-minded focus that zeroes in on me like he’s been waiting for this exact command his entire life. The transformation is terrifying and absolute. It’s the look of a man who would burn the world down if I asked him to or kneel in the ashes to worship me if that’s what I needed.

The movement is fluid, controlled, his knees hitting the ground. He doesn't break eye contact for a second, his gaze locked on mine as he settles there, a supplicant at my altar.

He is massive, a wall of muscle and coiled power, and yet he looks completely disarmed like this. Stripped of his defenses, he's looking up at me like I’m the only thing that matters in the entire world.

He places his hands on my knees, his palms warm and rough through the denim. The heat of them sinks into my skin, branding me. He rests them there, waiting.

For a moment, I only stare at him, stunned by the sight of Santi on his knees before me. This is a man who commands rooms, who leads teams into hell and back, and here he is, kneeling in the dirt at my feet. The power rush is heady, dizzying, making the blood pound in my ears.

He waits, letting me take this in, letting me see him like this.

Slowly, his hands begin to move. They slide up my thighs, his fingers digging in just enough to send a jolt of electricity straight up my spine. He's taking his time, exploring the terrain like he's memorizing it, his touch reverent but demanding.

"Tell me what you want," he murmurs, his voice low and wrecked, vibrating against my skin.

"Worship me," I breathe, the command barely a whisper.

Santi’s eyes darken further, the pupils swallowing the iris until there’s almost nothing left. A low, ragged sound tears from his throat, something halfway between a groan and a growl, and he surges forward.

His hands slide from my knees to my hips, fingers hooking into the belt loops of my jeans to drag me to the very edge of the chair. I gasp at the sudden movement, my back arching as he pulls me flush against him, his face burying itself in the space between my legs.

He inhales deeply, like he’s trying to breathe me in, memorize my scent, and the sheer intimacy of the action makes my head spin.

"Fuck," he grits out, the word muffled against the denim. "You smell so fucking good.”

His hands move to the button of my jeans with practiced ease, popping it open and dragging the zipper down with agonizing slowness. The sound of the teeth parting is deafening in the quiet night. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of my jeans and panties both, pulling them down my legs in one rough tug.

I lift my hips to help him, unable to look away from the sight of him, on his knees, doing exactly what I asked. The cool night air hits my heated skin, raising goosebumps, but his hands are there a second later, warm and grounding on my bare thighs.

He doesn’t give me a moment to feel exposed. He leans in immediately, his broad shoulders spreading my knees wider, forcing me open to the night air and his gaze. The firelight catches the sharp planes of his face as he dips his head, his breath hot against my inner thigh.

“Santi,” I gasp, my fingers flying to his hair, threading through the thick, dark curls.

He hums against my skin, a low, vibrating sound that sends a shockwave of electricity straight to my core. He presses a kiss to the inside of my knee, then higher, his lips tracing a slow, torturous path up the sensitive skin of my thigh. He isn’t rushing. Every press of his mouth feels like a brand, staking a claim in the most tender way possible.

He works his way higher, his mouth leaving a trail of fire against my inner thighs. The scrape of his day-old stubble is a delicious contrast to the softness of his lips, sending shivers racing up my spine that have nothing to do with the chill in the air. He takes his time, mapping the terrain with a reverence that makes my chest ache, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of skin he’s been denied for so long.

When he finally reaches the apex of my thighs, he pauses. He pulls back just enough to look up at me, his eyes burning with a dark, fierce intensity. The sight of him, strong and unshakeable Santi, kneeling between my legs, looking at me like I’m the only holy thing left in the world, is almost enough to undo me right there.

“Look at you.”

The air between us is electric, charged with the weight of the moment. His eyes are pools of molten heat, filled with a raw, undisguised hunger that makes my breath hitch. He doesn't look away, his stare pinning me in place as he leans in, his breath ghosting over my exposed, aching flesh.

"You’re a fucking goddess," he murmurs, the words a dark rasp against my skin.

He seals his mouth over me with a desperate, hungry groan that vibrates through my entire body, his tongue flattening against my clit with a firm, pressured stroke.

My back bows off the chair, a broken cry tearing from my throat as my fingers tighten in his hair, pulling hard enough to hurt, but he doesn’t flinch. If anything, the pain seems to spur him on. He growls low against me, the sound rough and possessive, his hands gripping my thighs with bruising force to hold me open for him.

He eats me like he’s starving.

His tongue moves with a devastating precision, curling and flicking in ways that make my vision blur. There is no hesitation, no tentative exploration, only a relentless, consuming rhythm. He alternates between broad, flat strokes that cover every inch of me and sharp, targeted flicks of his tongue against the sensitive bundle of nerves that sends shockwaves racing up my spine.

I can’t think. I can’t breathe. The only thing that exists is the heat of his mouth, the rough grip of his hands on my thighs, and the desperate, embarrassing sounds escaping my own throat.

He changes his angle, dragging his lower lip through my folds before suctioning his mouth around my clit, sucking hard. My hips jerk instinctively, chasing the friction, but his grip tightens, iron-clad, holding me exactly where he wants me. He hums against me, the vibration radiating through my pelvis, down my thighs, settling deep in my bones.

The pressure builds, a tight, coiling knot low in my belly that threatens to snap. His name falls from my lips like a chant, a broken prayer. He doubles down, sliding one hand from my thigh, his fingers teasing my entrance before thrusting inside, curling upward to find that spot that makes me see stars.

The dual sensation is too much. The fullness of his fingers, the ruthless suction of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble. It’s a sensory overload that shatters me.

"Santi, I-," I gasp, my thighs trembling violently around his ears.

He doesn't let up. If anything, he presses harder, his tongue flicking rapidly while his fingers curl inside me, hitting that perfect, devastating spot over and over again. The coil in my belly snaps, white-hot and blinding.

My orgasm tears through me with the force of a freight train. I cry out, my back arching violently off the chair as the pleasure overwhelms my senses, wiping out everything but the feel of his mouth and hands. My entire body shakes, the tension releasing in a rush that leaves me gasping for air, my vision spotting with black and white.

He works me through it, drawing out every aftershock until I’m a trembling, oversensitive mess, completely boneless against the chair. The relentless rhythm of his tongue finally slows, turning into soft, languid laps that soothe rather than consume, gently bringing me down from the high.

I sag back, my chest heaving, staring up at the starless sky as my heart hammers a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I feel wrecked, utterly spent.

Santi presses one last, lingering kiss to the inside of my thigh, a tender contrast to the bruising grip of his hands just moments ago. Then, he pulls back slightly, but he doesn't stand. He rests his forehead against my knee, his own breathing ragged and uneven, the heat of it seeping into my sweat-slicked skin.

The silence that follows is heavy, broken only by the crackle of the fire and the ragged sound of our breathing. For a long moment, he stays there, forehead resting against my knee, grounding us both. The rough stubble of his jaw scrapes against my skin, a tangible reminder of the intensity of what just happened.

He pulls back to look up at me, his eyes tracing the lines of my face as if he’s committing this moment to memory. The look in his eyes is fierce, a dark, possessive glint that says I’m his, and he’s not letting me go.

Slowly, he rises to his feet. The movement is effortless, a display of raw power that steals the breath I’m still trying to catch. He looms over me, his silhouette blocking out the firelight, a giant in the darkness. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.

He reaches down, his hands sliding under my arms, and lifts. He scoops me up against his chest like I weigh nothing at all, one arm hooked behind my knees and the other braced firmly against my back. My head lolls against his shoulder, my face burying in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him.

The transition from the cool night air to the house is instantaneous, the warmth of the interior wrapping around us as he kicks the door shut behind him. He moves through the hallway with a predatory grace, his steps sure and silent on the floorboards.

I’m loose-limbed and floating, my body still humming with the aftershocks, my face pressed against the steady thrum of his heartbeat. I don't look up to see where we're going. I just let him carry me, trusting him completely to take me where I need to be.

He kicks the door to his bedroom open and carries me inside. He deposits me on the bed with a controlled drop, the mattress dipping under my weight.

