el tiempo lo cura todo

The scratching of Ted's pen scampering over raw paper filled the air, mixed with some bird chanting.

Paper and pencils. He felt like he was set back in the 20th century. But what could he do in an office full of people who were afraid to use a phone or computer in case they exploded?

The knock on the door didn't bother him at all and only made his pencil glide over the paper faster. If it was Harold, he certainly wouldn't be productive for the rest of the day and would have to postpone this work until tomorrow. Ted glanced at his watch and furrowed his brow when he noticed that whoever had knocked hadn't entered the room yet.

"Yes," he barked, grabbed the paper pile in front of him and tapped his finger on the edge of the table. The door opened a crack, more slowly and carefully than his colleagues would have, which was a strong indication that he had an outside visitor.

The first thing Ted registered was a head of hair, followed by a face drawn with apprehension.

"Y/n?" he asked, not accusingly or shocked, just surprised.

The last time he had seen your face had been the morning after he had hooked up with you in your apartment. Your hair had looked a bit more messy, your face blotchy with dark circles beneath your eyes, but it was still unmistakably you.

"Hi. I – I'm sorry, I – " You held a tote bag in your hands, clutching the handle so firmly that your knuckles turned white and looked as though they were about to fracture.

"What are you doing here? Come in. Sit down."

In truth, Ted was concerned about you and your slouched shoulders. Not that he knew you very well after a one night stand, but you clearly were a nervous mess today. Seeing you approach the chair on his opposite made him remember you – really remember you. Ted had been a little drunk when he had gone home with you after some extensive flirting at the bar. Still, everything was clear and distinct. Your back touching the wall in your hallway, his greedy hands roaming your thighs and hips until he had guided you to the bedroom like he was the one who owned the apartment.

"I'm sorry for showing up here like this. Unexpected and… without calling first. I just – I didn't know – "

You stopped midsentence, still refusing to let go of your bag although you could have just put it down on the floor.

"What's wrong? Did something happen?"

You nodded, Ted eagerly expecting you to explain your reply, but you remained silent.

"What happened?"

Your lips were compressed, tears welling in your eyes. The lines on Ted's brow hardened, elbows resting on the desk that was separating the two of you.

"Hey. What is it? Why are you here?"

"Don't be angry with me," you whispered, brushing your hair behind your ears quickly.

"Why should I be angry with you?"

"'Cause I'm pregnant."

Everything paused around him. The strands of hair at his temples fluttered in the ventilator's wind, but Ted couldn't see that. Aside from that, his body was utterly frozen.

"What? No, that's not – "

"Yes. You think I would joke about that?"

He buried his face in his palms, groaning loudly, which made you sink deeper into your chair.

"You're pregnant," Ted repeated, looking at you again after finishing his attempt at releasing tension.

"Yes."

"And it's mine?"

You rolled your eyes. "No, I've come here because I'm pregnant from a man who was nothing to do with you. Of course it's yours, Ted."

"Have you been with someone else?"

Your lips tautened, eyes cold and stern. "No. I haven't."

"So it's mine?" he asked again, disbelief still holding a strong grip over him.

"Goddamnit, Ted. Yes. It's yours."

Another sound spilled from his throat, something between a sigh and a brassy, animalistic growl.

"How – this is not possible. How is this possible??"

"I don't know. I – we were safe but I guess it's just – you're not always a hundred percent safe?"

It sounded like a question, which was why Ted raised his eyes to you, massaging his blazing temples in a soothing manner.

"This is – I can't believe this. This is terrible, the elections are coming up, I – I got an election to win. I can't take care of – of – "

The end of the sentence loosely hung in the air, but he didn't finish it as he registered the glistening wetness in your eyes.

"Jesus, y/n…," he hissed out, leaning over the table to grab your shoulder. "Don't cry, okay? Ain't got no reason to cry."

But it was too late for his comforting. At least you wept silently with a few thick tears flowing down your face and your teeth chewing on your bottom lip.

"Hey. It's okay. Just look at me and keep a clear head. This doesn't help anyone."

You shook your head defiantly, pulling away so that Ted's hand dropped from your shoulder.

"You're gonna leave me alone, aren't you?"

The ardent look in your eyes hit him brutally, like a blow in his guts that rearranged his internal organs. It was both fury and pain and made his stomach twist.

"Y/n. This is not – "

"Yeah, right. This is all that you men do. Getting girls pregnant and then leaving them because you're not ready for children. Do you think I'm ready? Do you think I planned this?"

"Y/n," Ted whispered again, intwining his fingers as though he were praying to some higher instance. But you had a clear goal in mind: flee the scene and deal with your problems another way. With your right hand already on the door handle, Ted reached for your left wrist and tugged softly.

"Don't leave like that, damn it. Talk to me. How far along are you? Do you wanna keep it?"

You pulled at his hand once, trying to make him release you, but after your first attempt, you accepted your defeat and turned around to glance at him.

"6th week."

"6th week…," Ted repeated, then waited for you to respond to his second question. Which didn't happen.

"Y/n, do you wanna keep it?" he asked again, pulling you closer to keep you away from the door. He couldn't let you go until the two of you had dealt with this problem.

"Yes. I think so. I just – No, I wanna keep it. And I'm gonna do it on my own if you decide to be such an asshole and withdraw from any responsibility," you sneered, finally getting rid of Ted's heavy hand gripping yours by giving it a determined tug.

"Jesus Christ…," your counterpart sighed, burying his face in his hands once more as all the air left his body. He wasn't going to question your decision to keep the baby, and still, his last hope had just dissolved into the air. Sweeping all of this under the rug was no option. Keeping a clear, focused mind during the election wasn't either.

"I – I don't know what to do," he muttered, pressing his flat palms together. "I don't know how to – I have an election to win."

"Of course," you chuckled dryly, no trace of warmth or actual amusement in your voice. "Of course you have. I'll be out of your hair as soon as possible."

You took a step back, blindly reaching for the door handle while venom flocked from your eyes.

"Y/n… I'm gonna – I'm gonna find a solution. I promise. Just keep your head down, don't talk to anyone and I'm gonna get back to you. I'm gonna come up with something, I promise."

"Sure, Ted," you muttered threateningly, sucking in a breath through your clenched teeth. "Of course you will. I'm sure you will be there for me just like you've been before."

"How was I supposed to know – " Ted began, but the moment he attempted to justify himself, the door was slammed shut, making both his chair and the surface of his desk vibrate. All the tension fell off him at once. His body hunched forward and sank into the chair as if he were an inflatable doll that had just lost its air.

"Fuck…," he growled lowly, rubbing his tired eyes and feeling his stomach turn.

Out of all the things that could have happened when he had heard that knock just now, this was definitely the worst option.

You were a one-night stand who had gotten pregnant after he slept with you once. How was that even possible? The two of you used a condom, and wouldn't he have noticed it tearing? Under any other circumstances, Ted might have found a solution. He had enough money to provide for you and the child. He would have supported you throughout the pregnancy and been there for you. But with his busy schedule, he genuinely didn't know how to juggle all of this. The lack of time was one of his smallest problems. If the press found out that he was expecting a child with a one-night stand, it would be all everyone was going to talk about. People loved drama and gossip, and if this came out, they wouldn't care about the important political parts of his campaign.

He had a serious problem. Ted's trembling hand reached for his coffee mug. He had promised himself to reduce his coffee consumption, but in times like these, he would make an exception.

Taking a sip of the brown liquid, his brain worked so hard, the approaching headache was inevitable. He was Ted Garcia, the most promising and progressive mayoral candidate. He would find a solution. Just like he always did. This was – in some way – like any other political task, only that it involved his personal life and threatened to vitiate his career.

Ted sighed again, pressing his palms over the upper half of his face again since that way, he was able to escape his punishing reality a little longer.

Ted pressed the doorbell again, listening carefully for any noises. There was no way you weren't home. It was a Tuesday night at 7 pm.

He waited, his ears pricked up for approaching footsteps. Just as he was about to press the button again, the door swung open and Ted glared straight into your big eyes.

"Ted," you hummed, looking just as hurt and strained as you had four days ago when he had last seen you. "What do you want?"

"I wanna talk to you," he replied, ensnaring his fingers, so that they were busy and didn't just awkwardly dangle at his sides.

"About what?"

"About us."

Your expression hardened, throat bulging as you swallowed hard.

"What is there to talk about?" you muttered, though the sound was feeble like a mere breath. Despite how you tried to cover it up by acting unbothered and cold, it gave away how much everything was nagging on you. Which was no wonder. After all, you were the one who was pregnant. You were the one who would have to deliver the child.

"Please. Please, let me come in. I'm sorry, y/n, I – Just let us talk. Please."

He made a step forward, eyebrows flinching as you quailed.

"Y/n. I'm sorry for – about the other day. I should've been more sensitive."

Reflexively, your hand wandered to your belly, touching right where life was growing beneath the layers of skin and blood.

"Please let me come in for a moment. Just a few minutes. Let me say what I wanna say and then you can kick me out."

Without wasting another glance at him, you turned around and left the door a slit open, which was Ted's sign to enter your home behind you.

"Thank you. I promise, I will…"

He didn't finish his sentence. First, it seemed like you weren't listening to him anyway. Also, he didn't know what he wanted to say to you without repeating himself.

You headed toward the couch where you sank into an armchair, wrapping your cardigan tighter around your torso. There were grey circles under your eyes, and you looked beyond tired, which didn't exactly help Ted's already guilty conscience.

"I wanted to say that I'm really sorry, y/n. For how I treated you last week, how I – how I wanted to avoid responsibility and how I put my campaign first."

He felt weird immediately starting with his speech, but making small talk wouldn't exactly feel right either, he was certain. Besides, he had promised you that all he was asking for was a few minutes of your time.

"I know that I messed up. And I'm sorry."

Your hand wandered to your belly again—the only sign that you had listened to him at all. Ted waited patiently for you to take the first step and talk to him while studying your hand caressing your tummy. He would be okay with you shouting at him and calling him bad names if it meant he would feel less guilty.

"So what?" you asked after what felt like hours, your eyes still gazing at your hand over your stomach. Your voice was raspy and raucous like you had cried recently and with the light tremor in your tone, Ted's heart clenched thinking that you might burst into tears any minute now.

"I'm gonna support you. Financially, emotionally… whatever you need."

"Emotionally?" you sneered, finally glancing at him for a moment. "I thought you were busy with your campaign."

"I know I said that. I panicked and I didn't think. The point is, I regret saying that and if you let me, I wanna be there for you. The way you need it."

Your gaze dropped again, though this time the motion resembled defeat rather than defiance.

"This is just so – so stupid," you whispered and added your left hand to your belly. "I don't wanna get rid of it. But sometimes I think I should."

Frankly, Ted was surprised by your openness and the fact that you were willing to share such intimate details with him out of all people. Still, he was by your side at once, reaching forward to briefly pat your knee.

"You're gonna do what you think is right. If you wanna keep it, you're gonna keep it. Even if you think it's not the best solution financially."

He watched your profile, or what he could see of it. Your throat bobbed like you were swallowing a heavy lump, fingers flinching as they brushed over the fabric of your sweatshirt.

"So you're not gonna leave?" you said at last, the sound so soul-shattering, Ted felt his mouth dry up.

"No. Of course not, y/n. I'm not gonna leave you alone with this."

To be fair, you had every reason to believe he was going to leave, since he treated you so impolitely in his office the other day. But that hadn't really been him. He had let his dismay get the better of him and said things that were simply unacceptable.

"Don't leave me alone," you uttered quietly under breath, glaring at Ted's fingers that were still drawing subtle circles over your thigh.

"Happy new year," Ted mumbled against your hairline, pulling you flush against his broad chest.

"Mhm?" you hummed, your eyes hooded and your fingers loosely tugging at the collar of his shirt. He couldn't help but laugh out loud, holding you closer as fireworks lit up the night sky outside.

"It's midnight, baby," he said lowly, though he was well aware that the noises outside were much louder and more disturbing than his voice.

"Oh," you responded, but you looked like you couldn't care less about it. You looked as peaceful as a cat about to start purring from feeling snug and comfortable beneath thick blankets against Ted's body.

"You want me to take you to the bedroom?" he said, watching your features precisely. For a second, he believed that you had already fallen asleep, but then a muscle next to your brows twitched.

"Maybe."

Ted rolled his eyes subtly, suppressing a guttural groan. How was he supposed to support you nicely and see to your every wish if you didn't even express them? Did you expect him to read your mind and learn about your needs that way?

"Alright, you need to sleep, sweetheart," he muttered and shifted beside you so that he could scoop you in his arms and carry you upstairs.

"No…," you made at once, clinging to his wrist as the loss of body contact caused a suave breeze to brush over your side.

"It's okay, I'm gonna get you upstairs. You're gonna be all warm and comfortable in no time, promise."

Grunting quietly, you moved your head a little but accepted your fate while Ted effortlessly lifted you in the air. The corner of his mouth twisted seeing your pliant, weak body that was held captive by tiredness.

It had been seven months now since you had revealed your pregnancy to him.

After the initial difficulties, Ted kept his promise and helped you with everything you needed. This included grocery shopping, booking and accompanying you to doctor appointments. Although the doctor had been aware of the fact that Ted and you were not romantically linked, he had acted like a real husband who wanted to make sure his beloved wife was in the best hands.

That way of thinking had led Ted to use every free moment to take care of you and his future child. Over time, spending so many afternoons on the couch with you had changed things within him. And you, for that matter.

At first, Ted and you occasionally joked about how you behaved like a married couple, even though the only thing connecting you was a one-night stand and the baby growing in your belly. Ted invited you to movie nights at his house, cooked for you, made you tea, and sometimes even went on strolls through the town with you, during which he would hold your hand and adjust your hat whenever it slipped. That was a harsh contrast, in particular, since he had avoided getting spotted with you in public during the mayoral election—which he had won, by the way.

The first time you and Ted genuinely questioned your relationship was when he offered to let you sleep at his house for the first time. The walk from his place to your apartment was short, and he usually walked you home no matter the time of day. About three months into your pregnancy, though, Ted had asked if you wanted to stay over.

You had agreed without hesitation, but later that night, as the two of you had been lying next to each other with Ted giving you a goodnight kiss, the discussion had become inevitable.

You two were acting like husband and wife to each other but never labeled what you were. Ted was soft and caring, kept you safe and protected you like a loving husband would, but since you had never even called him your boyfriend before, the two of you had been stuck in a weird, undefined space that was somewhere between a close friendship and a relationship.

The uncertainty had changed that very night, though, as Ted had rolled on his side, searching for your hand beneath the layers of blankets. You tended to feel very cold in the evenings, which was why Ted did not only always place multiple blankets on the couch before your arrival, but had also bought some more, so you would never feel cold in his house.

"Y/n?" he had asked into the darkness and felt relieved that he hadn't been forced to look into your eyes.

Discussions like that were easier when not all of his senses were working so intensely. He also liked to let his face show what he was feeling, without being afraid to shock you with the love he felt for you in his eyes.

Yes, it was love.

Ted had known so for weeks, and the only thing stopping him from confessing it to you, was his fear of putting too much on you during your pregnancy. He had always told himself he would have this talk with you after you had given birth.

But tonight, while holding you against his chest and kissing your hair, while massaging your shoulders and listening to mellow music, Ted came to the conclusion that he wouldn't be able to wait another six months to find out if you returned his feelings.

He may be selfish and impatient, but living in uncertainty about where you stood was stressful. It left him wondering if he might get his heart broken the minute he opened up about his feelings for you, only to hear that you didn't feel the same way. He would rather find out now than live in uncertainty.

"Yes?" you had whispered and spread your fingers so that Ted could entwine them with his.

"You smell so good…"

"Yeah?" you had giggled, sheets rustling as you had moved closer to him, causing a surge of honeyed, warm liquid to suffuse his veins. Was there any hope after all?

"Mhmm. Yes."

"We both know that's a lie. I was literally in my pajamas all day."

Then, there had been silence, but Ted felt like you knew that the conversation wasn't over yet. That there were still some things left unsaid.

"I really like you, y/n."

There had been heavy breathing from your side, your fingers still loosely grasped by his.

"I like you too."

"How much?"

You had laughed out at that, body vibrating and your breath fanning over his cheeks. "What do you mean?"

"I mean do you like me enough to wanna be my girlfriend?"

This time, your chuckles had been quieter but not any less appealing.

"You're really strange sometimes, Ted."

"Bad?"

You had shaken your head and additionally whispered "No."

"So? What do you think?" Ted's thumb had brushed over your knuckles all the way around your hand to your wrist.

"Yes… I would like to be your girlfriend. Am I not already?"

He had wheezed, nostrils flaring and his left, free hand reaching for your stomach. "Maybe. Yes. But it's nice to hear it, you know?"

"Yes. It's nice," you had muttered, eyes closing as your boyfriend's hand had caressed the distinct swell of your belly.

Now, Ted was carefully dropping you onto the bed, his left hand supporting the back of your head so that you wouldn't twist your neck.

"There we go… Are you okay, baby?" he murmured, seeing your lashes twitch and instantly feeling bad for waking you up.

"Yes. I can't believe I missed New Year's. I never miss New Year's."

Your voice was still feeble, heavy with sleep and exhaustion, but it seemed as though you were regaining your consciousness now that Ted had moved you from the couch to the bed.

"Don't worry, sweetheart. You're pregnant, so your body just needs a bit more rest than usual."

Ted took off his sweater, which he had worn due to the cool air downstairs, and then joined you in bed.

"I know," you yawned, lying on your side so that your back wouldn't ache tonight.

"She's restless today."

His lips curved, the corners lifting automatically at the mention of your daughter.

"Yeah?" he hummed and nudged his forehead against yours as the warmth of his palm found your round belly.

"Are you okay, though? Anything I need to know about? Or the doctor?"

"No, it's fine. I just know she's wild," you said, chuckling and sighing as your body softened beneath the sheets. Ted quickly adjusted the blanket, making sure no air could reach you and cause you to freeze during the night.

"Sleep well, baby. And wake me up if something's bothering you."

"I will," you whispered before closing your eyes and secretly being glad that Ted's hand on your stomach didn't attempt to move an inch.

You clenched his hand so firmly that you felt bad for a second, but then you remembered how much more painful it must have been ten minutes ago when you squeezed the life out of his fingers. Your body shook with joy as you held your newborn baby girl up with your left hand.

"Look at her, Ted," you mumbled, your sweaty hair falling over your shoulders and hiding your surroundings from you. That way, all you registered, and all that was important to you in that moment was Ted and your child. Your child, whose existence had thrown you off the racks so mercilessly nine months ago, but one look at her made you think that she couldn't be more perfect.

"I know, baby, I know…," he purred, draping his left arm around your shoulders as he kissed the side of your head over and over.

"She's perfect. And so are you. You were so strong, sweetheart, so fucking brave and amazing…"

Another cry that also resembled a laugh spilled from your throat and made Ted tighten his grasp around you.

"You still wanna stick with Jane?" he asked, then stroked down your arm as you nodded.

"Alright… Jane it is. S'nice to meet you, Liv."

He brushed his knuckle carefully over the side of her face as though she were made of glass. The action caused you to chuckle, though it also might have been the emotional overload of it all. The past few hours had been a blur, and now that your daughter was here, you had lost all sense of time. Without sunlight shining into the hospital room, you would have guessed it was around midnight, but it seemed as though you had spent more time in labor than you remembered.

"I hope we're gonna get along well," Ted spoke, grinning broadly and tearing up at you leaning your head against the crook of his arm.

"Yeah. Yes, I hope so too."

Of course, you had no idea what you were saying, but what did it matter? You had just given birth to the most stunning and perfect creature, and although your body was in pain and your head was spinning like you had been awake for days, you couldn't remember ever feeling more alive than in this moment.

"Ted?" you babbled after a while, both your gazes stuck on the little girl in your arms.

"Yes?"

"You're gonna be there, right? I mean, still. You're not gonna leave now that the pregnancy is over, are you?"

You didn't see his reaction, but you felt his fingers dig into your flesh, not consciously, but rather like he was fighting against his own body.

"Y/n, if you let me, I'm gonna be there until the day that I die."

His jaw was clenched, body taut with protectiveness and tension. The words came out harsher than they were intended, but Ted simply didn't know how to talk softly when his body urged him to confess his love to you in every way possible.

"You are?" you uttered, briefly averting your eyes from your daughter to look upon the hard lines around his eyes that gentled at the sight of you.

"Yes. I love you. This was the last thing I expected to happen, you know? When we hooked up. I just – I thought – I don't know what I thought would happen. Definitely not this. But I can't put into words how grateful I am that it happened exactly this way. And I hope you are too."

All you could do was nod, even though you wanted to say more so badly.

Another time, you promised yourself.

"To… life," Pedro grinned, clinking his glass with yours.

"Life? I would say to Paris. The most beautiful city in the world."

The two of you smiled at each other blissfully before you each took a sip of your gin tonics.

"God, this place is beautiful," you hummed, in awe of the industrial ceiling, the lighting reminiscent of 1920s chandeliers, and the Art Deco wall panels.

"It is. Have you practiced your French by now?" Pedro's gaze remained on you even as your eyes continued to scan the chic interior.

"Oh come on… No? I can say bonjour and au revoir, that's it. Besides, do I look like I have the time to practice it? With you dragging me to every fucking art gallery and museum in this city?"

Pedro chuckled, bringing his glass to his soft, glistening lips.

"It's called educating. You will thank me later, believe me, mademoiselle. Tu n'apprenes pas le français, mais tu apprenes tout sur l'art et la culture française," he murmured, his accent quite thick, but it didn't change how attractive and appealing he sounded.

"I think I understood that," you grinned, resting your elbows on the table.

"Yeah? What did I say?" Pedro wanted to know, leaving you flustered.

"No. You're only gonna laugh about me if I get it wrong, asshole."

"C'mon… I won't laugh."

You determinedly raised your chin, narrowing your eyes. "Absolutely not. Tell me about what you have planned for tomorrow instead."

Pedro rolled his eyes but couldn't keep the broad smile spreading on his lips away from his face.

"No. It's a surprise, babe."

"Pedro," you whined, trying to melt him with your pleading eyes, but he just laughed and shook his head.

"You gotta wait. It's only one more day, c'mon. It's not that hard."

Your mouth opened again, perhaps to protest, so Pedro softly patted your hand as a precaution.

"Tell me. What did you think about today? Let's see... Two days ago was a ten, and yesterday was an eleven. What score would you give today?"

Your lips curled, eyes mischievously flashing as you grabbed your drink again.

"Hmm, maybe an eight?" you whispered, purely to tease him.

"Oh, yeah? An eight? Breakfast at a beautiful café in Montmartre, a visit to the Centre Pompidou, a stroll through the Luxembourg Gardens, and dinner at L'Ambroisie in the evening? And now we're in a jazz bar? Maybe you're just a spoiled princess."

You shrugged, provocatively tucking your lower lip between your teeth.

"Maybe. But that's on you. You said you wanted to show me around Paris and plan all the stuff."

"So next time, it's camping for you then," Pedro wryly smirked.

"I would literally die, Pedro. I hate camping."

"I know. And I don't want you to die."

He winked with his eye, then tapped against the side of his empty glass.

"How about another round?"

Half an hour later, the two of you were more than a little drunk, your head spinning while your hand rested on Pedro's shoulder.

"I swear to god, I – I… I ran out. I slammed the door behind me and somehow, the whole fucking building crumbled. The walls, the door. Everything just turned to dust. And then I woke up. Honestly, I think it's a childhood trauma."

Pedro lifted an eyebrow, his sultry, hooded eyes gazing along your lips.

"Trauma?"

"Yeah. When I was about eight years old, I broke one of my mother's favorite vases. She was so angry that she barely spoke to me for several days. I think that memory is etched inside my brain," you babbled, scratching your temple while Pedro twisted his mouth.

"So… That means you're scared of disappointing people… Maybe you – your brain tries to cope with it by subconsciously convincing you not to overthink and feel so afraid of rejection."

He sounded just as wasted as you were, but in your drunken state of mind, his words caused you to widen your eyes.

"I'm afraid of rejection?" you whispered, almost mesmerized by the intelligence of his brain.

"Yeah. Maybe. Maybe your brain is trying to communicate with you because you haven't listened properly for the past weeks."

You glared back at him, swallowing hard without realizing what meaningless and stupid words hid behind his dramatic performance as your dream interpreter.

"And I wasn't listening…," you breathed, suddenly ensnaring your fingers with his. "Thank you. Thank you, babe."

"You're welcome… Now, let's dance."

Your features altered, dilated pupils erratically jumping between his face and the hand pulling at yours.

"But I can't, Pedro – I gotta figure this out now. Maybe there's really something – "

"Shhh," he made, playfully bringing a finger to your lips, and in that moment, you were not sure whether it was the high you were on making a shiver run down your spin or simply the fact that it was him.

"Just come with me. This is a beautiful song. I don't know it, and please don't shazam it, but I wanna dance to it with you."

The grip on your fingers tightened, gently, yet deliberately yanking you to your feet before he bowed in front of you.

"May I have this dance?" he politely asked, making you roll your eyes and your cheeks blush at the same time.

"Jesus, Pedro…," you groaned, but now it was you leading the way to the dance floor.

"What? You're the Bridgerton fan…"

It didn't feel necessary to answer to that, so you just faintly shook your head, feet dragging over the floor until the two of you had found yourselves between the other dancing couples. You felt a little wobbly on your knees, which made you anticipate Pedro's body flush against yours – at least, you told yourself that this was the only reason. Besides, he looked like he was just as intoxicated and mushy as you were.

All of a sudden – you hadn't even braced yourself for the dance yet – Pedro clicked his tongue.

"Where are your manners…? You're supposed to look your partner in the eye, babe."

Your gaze wandered up his body, not immediately landing on his face but stalling along his stomach, his chest, his neck and then his lips. You wanted to believe that your inability to process what was happening was just a result of your dazed state, but you couldn't deny the way your breath hitched when he bit down on his tongue.

"There we go. It's not quite my eyes yet, but I guess lips is okay…"

He grinned, taking your hand while his right arm snaked around your waist tightly. The two of you began moving rhythmically to the music, swaying to the side as the mellow jazz fluttered through the air. Your hand held onto his shoulders firmly, his muscles flexing under his shirt from time to time, which involuntarily made you peek down at the floor every single time. You didn't know if Pedro noticed your struggles, but if he did, he purposefully ignored it.

"How are you?" he whispered after a while. You liked that the two of you could still talk to each other with the music playing in the background. It was loud enough to make you want to move your bodies, but not so loud that you couldn't hear each other.

"I'm good, Pedro. Happy."

The effect of the alcohol was still more than tangible in your system, but the quiet, peaceful ambience had changed how you reacted to it. Instead of feeling overly emotional and dramatic, you had dripped into a hazy, misty bubble that doused your surroundings with a golden glow. You liked it here. You felt a tiny bit tired, but not the kind that made you want to leave your position right in front of Pedro in the middle of the bar. In fact, you enjoyed everything about this so much that you pushed yourself closer to him a few moments later, standing on your tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

"Thank you for taking me to Paris. And for showing me around. And bringing me to his bar."

Pedro smiled, and right now, there was nothing but earnest and warm affection in his eyes. No sarcasm, amusement or mischief. Just genuine fondness for you, one of his best friends.

"You're welcome. Thank you for coming along."

Your heels touched the ground as your bodies picked up the pace again and you gave him a dreamy glance.

"We should come here again. It's so… so nice… and beautiful."

"Yeah. You know I'd take you anywhere you want any time. You just gotta ask."

Your lips curled, a crooked smile spreading across your face.

"Yeah. Except for when you have to work."

Pedro slowly tilted his head to the side, yet the resolution in his gaze didn't falter.

"For you, I would ditch a few days of shooting, darling…," he whispered, his face gleaming with amusement. Still, there was something about his tone that made your stomach coil with heat.