I look up at him, breathless, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. The room is dim, lit only by the faint glow of the streetlights filtering through the blinds, casting long shadows across his frame. He stands at the edge of the bed, staring down at me with a hunger that makes my throat go dry.

Santi stands there, chest heaving, his eyes dragging over me with a slow perusal that feels like a physical touch. He’s taking me in, and the look on his face is pure, unfiltered sin. He reaches back, gripping the hem of his shirt, and peels it off in one fluid motion, tossing it aside without looking.

The moonlight catches the hard planes of his chest, the definition of his abs, the scars that map his history. He’s beautiful in a way that’s almost violent, all coiled strength and restrained power.

“Come here,” I breathe, reaching for him.

He just stands there, letting his eyes trace the line of my body like he’s memorizing a map he intends to conquer. The silence stretches until the weight of his stare becomes a physical thing, pressing me into the mattress.

“Patience,” he chides, though the rough edge to his voice betrays him. His hands go to his belt, the metal clinking in the quiet room as he undoes it, then the button of his jeans. “I’m not rushing this. Not now.”

Santi’s dark eyes never leave mine as his hands hook into the waist of his jeans, pushing the denim down over his hips. The fabric bunches around his thighs before he steps out of them completely, kicking them aside with a careless movement that underscores his absolute focus on me.

He stands completely bare before me. He is magnificent, all long, powerful lines, the muscle of his thighs and the sharp, tensed V-cut of his lower stomach leading down to the undeniable, rigid proof of how badly he wants me. There is nothing hidden anymore. The vulnerability of his nakedness is entirely eclipsed by the raw, dominant presence he commands just by standing there.

A low, involuntary gasp slips from my throat at the sheer sight of him.

A slow, dark smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, but it disappears just as quickly, replaced by that heavy-lidded, consuming lust that has been burning in his eyes. He steps toward the edge of the bed, the mattress sinking deeply under his weight as he settles a knee on the mattress, looming over me once more.

"You like what you see?" he murmurs, his deep voice scraping low in his chest as he crawls forward, positioning himself over my body. "Because it's all yours. Every single inch."

He braces himself on his forearms, caging me in, his weight settling heavily on top of me in a way that feels like an anchor. The friction of his skin against mine sends a fresh shockwave of heat through my system, waking up nerves that are already raw and oversensitive.

I arch my neck back into the pillow, my hands coming up to wrap around his biceps, feeling the hard, tensed muscle beneath my palms. . I look up into his eyes, dark and steady, weighted with something unreadable, the kind that feel like they see too much and say too little. I’m completely helpless against the pull of him, unable to look away.

"I've never seen anything more perfect," I whisper, my voice trembling but entirely honest. I slide my hands up to his shoulders, pulling him down just that fraction closer until his breath mixes with mine. "

"God, you are so beautiful," he growls, the words raspy and unpolished as he stares down at me. His gaze roves over my face like he’s trying to memorize every line, every flush of my skin in the dim light. "I've been going out of my mind wanting you like this. It’s always been you."

He doesn't wait for me to answer, his mouth dropping down to claim mine again.

This time, the kiss is deeper, slower, filled with a quiet reverence that leaves me entirely breathless. He parts my lips with a possessive assurance, tasting me fully, while his fingers tangle into my hair to tilt my head just right. The sheer warmth of him floods through me, drowning out the lingering cold of everything that came before, until there is nothing left but the weight of his body and the absolute certainty of his mouth against mine.

He shifts, his mouth trailing a path of burning heat down the line of my jaw, finding the sensitive spot just beneath my ear. A low, ragged breath escapes him before he buries his lips against my throat. He kisses me there, deep and possessive, his tongue tracing the frantic, erratic beat of my pulse until my entire body arches into his touch.

The contrast of his heavy, solid weight against me and the deliberate, torturous precision of his mouth sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to my core.

“Santi, please,” I gasp, my hips lifting off the mattress in a desperate, silent plea. I need him to fill the ache, to stop the trembling that hasn't ceased since he put his mouth on me.

He hovers over me, bracing his weight on one arm while the other slides between us. He grips himself and runs the length of his cock through my folds, coating himself in the wet heat he left there. The friction is maddening, a slow, deliberate drag that makes my hips jerk off the mattress, chasing the contact.

“Eyes on me,” he orders, his voice a rough scrape against the quiet.

I force my eyes open, meeting that dark, consuming gaze. He’s watching me with an unblinking intensity, tracking every flutter of my eyelashes, every ragged breath that tears through my lips.

He doesn't ask again. He lines himself up and pushes forward, sinking into me with a slow, deliberate thrust. The stretch is intense, a burning, full pressure that borders on too much, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't give me a chance to adjust to the invasion. He just keeps coming, burying himself deep until his hips are flush against mine and there is nowhere left to go.

A ragged sound tears from my throat, half-gasp, half-moan. My body bows off the mattress, instinctively trying to accommodate the sheer size of him, my hands flying to his shoulders to hold on.

He holds himself there, deep and impossibly still, letting my body adjust to the invasion, letting me feel every thick inch of him stretching me wide. His breath is hot against my neck, ragged and uneven, the only sign that the iron control he’s famous for is hanging by a thread.

“Breathe,” he raps against my skin, his hand coming up to cup the back of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive spot behind my ear. “Just breathe, cariño. I got you.”

I try to obey, forcing air into lungs that feel seized, my internal muscles fluttering around him as they try to accommodate his size. He groans low in his throat, a dark, broken sound, his hips jerking involuntarily against me.

Then, he begins to move. A steady, punishingly deep rhythm that feels designed to completely dismantle me from the inside out. It’s a takeover. He refuses to let me look away, his dark eyes locked onto mine in the dim light filtering through the window, forcing me to witness every hitch in his breath, every tightening of his jaw, as if he's carving his name into my skin.

He leans down, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his teeth grazing my collarbone as his pace quickens, the friction and heat spiraling out of control.

“You’re it for me,” he confesses brokenly, his voice cracking against my ear as he drives us both over the edge. “But you get to decide if I stay yours the same way you’re mine.”

The admission hangs in the air, heavier than the weight of him pressing me into the mattress. It’s a detonation in the quiet room, shattering whatever fragile walls we’ve been hiding behind. The raw honesty in his voice, the way it cracks on the words, undoes me completely.

My heart lurches, a jagged, painful beat that matches the rhythm of his hips. I dig my heels into the mattress, lifting to meet him, my hands threading into his hair to pull him closer, needing him to merge with me, to erase the line where he ends and I begin. The coil in my belly tightens to the breaking point, white-hot and desperate, pulled by the drag of his body and the gravity of his confession.

“I’m yours, Santi,” I gasp, his name a prayer on my lips. “I’m yours…and you’re mine.”

He lets out a shuddering breath against my neck, as if my words have physically disarmed him, stripping away the last of his composure. But instead of driving into me harder, as his coiled muscles suggest he might, he slows. He pulls back to look at me, his expression fierce, reverent, almost pained in its intensity.

He brings a hand between us, his calloused palm tracing the line of my jaw, his thumb dragging over my lower lip until I part for him. He leans down, pressing his lips to my forehead, then the tip of my nose, then my cheeks, scattering kisses like he’s trying to memorize my features by braille.

“Mine,” he repeats, agreeing with my declaration, making it a vow. He shifts his weight, sliding one arm under my waist to tilt my hips up, changing the angle so he brushes against a spot that makes me see stars. “I’m going to take such good fucking care of you.”

He starts to move again, but the rhythm has changed. The punishing pace is gone, replaced by a deliberate, devastating slowness. He’s worshiping me with his body, using every inch of himself to show me what he can’t say with words alone.

He presses his lips to my temple, then down to the hollow of my throat, his tongue darting out to taste the salt on my skin.

“Fuck,” he exhales quietly, like the words aren’t enough for what he means. “You’re so beautiful it’s not even fair.”

His hips roll in a shallow, grinding wave, hitting that deep, tender spot inside me over and over until I’m a writhing mess beneath him. He’s taking his time, dragging out every sensation, forcing me to feel every ridge, every vein, every thick inch of him as he strokes the fire higher. His hands roam my body, gripping my thighs, tracing the curve of my waist, tangling in my hair, holding me steady for his possession.