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Always. As I said, you just gotta ask…"

Your hand on his shoulder tightened, briefly squeezing his flesh. "Okay. I'm asking right now. I wanna go everywhere with you, Pedro."

You didn't know if it was just the fact that you were wasted, but you felt in the mood for sentimental, lyrical, movie-like promises that the two of you might not even remember in the morning.

"Tell me where you want to go first," Pedro murmured, looking at you with such warmth and adoration that you felt your body growing limber in his embrace.

"Rome. And then Lisbon. And then we head North… First, London, then Edinburgh and then… Iceland."

Pedro lifted a single eyebrow. "Iceland?"

"Yeah. I think it would be cosy. Lying on the couch all day… Next to a fireplace… Reading… And – I don't know."

You felt your cheeks grow hot, although you tried to fight it with every cell of your body. Of course, they didn't listen, and Pedro's grin only deepened at your desperate attempts.

"And? What do you wanna do? Lying on the couch all day?"

You lowered your gaze, watching your own feet slowly shift the weight from one to the other automatically. You were just relieved that at least, your legs knew what to do whereas your mouth didn't cooperate.

"Nothing…," you mumbled, but then froze as you felt a finger on your chin.

"Look at me… No reason to get shy, right?"

You reluctantly allowed Pedro to move your head, your fingers clutching his shoulder a little harder. And then, as you looked upon his face that was so ravishingly lit by the dim, soft lights and the single lock falling into his face, your mind suddenly switched off for a moment – which your body used to quench the agonizing need to feel him closer to you.

You stood on your tiptoes again, your head leaning in to kiss him on his mouth. The moment your lips touched his, you snapped back to reality, realizing what you had just done – or rather, what you were doing in this moment. But it was too late to take it back now, and also, if your drunken brain wasn't playing tricks on you, Pedro was kissing you back.

His mouth gently sucked on your lower lip as though it was the most natural thing in the world, and like this wasn't two best friends kissing each other in the middle of a jazz club in Paris but a married couple. Though the thought was strange and confusing, it felt good and right.

His body felt like it had meant to be this close to you all along. Like the curve of his lips fit exactly against your hungry mouth. Although the two of you were still moving to the music – your bodies having a mind of its own – the sensation and lust had also reached your hands, which gripped his shoulder as though you feared for him to leave you. But Pedro didn't hold back either with his fingers squeezing and stroking your waist in turns. He wanted you closer, and soon, the intimacy of the kiss wasn't enough anymore. He pulled away, one of his large, gentle hands coming up to cup your face.

"Jesus…," he growled, which made you think that there wasn't anything he could have said that could have made this scene any hotter.

"Pedro," you panted, your eyes landing on his blown pupils as you leaned into his touch. You didn't really know what you were trying to say or wanted him to do – you just needed him.

"You wanna head back to the hotel?" he murmured, tenderly tugging you toward him and scrunching his nose against your hairline.

"Yeah. Yeah, I would like that," you whimpered in response but still felt surprised when Pedro turned around to leave the dance area at once. A much larger part of you felt relieved, though, since you feared to be too obtrusive and already too captivated by a single kiss. Without Pedro's guidance, you might have fallen to the ground taking your first step.

Five minutes later, Pedro and you sat next to each other in a cab on your way back to the hotel. For about a minute or two, you waited stiffly, heads turned away from each as the abrupt silence had left an awkward veil upon the scene. But in the end, Pedro and you faced each other in the same moment, causing you to laugh and then throw away every remaining amount of shyness and fear. You kissed him again, sighing into his mouth as his hands palped up your side.

"Pedro. Shit," you groaned, testing the restrains of the seatbelt and cursing the way you had to twist your body.

"You taste so incredibly, baby, god…," Pedro grunted, cupping your chin to keep you still while he devoured your mouth.

Baby.

He had called you his baby a million times before, but this one was different. It wasn't playful or teasing, it was raw and loaded. Weak, like he was on the verge of losing his shit.

The car ride ended quickly, prompting you to huff in disappointment against his lips, but then you remembered the potential outcome of all this.

You pranced out of the car, and Pedro offered you his arm — for physical contact or support, you weren't sure which. Since it was so late, there were no guests in the lobby. As you passed the reception desk, you couldn't help yourself.

"What are we doing…?* you giggled with your nose pressed against the side of his neck.

"I don't fucking know,… But god, I know that I want you, honey."

Pedro's hand stalled along your shoulder blades to settle on the small of your back, his fingers apply light pressure to guide you and make sure that you wouldn't trip and fall.

You reached the elevator that quickly brought you up to the third floor. There was no bellboy, which was more than convenient for you, who found yourself incapable of merely glowering at Pedro in a discreet manner.

He practically yanked you out of the elevator and led you to your room the familiar way, the red, heavy carpet swallowing your heavy footsteps. It was better that way. Although your minds had calmed down a bit because of the clean air, the two of you were still feeling dizzy and lightheaded.

A few seconds later, you were inside the room.

Fortunately, you knew your way around the expensive furniture and were able to blindly make it to the four-posture bed that you had slept in together for the past days.

But never like this. Never with your hands clinging to each other as though your welfare depended on how close your bodies were. Your backside touched the edge of the bed as Pedro shoved you backward until you fell onto the mattress.

"You're gonna give me a show?" you uttered lubriciously, shamelessly eyeing him up and down. Although you had always felt comfortable and open around him, you knew part of the reason your tongue was so loose tonight was the alcohol.

"Always for you, sweetheart," Pedro smirked, his fingers finding the top button of his shirt. His hand was a little shaky as he opened one button after the other, but he still managed to undress his torso while his eyes were locked with yours.

The darkness didn't reveal as much as you would have liked to see, yet his broad shoulders and abs were distinct. Obviously, you had seen Pedro topless countless times before, but you had never studied him so extensively. Your eyes had never scanned his chest and waist while your mind thought about what it would be like to kiss down his abdomen.

"You look so beautiful," you whispered airily, your voice not half as confident and giggly as previously.

"Yeah? You like what you're seeing?" Pedro said, approaching the bed to stand in front of you. He leaned in to kiss you again and gripped your waist tightly, pushing you back so that you ended up lying sideways on the bed.

"I want you, Pedro," you muttered as if that wasn't apparent already.

"I want you too, baby," he sighed against your lips, hovering above you with his elbows propped up right next to your head. Your arms draped around his head, pressing and tugging to get him to coalesce with you as Pedro's nimble fingers found the hem of your dress.

"Can I… Can I have a taste?" he mumbled after a long while of pointlessly pinching the fabric between two fingers.

"Yeah. Yes, Pedro, please," you whined, your cunt clenching around nothing just at the thought of feeling his hot mouth against your core.

"Good… Good, baby, fuck."

With these gruff words, Pedro started his journey south, though he was distracted more than once – first by your breasts that were still covered by the fabric of your black mini dress and then by your stomach, which he devoured and spoiled as if the thin layer separating your bodies from each other didn't exist.

When he finally found what he had initially been looking for – your throbbing heat – you were a squirming mess. You were close to feeling a little embarrassed about how eager and wet you were for him, but the way Pedro occasionally grinded his dick against your leg or the edge of the bed, didn't go past you either. Perhaps you were just both down bad for each other and you overthought your appearance unnecessarily.

"Pedro," you whimpered, feeling a cold breeze brush over your clothed centre as he bunched up the skirt of your dress around your waist.

"Yeah… I'm right here, darling. Gonna take care of you now."

Pedro kissed along the waistband of your panties a minute of two, his teeth grazing your sensitive skin every now and then before finally freeing you of that layer of needless clothing.

"God… you look so pretty," he hummed, his eyes focusing on what hid between your legs, even though you were sure he couldn't see that much in the dark.

"You think you're all wet for me, babe?"

You nodded, grabbing a few of his dark locks.

"Since when, mhm? You already got wet for me in the club? While we made out?"

You nodded again, this time a faint yelp escaping your mouth as you gently tried to press his face closer against your pussy.

"Please, Pedro."

"Please what?" he innocently smiled, causing you to scoff.

"I didn't know you were such a fucking tease."

"How could you have known, mhm? S'not the only surprise you're gonna get tonight, honey."

Pedro lowered his head to kiss your trimmed mound, teeth darting out to cause you a slight sting.

"Tell me. Tell me what you want me to do to you."

"Please. Touch me. Kiss me," you whined, closing your eyes to hope that this way, the sensation and yearning would be more endurable, but Pedro really made it hard for you.

"Where? And just kiss you…? That would be a little boring, don't you think?"

He blowed a little bit of air over your clit, causing the hair on your arms to bristle.

"Please. On – On my clit. A-And… And lick it. Please, Pedro, I really need it."

He chuckled lowly, a deep, gravelly sound rattling from his chest.

"Asking so nicely…"

You were just about to whine again, putting all your determination in your voice, but the word got stuck in your throat when Pedro finally redeemed you from your agony and sucked your bundle of nerves into his mouth.

You gasped out, your shoulder blades lifting from the mattress as your whole body buckled. He instantly eased you by placing both palms on the inside of your thighs, both holding you wide open and pressing you into the bed.

"Shhh. I know, baby. Just take it. You're gonna feel so good, darling."

Pedro soothingly squeezed your flesh as his tongue deftly swirled around your clit, making your legs convulse. His tongue was rough and heavy against you, moving up and down in slow but intense licks.

"Pedro. Fuck, it's good. So good – Fuck."

You propped yourself on your forearms, glancing down at him, but both the darkness and the veil before your eyes obstructed your view. Pedro ignored your comment, seemingly too focused on spoiling your needy cunt anyway.

"Jesus, you taste so good. Better than fucking honey."

He greedily lapped at your entrance, which cause you to wind. Your clit wretchedly pulsed and quaked as you waited for him to return his attention to the little nub, but Pedro took all the time in the world to extensively slurp your juices. The neglect provoked you to dig your claws into his scalp, scratching and tugging at his hair as he softly hummed against your core.

"Baby… You're insatiable, aren't you? Just need you to relax for me."

"My clit, Pedro, please," you answered, or rather wailed, whimpering in delight when you felt his thick thumb press up against your most sensitive spot.

"There you go… Needy girl."

Somehow, his words aroused you even more if that was possible. Next, he switched his tongue and finger movements again, drawing tight and precise circles around your clit while he gingerly prodded against your hole. It almost felt as though Pedro was waiting for another one of your little whines – his cue to grant you additional stimulation.

"You fucking bastard," you hissed through clenched teeth, your body vibrating with laughter when you spotted his wrinkled brow.

"What was that?" he replied and gently – almost dangerously – scraped his teeth over your bud.

"Give it to me, Pedro. Please. You want me to beg for you, mhm? Is that what you want?"

The corner of his mouth lifted, tongue darting out to swipe over the underside of your clit.

"Maybe… You sound so sweet when you do it. Like a little bird singing just for me. And I feel needed… so goddamn needed."

He chuckled in the same moment as you pushed hard against the back of his head. This time, he complied to your silent request, continuing to stimulate your clit and working two of his fingers inside you. He went far slower than would have been necessary with your arousal dousing his skin, but you had a hunch he was just trying to tease and edge you.

Still, his digits stuffing you full, complemented the pleasure in a way that was striking to you. Different ends of nerves prickles and different muscles contracted, your head pivoting as you realized you were very short of breath.

"Pedro," you just pressed, lids fluttering.

"Yes. Hold onto me, baby. Hold on and relax. I want you to cum for me before I fuck that little cunt. So it's all wet… and warm… and open for me. Do you want that, sweetheart?"

You nodded, unsure if he could see it in the dark. Your noises seemed to tell their own story, though.

"You can cum whenever you like, okay? But I would prefer if it happened soon… 'Cause I need to fuck this pussy, baby."

He was so close to your centre, his nose scrunched, and you felt like he desired to melt with your body. You could only imagine what his face might look like with your juices all over his chin and cheeks. While the thought ashamed you a trifle, you were mostly smitten.

Pedro, being so uncontrollable and obsessed with tasting and smelling you, that he lost every sense of composure. Pedro, consuming you as though he had never wanted to be in a place more keenly. It made you feel drawn to him and also incredibly comfortable and poised in your body.

"Pedro. I think – I think I'm gonna – " you started but couldn't end the sentence. Heat rushed into your cheeks, lips compressed to smother any embarrassing noise that might slip out of your throat in a moment of loss of control.

"Yes, baby. Cum for me."

His hand stroked up your leg, snaking around your hips while he sucked your clit into his mouth, his tongue giving you that last needed shove over the threshold.

"Fuck, fuck – Pedro – please," you howled like you were in pain, though your eyes looked blissful. It was pure joy and indulgence you radiated in that moment, hands entwining in his hair while Pedro touched you through your high like an expert. His fingers stayed inside you, curling and briefly pumping while the pace with which he licked you began to abate.

As your noises died down, your heavily rising chest the only remaining trace of your high, he released your clit and watched you like the proud owner of a piece of art.

"You're so pretty like that, sweetheart. Jesus Christ."

He pawed at your legs and settled his hands on your hips before following up your body.

"How did you like that, babe, mhm?" he gratingly murmured in your ear.

"So good, baby. Fuck… Please, I – I need more."

"You need more than that? I said it, you're such a greedy little thing…"

The roguish glint in his eyes gave away how much he enjoyed the game, yet the signs of his lust were just as tactile. He was trusting you that you would put everything in your pleas for him to finally fuck you, so that he could eventually give in and rescue the both of you.

"Please. I just – I just need to be close to you."

You sounded weak and hoarse – like you genuinely couldn't live without it. And Pedro finally cupped your face, his thumb rubbing over your blushed skin.

"Okay, babe. How about you lay down on your side, mhm?"

Brief surprise, and even doubt flashed on your face, but he just traced the corner of your mouth.

"Come on… Don't worry, I'm gonna do all the work."

"I could do the work, too," you immediately protested as you turned on your side with Pedro spooning you from behind.

"Mmm, yeah... I think so, too," he whispered into your ear, his voice dripping with irony.

"I could," you assertively insisted, though no claim of yours could have wiped the grin off Pedro's face.

"I'm sure you could, baby. But not now. Now you just gotta take it. Just gotta keep those legs open for me."

You relaxed in his grasp, one of his arms wrapped around your waist from below and the other adjusting your legs to his preferences.

"You need to arch a little bit. Like that… yeah. Good girl."

The praise worked on you perfectly and this imbecile seemed more than aware of it.

"Now close your eyes. And just feel…"

The next thing you noticed was the tip of his dick trailing along your slit, making you wonder when he had found the time to free his member. You would have liked to get a more thorough look at his cock, maybe even touch it, but for now, you would work with what you got. Not that you felt strong and competent enough to vocally express what you wanted with his strong front flush against your backside.

"Relax, honey," Pedro murmured against your earlobe. You braced yourself for a light sting that you were sure would be inevitable, but as you felt him slide in, it was scarcely more than a little bit of pressure in your lower tummy. You both gasped in unison as his member entered you beautifully. He still went slowly, though, to avoid causing you any pain.

"Baby… So good. You feel so fucking good," he growled, his hand pressing down on your stomach to keep you as close as physically possible.

"Pedro. Fuck."

He bottomed out while kneading your breast with his free hand, kissing along your nape, which made his beard stubble scratch and tingle on your bare skin.

"Christ… You're so amazing, baby, fuck. All good? You want me to move or wait a little?"

"M-Move. I'm all good. Please."

You already felt weak and blown away by the mere size of his cock stretching you, so the anticipation of feeling him pound your pussy made your heart thrum. He slowly withdrew, setting a steady pace while your hips moved in accordance.

"P-Pedro. So good… So fucking good, I – I can't – "

"Oh yeah you can… You feel so goddamn good. Wanna own that pussy, baby."

His hips ground into yours, pushing you away, which was why his arm around your waist was flexed and firm. He pulled you back every time, leaving you with no choice but to be thrown around at his will.

At some point – he had increased the amount of pleasure you were receiving by stimulating your clit – you started sobbing.

Not because you were hurting or something felt uncomfortable. It was more like… you were crying from everything feeling so good and perfect that your body had no choice but to cope with it by weeping freely.

It took Pedro only a few seconds to register the tears flooding your face. He gripped your chin and turned your face toward him, lips twisting as he roamed over your glistening cheeks. Then, he suddenly lowered his head, licking from your lips up to your eyes to taste the salty drops and clean your face.

"Sorry 'bout that, pretty girl…," he muttered, delivering forceful and deliberate thrusts into your quavering opening.

"Fuck. Fuck, oh god…," you wailed, reaching behind you to clutch his bicep firmly.

"My god… You're so beautiful. And the way you clench around me… Baby, you're fucking killing me."

Your nails dug into his skin, probably leaving a distinct sting, but the two of you remained silent about it, instead focusing on expressing your needs and praise.

"Pedro. I'm close. I'm fucking close, I think," you gasped as a few more tears escaped from the corners of your eyes, which he was quick and confident to lap up.

"Oh yeah? My sweet insatiable girl wants to cum again? You need it that bad?"

"Yes… Need it. Please, Pedro."

Your eyes were closed now, making it impossible for you to see his grin. Perhaps it was better that way because his amusement might have upset you and make you believe that he wouldn't give in.

He did, though. Five minutes later, you unravelled, crying out once more as he pressed the base of his palm against your clit, stimulating you and riding your high out.

"Jesus… That's it, babygirl. Clenching so – so fucking hard around me."

A low rumble gushed from his chest, the vibrations transferring over to your body as he held you firm against his chest. You whimpered as the effects of your high spread in your thighs and stomach, taking up all your attention, which was why you didn't even register Pedro following you over the edge and spilling inside you. He softly groaned, nuzzling your nape and stroking up and down your torso.

"Holy shit… You're so… God, you're amazing."

His voice was quiet and pained, just a faint breeze tickling the hairs on the back of your neck.

"Pedro," you whined, your body still trembling, but at least your head began to clear. As Pedro's head rested on your shoulder, you realized that his orgasm was beginning to subside, so you slightly turned around to meet his gaze. It was only now that you noticed how much you had missed looking upon his face, so you leaned in to kiss him with a smile glued to your lips.

"I liked that…," you whispered, bringing a hand to the side of his face, cradling him while his arm draped around your waist.

"Pedro...?" you murmured after a while, quiet and still experiencing a slight sense of vertigo.

"Mhm?"

"You came inside me," you muttered, turning your whole body toward him and bringing your foreheads together.

"Jesus… I did."

Pedro grabbed your cheek, then pulled your head to rest against the crook of his neck. "I'm sorry. You're not on birth control, are you?"

You shook your head as you inhaled his scent, which was still somehow fresh and clean despite the sweat connecting your bodies at that moment.

"Okay… I'm gonna go to the drug store first thing in the morning. Get you the morning-after pill. Unless you wanna carry my child of course!" He chuckled lowly, causing you to roll your eyes but join him.

"Sure. I want nothing more."

You gently kissed along his collarbone and then suddenly felt the urge to crawl on top of him. And so you did. You pushed against his shoulder until he was lying flat on his back. Then, you curled up on top of him like a cat.

"Pedro?" you purred, your head tucked underneath his chin.

"What?"

"Are you still drunk?"

He kissed your hair while brushing over the small of your back. "No. I don't think so."

"Me neither… Is that good?"

He grinned, even though you couldn't see it.

"I don't know. But… Maybe yeah. I think – " Pedro cut himself off, gently stroking your hair back to signalize you that he wanted to look at you. "I don't think I'm gonna regret this, baby."

A lambent light flickered in your eyes, yet your expression remained earnest.

"I… And I don't think this was just me saying and doing stupid stuff while drunk… you know?" he murmured.

"Yeah. I think so, yeah."

Pedro's eyes softened, and he sat up slightly. "I really like you, y/n, and maybe I've liked you for quite some time now. There were things holding me back… Restraining me from realizing it. From accepting it, maybe."

You cupped his face, tenderly grazing your thumb over his cheekbone.

"What things?"

"The age gap. Work. The long distance between us. I just thought that it wouldn't work. Or that it wouldn't have a future."

You sucked your lower lip into your mouth as you pondered his words.

"Relationships are different. There are no instructions on how it's supposed to be. There's no right and wrong way. Maybe we should just try it."

"You would like to try it?" Pedro asked carefully, squeezing your waist and pulling you a little closer.

"Yeah. Yes, definitely. I like you, Pedro. And I have for a while."

You blushed, blood rushing into your cheeks at the confession.

"Mhmm okay… I like where this is heading."

You playfully poked him in his side but then got serious again, brushing your hair behind your ear.

"Pedro?"

"Yes."

"Would you like to go on a date with me?"

The corner of his mouth lifted, pupils glowing with an incandescent glimmer searing through every layer of your body until it warmed up your heart.

"I would like that. Even though… Baby, we already went on so many dates."

"Shh," you hushed him, shaking your head. "But not like this. We're gonna go on a real date. We're gonna be all shy… and flustered… we're gonna reach for the bill awkwardly, but then you're obviously gonna pay because you're rich."

Pedro laughed out but then pressed down on your back, inviting you to come closer and engaging you in a kiss.

"Okay. We're gonna do that. What do you think… tomorrow?"

You nodded, kissing the corner of his mouth.

"Yeah. After you got me the morning-after pill."

Pedro tangled his hand in your hair and opened his eyes to look into yours.

The bed was cold on his side.

You stirred, eyes blinking open to gray London light filtering through the curtains. For a moment you thought he’d gone completely, that he’d slipped away unnoticed like a dream, but then you padded barefoot across the chilly wood floor and found him.

Pedro stood on the balcony, leaning into the railing, broad shoulders framed against the pale sky. Dark sweats, messy bed hair, and the damn purple Lakers t-shirt that had grown as familiar as your own heartbeat. His hand rubbed absent circles over the railing. He looked like he was carrying something invisible but heavy, the kind of weight only he could name. You paused in the doorway, watching. Being with him had taught you that love wasn’t just closeness, it was curiosity. You wanted to know every thought, every hidden corner of him. Even the parts he kept behind that polite smile, the eternal people-pleaser. You wanted to swim inside his mind until you knew every shadow.

So you crossed the room and slipped your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into the softness of his shirt, breathing in clean soap and him.

“Happy birthday, old man,” you murmured.

He laughed, low and rough, the vibration shaking through his stomach beneath your cheek.

“Thank you, mi amor.”

“Why aren’t you in bed? It’s crazy early.”

“Felt a bit restless.”

“Birthday blues?” you asked, your cheek still pressed to his back.

He didn’t answer at first. The city stretched out below, a smear of gray rooftops and cranes. It was one of those mornings that felt caught between night and day, muffled and uncertain. His silence said enough. Finally, he exhaled, shoulders rising and falling under your cheek.

“Hm. Yeah. A little.”

You could hear the way he said it, soft but weighted, like a man reluctant to admit he was carrying more than he wanted to show. He was Pedro, after all, he’d made a career of smiling through exhaustion, of filling other people’s needs before his own. You understood the feeling intimately, that quiet ache that came with another birthday, the strange mixture of gratitude and grief that aging brought.

You slipped around to face him, leaning your back against the railing. He looked at you then, eyes heavy-lidded, framed by the faint crow’s feet etched deeper than the year before. His beard was still wild from sleep, silver scattered like threads of light through the dark. He was beautiful, but you knew he wouldn’t call himself that.

“Talk to me,” you said gently, offering your hand. He took it, warm and rough, his thumb brushing circles over your knuckles like he always did when he was trying to himself grounded.

He sighed again. “I don’t know. Fifty just… sounds old.” His mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “I wake up and sometimes I still feel like I’m twenty-five, like I’m waiting for my life to start. And then I catch myself in the mirror and think—shit. You’re not the kid anymore. You’re the old man on set. The one people call sir.”

You bit back a smile. “They don’t call you sir. They call you something else.”

That earned a laugh, though it was short and self-deprecating. He shook his head. “Yeah, that’s worse. It’s funny until I’m the punchline, you know? Until I wonder if I’m just some caricature." His shoulders hunched slightly, his voice softer now. “Sometimes I wonder if people really see me. Or if I’ve just become… whatever they need me to be.”

You let that sit between you, because you knew what it meant. The man who had spent a lifetime offering himself up in pieces until he forgot where the performance ended and the person began. You reached up, cupping his cheek so he’d look at you properly.

“P,” you said, your voice breaking on the letter. “I hope you know how loved you are.”

His eyes flickered, glassy now, but you didn’t stop. “I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. I wish you could see how much you mean to me. How kind you are. How brave. How fucking extraordinary you are just by existing in the world. Not for the roles, not for the public, not for the stupid labels people give you or don't give you. For you.”

You slid your arms around his hips, pulling him closer until you could lock your hands against the small of his back. He leaned over you, bracing his hands on the railing at your sides, caging you in as if you were the only thing keeping him upright. He looked down at you, eyes shining, his expression both open and vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed.

“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” you pressed, your voice low, urgent. “I see the man who makes everyone in the room feel safe. I see the boy who worked harder than anyone gave him credit for. I see someone who is better than he thinks, someone who deserves every ounce of love that comes his way.”

His jaw flexed, as though he was holding the words in, not trusting himself to speak. Then he pulled you into him, crushing you against his chest so tightly you almost couldn’t breathe.

“I love you,” you whispered against the fabric of his shirt, muffled, “even if you suffocate me to death.”

That broke him. His laugh was wet, shaky, reverberating through your body as he loosened his hold just enough to kiss the top of your head.

“I love you too,” he said, his voice hoarse, like the words had been waiting there for years.

•••

Later, the place smelled like coffee and butter as you clattered around in your pajamas, hair still mussed from sleep, sleeves tugged down over your hands as you set the small kitchen table. Two mismatched mugs, the blue plate he always claimed as his favorite, and a stack of pancakes you’d managed not to burn this time, amongst other things. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and that was the point.

He emerged from the bedroom shower-fresh, a curl of steam drifting out behind him. His hair was damp, curling in places you wanted to smooth down with your fingers. The silver threaded through his beard looked sharper now that it was trimmed neat, catching the morning light from the window. He padded in barefoot, tugging absently at the hem of his faded sweats until his eyes landed on the table. That smile—boyish, warm, a little disbelieving—lit his whole face.

“You made all this?" he said, the soft wonder in his voice like you’d laid out a feast fit for a king.

“Your favorites,” you replied, sliding into your chair.

He sat close, closer than he needed to, his knee brushing yours under the table. The press of it stayed there, steady, as if he needed the reminder that you were real. He forked into the pancakes first, humming his approval around the first bite, and reached over to cover your hand with his. Big, warm, calloused. He always ate like this with you: hand to mouth, mouth to hand, as if affection and food went hand in hand.

Conversation meandered easily. His schedule for the day, your teasing complaint that of all days he had to be busy today. He groaned about it, dramatic enough to make you laugh, then squeezed your hand like an apology.

“Hope they don’t make you work too hard,” you said, giving his fingers a squeeze back.

He swallowed, looked at you with those soft eyes of his. “I’ll survive.”

When he finally pushed his plate back and started to rise, you caught his wrist. “Ah, ah. Sit. I have something else.”

He raised an eyebrow, but sat again. You darted into the kitchen, quick on bare feet, and returned with the little box you’d hidden last night. Inside was the small cake, crooked on one side, frosting uneven, and rainbow sprinkles scattered like confetti. You like to think you get better at it each time. You’d fussed over it for hours, but when you set it down in front of him, candle already flickering, you forgot every insecurity. Because his face cracked wide open, grin blooming like sunlight.

“Babyyy,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair like he couldn’t believe you.

“You say that every year,” you teased, setting the lighter aside. “And every year I remind you—tradition. I have to make you a cake.”

He tilted his head, grin still splitting his face. “Sprinkles this year, huh?”

“You gotta tell me what you want next time. I’m running out of ideas.” He leaned forward then, catching your cheek with a kiss that was so tender, so brief, it left you smiling helplessly when he pulled back.