He shifts slightly, bringing one hand between us where we are joined, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle of nerves with unerring precision. The dual sensation of him filling me and the tight, circling pressure of his thumb is devastating. My back arches off the bed, a broken cry spilling from my lips as the pleasure spikes sharp and blinding.

“Let go for me,” he commands softly, his voice dark and rough against my ear. “I want to feel you fall apart.”

He doesn’t stop. He works me with a relentless, focused dedication, watching my face with that piercing gaze as the tension in my belly winds tighter and tighter, threatening to snap. The pleasure builds to a crescendo, a white-hot wave that crashes over me, pulling me under. I cry out his name, my body clamping down around him as the orgasm rips through me, leaving me gasping and shaking in its wake.

The aftershocks are still rippling through me, turning my bones to liquid, when Santi withdraws. The sudden emptiness is a jarring loss, a cold void where he just was, but he doesn’t give me time to mourn the absence. His hands are on me instantly, gripping my hips with a firm, undeniable pressure.

“Turn over,” he rasps, the command rough but laced with that same dark reverence.

I’m too wrecked to do anything but obey. I roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow to muffle a sound that’s half-sob, half-moan. My body is humming, oversensitive, every nerve ending exposed. I feel the mattress dip as he moves behind me, the heat of his skin radiating against mine even before he touches me.

His hands grip my waist, rough and demanding, pulling me up until I’m on my hands and knees. The position leaves me vulnerable, my back arched and exposed to him, but the vulnerability only serves to heighten the anticipation. I feel the mattress shift as he moves in behind me, the heat of his thighs brushing against the backs of mine. He’s a furnace at my back, a wall of solid muscle and restrained aggression.

He doesn’t enter me immediately. He takes a moment to appreciate the view, his calloused palms running over the curve of my spine, tracing the dip of my lower back before gripping my ass firmly. His touch is possessive, kneading the flesh, branding me as his own.

“God, look at you,” he groans, the sound rough and low, vibrating against my skin. “Perfect like this. All for me.”

He leans down, the heat of his chest pressing against my back, molding us together. The hair on his chest tickles my skin, a sharp contrast to the steel-hard muscles beneath. He doesn't rush; he takes a moment to bracket my body with his, caging me in. One arm slides under my chest, pulling me back against him until my shoulder blades are flush with his pecs, while his other hand grips my hip, anchoring me in place.

I can feel the thud of his heart against my spine, a frantic rhythm that matches my own. His breath is hot against the sensitive shell of my ear, sending shivers down my neck even as the rest of me burns.

“Santi,” I whimper, my head falling back onto his shoulder, exposing my throat to him in a gesture of total surrender. “Please.”

He doesn't make me wait any longer. He lines himself up and sinks into me in one deep, fluid stroke, a possessive invasion that forces a broken cry from my lips. The angle is deeper this way, devastatingly so, and I grip the bedsheets, knuckles white, as he seats himself fully inside.

“I got you,” he growls against the sensitive skin of my neck, his voice vibrating through my chest.

He pulls back then enters me again in one smooth stroke, and this time the angle is deeper, devastatingly so. I cry out, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the sheets, but he has me locked down. There is no escaping the intensity of him, the way he fills every inch of space, physical and otherwise.

The friction is maddening, a slow drag that pulls against every nerve ending. He’s more than fucking me. He’s imprinting himself on me, ensuring that every inch of my body remembers the shape of him. The arm across my chest is a steel band, his hand splayed wide over my sternum, feeling the frantic race of my heart.

He shifts his hips, changing the angle just enough to hit that spot that makes spots dance behind my eyelids, and a high, thin sound tears from my throat. His response is a low, dark chuckle that he presses directly into the sweat-slicked skin of my shoulder.

“You feel that?” he rasps, his teeth grazing the tendon where my neck meets my shoulder. “That’s where I belong. Deep inside you.”

He buries his face in the curve of my neck, inhaling me like I’m the only source of oxygen left in a burning room. The intimacy of this position is overwhelming. I can’t hide from him like this. I’m completely spread open, trapped against the hard wall of his chest, forced to feel every ragged breath he takes, every twitch of the muscles that are caging me in.

“Santi, please,” I sob, the sound broken and breathless. “It’s too much. I can’t-”

“You can,” he cuts me off fiercely, his hand sliding up from my chest to wrap around my throat, tilting my head back further. His grip is firm, possessive, anchoring me to him. “You were made for this. Made for me. Do you trust me?”

“I trust you.”

“Good,” he groans, the words breaking on a thrust that feels like a prayer. “I want to show you what you do to me, how completely you have me on my knees. Fuck, I’d do anything for you.” The words are punched out of him with every thrust, raw and desperate and terrifyingly loud in the quiet room. "I need you. I need you in a way I don’t really know what to do with.”

His grip on my throat tightens just enough to make my pulse hammer against his palm, a possessive, grounding pressure that sends a fresh shockwave of heat straight to my core. The vulnerability of the position, the sheer weight of him surrounding me, is intoxicating. I feel claimed, not just in my body but in the very air I breathe.

“Please,” I gasp, my voice breaking as he hits a spot that makes the room tilt on its axis.

“Please what?” He doesn't let up. If anything, the angle sharpens, grinding deep until I’m arching off the mattress, a broken moan tearing from my throat. “Tell me what you need, cariño.”

“I… I…” The words dissolve into a breathless whine, completely broken. My mind is a white void of pure sensation, wiped entirely clean of everything but the agonizingly perfect drag of his skin against mine. I let out a desperate whimper, helpless against the relentless rhythm that’s pushing me straight toward another precipice.

“Shh,” he breathes, the words a ragged promise against my neck. He seems to understand my incoherence better than I do. “I know.”

He slides his hand between our bodies. When his hand finds the swollen, aching heat between my legs, the slick friction of his touch is absolute electricity. A violent shockwave ripples through me, bucking my hips helplessly against him.

He shifts his hips, hitting a spot that makes my vision blur, and the sheer precision of it, the fact that he knows my body better than I know myself right now, makes my head spin. He's attuning himself to me, reading every tremor, every gasp like a map he’s memorized.

His lips graze the sensitive skin just below my ear, placing a kiss there that is tender, a stark contrast to the relentless rhythm of his hips. It’s a benediction, a silent vow spoken in the language of touch.

“I’m giving it to you,” he breathes, the words rough, pouring out of him like he’s been holding them back for a lifetime. “Everything you could ever want, it’s yours. Just say the word.”

"Give it to me, Santi," I gasp out, my voice raw and completely undone against his lips. "I'm yours. I believe you."

That breaks him. The rhythm shifts from that devastatingly slow torture to a desperate, driving cadence, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room, raw and rhythmic. He’s not holding anything back, pouring everything he is, every secret, every fear, every ounce of that desperate devotion he confessed, into the way he moves inside me. It’s frantic, almost violent in its intensity, a man running out of time trying to etch his soul into mine.

He keeps talking, a stream of praise and devotion that mixes with the ragged sounds of our exertion. He tells me I'm beautiful, that I'm his, that he's never felt anything like this in his life. Each word acts as a catalyst, wringing spasm after spasm from my exhausted body until I'm sobbing, completely undone by the sheer force of his devotion and the overwhelming, blinding pleasure of him.

A raw, ragged sob tears from my throat as the third climax crashes into me, harder and sharper than the first two. It blindsides me, a white-hot supernova that obliterates every thought, every doubt, every memory of the months spent feeling invisible. My body locks up, shaking violently beneath him, my inner muscles clamping around him like a vice.

I scream his name, my voice breaking as the pleasure turns almost painful in its intensity.

He growls low in his throat, a sound of pure satisfaction, and rides me through it. He doesn't stop the ruthless motion of his hips, doesn't stop the devastating circles of his fingers until I’m completely spent, collapsed and twitching against the mattress.