“Happy birthday, baby,” you whispered, lighting the candle. The flame wobbled between you, and you felt suddenly silly and shy, but also glad. “Make a wish.”

He closed his eyes for just a second before blowing it out, then turned immediately to you. One big hand came up to cradle your face, warm and steady, thumb brushing your cheekbone as if you were the gift.

“I have everything I need already,” he said, his voice low, certain. “And more.”

Your throat caught. You leaned in and kissed his nose, soft enough that he shut his eyes and smiled.

“I love it when you do that,” he murmured.

•••

The venue was buzzing long before you even walked in with him. Inside, the air was warm with bodies, laughter, and the clink of glasses. Everyone you’d ever expect. old friends, castmates, family seemed to orbit him, pulled in by that gravitational charm he never quite believed he had.

He looked devastatingly good, of course. Loose black pants, a “Protect the Dolls” t-shirt stretched just enough across his chest, that black coat he shrugged off halfway through the night when it got too hot. His dark-rimmed glasses caught the purple strobe of the lights, and the grey at his beard glinted like it had been put there just to make him more dangerous. He smelled of cedar and the scotch someone kept topping up for him, and even across the room you could feel the pull.

The problem was—so could everyone else.

You felt like you barely saw him. Everywhere you looked, he was being pulled into another conversation, another dance, another photo. His siblings had him for a while, and you smiled watching them laugh with their heads tipped together. Then someone else whisked him away, then another. Every time you started toward him, someone was already dragging him off, clamoring for just a brush of his hand, a story, a laugh.

“Have you seen Pedro?” you asked Coco, leaning in as you wiped sweat from your collarbone.

She glanced toward the bar. “I thought I saw him doing shots with Jason a second ago.”

You turned, and there he was: framed in the glow of the bar lights, head tipped back in laughter, surrounded. He looked younger like that, unguarded, his hand slicing the air as he told some story. You wanted nothing more than to press yourself into his side, claim a sliver of him just for yourself.

But by the time you made it across the room, he was gone again. You ordered another drink, biting back your impatience, telling yourself you could wait.

Prince’s “Kiss” pulsed through the speakers, and you gave in, dancing with your girlfriends, hips loose, skirt glittering purple under the lights. You were tipsy enough not to care who was watching when you felt him, those familiar hands sliding over your hips, tugging you back against a body you’d know blind.

“Hi, stranger,” he murmured into your ear, voice all smoke and warmth.

You smiled, easing into him as he swayed you to the beat. His palms skimmed lower, playful, testing the hem of your skirt. You reached back, fingers curling into the back of his neck, and felt him singing into your ear, his breath hot as he ground against you. Hard already. The alcohol, the heat, the bass vibrating through the floor, it all rushed to your head.

“Missed me?” you teased.

“Very much so.” His voice was rough and purposeful.

You turned, facing him now, and his hands were quick to drag you close again, with no space between you. His glasses slid down his nose; his eyes were dark, hungry, happy. God, he looked so fucking good like that: loose, flushed, alive.

“Thought you’d forgotten me, Mr. Popular.”

His brows shot up, mock-offended. “I could never, princesa.” And then he kissed you, right there in the middle of everything. You didn’t care about the stares, the burning eyes; you only cared about his mouth slanting over yours, desperate, relieved.

When you pulled away, he stayed close, his lips brushing yours. “I’ve been staring at you all night.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“That little skirt—fuck."

You grinned devilishly. Before you could say something, someone cut in—“Lovebirds, sorry to interrupt, but they need you—” Whatever it was, it pulled him away. He looked at you like he was asking permission. You gave him a quick peck and said, “Go.” He mouthed I love you before disappearing into the crowd.

You were patient.

Then, half an hour later, he found you.

You were leaning near the hallway by the bathrooms when his hand caught your hip, turning you toward him. The crowd was a wall of sound just behind, but here, tucked in shadow, it felt like the world had gone quiet.

“Hi again, birthday boy,” you murmured, fingers grazing the hem of his t-shirt.

“Hi, trouble.” His voice rasped low, already frayed. His eyes swept you—sparkly purple skirt, boots, mouth curved in that knowing smile—and something in him snapped.

He pressed you against the bathroom door, broad chest flush to yours, pants hard against your thighs. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?” His breath hitched. “And those boots—don’t get me started.”

You tugged his belt loop, testing. “Yes, actually. That was the plan all along.”

He groaned, kissing you like he’d been holding back for hours, because he had. Sloppy, hot, his teeth catching your lip as his hands dragged under your skirt, cupping your ass and lifting you onto the sink like you weighed nothing.

You laughed, breathless. “You’re shameless.”

“Always have been with you.” His voice was a promise, filthy and tender at once.

The bathroom smelled of soap and spilled beer. The music thumped faint through the door, but here, it was just you and him, and he was starving. His beard scraped your neck as he kissed down, big hands greedy over your thighs, your jaw, every inch he could claim.

“Pedro—”

“Feliz cumpleaños to me,” he muttered against your skin, grinding into you, voice breaking with need. He shoved your skirt up, groaning when he saw the lace beneath. His fingers slipped under, finding you wet already, and he laughed softly, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Mira eso,” he whispered, pushing two thick fingers inside with no hesitation. “Already ready for me.”

You clutched at his shirt, felt the flex of his biceps as he fucked you with his hand, the fabric tight over his chest as he held you pinned with his other arm. His eyes locked on yours, feral and sweet at once.

“Pedro—please—”

“You want me to fuck you here?” His tone was half-taunt, half-desperate.

“Yes.” Yes, yes, yes.

That was all it took.

He bent you over the sink so fast your breath caught, the porcelain biting cold into your palms. In the mirror you saw the feral version of him: hair mussed, glasses slipping low on his nose, mouth already parted like he couldn’t get enough air. His pants shoved down just enough, and then—without mercy—he rammed into you, one brutal thrust that had you crying out, the sound strangled beneath his palm clamping hard over your mouth.

“Shhh,” he hissed, hips driving in with a punishing rhythm, the slap of skin sharp in the cramped, tiled space. “You want everyone to know I’m bending you over a fucking sink on my birthday?”

You shook your head, but your body betrayed you, back arching, ass pushing into him, wet and greedy. His chest pressed to your back, sweat soaking through the cotton of his shirt, the thick scratch of his beard against your neck as he growled into your ear.

He let go of your mouth only to drag your head up, forcing you to meet your own reflection.

“Mírate,” he panted, fucking you so hard your tits bounced against the porcelain. “Look at yourself. Look how messy you are for me already. You love it.”

His hand came down on your ass with a vicious smack, the sting searing, your moan bouncing off the glass. He did it again, harder this time, and smirked at the way you clenched around him.

“Dirty little—" he groaned, a moan getting in the way of his words. “Bending over for me in your tiny fucking skirt, making me chase you all night. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” you gasped, voice breaking as he yanked your panties to the side and fucked you even rougher, each thrust rattling the sink.

“That’s right,” he rasped. His fingers found your clit, rubbing it ruthlessly, timed with every brutal slam of his hips. “My birthday, my rules. You come when I say.”

You whined, helpless, tears pricking your eyes as your orgasm threatened to tear through you too soon. He spanked you again, his rings leaving faint marks.

“Beg for it.”

“Please,” you choked out, your forehead hitting the mirror. “Please, Pedro, let me come.”

“That’s it. Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours. I’m yours.”

The way he growled, low and guttural, was enough to undo you. Your release ripped through you, violent and wet, your body jerking as he fucked you through it. The mirror fogged with your breath, lipstick smeared, hair a tangle.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, losing his rhythm now, thrusts erratic. “So tight when you come, you’re milking me—fuck—” His hand dug bruises into your hip as he spilled inside you, hips slamming forward, burying himself to the hilt.

He stayed pressed against you, both of you panting, sweat sticking you together. You caught sight of yourself in the mirror. Flushed, mascara smudged, mouth swollen, and of him, glasses crooked, lips parted like he could devour you all over again.

When he finally pulled out, your thighs trembled, his cum dripping down your thighs. He slapped your ass once more, possessive and filthy, and leaned in to kiss the back of your neck.

“Happy birthday, old man.”

“Best fucking gift I’ve ever had,” he muttered, voice wrecked. Then, softer, almost tender through the filth: “My love…mía."

Your legs wobbled as he finally stepped back, tucking himself away, breath still ragged. You caught his reflection in the mirror, glasses crooked, hair slightly damp with sweat, that wild smirk softening into something far too tender for what he’d just done to you. You shifted, skirt still bunched at your waist, thighs slick, your panties hanging uselessly to the side. “I can’t feel my knees,” you whispered, voice hoarse.

Pedro chuckled, the sound gravelly and smug. “Good. Means I did it right.”

You turned slowly, leaning against the sink for balance. He was already pulling paper towels from the dispenser, wetting a few under the faucet. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” you teased, but your lips twitched.

“Oh, come on, mi amor. You’re dripping all over the floor,” he said, kneeling in front of you with zero shame. He nudged your thighs apart with those big hands, cleaning you gently, almost reverently, even as his smirk lingered. “Messy girl.”

“Mess you made,” you shot back, a shiver running through you when his thumb brushed too close to your clit on “accident.”

He looked up at you from his knees, glasses sliding down his nose, and your stomach flipped.

“Don’t tempt me. I’ll keep you in here all night.”

You swatted his shoulder, laughing breathlessly. “People are gonna notice we’ve been gone forever.”

“They already noticed,” he said, rising to his feet, leaning in close until his beard scraped your jaw. “They’ll know you’re mine when you walk back out there flushed and wrecked in that little skirt.”

You gasped, but his lips caught the sound, kissing you slow this time, sloppy and sweet, tongue lazy against yours. When he pulled back, he nudged his nose against yours, softening again like he couldn’t help it.

“Fix your lipstick, amor,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your swollen lower lip. “Or don’t. I like it like this.” You grabbed a napkin and dabbed at your mouth, half-hearted, still dazed.

“You’re impossible.”

Pedro leaned back against the sink, watching you with that quiet, satisfied look that always undid you. “And you’re trouble.

You rolled your eyes, tugging your skirt back down and straightening your top. “Come on, birthday boy. Before someone sends a search party.”

He chuckled, slipping an arm around your waist as you headed toward the door. But just before opening it, he bent down, lips at your ear. “Later,” he promised, voice low and dangerous. “I’m not done with you.”

You adjusted the mic, smiled at the sea of expectant faces, and said,

“It’s exciting. To be stepping into a movie now, after three seasons of the show. To see these characters evolve on a bigger canvas. I’m very much looking forward to everyone finally seeing it.”

The crowd clapped, cheers bursting like confetti. Pedro’s hand brushed the back of your chair, a subtle reassurance. You didn’t look at him, restraint had become second nature at these things, but you felt his presence, steady and comforting.

When Pedro spoke, he was all charm, leaning forward in his glasses and blue shirt. “We’re having the time of our lives. It’s been a dream working with this group—” his eyes cut briefly to you, a flicker of softness hidden behind the professional smile—“and I think fans are going to feel how much love went into this.”

You caught the way his lips twitched like he wanted to grin just at you. He always did that, little cracks in the armor.

Later, on the carpet, you posed dutifully for the flashing bulbs, turning your head this way and that, striking practiced smiles. And in the corner of your eye, you caught him. Not posing. Not playing to the press. Just…taking photos of you on his phone like you were a tourist sight, like he couldn’t help himself. When your eyes met, he grinned, unashamed.

That night, tucked into a narrow booth in a sushi bar down an alley you’d never have found without a friend’s recommendation, you finally breathed again. The city outside pulsed neon; inside, it was all wood panels and low laughter. You sat hip-to-hip, chopsticks clumsy in your tipsy hands.

“This sushi is soooo good,” you groaned, mouth full, and Pedro snorted.

“You sound like you’re in pain.”

“I am in pain. It’s too good.” You swallowed dramatically, then nudged his plate. “Wanna try mine?”

He lifted his chopsticks, feeding you a bite of whatever he’d ordered. You chewed, eyes closing, practically moaning again. “Oh my god.”

He was watching you with that fond, amused expression, elbow propped on the table. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, shaking his head like you were the most entertaining thing Tokyo had to offer.

You poked his side. “Shut up. Let me live.”

After a beat, he tilted his head, quieter. “Do you want to do something tomorrow? We still have a couple of days here.”

You glanced at him, lips still shiny from soy sauce. “Like what?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You, me. Just us.”

You smiled. “I like that plan.”

As you reached for your cup of sake, he caught your hand. “Wait—hold still.” His thumb grazed your nails, eyes narrowing with interest. “These are new.”

You laughed. “Oh my god, I forgot to tell you. I got them done this morning by this girl—they’re perfect, right? Look—” You turned your hand under the light, the gloss catching. “She’s amazing. I’m going back to her next time we’re here.”

“They’re beautiful,” he said simply, still holding your hand, as though the nails were just an excuse.

•••

The next morning, you walked through Shinjuku Gyoen, cherry blossoms just past bloom but still scattering petals like secrets across the grass. Pedro carried iced coffees, his free hand tucked into your back pocket, completely unbothered by the stares you drew. You caught him sneaking petals into your hair just to hear you protest.

That afternoon, you took the metro at rush hour, pressed shoulder to shoulder with strangers, and he leaned down to murmur, “Todo es romántico contigo.” Just like that, simple and lovely, as though a packed subway could be the most intimate place in the world.

Another night, you wandered into a tiny record shop in Shibuya. Pedro dug through crates, humming softly, until he found an old Caetano Veloso vinyl and held it up like treasure. “For our place,” he said, already imagining the sound of it filling your home.

And there were the small things: you feeding him takoyaki too hot off the grill while he hissed and laughed through the burn; his bullseye tattoo tracing idle circles on your bare knee under a restaurant table; his glasses slipping down his nose as he studied a map, refusing your help just so you’d tease him.

Everywhere you went, he touched you. Your wrist, your shoulder, your hip, as though anchoring himself. And everywhere you looked, the city glowed brighter because he was there, beside you.

The Riviera heat clung to your skin like silk, the kind that made your hair stick to the back of your neck even though the sea breeze tried its best to cool you. The sun was beating down on your face as you walked the Croisette with Pedro at your side. The flashbulbs hadn’t started yet, that storm still waited for you, but even in the quiet before, you could feel it: the shift in the air, the way strangers looked at him like he was theirs to consume.

He wore black—head to toe, simple, sexy. Sleeveless shirt, tailored trousers, arms bare, the definition in his muscles making you want to claw at him right there in the street. His sunglasses glinted, reflecting back the world he was about to conquer.

“You ready?” His voice tugged you out of your thoughts.

You blinked, forcing your focus from the past. Cannes years ago, just friends then, oblivious idiots standing outside some afterparty, you tracing his nose with your fingertip like it was the most natural thing in the world, him freezing, swallowing, smiling because he didn’t know what else to do. How had you not seen it then? How had you wasted so much time?

“Are you trying to kill me?” you asked now, low enough that only he could hear.

His smile was slow, teasing. “You like it?”

You stepped into his space, ignoring the handlers and assistants buzzing around, and kissed him once, firm. “How lucky am I to have the hottest man on earth?”

He chuckled, his hand brushing your waist like he couldn’t help it. “You flatter me, amor.”

But the truth was, there was no flattery. Cameras devoured him. His sister glowed beside you both, proud, radiant, but you couldn’t stop watching him. Pedro, walking into Cannes like he had always belonged there.

Pedro’s face was everywhere. Posters, red carpets, interviews where he was lit in gold and called every flattering name under the sun. And you were happy for him, genuinely, achingly proud. He deserved it all, every ounce of attention, every headline, every stranger screaming his name. So you didn’t know where the pang in your chest was coming from. Maybe it was the distance. Maybe it was your period.

Probably both.

When his name flashed across your phone that night, you answered instantly.

“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, propped against a hotel headboard, glasses on, the faintest rasp of exhaustion in his voice.

You smiled, settling back against the couch with your bowl of pralines ice cream. “Hi, movie star. Long day?”

“The longest,” he groaned dramatically. “Smile, smile, wave, wave, ‘how does it feel to be everyone’s crush.’” He widened his eyes and raised his brows in parody, making you laugh.

“Poor baby. Must be so hard being adored by millions.”

“It is, actually,” he said gravely, then cracked into a grin. “What are you doing?”

You scooped another bite of ice cream. “Watching Love Island. Trying to figure out how people can fall in love after two margaritas and one firepit chat.”

He laughed, a warm rumble through the phone. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t dominate that show. You’d have three men crying by day two.”

“Excuse you,” you said, mock-offended. “I’d only have two crying. The third would be fetching me snacks.”

He shook his head, smiling so soft it made your stomach hurt. “You’re ridiculous. I miss you.”

You blinked at the screen, heart tugging. “I miss you too.”

There was a beat of comfortable silence, just his quiet breathing through the speaker, and then he said, casual as anything, “I’m having dinner with Dakota again tomorrow night, by the way.”

The shift inside you was sharp, unwelcome. Not ugly, not the kind of jealousy that burned, but a sudden dip you hated yourself for.

“Mm.” You tried to keep your tone even, spoon scraping the bowl.

His eyes narrowed a little. “What’s that ‘mm’?”

“Nothing.”

“Amor.” He tilted his head, glasses sliding further down his nose. “Talk to me.”

You hesitated, pressing the spoon to your lips. “It’s stupid.”

“Probably,” he said, smiling gently. “Tell me anyway.”

You exhaled. “It’s just—sometimes it’s hard, you know? Seeing you out there with all these people, all this… everything. And I’m here with my ice cream and Love Island. It’s dumb. I’m happy for you, I swear, I just—sometimes I wish it was me you were having dinner with. I haven't seen you in so long.”

His expression softened instantly. “Amor.” He leaned closer until the screen was filled with beard, silver, and love. “Do you know what I think about when I sit down at those dinners?”

“What?”

“You. How you’d sneak your dessert onto my plate. How you’d tell me later that half the table bored you and then make me laugh until I couldn’t breathe. You are my favorite dinner date. Always will be.”

You smiled despite yourself, spoon forgotten. “You’re the cheesiest man alive.”

He grinned, proud. “Yeah. But I’m yours. Even when the world wants me.”

And just like that, the heaviness shifted. Not gone, but lighter, softened by the way he said it. Not as reassurance, but as fact.

Other nights were different.

You were curled up in bed, the glow of your lamp soft against your face, hair down and falling over your shoulders. Pedro was in another hotel room, the kind that all blurred together for him by now.

“You look cozy,” he murmured, lying back against the headboard, his t-shirt tugged loose at the collar. His voice carried that gravel it always had when he was tired, low and slow, the kind that pulled a shiver right down your spine.

“I am cozy,” you said, pulling the blanket higher with a small grin. “You look…” You trailed off deliberately, eyeing him through the screen.

“Handsome? Rugged?” He waggled his brows.

“Like you need a hug,” you teased, softer than your grin suggested.

His smile faltered into something tender, eyes catching yours through the pixelated glow. “Yeah. That too.”

The conversation drifted. Little jokes, talk of the day. But then his voice dipped lower, the way it sometimes did when he couldn’t quite keep the want tucked away.

“Amor,” he said, quiet but direct. “Show me.”

You tilted your head, pretending to misunderstand. “Show you what?”

His mouth twitched. “Don’t play.” His eyes were steady, soft but hungry. “I miss you too much tonight. Just… let me see you.”

Your chest tightened. You hesitated only a second before you shifted, setting the phone against your pillows. The screen tilted, framing your face, your hand sliding down under the blanket. His eyes darkened instantly, his breath catching.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his hand disappearing below the camera’s edge, shoulders flexing under his t-shirt. “You’re so beautiful like this.”

Your breath hitched as your fingers worked between your thighs, the sound of his voice alone almost too much. “Pedro—”

“Say it again.” His voice broke, rougher now.

“Pedro.”

He groaned, hand moving faster. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. Pretend I’m there, right there between your legs.”

Your hips arched, blanket slipping as your body betrayed you, breath coming quicker. He cursed, words tumbling low and filthy.

The room shrank until there was only the sound of your breathing, his muffled groans, the rhythm of two bodies trying to bridge oceans through glass. You gasped as release crept close, fingers trembling.

“Pedro—”

“I’m right here,” he panted. “Come for me, baby. Come with me.”

And you did. The sound you made was caught by the quiet of your room, by him murmuring your name like a prayer through the phone. He followed, breath breaking, glasses slipping down his nose as he came with a groan that felt ripped from his chest.

When it was over, you both lay there in your separate beds, sweaty, flushed, quiet but smiling.

“God,” he muttered, pushing his glasses back up. “When I get back to you…I’m not letting you leave the bed for a week.”

You laughed, still breathless. “Promises, promises.”

“Pack a bag,” he said before hello. “I’m taking you away for the weekend.”

“Well, hello to you too. How are you?”

“I’m good, baby. Pack a bag.”

You laughed, half incredulous, half giddy, clutching the phone closer. “So bossy. Where are you taking me?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“Oh, no, señor. That’s not how it works. Because, one—I hate not knowing things. And two—I need to know what weather I’m packing for. You know I don’t play about my outfits.”

Pedro laughed, head tipping back, the sound rich and smug. “Cold.”

That caught your attention. July, and cold? You narrowed your eyes at him through the screen. He was grinning like he’d just checkmated you.

“Cold where?”

“You’ll see.”

You scoffed, dragging out a groan. “Bossy.”

“Efficient,” he shot back without missing a beat, lips twitching.

You leaned forward, squinting at him. “Hmm. I’ve got a couple of ideas where you might be taking me.”

“Oh yeah?” He shifted, leaning closer now, his tone low and baiting.

“Cold. July. I actually paid attention in geography, you know.”

He smirked, shaking his head like you were incorrigible. “Okay, smarty pants, don’t spoil my surprise, please.”

You groaned louder, throwing yourself back against the pillows. “You’re soooo annoying.”

“Don’t be a brat,” he warned lightly, smiling like he liked it when you were.

“Fine,” you said, though you were still pouting. “But if I end up in Antarctica without the right coat, it’s on you.”

“Deal,” he murmured, leaning so close to the camera that his face filled the screen, eyes warm, crooked smile softening. “I’ll keep you warm.”

•••

Three days later, the terminal smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant, yet you found him instantly. Even with the cap tugged low, even with the way he tried to blend into the quiet corner of the lounge, he was impossible to miss. You walked fast, then faster, until you were crashing into him, arms tight around his torso, your face pressed into the familiar scratch of his t-shirt. You held him longer than usual, long enough to feel the slow exhale against your hair, long enough to breathe him in like oxygen after drowning.

“I missed you too,” he whispered into your crown, his voice low, the warmth of it settling deep. His hand spread wide across the back of your neck, anchoring you like he always did when words were too small.

The jet felt impossibly private once you were inside; two seats facing each other, a couch that seemed too sleek for comfort, windows framing nothing but endless sky. You fell into the same quiet rituals you always did: Pedro ordering snacks from the flight attendant and sliding the ones you liked onto your tray, you stealing the crossword from his lap only to abandon it half-done between you, your cheek pillowed on his chest, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath cotton.

Now and then, you caught fragments. Little hints, enough for your mind to start tracing patterns, though never quite settling on the whole picture.

It was only hours in, when the hum of the cabin had softened and the window framed nothing but sky, that he finally said it.

“Bariloche.”

The name dropped like a stone into a still pond. Patagonia. The word unfurled in your head like music, like a chord struck after silence. Cold in July, mountains serrated against the horizon, sky so wide it might undo you.

You turned toward him, lips parting, and found him watching you with that half-smile, as if he’d been waiting for the exact second it clicked.

The flight was long, a stretch of hours that should have worn you thin, but instead it meant more of him. More time pressed against his side, more cardigans stolen and bunched beneath your cheek, more of his palm coasting idle circles over your thigh, warm syllables spilling over you until your body felt loose, your mind sliding toward dreams.

•••

The plane descended into Bariloche beneath a sky so crystalline it looked rinsed clean. The mountains rose like cathedral spires, snow clinging to their ridges, the peaks pale against the cobalt stretch of sky. The air outside the terminal cut straight through your coat, sharp and clean, your breath turning visible as you exhaled. Patagonia. It was almost absurd that a word could contain so much space.

Pedro tugged his beanie lower over his ears and caught your hand, squeezing once, eyes darting as if memorizing the view and you all at once. “Worth packing a sweater?” he teased, and you rolled your eyes.

“You didn’t even let me bring half my closet.”

“Because your closet doesn’t fit in a carry-on, mi amor.” He smirked, adjusting the strap of his bag across his shoulder. “I did you a favor.”

“Mm, debatable.” You nudged him with your elbow. “You’re only saying that so you can keep stealing my cardigans.”

He gave you that exaggerated guilty look, eyes wide behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.

The cabin he’d rented sat at the edge of a lake, its surface glassy, catching every cloud as if it had been painted with mirrors. Inside, the place smelled faintly of cedar and woodsmoke. Thick quilts piled on the bed. A kitchen that begged for coffee and late-night snacks. Pedro opened the balcony door, and the cold rushed in; bracing, alive. He stood there for a moment, broad shoulders silhouetted against the mountain line, grey threading more boldly now through his hair. You caught yourself staring at the slope of his neck, the scatter of freckles across his skin. That familiar ache of wanting everything he was, and everything he tried to hide.

The first night was quiet. You cooked a simple meal together. Pasta with jarred sauce, garlic bread singed at the edges, and it tasted better than anything expensive. Pedro put music on his phone, something low and winding, and you danced barefoot in the kitchen while the water ran in the sink. He spun you in one of your own cardigans, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the hem brushing his thighs.

“Is that mine?” you accused, tugging at the sleeve as you passed him.

“Guilty,” he admitted, pulling you close, his nose brushing against your temple.

•••

You woke to sunlight brimming at the edges of the curtains and the scent of coffee. When you went downstairs he was at the kitchen counter in yet another of your sweaters; stretched out by his broad back, sleeves pushed up, the bullseye doodle inked on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger peeking through as he poured milk for your coffee. He watched you with a look like his ribs had migrated to his face, soft and honest.

“Lake?” he asked, and later you were bundled in thick wool scarves and boots, walking the narrow path to the shore. The cold bit your nose. He wrapped his arm around your waist and pressed you closer until the heat between you fought with the frost on your lashes.

You took photographs, a ridiculous number of them: him with his mug of coffee and pretending to fall into the lake, you laughing at a joke only you two understood, his hand tucked into the small of your back. He made faces at the camera, then stole a sudden, fierce kiss that left you dizzy.

You continued your walk, he stole the camera from your hand at some point. Your boots sank into the damp earth while he stopped every few minutes to take pictures of you. You laughed, half-shy, half-delighted, as he crouched to capture you adjusting your scarf, as he murmured, “Just one more,” even after the twentieth shutter.

You huff out a laugh. “Don’t you ever get tired of pointing that thing at me?”

He lowered the camera, his Roman nose catching the last of the sun, and shook his head with quiet gravity. “Nope.”

That evening, his hands were gentler. You set the table; candles trembled. He stood behind you as you stirred something in a pot and slid his arms around your middle. “You look so sexy in cardigans,” he murmured, nuzzling the knot at the back of your neck.

“You’ve been wearing mine so much I can’t tell which are mine anymore,” you said, but you did not demand them back. What's mine is yours, what's yours is mine.

There was so much love during those days, so much laughter, and so much sex.

The first night, it felt like release. Hungry, unpolished, the way you both ached from the time apart. He had you on the cabin’s old wooden table, the quilt you’d dragged from the bed bunched under your hips, his glasses discarded somewhere between the stove and the door. His thrusts were uneven, rushed, as if he couldn’t get deep enough. Your hands scrabbled at the freckled skin of his shoulders, nails marking crescents, and he only pressed harder, whispering against your mouth, “You missed me.”