He follows me over the edge with a guttural groan that sounds like it’s been wrenched out of him, his rhythm finally stuttering and breaking. He buries himself to the hilt, holding there as his body bows, his hand blindly seeking mine on the mattress, pinning our fingers together and squeezing tight. He holds me with a reverence that borders on the divine, anchoring me through the intensity, ensuring that even in the midst of his own unraveling, I am cherished, safe, and held.

For a long, suspended moment, the world narrows down to the sound of our breathing, ragged, uneven, deafening in the quiet room. The air smells of sex and sweat and him, a scent that seems to imprint itself directly into my bloodstream.

He collapses over me, a sweat-slicked weight that presses me into the mattress, but he doesn't crush me. He catches himself on his elbows at the last second, burying his face in the crook of my neck as his body continues to shudder with the aftershocks.

His heart hammers against my spine, a heavy, frantic rhythm that matches the thumping in my own chest. We are a tangle of limbs, skin sticking to skin, the air around us thick and stifling in the best possible way.

For a long time, neither of us moves. The only sounds are the ragged intake of breath and the distant, muffled crackle of the fire pit dying outside the window. It’s like the world has stopped spinning, just for us, leaving us suspended in this bubble.

Eventually, he shifts his weight, rolling us onto our sides so he doesn't crush me, but he doesn't let go. He pulls me back into his chest, spooning me, his face buried in my hair. His arm is a possessive weight across my waist, his hand splayed flat against my stomach, holding me together.

I can feel his breath against the back of my neck, warm and uneven, slowly syncing with my own. The dim room feels smaller now, the shadows pressing in, but it doesn't feel claustrophobic. It feels like a bunker. Like the only safe place left on earth.

He presses a kiss to my shoulder, lingering there like he’s memorizing the taste of my skin. "You okay?”

I hum, turning my head just enough to catch his eye. The intensity from before is still there, but it’s softened now, melted into an unguarded warmth. It’s a look he rarely shows the world, reserved only for these quiet moments when the armor comes off.

"Yeah," I whisper, my throat feeling raw and used. "I'm more than okay."

The corner of his mouth kicks up, that familiar, crooked thing that used to make my stomach flip years ago and still manages to do a number on me now. He lifts his hand from my stomach, tracing the line of my jaw with a thumb that's rough and calloused, but gentle enough to make my eyes sting.

“I know you’re tired of words,” he murmurs, his voice a low, rough vibration against my skin. “But I meant every fucking one of them. I’m not letting you go. I don’t care what it takes. I’m making sure you believe me.”

He pulls back just enough to search my eyes, his gaze dark and unwavering, daring me to look away. But I don't. A slow, challenging smirk tugs at my lips as a familiar heat begins to build all over again.

Ryland opened his mouth with an automatic comeback already forming — something sarcastic, something easy. But the words caught before they left.

Maybe she had.

Or maybe he’d already been weak long before her. Tired. Angry. Half-living through routines because it was easier than thinking too hard about anything else. Or to plan for the future, something beyond what to eat for lunch or how to prepare for upcoming lessons.

Ryland liked a thought that maybe you had done the opposite. Maybe you’d made him stronger without even trying. The thought sat strangely warm in his chest.

Right now he only shook his head and started toward the exit. “See you Monday.”

“Pathetic,” Martin called after him.

Ryland grinned the entire drive home anyway. He regretted nothing.

The apartment smelled like garlic and butter when he walked in. It wasn't a large apartment, but it was cozy. It was filled with books, plants—you were in the era of "plant moms"—and all sorts of little things that made the house feel cozy.

You looked over your shoulder from the stove. You smiled at the sight of him. “Hey.”

“There she is.” He dropped his bag by the couch and crossed the room to kiss your temple before peeking into the pan. “That smells illegal.”

“You say that every time I cook.” you chuckled. 

“Because every time you cook I consider proposing again.”

“You already proposed.”

“Right. Then I’ll propose harder.”

You laughed quietly, nudging him away with your hip. “Go wash your hands.”

"In a moment," he announced, quickly taking off his jacket and loosening his tie. "I actually need to check something first."

That immediately made you suspicious. Ryland disappeared into the bedroom and came back holding a stethoscope. He rolled up his shirt sleeves as if he was getting ready for something serious.

You frowned, not fully understanding what he meant. “Ryland.”

“What?”

“You are not that kind of doctor.”

“I have a doctorate.” he argued.

“In molecular biology.”

He smiled disarmingly. “Still counts.”

You rolled your eyes but Ryland ignored you entirely, already stepping closer with the stubborn determination of a man about to conduct groundbreaking research in the dumbest way possible. You tried not to smile as he crouched carefully in front of you.

“Grace,” you warned. "You know I'm still making dinner, right?"

“Shh. Medical procedure.”

“You borrowed that from school, didn’t you?”

“Temporarily acquired.”

He gently lifted the hem of your shirt just enough to press the cold metal against your stomach.

You inhaled sharply. “Jesus—”

“Sorry.”

Immediately afterward, he frowned in concentration. Completely serious and engaged. The same expression he got while solving impossible problems. Only now he was listening for a heartbeat.

Your heartbeat. 

The baby’s heartbeat.

Four months in, and sometimes it still didn’t feel real. The ultrasound photos sat on the fridge. Tiny blurry proof that there was actually someone there.

Ryland adjusted the stethoscope again. Nothing. He frowned harder.

"You know people study for years to do this correctly, right?" you said gently.

“I am literally a scientist. Hang on.”

Another few seconds passed and then suddenly his entire face changed. Ryland froze.

“Oh,” he breathed.

You softened immediately. “Did you hear something?”

His blue eyes lifted to yours, wide with something so open it almost hurt to look at.

“Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke, as if waiting for some signal or sign. Then Ryland smiled — small, disbelieving, helpless.

“That’s my kid.”

Your chest tightened painfully with affection. “Our kid,” you corrected softly.

“Right.” He laughed under his breath. “Right. Sorry.”

He listened for a few more seconds, as if physically unable to contain himself. You gently stroked his tousled hair. Finally he pulled away.

“It’s a girl,” he announced.

You stared at Ryland in astonishment. "You can't know that."

"I know."

"Scientifically?"

"Emotionally."

"That's not science."

"That's advanced science. A higher level."

You laughed again, and he stood, leaning down to kiss you quickly before resting a hand against your stomach almost unconsciously. Still smiling andl looking a little stunned.

Then, far too casually, he said, “So… you got plans this weekend?”

You turned off the stove and put the spoon down. “Ryland.”

“What? Normal question.” He pressed his lips together, pretending to think. “Okay, maybe I had a small idea.”

“Oh no.” you sighed.

“There’s this place downtown—”

“The courthouse?”

“Maybe.”

You laughed before he could continue. “Ryland.”

“What? We’re already engaged.” He grabbed your hand and lifted it, pointing to the ring as if to remind you of something obvious.

“And?”

“And statistically, we are extremely good at this relationship.” You were. 

“That is not how people decide to get married.”

“I think you’ll find most successful marriages involve one incredibly charming microbiologist.”

“Molecular biologist.” You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “Not yet.”

He groaned softly, letting his forehead fall against your shoulder. “You always say that.”

“Because you ask me every two weeks,” you said.

“That’s persistence. A very romantic trait.”

“You literally asked me once, while I was brushing my teeth.”

“And you still didn’t agree.”

You gently threaded your fingers through his hair. He hummed softly. “I’ll do it,” you murmured. “Just… not yet.”

He sighed dramatically into your shoulder. But after a moment, he wrapped his arms around you anyway, holding you carefully, in a way he’d never held anything from you before.

“Fine,” he murmured. “But by the way, our daughter agrees with me.”

“You don’t even know if she’s a daughter.”

“I know,” he said confidently. “She told me.”

The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the dishwasher and the rain tapping softly against the windows. Ryland sat at the other end of the couch with a laptop balanced on his knees, pretending to work. Pretending, because for the last twenty minutes, he’d reread the same sentence in a research paper six times and still couldn’t tell you what it said.

You were half-asleep beside him, curled under a blanket with your head resting against the armrest. One hand lay over your belly unconsciously now, like it belonged there already.

Four months.

He still couldn’t believe that. Every once in a while he caught himself staring at the ultrasound picture on the fridge just to reassure himself it was real. You two did it. And although it was a surprise to you, you were truly happy.

You shifted slightly in your sleep, and the blanket slipped from your shoulder. In a second Ryland reached over to pull it back up. You made a soft sound, eyes still closed.

“Sorry,” he murmured automatically.

“You say sorry every time I breathe too hard.” your voice was quiet, with remnants of sleep around the edges.

“That’s because you’re carrying a tiny human. Feels medically important.”

Your lips twitched faintly before settling again. He smiled to himself. Then his eyes caught the glint of the ring on your finger. The engagement ring he’d given you almost a year ago now. And suddenly, painfully, he remembered every stupid way he’d brought up marriage since then.

While grocery shopping. While brushing his teeth. Once during a fire drill at school - he then called you, saying he was in serious danger and this was your last chance to agree. Only a child's voice in the background said, "Mr. Grace, it's just a drill."

You always laughed. Always kissed him afterward. Always said not yet. It wasn't out of anger or uncertainty. Just… not yet.

Ryland quietly closed his laptop and set it aside. For a moment, he just stared at you. At the gentleness in your face. At the tiredness that was now taking its toll on you. At the trust you had in him. At the way, you somehow made his apartment seem less temporary. Less like a place he happened to sleep in, and more like a place where life actually happened. With you.

It scared him sometimes, how much he loved you. Because before you, he’d gotten very good at existing without needing anyone. And now the thought of losing this felt unbearable.

You stirred slightly when he brushed his thumb across your hand, eyes halfway opened. "You're staring again."

"I'm not staring."

"You get strangely emotional at night," you observed.

"That's slander. Definitely not true."

You smiled faintly, still barely conscious. Then you noticed the expression on his face and immediately softened.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?"

Ryland looked down at your intertwined hands for a second before answering. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve done a really bad job explaining something.”

You pushed yourself up a little. “Okay…”

He laughed quietly through his nose, suddenly nervous. Which was ridiculous, he talked in front of classrooms full of teenagers every day. He’d presented research to rooms full of scientists. But this? This was somehow worse. Because it was you.

“I know I joke about the wedding stuff a lot,” he admitted. “And I know I keep asking at objectively terrible moments.”

“Very terrible moments.”

You smiled a little, but stayed quiet. And Ryland swallowed before continuing.

“It’s not because I’m trying to pressure you.”

“I know.”

“I just…” He paused. “Every time I think about the future, you’re already there.”

Something in your expression changed. Small, almost invisible, but enough to make his chest tighten. He kept going anyway.

“You and the baby and all the stupid little things.” He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen and the rest of the apartment. “Your coffee mug in the sink. Your books everywhere. The fact that there are suddenly vegetables in my refrigerator.”

You laughed softly, but his voice turned quieter after that.

“Before you, I don’t think I really think about the future.” He stared down at his hands as he said it. “Not a real one. I had work. Research. Classes. Days to get through.” A small shrug. “And I was okay, mostly. And then you showed up, and now every version of my life I can imagine has you in it.”

Your eyes were shining now. Ryland smiled nervously.

“So I think maybe…” He exhaled softly. “Maybe I keep asking because I already think of you as my family.”

Silence fell. Not an awkward silence, but one that felt complete. Then you reached for his hand, fully this time, intertwining your fingers with his.

“Ryland…”

“I know,” he said quickly. “And if you still need time, that’s okay. Seriously. I can wait.”

“You’d keep asking, though.”

“Oh, absolutely. Relentlessly.”

You laughed through a shaky breath. Then you moved closer until your forehead rested against his. And very quietly, you said: “Okay.”

Ryland blinked. “…Okay?”

“I’ll marry you.”

For one full second he only stared at you, like his brain had stopped functioning entirely.

And after a few seconds: “Oh my God.”

You burst out laughing as he grabbed your face with both hands. 

“Wait, seriously?”

“Yes, seriously.”

“You’re not delirious from sleep deprivation?”

“Ryland—”

“You said yes.”

“I did.”

“You actually said yes.”

He looked genuinely stunned, overwhelmingly, hopelessly happy. Then he kissed you hard enough to make you laugh again, one hand cradling your jaw while the other instinctively rested over your belly.

“Our daughter was definitely on my side,” he informed you proudly.

You rolled your eyes immediately and touched his cheek gently. “You’re really happy about this, huh?”

Ryland looked at you for a moment like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really am.”

The honesty of it settled warmly between you. No jokes this time and no deflection. Just him.

Outside, the rain continued tapping against the windows, turning the apartment into something small and safe and separate from the rest of the world. Your quiet space. Just for you.

Ryland leaned back into the couch, pulling you with him until your head rested against his chest. One arm wrapped around you automatically while the other stayed over your belly, his thumb moving absentmindedly against the fabric of your shirt. Protective already.

You listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. “You know,” you murmured, “you’re going to cry when the baby’s born.”

“I am absolutely not.”

“You cried watching that documentary about the octopus.” you chuckled.

“I don't remember that.”

You laughed softly. After a moment, Ryland tilted his head down to kiss your hair. “I know I joke around a lot.”

“A little.”

“But…” He hesitated briefly. “Thank you. For staying long enough for me to get this right.”

Your chest ached at the words. You lifted your head just enough to look at him.

“You already did.”

Something vulnerable flickered across his face then — brief, almost shy. And maybe that was the thing that made you love him most. Not intelligence, not sarcasm. Not even the way he somehow made ordinary days feel lighter. It was this - the fact that underneath all the humor and rambling and badly timed jokes, Ryland Grace loved with his entire heart once he finally let himself.

He tucked the blanket more securely around you before resting his cheek against the top of your head. And for the first time in a very long time, the future didn’t feel frightening to him.

It felt warm. It felt like home. An you were in it.

He set his helmet on the table and quickly kicked off his shoes, leaving them carelessly against the wall. He’d deal with them later.

“Sorry. I thought we’d finish sooner, but Mrs. Morrison still had something else to add. That woman genuinely has no sense of time—”

He stopped halfway across the living room when he spotted you curled up on the couch, wrapped so tightly in a blanket that you barely looked human anymore.

“Oh my,” he muttered, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “I never thought I’d live to see my girlfriend turn into a human burrito.”

You stirred slightly before pushing the blanket down just enough to look at him.

“Hey.”

Your voice was barely audible, and Ryland felt his heart squeeze painfully in his chest. He crouched beside the couch, gently brushing a few strands of hair away from your face.

“Hey, pretty burrito,” he said softly. “Have you seen my girlfriend anywhere?”

“I had a terrible day,” you mumbled. “An absolutely, horribly terrible day.”

Ryland rested his chin on his hand and looked at you sympathetically.

“On a scale from one to ten? Where one is just a bad day and ten is the end of the world?”

“Eleven.”

“Geez,” he said quietly. “Rough day, huh?”

The two of you sat there in silence for a moment before Ryland sighed dramatically, stood up, and started taking off his jacket.

“Move over.”

“There’s no room. This is a one-person zone of emotional suffering.”

“Don’t you know misery loves company? Scoot.”

“Ry—”

Grace could be incredibly stubborn. You knew that. Which also meant you knew you had absolutely no chance of winning this argument. A moment later, he was lying beside you, pressing you gently against the back of the couch. He smelled faintly of cologne and cold wind.

“Tell me everything.”

So you did.

You told him how your day had started horribly after you spilled coffee all over yourself that morning. About the mountain of work waiting for you at the office. About your unbearable coworker. About forgetting lunch and ending up with a terrible sandwich from the vending machine. About your phone dying halfway through the day.

“And then it started raining,” you finished miserably. “And I didn’t even have an umbrella. Susan says it’s Mercury retrograde.”

Ryland blinked. “What?”

“Mercury retrograde,” you repeated more quietly.

“Sweetheart.” He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “I love you, you know that. But when I hear things like that, as a scientist…” He shook his head. “Mercury retrograde is an interesting astronomical phenomenon, but its ‘effect on people’s lives’ is more about belief than actual science.”

You buried your face in his shirt with a muffled groan. “I know, but I can’t help it.”