“So much,” you gasped, and he smirked, almost feral, fucking you harder until the table creaked in protest. He came with your name broken in his throat, forehead pressed to yours, breath shuddering out of him like relief.

The second night, he took his sweet time. He pressed you against the cold window overlooking the lake, fogging the glass with your moans, the sky outside pale and endless. His beard rasped against your neck as he sucked bruises into your skin, leaving proof, claiming you quietly. His hand between your thighs worked you open, slow and deliberate, until you were shaking before he even pushed inside you.

The glass was icy against your cheek, but his body was molten, his chest flush against your back, his sweat dampening the fabric of your borrowed cardigan. Yes, one of yours again. He fucked you with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, pulling you back onto him until your voice cracked.

“You’ll wake the whole lake,” he teased in your ear, muffling your mouth with his hand when you cried out, grinding into you with filthy precision.

After, you stayed there against the window, your breath still painting clouds on the pane, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He kissed your shoulder tenderly, murmuring, “Mía. Siempre mía,” in a voice that was as much prayer as it was possession.

The third night, he worshiped you. He laid you on the bed, stripped slowly, until all you could see was the grey threading through his hair, the long slope of his Roman nose, the freckles scattered like stars on his chest and shoulders. He kissed down your body as if he had nowhere else to be, as if each inch of skin mattered. His tongue traced the inside of your thighs until you begged, until your hips lifted helplessly toward his mouth.

When he finally gave in, his beard scratched deliciously against your skin, his groans vibrating into you as he devoured you. He held you down with big hands on your hips, keeping you spread, keeping you trembling until you shattered under him. He looked up at you with his mouth slick, eyes glassy, whispering, “So perfect, baby. So perfect for me.”

When he slid into you after, it was slow, a stretch that made you both gasp. His lips brushed your ear, his words soft, reverent. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this. To deserve you.” You pulled him closer, fingers digging into his skin as he fucked you slow and deep until tears pricked at your eyes, not from pain, but from the unbearable sweetness of it.

•••

The last day tasted like endings you didn’t want. You sat curled together on the couch, mismatched mugs of coffee warming your palms. The lake outside shifted colors as the clouds rolled past, from silver to deep, startling blue.

Pedro had saved an article, a long essay about the evolution of character-driven films in the last decade, and the ways directors shape performances to create lasting impact. He adjusted his glasses, tufts of hair escaping, and you smoothed them absentmindedly. He began reading aloud, letting his voice roll through the room, pausing on lines that made him grin or groan.

"The actor becomes a vessel for the director’s vision, but also must carve out their own soul within the frame,’” he read, then looked at you, shy.

“What? You think that’s pretentious, P? No!” you said, teasing.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, red creeping up his neck, “I love everything I’ve done so far.”

You gave him a funny look, squinting. “Uh-huh.”

He laughed loud and full, head thrown back, eyes small by his cheeks. “Well… almost everything.”

You just sipped your coffee, a small smile playing on your lips.

“The point is,” he said, quieter now, voice soft, shifting in his seat, “I think I’m ready to do more. More serious stuff, you know?”

You leaned forward, playful but earnest. “I think it’s a smart move. You’ve garnered all this attention from your recent projects. It’d be really cool if you started exploring auteur-driven films now.”

He ran a finger through a curl of his hair, shy and proud at the same time. “I’ve been approached for a couple of things, actually…”

“Yeah?”

“One of them is with Tony Gilroy.”

“No way…” Your eyes widened, disbelief and excitement mixing.

He nodded happily. “That reminds me—we need to finish Andor, babe.”

You didn't reply and he continued, “Should we watch an episode now? Before we leave?”

“About that…” you said, trying to keep a straight face.

“You finished it without me?” His face contorted in mock horror, voice high.

“I’m sorry! I was really hooked and—”

“You evil woman!” He lunged at you, pretending to be outraged, and immediately started peppering your face with quick, playful kisses. “I can’t believe you! How could you?!”

You laughed, trying to dodge him. “Pedro! Stop! I really am sorry!”

“But you know,” you added, grinning, “I can rewatch it with you, yeah?”

He paused just long enough to frown at you theatrically before grabbing your cheeks and kissing you again, slower this time, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You better,” he said between kisses. “Or I’ll keep attacking you until you beg for mercy.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing, completely helpless under his playful, relentless onslaught of kisses.

Several weeks had passed since and his press run was still in full swing but he had a couple of days off and was finally home in LA.

Pedro saw it before you showed him: the carousel of photos on Instagram.

You, posing with posters and banners for Freaky Tales, Eddington, Materialists, Fantastic Four. New York streets, London corners, Los Angeles bus stops. Every shot was different, but the throughline was unmistakable: your grin, your playfulness, the way you pointed at his face looming several feet tall, or pretended to kiss his printed cheek. You’d captioned it simply: “Pedro Pascal summer, indeed.”

He smiled, slow and easy, the kind that reached his eyes, but beneath it, a strange feeling crept in. Rolling his head against the back of the couch, he let the weight of it settle for a moment. There were also the not-so-kind comments he’d glimpsed at sometimes, the judgment, the eyes trained on him with critical precision. He didn’t care. Not really, but they were still there, like shadows at the edge of a bright room. The strange feeling wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was vulnerability, a sudden awareness that even in the comfort of home, the world could reach him.

He cracked one eye open to look at you, sprawled beside him in a T-shirt that wasn’t yours. His T-shirt. His his, his. Your toes nudged his calf. “You think people will get tired of me?” he asked, softer than he intended. The room was dim, some old black-and-white movie murmuring on the TV, the kind of background noise that had always made him feel less alone.

The question surprised even him. It wasn’t false modesty. It was the same raw worry that had lived under his skin for quite some time now. The suspicion that people would one day wake up and decide he wasn’t worth it anymore.

You tilted your head toward him, a slow blink. “Who cares?” You said it like fact, not comfort. “If it were up to me, you’d be in every movie ever. This face—” you tapped his jaw, where the salt had crept into the black, “—was made for the screen.”

He snorted, shifting uncomfortably because compliments sometimes still stung, even from you. Especially from you. “You’re only saying that because you love me.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure the internet agrees with me.” You shot back. “At least the smart people do.”

And then you leaned back, lazy and radiant, and kept scrolling, unbothered. As though your love wasn’t a knife but a balm.

Pedro turned his head away, staring at the flicker of the movie. And it hit him, out of nowhere.

This was what he used to run from.

Years ago, at Oscar’s house, the moment you turned and he caught your face in the light. That hunger, the way it had terrified him, the way he’d smothered it under the safety net of “just friends.” He remembered convincing himself he couldn’t do relationships, that he wasn’t built for them. That love was a trap leading only to pain, and he didn’t like pain, so he avoided it like fire. He remembered shaking his head in bitterness, muttering to someone once that you deserved better, that he’d only hold you back.

But here you were. Years later. Wearing his T-shirt, nudging him with your foot, captioning your joy to the world without hesitation.

You had lived strangely in his head for so long. And now you lived everywhere else: in his mornings, in his nights, in his suitcases, in his phone, in the curve of his days. And the fear? It wasn’t gone, but it was useless. You’d made it useless.

Sometimes, when Pedro looked into your eyes, he knew God existed. He was not a religious man, but there was no other explanation for how a life so riddled with loneliness, fear, and the sharp edges of doubt could land him here, with you, building something incandescent out of ordinary days.

He didn’t say it, not yet. But inside, it clicked. Clear as a bell.

He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. You, you, you.

Not because the world said he should, not because it made sense on paper, but because it was the only way he could imagine giving language to what you’d done to him. To how you’d cracked open his avoidance, dug your fingers into the softest parts, and stayed. To how you’d made him believe that forever wasn’t something to run from, but something to sprint toward.

You shifted closer on the couch, tucking yourself into his side, pressing a kiss absentmindedly against the bullseye tattoo on his hand. He shut his eyes again. That was it. The quiet knowing. He would carry this realization with him until the day he asked you.

For now, he let it settle like a secret vow inside his ribs, the sweetest secret he had ever kept.

The front door creaked open just as you were muttering at the open kitchen.

“No way, oh my god. That’s just not very smart,” you said to the air, pausing at the counter to shuffle your audiobook back a few seconds. AirPods in, leggings stretched tight around your thighs, bagel half-assembled and bacon cooling on your plate.

Pedro’s footsteps padded across the floor, the faint squeak of sneakers still damp from his morning workout. He appeared in the doorway, hair plastered to his forehead and a half-drunk green juice in one hand.

“Who are you yelling at?” His voice was rough from exertion, but amused.

You turned, cheeks a little flushed from the kitchen heat. “Oh, hi. How was the workout?”

He leaned down, pressed a quick, sweat-salty kiss to your lips before answering. “Exhausting.” Then, predictably, he stole a strip of bacon from your plate.

“Hey, that’s mine,” you protested, snatching the plate back.

He only grinned, chewing. “New book?”

“Yeah. Started it last night.” You tapped the phone on the counter, pausing the audio.

“What’s this one about?”

“It’s a thriller. A psychiatrist who murders a patient.”

Pedro raised both brows, juice bottle paused mid-sip. “That’s crazy.”

“Mmhm. It’s not too long though, so we can read something together after this one.”

He put on a gravelly, mock-serious voice. “The book club lives!”

You laughed around a bite of your messy bagel. “The two-people book club.”

“Hey, it works because we like most of the same stuff. If we add more people, it’d be an issue.” He wagged a finger dramatically. “Imagine if we had to read Atomic Habits?”

You stared at him, then made a dramatic gagging noise. “Ugh. Don’t even joke.”

“Exactly.” He chuckled, pointing at you with his bacon. “Fiction all the way, baby.”

“Fiction all the way.” You slapped his raised palm with your free hand.

For a moment, you just stood there, your morning routines colliding: his damp t-shirt sticking to his chest, your counter cluttered with bagel toppings, the kitchen smelling like coffee and bacon grease.

Then Pedro tipped the last of the green juice back, set the bottle down, and smirked at you.

“Wanna shower together?”

You tilted your head, smiling. “An offer I can’t refuse.”

He held out his hand, already tugging you away from your breakfast.

He had not meant to steal it. The ring was nothing loud or showy, only a thin gold band that lived on your finger as casually as a habit. He noticed it the way he noticed small constellations on your skin: the freckle at the base of your thumb, the tiny nick on your knuckle from some kitchen accident you never remembered to tell him about. One afternoon, while you were in the shower and the house smelled of steam and whatever playlist you had left on, he slipped that ring into his pocket because he wanted something to take to the jeweler, something honest and exact to show the man behind the counter. He told himself it was practical. He told himself a dozen clever reasons and then pocketed the truth like a warm stone.

Days later you were rifling through your bag. “Think I lost one of my rings,” you said, voice light. You paused, thumb skimming the lining. “Maybe between fittings on set.”

His chest tightened hard enough that for a second he could not breathe properly. He kept his face even. “Sure it will turn up,” he said, because that was the least dramatic, most useful lie.

You let it go with the rest of the day, because you always let the world push forward with its own momentum. He did not. He took the ring to the jeweler with Lux, hands that did not know how nervous they were until the clerk put velvet trays between them and the soft light made everything look ancient and important. “Not too much,” he muttered, turning bands as if the right one might reveal itself by touch. “I don’t want it to look staged. I want it to feel like her. Simple. Right.”

Lux nodded. “You know her. Beautiful. Timeless.”

He rubbed his jaw and for a moment felt foolish. He was a grown man, he told himself. He had been through so much. He had been the steady voice on the other end of countless people's crises. And yet the ring on the little stand looked suddenly so heavy. He asked the quiet question that sat where fear usually lived: do you even want this? Do you want this with me?

Lux was talking to the jeweler, voice softened then and as if reading his mind said what everyone sensible said: she loves you. That's enough. It was not enough for the small dark thing that lived in him and fed on all the what ifs.

•••

At one of the Fantastic Four premieres he watched you the way a man watches sunlight fall through old glass. You laughed with Vanessa, your hands at ease on her belly as you both talked about names. His stomach tightened without permission. A selfish thought that felt like a stain slipped into the margins of his mind: what if you want children and he cannot give that? He had imagined other futures for himself, but they had become hazy in the years he spent avoiding the kinds of attachments that hurt the most.

The worry simmered for days until it no longer stayed in the quiet places. One night, back in a hotel room you emerged from the bathroom, a cotton pad in your hand. “I can’t believe Vanessa is doing all of this while pregnant,” you said, the tone bright. “She’s really a superhero.”

Pedro, bent at the edge of the bed, was tugging at his shoe. “Mm,” he said.

“And Jen called this morning. She’s expecting her second! Can you believe it?” You sounded delighted, the kind of delighted that made his chest ache.

“That’s wonderful, mi vida,” he managed.

“More babies to play with,” you added, disappearing back into bathroom steam.

He stared at the carpet until you returned and then could not keep the distance between his thoughts and his mouth. You noticed the way he shuffled and asked with the soft patience of someone who had learned the contours of him. “You okay, P?”

"Yeah."

You didn't push him after that and just continued to put on your pajamas and went into the bathroom once again, when you returned to the room, he spoke suddenly.

“I lied,” he said, because the truth had begun to feel heavy and immediate.

You arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, figures.”

He chose his words like stones and then threw them clumsily, urgent and earnest. “Do you want kids?”

You froze for only a second. “What?”

“Do you ever think about kids?” His voice was small, the conversation spilling out of him in the way rain spills when it is suddenly uncontained. “I’ve seen you with Vanessa, with my nephews over the years, with Oscar's kids. You seem…so natural, so happy. I thought maybe—”

You let him talk until he ran out of words. Then you spoke, clear and kind. “You thought I wanted one?”

“Well, yeah,” he admitted.

You smiled then, the kind of smile that was both reassuring and mischievous. “I get excited for Vanessa because she’s excited. That’s her story. With your nephews and friends’ kids, I’m mostly thrilled because I get to hand them back after sugar crashes. I’m flattered you think I’m a natural, but the truth is I do not want children. I never really have, if I'm being completely honest.”