He kissed the top of your head and wrapped his arms around you as tightly as the couch allowed.

“Okay,” he said after a moment, once you finally looked up at him again. “Let’s break this down scientifically. We have one spilled coffee, one terrible coworker, one terrible sandwich, one dead phone, and one missing umbrella.”

“Are you seriously about to make a graph out of my breakdown, Dr. Grace?”

“If necessary, yes.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and lifted a finger like he was about to start a lecture. “Individually, none of these events are catastrophic. Together, however, they create the illusion of a statistically significant bad day—”

“Ryland.”

“—however,” he corrected quickly, “I am willing to acknowledge that human emotional responses do not always correlate with objective data.”

“Wow. Thank you, Doctor.”

“You’re welcome,” he said softly.

A quiet pause settled between you. Then, more gently this time, he added, “But also… yeah. That really does sound like an awful day.”

Something in your chest loosened at that. “It was,” you admitted quietly.

Ryland looked at you carefully—really looked at you—and then reached up to tug the blanket a little tighter around your shoulders. A second later, his eyebrows furrowed.

“Wait a second.”

Before you could react, he pulled part of the blanket away dramatically.

“Is that my shirt?” he asked, his voice going slightly higher than usual.

A sly smile spread across your face. “Maybe.”

“It’s definitely my shirt! I recognize that cat!”

You grinned. “Ryland, you like it when I wear your clothes. Besides, I came home sad, wet, hungry, and lonely. I needed emotional support.”

He opened his mouth, fully prepared to argue that he absolutely did not like it when you stole his clothes. Which would’ve been a complete lie.

Sometimes you borrowed his sweatshirts, and afterward they smelled like your perfume for days. Ryland would put them on and instantly feel calmer, softer somehow, like a part of you was still there with him. But there was absolutely no way he was admitting that out loud.

“That’s theft, young lady,” he announced firmly. “Take it off.”

“Oh, you’re using your teacher voice now?” you teased. “You know what that does to me.”

He cleared his throat immediately, pretending your comment hadn’t sent a very real shiver down his spine.

“I’m counting to three.”

“Make me.”

The apartment filled with laughter almost instantly.

Ryland lunged for the blanket while you tried desperately to hold onto it, both of you laughing so hard you could barely breathe. Within seconds he was hovering over you, pinning you against the couch while tears gathered at the corners of your eyes.

“Ryland!” you gasped between laughs. “I can’t move!”

“That’s gravity, my dear.”

He braced himself on his elbows above you, breathing hard, his glasses hanging crookedly off one ear.

“Are you surrendering?”

You shook your head stubbornly. “Never.”

“That was a very expensive shirt.”

“That’s not true,” you argued. “Besides… I can pay for damages.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly.

“Oh? And how exactly are you planning to do that?”

Instead of answering, you grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. It was warm and a little messy from laughter, but sweet enough to make his chest ache.

“Deal?” you whispered against his lips.

“It’s a valuable shirt,” Ryland muttered weakly without opening his eyes.

You kissed him again.

“Vintage, actually.”

Another kiss.

“I’m emotionally attached to it.”

“You’re a difficult negotiator, Dr. Grace.”

He kissed you again before you could say anything else, slower this time, softer.

God, he loved you.

He loved you so much it honestly terrified him sometimes.

With you, he never had to pretend to be someone cooler or smoother or less awkward than he really was. You saw every strange, anxious, overly talkative part of him—and somehow, that only made you love him more. Even if you kept stealing his clothes, he’d probably give you everything he owned without hesitation.

His hand slid lower against your waist as he lifted himself slightly, watching you loosen his tie and undo a few buttons of his shirt.

“You know,” he began thoughtfully, “I think we should consider conducting some practical research regarding Mercury retrograde.”

You laughed softly. “I thought you said that was bullshit.”

“Yes, well.” He adjusted his glasses with exaggerated seriousness. “Science requires an open mind. And according to extremely reliable research, after a day this bad, the best possible treatment involves direct physical contact and significant emotional support.”

“Oh?” You raised an eyebrow. “The research says so?”

“Very serious research.”

“And Dr. Grace agrees with these findings?”

“Completely.”

Your smile made his heart stutter. “Well,” you murmured, pulling gently on his tie again, “I suppose I should trust the science.”

“Good choice.”

You kissed him once more, soft laughter still lingering between you.

For a brief moment, Ryland’s mind drifted away from the warmth of the couch and the comfort of your arms, wandering instead to the jewelry store window he’d passed on his way home—the one he’d been stopping in front of for weeks now just to stare at the rings inside.

The thought still scared him sometimes. Wanting this much. Wanting a future this badly.

But sitting there with you tangled together on the couch, your fingers still curled loosely around his tie, he found himself thinking:

Tomorrow, he was finally going to walk into that store.

And if Mercury retrograde really was real… Well, then he’d just have to risk it anyway.

"You and Rocky alliance. Good. Grace still stupid."

For hours, the lab had been filled with intense work and loud arguments. The experiment they’d been so sure about had failed immediately. Neither of them gave up, of course, just pivoted, recalculated, argued, and tried again.

If not for you, Grace and Rocky would’ve forgotten to eat entirely. And when they ignored you, you had to physically herd them away like stubborn children, promising they could come back once they’d finished their food.

You checked your watch. Nearly sixteen hours. No wonder Grace was getting sloppy. No wonder Rocky was irritated.

"You need to lie down," you said, stepping toward Ryland. "You need sleep."

"I don’t need…"

You took the tools from his hands and pushed his goggles up onto his forehead.

"Don’t argue with me," you said firmly. "Rocky’s right. When you’re tired, you get irritable and act… stupid."

He rolled his eyes but didn’t fight you. "I just want this to work. We’re close. I can feel it. Another hour or two and…"

"And then Armando gets to hook you up to life support? No. You’re done."

Rocky shifted slightly in his enclosure, pretending not to listen, but he failed. "Grace must sleep. You correct. You smarter than Grace."

You bit back a laugh and rested a hand on Ryland’s shoulder before he could respond. The last thing you needed was another argument on the Hail Mary.

"You take Grace to sleep, question? You watch Grace, question?"

That got you thinking. Rocky rarely asked to be replaced while watching Grace, not like this. He must have been in a really bad mood right now.

"I promise," you said gently, tapping the transparent wall. "Everything okay, Rocky?"

"Will be good after Grace sleeps.” But he tapped lightly in return.

You took Ryland’s arm and led him toward the dorm.

"He likes you more than me," Grace muttered, glancing back.

"Don’t be jealous," you said quietly. You knew Rocky could hear every word anyway. And you also knew he’d still be listening.

The dorm lights were dim. Grace kicked off his Converse and set his glasses aside with zero precision. At some point, the two of you had pushed your mattresses together. One was too narrow. Two were better. Safer, and somehow less lonely.

He collapsed onto the bed with a long sigh. You sat against the wall, picking up a jumpsuit and examining the tear in the sleeve. Quiet work felt right while he rested. Maybe you’d put on an audiobook, there were still so many left in the archive.

"What are you doing?" His voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

"I’ve got a suit to repair," you said, holding it up.

"Don’t be ridiculous. Come here."

"You need sleep."

"Yeah, and how am I supposed to sleep if you’re sitting over there?" He propped himself up, frowning. "It’s bad enough Rocky’s probably still listening, maybe watching too."

You sighed. You weren’t winning this one. "Are you sure?"

"Absolutely. It’s science. Probably. I mean, there are studies…l, okay, I don’t remember them exactly, but it sounds like something science would support."

You raised an eyebrow. "That sounds made up."

"It is. But it’s also true."

"...Wow. Okay."

You slipped off your shoes and lay down beside him. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Just the distant hum of the ship, the faint sounds of the lab far away.

Then…

"I’m really glad you’re here. I mean…not glad you’re on a suicide mission. That part is objectively terrible. But… you being here is not terrible." he said. "I mean…this whole situation sucks, obviously. But… yeah. I’m glad it’s you."

You smiled softly. "I’m glad too. Though I would’ve preferred meeting you under better circumstances. Dinner or something like this, maybe."

Ryland swallowed. "Wait…really? You mean, like… a date?"

"Yes. A date. If you wanted."

"Yes…” he said immediately. Too immediately. Then he froze. "I mean…yes. Hypothetically. In a purely theoretical, post-not-dying scenario…yes." 

You laughed. "Good. Then when this is over, that’s the first thing we’re doing."

He smiled, softer now. "Deal," he said, and paused. "That sounded too intense. I didn’t mean it like, okay, I’m going to stop talking now."

Your hand found his, your fingers threading together naturally. "You should be asleep," you murmured.

"Working on it." Grace yawned, his eyes already slipping shut. "My brain is currently running three parallel processes," he muttered. "One is exhausted, one is trying to solve the experiment, and one is… this." He gestured vaguely between you. "This one is the least efficient."

You smiled softly. "And which one is winning?"

"None," he mumbled. "Total system failure imminent."

You let out a quiet breath, your thumb brushing lightly against his hand.

"Dr. Grace," you said softly, "I once read a study that said hugging reduces stress. Don’t you think that, combined with your current research, we might…"

"I think that’s an excellent idea," he murmured, cutting in before you could finish. "Groundbreaking. Nobel Prize. Minimum."

His voice faded at the edges, words blurring as sleep caught up with him. You shifted closer, careful, resting lightly against him. For a second, he went still, just for a second,then relaxed. His breathing slowed, evening out, steady and warm beneath your cheek. You stayed like that, listening. It wasn’t ideal. It wasn’t what you would have chosen. But it was good. Somehow. 

Rocky was already waiting when you stepped back into the lab. "Grace sleep efficiency improved, question."

You blinked. “Yes?"

"Good. Rocky observations confirm."

Ryland groaned behind you. "Oh no. What did you observe?"

"Heart rate lower. Breathing stable. Grace not stupid during sleep."

You pressed your lips together. "Rocky…"

"Also," he added, "proximity to you increases Grace survival probability."

Ryland froze. "I…what?"

"Conclusion: you stay close to Grace. For science." A pause. "Rocky approve."

Ryland buried his face in his hands. "I’m never going to recover from this."

++++++

"How are you doing?"

Ryland’s voice came through the intercom in your helmet.

"She fine. Question."  Rocky said from somewhere in the background.

"It’s fine, Rocky. One more spot and I’m done," you replied.

You clipped yourself to the railing and moved along the Hail Mary’s hull. The damage wasn’t severe, but it needed fixing. The welder Rocky had modified worked perfectly, sealing the hull faster than expected. 

Even before you left the airlock, you had to deal with Grace. He didn’t like you going out alone, it made him anxious.

"I’ll be fine," you had told him, pulling on your suit. "Eat something. Get some rest. I know what I’m doing."

"I know," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. "I just… I worry, okay? You’re…I mean, you matter. To the mission. And…just… don’t die, okay?" 

"Okay," you smiled, squeezing his shoulder. "Two hours. I’ll be back."

He nodded, but it didn’t really reassure him.

"How are you doing?" he asked again now, over the intercom. "Not trying to be pushy. Rocky’s worried."

"Rocky is not worried. She knows what she is doing. Smarter than Grace."

You smiled. "A few more minutes. What if…"

The ship jolted. The welder slipped from your grip, but you caught it just in time. Another jolt.

"Something’s wrong with the engine…I think it’s a short…I’m fixing it…just…hold on… are you there? Can you hear me?" 

"I am, just…"

The next pull yanked you off the railing. The tether snapped tight, then recoiled like a whip, slamming you into the hull. Your head slammed into the helmet. A dull crack echoed in your ears. The air punched out of your lungs, nothing left, just panic and silence. 

"Grace! She needs help. Grace! Focus. Fix engine. Now." 

You couldn’t answer. Everything spun.

"Are you there? Can you hear me? Say something, please." 

"Quick, quick, quick."

Warmth spread across your lips. Metallic. Blood. Your fingers tightened around the welder pressed to your chest as another violent tug shook you. You grabbed the railing again, pain shooting through your arm.

"She there. Time critical. Grace, take her." 

The buzzing in your head grew louder. Nausea rolled through you. You clung to the railing, your only anchor. Your vision dimmed.

You were lying on something soft.

"Eye movement detected."

You tried to move, but a hand caught yours.  His thumb brushed over your knuckles before he let go, like he wasn’t sure he should. He pulled back a little too quickly. 

"Hey. Easy."

Ryland.

You opened your eyes briefly, too bright, then shut them again.

"You had a minor concussion," he said, voice quieter now. "Some bruising. You’re okay. Medical system patched you up. You scared us."

"You came for me?" you whispered.

"Of course I did," he said immediately. "Statistically, you’re my favorite person."

"There are no other people here, Grace," Rocky pointed out.

Your lips twitched. You touched your head and felt the bandage under your fingers.

"You should lie down," Ryland said.

"You’re not that kind of doctor."

"Still counts. You’re concussed. You don’t get opinions."

You let out a weak breath that might have been a laugh. "You look tired."

"I’m not," he said quickly. "I’ll stay."

And he did.

When you woke again, hours had passed. Grace didn’t mean to fall asleep, his hand was still loosely wrapped around yours. Rocky watched over both of you.

Later, you managed to sit up. Then stand.

"I didn’t thank you," you said quietly as Ryland steadied you. "You saved me."

"You’d have done the same," he replied, watching you carefully. You scared us." He paused „You scared me." 

"I’m sorry."

"Don’t be. Just… next time, you’re staying inside."

Two days later, you were moving on your own again, though neither of them let you do any real work. After you failed to complete your work outside the ship, someone had to do it. The choice wasn't difficult, or rather, you no longer had a say.

"Grace worried. Very, very, very," Rocky said.

"I know," you replied, watching Ryland on the screen outside. "He’s nice, isn’t he?"

"Grace heart rate changes when you speak." 

You smiled faintly. "I like him too. And I like you too, Rocky."

"Grace observes you. Often. When you not looking."

"Rocky, stop." You felt yourself blushing and a strange shiver ran down your neck.

"Why stop? This is data."

You blinked. You looked up from the screen and looked at your friend. "What? No, we’re just friends."

"Grace looks at you differently. You look at him that way also. Grace very worried."

You glanced back at the screen, Grace still working. You knew you would have followed him without hesitation, whether his life was in danger or he suddenly decided to fly to the other side of the universe.

"It’s complicated," you said softly. "Humans are complicated."

A click.

"I’m done," Ryland’s voice came through the radio. "Heading back."

"I’m waiting for you. Be careful."

You saw the thumbs-up and smiled. You didn’t see it, the way he smiled, just for a second. 

The airlock hissed open. You were already there waiting for him to help him with the suit. Ryland stepped inside, pulling off his helmet too fast, eyes finding you immediately.

"Hey," he said, a little breathless.

"Hey."

He crossed the distance without thinking. He ignored your hands that were waiting to take the helmet from him and threw it to the ground. "Don't do that again, don't go out there alone." he said quietly. "Please."

"I’ll try."

"That’s not…" he stopped, exhaled. "Okay. Fine."

His hand found yours, like it had before, but this time he didn’t hesitate.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered. “When I came back for you… I’ll never forget it. And being there now, I kept thinking about it.”

“You didn’t lose me, Grace.”

“Yeah,” he murmured. “I didn’t.”

But he didn’t move away, not even a little. You were standing too close now. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, slower, more deliberate. The look in his eyes was different than usual. 

Your lips. Your eyes. Back again. Something shifted.

"Grace. Heart rate elevated."

Neither of you reacted.

"Significant. Cause: you."

You let out a soft breath, but neither of you pulled away. Ryland leaned in, closer. Close enough that you could feel his breath, uneven and warm. He hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, like he was giving himself one last chance to stop.

"Data indicates—"

Ryland closed the distance. The kiss was soft and careful. A little unsure at first, like he wasn’t entirely convinced this was real. Then his hand tightened slightly around yours, and something in him settled, and it was real. You touched his cheek gently, feeling his soft stubble under your fingers.