Relief cracked across his face like sunlight. He dropped his head into his hands and choked out a laugh. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” You curled into him. “I spiraled about it too last year. I thought what if you do want kids and I cannot give that? I was terrified of breaking something.”

He kissed your temple as if sealing a promise. “We have to stop spiraling alone.”

“We will,” you said, and meant it. “Kids are beautiful. Not everyone needs them. My mother said it was selfish to say that, but I do not believe that. I love the life we have. I love you.”

He said he loved you back into the thin light, and for a moment the room felt like a harbor.

The ring burned a hole in his pocket. It rode with him through dinners and dressing rooms and late-night interviews. Pedro had rehearsed it too many times. In his mind, the night unfolded like film: dinner at your favorite restaurant, laughter echoing against wine glasses, the familiar comfort of food you both loved. Then, the car ride to the museum, quiet anticipation, your hand resting on his thigh. Finally, the moment, just the two of you in a room full of art, asking a question that would change everything.

But New York had other ideas.

A car accident blocked half the avenue. He sat in the back of a black SUV, knuckles white on his phone, while the minutes bled out of his plan. You were supposed to arrive together, supposed to glide into the night with ease. Instead, he was watching tail lights blur red in the rain, your name glowing on his screen.

“Baby, it’s okay,” you told him when he answered, your voice warm and steady even through the static. “Traffic’s been terrible today anyway. I can wait.”

He could hear the clinking of cutlery on your end, the low hum of conversation around you.

“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, forehead pressed to the window.

“Don’t be silly,” you said, light, teasing. “I’ll order for you. By the time you get here, it’ll be perfect.”

But an hour passed and he was still stuck. You ordered, ate, even laughed on the phone between bites while he cursed the gridlock. Finally, when it became clear he would not make it, he texted your driver. Take her to the museum. Don’t tell her anything. Just get her there.

You left the restaurant with a takeout bag for him, still thinking the night was only slightly derailed. When Tom opened the car door for you, you slipped inside, thanked him, and scrolled your phone as the city lights smeared across the glass.

After a few turns, you looked up. “Tom, where are we going?”

“To the museum, ma’am.”

You frowned. “The museum? It’s late, just take me home.”

“I’m sorry. Mr. Pascal asked me to take you there no matter what.”

You laughed, disbelieving. “Tom, you work for me. Turn around.”

He hesitated, then with quiet finality: “Technically, I work for both of you.”

You huffed, half amused, half annoyed. “Fine. We’re almost there anyway.”

The car stopped at the steps, and Tom opened the door. The night air hit you cool and alive, a faint breeze carrying the smell of rain. You checked your phone—no missed calls—and began climbing the stairs, your coat wrapped tight, your hair lifting in the wind. The city loomed behind you, grand and restless.

Pedro arrived seconds later, bolting out of the SUV, feet pounding against wet pavement. As if the night had not mocked him enough, it began to drizzle until the steps glistened with water. He spotted you at the top, your back turned, shoulders hunched against the rain.

He called your name.

You turned, slow, and it felt like the city paused. He reached the top, chest burning, out of breath, dripping hair clinging to his forehead. You stood one step higher, looking down at him with that small, unshakably soft smile that undid him every time.

“You know,” you said lightly, “the last time we were outside in New York and it rained, we were fighting.”

The memory flickered in him: rooftop after his play, cigarette between his fingers, the rain as sharp as his temper. He swallowed hard.

“Let’s get inside,” he urged, voice rough.

“They’re about to close, P.”

“Please,” he tried, but you shook your head.

“It’s okay. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

“No.” His voice cracked on it. He had run out of plans. “No, I can’t. I… I fucked up.”

You blinked at him. “Why?”

“Because I had the perfect night planned. The universe clearly had other ideas.” His laugh was strangled, bitter with nerves. “You deserve perfect. And this—” He gestured helplessly at the rain, the empty steps. “This is not perfect.”

“Pedro,” you said softly, “it’s fine. We’ll try again another night.”

But the words he had swallowed for weeks clawed their way out now, reckless and unpolished. “No, this was supposed to be the night I asked you to marry me.”

Your mouth parted, eyes widening, the world slowing.

He pushed on, rain dripping down his lashes, voice breaking open. “I know this isn’t how it should’ve been. You deserve candlelight and music, not me looking like a drowned rat on a museum step. But none of that matters. What matters is you—always you. I want to tell you everything and nothing, I want to hear you mutter to yourself about whatever audiobook you’re devouring, I want to argue with you about movies until we’re both stubborn and smiling, I want to steal your cardigans and hear you scold me for it, every single time.”

Your laugh broke through your tears, thin and trembling, but it glowed like light in the storm. “God, you’re so ridiculous.”

He smiled, closing the gap, his hand lifting to sweep the wet hair from your face with aching tenderness. “I want every boring morning and every sleepless night. I want to hold your hands through the good and the bad. I want to be the man who stands beside you until my legs give out.”

Your eyes filled, rain and tears blurring together, and he fumbled for his jacket pocket. His knees nearly gave way, but he let himself drop down, rain soaking into the stone beneath him. He pulled the small box free, water streaking his glasses, his grin wild with nerves and hope.

“You’re going to have to help me stand after this,” he said, a shaky laugh undercutting the gravity, “but—will you marry me? Will you let me love you for the rest of my life?”

“Yes,” you whispered, your voice breaking, then stronger, clearer, certain: “Yes.”

The world blurred at the edges. Your hands flew to your mouth, laughter spilling through your sobs, rain dripping off your lashes. “Yes,” you said again, sure as anything you’d ever known.

He rose and kissed you, fierce and unshaken, the drizzle wrapping you both in a silver curtain. He held you as though he had just been given everything he never dared believe he could want. He carried that moment inside him, secret and holy, knowing he would ask you again in a thousand ways, in a thousand small proofs, for the rest of his life.

The hotel pulsed with the low hum of chaos. Doors opening and shutting, assistants balancing garment bags, the scent of hairspray seeping into the hallway. Your room was crowded, stylist, makeup artist, publicist, everyone orbiting around you while you sat in a robe, makeup done, hair half-pinned. You were mid-laugh at some story when your phone buzzed.

Pedro: Can you come over for a moment?

You excused yourself, murmuring you’d be back in five, and slipped into the hall barefoot. Carpet soft under your soles, you crossed to the room opposite. His door was propped open; you greeted the small army of stylists and agents buzzing inside.

“Where is he?” you asked.

“Bathroom,” someone replied, distracted by a garment bag.

You nodded and slipped through.

He was there, leaning on the sink counter, white shirt unbuttoned low enough to show the double glint of necklaces at his chest. His hair was perfectly styled, his reflection half-shadow, half-gold under the vanity lights. He turned, and the shy smile that crossed his face almost undid you.

“Woah. Handsome,” you said softly.

“Are you good?” you asked when you reached him.

He faced you fully, shoulders rising and falling. “Yeah. I just needed to see you.”

Your hands found his chest. His fingers pressed into your sides like he was bracing himself.

“Award jitters?”

He nodded, almost ashamed. “I don’t even know why I’m fussed about it. After the SAG win I let myself get hopeful, and now I’m scared of being disappointed if it isn’t me tonight. But I do want it. God, I’d like to win. And at the same time, it’s just an award, right?”

You tilted your head, steady. “All valid thoughts, baby.”

His eyes searched yours. “Yeah?”

“It’s okay to want this. It doesn’t make you greedy. It’s recognition from your peers—it’s not stupid. But if it isn’t your name in that envelope, it doesn’t take anything away from you. You’re still… incredible. Always.”

He exhaled, a laugh in his chest, and kissed you, slow, grateful, lingering. His hands found the belt of your robe, tugging until the knot slipped loose. You smiled against his mouth, warmth in your belly as his palms traced your bare stomach, your breasts, the low hum in his throat vibrating against your lips.

“You’re so wise, fiancée,” he murmured.

“I have my moments, fiancée,” you teased back.

From the other side of the door came his stylist’s voice: “No funny business, you two! That’s a Céline!”

You both broke into laughter, your foreheads pressed together. He re-tied the robe, neat little knot at the front.

“I have to finish getting ready,” you said, reluctant but smiling.

He nodded, kissed you once more, and let you go.

Back in the hallway, you brushed past his stylist and grinned. “The Céline survived,” you quipped, earning a laugh from her and his agent.

That night, Pedro looked devastatingly handsome, moving through the room with ease, charming everyone, stealing kisses from you whenever he could. You showed off your ring, happy to tell the story. “It was raining, he looked like a wet rat, and it was perfect,” you said, and everyone laughed.

When his category came up, you held his hand tight. Someone shouted his name from the back as the envelope opened, but it wasn’t his. He was the first on his feet, clapping hard for the winner, and you followed, pride in your chest even as you glanced at him.

“Two-time Emmy loser,” he whispered when you both sat again, a grin tugging at his lips.

“I’m sorry, baby,” you murmured, kissing his cheek.

•••

Long after the dance floor had spun you both breathless, after champagne and laughter and friends pressing in on every side, Pedro pulled you away. The hotel room door shut behind you and the noise of the night dimmed into silence.

He finished what he had started in that bathroom hours earlier, only now there was no one to interrupt, no knock at the door, no warning about delicate fabric. The Céline suit lay crumpled on the floor, a casualty of urgency. His mouth was on your skin, his hands sure, his body pressed to yours; winning, losing, none of it mattered. What mattered was you, the way you gave yourself over to him, the way he whispered your name like it was the only award worth having.

You were two days into a blur of sun and wine when the reception settled into the kind of slow reckoning that makes you forget the clocks. The villa sat like an old story on a hill overlooking the valley, terracotta and ivy and a sea of vines that caught the light and turned it warm. Guests drifted between tables. A child chased a paper lantern and the sound of small feet punctuated the low hum of conversation. Somewhere, a cork popped. Someone laughed too loud. It all felt, improbably, like a miracle that had finally been arranged around them.

You did not remember exactly when the speeches began, only that they came as a river of voices you loved. His father’s voice was quiet and lovely. He spoke about Chile, about medicine and music, about Pedro’s mother and the ways she would have adored this night. And Pedro, who could perform a dozen lives on screen without faltering, blinked hard, his jaw tense, his eyes glassy. He turned to Pedro with a look that was equal parts pride and warning, and you watched his son melt into the child his father remembered.

Lux followed with a roast so sharp it cut through every remaining jitters; even the cousins who had been brazenly flirting at the aperitif quieted to listen. Oscar, the man who had been present at every comic beginning of this life, gave a toast laced with profanity and tenderness that made half the table cry and half the table howl with laughter. He stood with a glass raised high and said, “I was there the night these two idiots met, and I knew then what everyone knows now—it was inevitable. The universe has been conspiring to put them in the same frame all along.”

The speeches had done what speeches always do: revealed all the small, private histories that had been wound together to make this life. Friends told stories about the early days, about ridiculous things Pedro said on his first attempts at charm. The stories were funny and awful and true.

You remembered briefly last night, at the rehearsal dinner, Pedro leaned in toward you, arm warm against your chair, and whispered, “There’s still time to back out.”

You rolled your eyes and nudged his thigh under the table. “Very funny.”

“I’m serious,” he said, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “One word and I’ll stage a dramatic runaway. You’ll never see a man vanish so fast.”

“Please,” you scoffed, sipping your wine. “You’d trip over your own shoelaces before you made it to the door.”

He laughed, but you saw the way his eyes softened, the way he reached for your hand beneath the table and squeezed. For all the jokes, he was sentimental, dangerously so. His throat had already tightened twice that evening.

People said love felt like a thousand tiny sensible things, said commitment was not fireworks but the daily smallness of habit and patience. But there were moments, places between sentences, little gaps in the music, that felt more like revelation. You found one of those moments when a friend raised a glass and said something simple and ridiculous, the kind of sentence that flattens you with its perfect honesty: “You two are that rare kind of mess that’s actually beautiful.” The table laughed, and you looked up at Pedro and saw every line, every river of light, and thought: oh here's the rest of my life. It had arrived wearing his laugh.

He looked impossibly handsome, as if every wrinkle and freckle had been placed by a kindly editor. The late sun made the brown of his eyes molten; you thought of honey, of a leaf falling slow and final in autumn. He caught your eye and the smile he gave you was private and whole. He threaded his fingers through yours beneath the table and you felt the old, familiar anchoring, a small, exultant theft.

At some point you were pulled into another circle, arms entwined with family and friends. Laughter echoed and glasses were raised and words were offered that meant more than the sentences themselves. You heard yourself say thank you a dozen times and mean it in different ways each time.

As the night wore on and fireflies flickered into being like old film frames, you slipped away from the crowd with Pedro at your side. The music and laughter from the villa softened behind you as you wandered barefoot past hedges and olive trees, gravel cool against your soles. His suit jacket had been discarded somewhere hours ago, forgotten on the back of a chair, and now he looked undone in the best way, shirt loosened and collar open.

When he stopped, he turned and cupped your face in both hands, thumbs brushing at your damp temples as if even your sweat belonged to him. The world shrank to the span of his palms. “How do you exist and how are you mine?” he asked, voice cracking on the marvel of it, the question as much an admission as it was awe.

You smiled, because you knew the answer, though it was too large to fit into words. It was there in the thousands of small proofs that had carried you here.

Later, back beneath the string lights, the last slow set unfurled, and the Bee Gees played again as though the world itself wanted to underline the night. Pedro drew you into his arms, your bare feet atop his polished shoes for a moment before you slid back down, swaying together. Around you, the party blurred into islands of light and laughter, but you and Pedro moved with a rhythm that was only yours, earned across years of travel and absence and return.

It was not cinematic, not ostentatious. It was brave in its simplicity. Honest in the way his chest pressed against yours, his head tilting down to rest in your hair. You felt the shape of a lifetime in that closeness.

Love, you thought as you watched the light catch the brown in his eyes, is a gentle thing that shows up in the middle of things you did not expect to be sacred. And here, in the impossible autumn of your life, it was.

I see the signs of a lifetime, you til' I die.