"—contact established," Rocky finished.

Ryland pulled back enough to look at you. His blue eyes were wide, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just done.

"…Okay," he breathed.

A beat of your heart.

"Statistically," he added quietly, "that was a good decision."

You laughed softly, and then he smiled, gently, a little crooked, but completely sincere. And this time, when he leaned in again, he didn't hesitate.

When everything around you was so crazy and dangerous, when you lived with the feeling that the end might soon come, this closeness was what you craved. What you deserved. What you wanted to wrest from fate together.

And it felt good.

He immediately reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper.

"You left this in the printer," he said, unfolding it carefully. "It's not from our school—I checked. Which, okay, I realize sounds like I investigate people, but statistically this was just curiosity, not— anyway." He sat down beside you without waiting. "It explains a lot. The library, the muttering— you were reviewing material."

"Will you— will you please be quiet?" you hissed, glancing around. Thankfully, the room was empty. "I don't want everyone knowing about this."

He froze mid-sentence, blinking. You quickly snatched the paper from his hand, folding it too fast, your fingers tense.

"Oh," he said after a second, frowning slightly. "Are you… ashamed of being a student?"

You didn’t answer right away. You stared down at your lunch, appetite gone, then pushed your plate away and leaned back with a quiet sigh.

"It's not something I want to discuss, okay?" you said softly. "And besides… you're a doctor, and I— I didn’t go to college right after high school. I didn’t have the chance. I'm trying to catch up now, and…" You let out a breath. "I don't even know if I’ll make it through sophomore year."

Ryland leaned forward immediately, all his attention snapping into place. "What do you mean?"

"I have some really difficult subjects. I'm behind, I barely understand parts of it, and exams are in two weeks and—"

"I'll help you."

You blinked at him, then let out a quiet, incredulous laugh. "You're joking, right?"

He didn’t laugh.

"I'm a teacher," he said, then hesitated. "And— okay, yes, technically also a doctor, but that’s not the point. The point is I’m very good at explaining things. Not everything, obviously, but enough. Probably enough. High probability."

You stared at him. "You're crazy."

He smiled, a little too quickly, a little too pleased. "That sounds like a compliment."

Maybe you were desperate. Or maybe you were just tired of struggling alone. Either way, that same evening, Ryland Grace stood at your door.

"I brought snacks," he said immediately, holding up a paper bag like evidence. "Jelly beans, peanuts, chips. I wasn't sure, but you usually get jelly beans from the vending machine, so statistically—"

You smiled despite yourself. "You noticed that?"

He froze for half a second, then looked away. "I notice things," he muttered.

"Come in," you said, stepping aside.

He hesitated briefly before walking in, glancing around like he was mapping the room in his head. New spaces always made him slightly stiff.

"It's small," you said, gesturing vaguely, suddenly self-conscious.

"It's good," he replied quickly. "Efficient. Everything you need, minimal unnecessary variables."

You huffed a quiet laugh. He sat on the couch and immediately reached for a notebook from the pile.

"Are these your notes?" he asked, flipping through. His brows lifted slightly. "These are… actually really good."

"Thanks."

He picked up another, then another—asking questions as he went. You answered as best as you could, stumbling occasionally, but he followed every word with intense focus.

"Nope— my students— I mean— not my students, you're not— okay that came out wrong."

You blinked at him.

"...wow."

He pressed his lips together, clearly trying to recover.

"What I meant," he continued quickly, "is that people I help— academically— tend to pass. With, statistically speaking, a high success rate."

You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow. "So I'm part of a dataset now?"

He hesitated. "...a very impressive dataset."

You snorted. "I just need to pass," you muttered.

"No— okay, see, that’s the wrong goal," he said, leaning forward again, slipping back into something more confident. "You're already doing most of this correctly. Your brain just hasn't updated its confidence settings yet."

You stared at him. "...what?"

He blinked. "That made sense in my head."

You laughed softly. "Okay, Dr. Grace. Let's begin."

He kept coming back. Almost every evening.

A whiteboard appeared in the corner—he brought it without explanation—and he started listing topics, crossing them off with visible satisfaction. Sometimes you'd order takeout, sometimes he'd bring more snacks, sometimes you both got distracted talking for far too long.

He told you about teaching, about how much he loved working with kids. Occasionally, he’d mention his research, then immediately backtrack, worried he was rambling. You didn’t mind.

You noticed things too—how he got animated when explaining something, how he ran a hand through his hair when thinking, how he watched you carefully when you solved something correctly, like he was more invested in it than you were.

Once, your hands brushed while reaching for the same pen. He pulled back like he'd touched something hot. You pretended not to notice.

"Done," he said one evening, placing a practice exam in front of you.

You immediately covered your face with your hands. "I don't want to see this."

"It's not that bad."

"I don't believe you."

He ran a hand through his hair, making it worse.

"Okay, but if you don't look, I can't collect data on your reaction, which is— statistically important for my teaching methods."

You slowly lowered your hands. "...that is not convincing."

"Please?"

You sighed and looked down. Then froze. "94%?" you whispered. "That's— that has to be wrong."

"Nope," he said quickly, sitting forward. "A few small mistakes, but overall? That’s— that's really good. Objectively good."

You stared at the paper, then at him.

"I wish I could do that tomorrow," you said quietly. "My lecturer isn’t exactly… like you."

Ryland watched you carefully.

"You will," he said. "You already know this. You're just underestimating your own accuracy."

"It's easy for you to say."

He shook his head. "No, it's not. I used to do the exact same thing." He hesitated, then added, quieter, "Still do, sometimes."

You looked at him, surprised.

"You're amazing, you know," he continued, a little too fast now. "You're intelligent, you work hard, you're funny, and— and you're—" He stopped abruptly, looking down. "You're being way too strict with yourself. Like— unrealistically strict." 

You smiled. "I didn't know you specialized in self-doubt diagnostics, Dr. Grace."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "It's a niche field."

The next day felt longer than it should have. Ryland tried to focus on teaching, but his thoughts kept drifting. You’d be fine. You had to be. You were ready.

Still, something sat uncomfortably in his chest. When this was over… you wouldn’t need him anymore. And maybe that’s all this had been. A function. A role.

Not… him.

He didn’t like that thought.

"Remember, test next week," he said automatically as his students packed up. "Max, chapter six."

"Yeah, Mr. Grace."

The classroom emptied. And then he saw you. Standing in the doorway. His bag slipped from his shoulder and hit the floor.

"Oh— hi. You’re— hi."

"Hi," you said, stepping in. "Am I interrupting?"

"No, no, I just— finished. How did it go?"

You shrugged. His stomach dropped.

"Oh. That bad?"

You reached into your bag instead and pulled out a small green bottle.

"I think we have something to celebrate," you said, smiling. "I passed! Highest grade."

He blinked. "R—really?"

Before he could process it, you threw your arms around him. He froze for a fraction of a second—then carefully wrapped his arms around you, like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to.

You were warm.

"I can't believe it," you said into his shoulder. "If it weren’t for you—"

"I'll miss this."

The words slipped out before he could stop them. You pulled back, surprised.

"What?"

He looked away.

"I just mean— you won’t need help anymore. You’ll be fine on your own."

"Ryland…" you said softly.

The way you said his name made his chest tighten.

"I don’t want to stop seeing you," you continued. "Unless you do. But… I really like you."

He stared at you. "That— I— you— really?"

You nodded, smiling slightly.

"Maybe at first it was just studying, but… no one’s ever done something like this for me. I liked spending time with you. A lot." You hesitated. "Maybe… we could go out? Dinner or something?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again.

"I— yes. I mean— yes. Absolutely. That would— yeah. That would be great. That would— statistically improve my day. By a lot."

You laughed. "Good."

You squeezed his arm gently, and he looked at where your hand touched him like it might disappear.

"But first," you added, lifting the bottle slightly, "we celebrate."

"We can't drink alcohol on school grounds," he said automatically.

"Do you know a place?"

He smiled—small, a little unsure, but real.

"Yeah," he said. "I think I do."

You took his hand. And this time, he didn’t hesitate.