Babydoll

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.

He lied to Maria, the Guards and even to his own brother Tommy. 

"Got some scoutin' to do," he told them. "Won't be long."

And once you two were out of Jackson, he slowed. His hand moved from yours to the small of your back, guiding you through the tall grass. 

But the last half mile had been rough. You've been whining under your breath, one hand pressed to your lower belly, the ache a dull, stubborn throb that pulsed down into your thighs.

The walk had begun to feel endless, every step a small betrayal as you dragged your feet through the wild grass, letting out a little huff of complaint. 

"Joel…where are we goin'?" you whine, your voice thin and pitiful.

He doesn't answer, just keeps walking ahead, his broad back a quiet wall of patience. The afternoon light catches the gray in his hair, and you watch the way his shoulders move under his flannel. He's carrying a small canvas sack, but you don't know what's in it.

"Dad," you try again, letting the syllable stretch into a whimpering plea, knowing the name gets him. 

He glances back, and his eyes are soft, the corners crinkling. "Hush now, sweet girl. We're almost there."

You let out a dramatic sigh, but you keep walking. 

Your underwear is already damp with blood again, the fresh pair with a slip he helped you into earlier felt already too sticky. You remember the way he knelt in front of you in your little room, his big hands gentle as he peeled off the stained panties, knowing you're embarrassed. "That's alright, honey. S'just your body. Nothin' to be ashamed of." He murmured, pressing a kiss to your hipbone, then another to the swell of your belly, and you'd felt the tension crack open, just a little.

The first thing anyone noticed about Joel Miller was his rough edges; knuckles permanently shadowed by old scars, deep-set furrow of his eyebrows. A voice that could drop into gravel and command a room by sound alone.

But you...you noticed his soft edges. 

Maybe it was the way his fingers moved with a deliberate gentleness on your skin. Pressing a warm hand on your belly. Smoothing back your hair when you dozed off against his shoulder. The way he cupped your cheek, thumb brushing lightly, before pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

Or maybe the way he made you feel like you were the only thing that kept him grounded in this God abandoned world. 

You noticed it first, when you called him 'dad'.

It slipped out, honestly. 

You were curled in his lap after a nightmare—something about clickers, about teeth, about the cold. He had held you, rocked you, murmured soft, sweets words into your hair. And you had looked up at him with tear-streaked cheeks and said, "Thanks, Dad."

His hands had stilled. His eyes gone dark and soft and hungry all at once. He didn't correct you. He just kissed your forehead and said, "Anytime, bun." 

Later, when he was on top of you, cock hard against your thigh, he growled (or begged) for you to "Say it again," and you did.

But nobody needed to know, of course. 

What would everyone say? A sixty year old, together with a woman whose youth made him feel almost ancient. 

And oh, how much he tried to forget your face, to ignore your touch, to dismiss his feelings for you. 

You were too young to remember the world before, too soft, too sweet. He said that as if it was an accusation, but his eyes said something else.

Now you're outside, and the world smells of earth and green, and you're following him like a child, trusting blindly.

Halfway up a small rise, you stop, leaning over with your hands on your knees. "Can't," you breathe. "Cramps are real bad."

Joel turns, and there's no impatience in his face, only that steady, watchful tenderness that makes your chest ache. 

He walks back to you, and without a word, he crouches, one hand reaching for your wrist, pulling you gently towards his back. "C'mon. I got you."

You don't argue. 

You climb onto his back, your thighs wrapping around his waist, your arms looped over his shoulders. He stands easily, one hand cupping your ass, the other holding the sack. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing that comforting smell he has. 

The sway of his walk is hypnotic, and your cramps start to ease slightly with the steady motion.

"You're so good to me," you murmur against his skin, pouting. 

"S'what daddies do, peanut." His voice is a low rumble, the vibration felt more than heard.

He carries you for what feels like forever, until the path opens into a small clearing. You lift your head, and your breath catches.

Strawberries. 

A whole patch of them, sprawling over the ground like a spilled paint of red and green. The vines are tangled, the berries fat and gleaming, some half-hidden under leaves. The sun falls directly on them, and the scent rises up—sweet, earthy, soft. 

It's impossible, a tiny miracle in this broken world, a secret pocket of something beautiful.

"Joel," you whisper, your voice thick with wonder.

He sets you down carefully, and you stand there, staring. 

"Found it last spring," he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. "Thought you’d…I dunno. Like it." You didn’t give him time to second-guess it—just threw your arms around his neck, pressing sticky kisses to his stubbled jaw until he huffed and swatted your ass. "Quit it. Pick some before the birds do."

You let out a sound—something between a gasp and a laugh and you immediately dropped to your knees in the middle of the patch, the soft soil giving way, the leaves brushing your knees. 

You plucked a strawberry, fat and crimson, and bought it to your mouth. The first bite is a burst of sun and sugar, juice running down your chin, and you moan, closing your eyes.

Joel chuckles, a low, warm sound. "That good, huh?"

You don't answer. 

You're already reaching for another, and another, stuffing them into your mouth, the red juice dripping over your fingers, staining the front of your dress. 

The sweetness floods your tongue, and for a moment, the cramps, the heaviness, the embarrassment of earlier—all of it just fades. 

You're just a girl eating strawberries in a field, and your daddy found this for you.

He settles down across from you, legs crossed, watching you with an expression of pure, quiet adoration. 

"Messy girl," he coos.

You look up at him, your lips smeared red, your hands sticky. You grin, a wild, happy grin. "Dad. Open your mouth."

He raises an eyebrow but complies, his lips parting slightly. You pick a perfect berry, hold it up to his mouth, and press it gently past his lips. He bites down, and you feel the slight brush of his teeth on your fingertips. You giggle, pulling your hand back, but he catches your wrist, sucking the juice off your fingers with a slow, gentle pull.

Heat flares low in your belly, a different kind of ache.

"Gonna bite your hand off if you ain't careful, bunny." he murmurs, his eyes darkening.

"Don't you dare," you say, but your voice is breathy.

He lets your hand go, and you pop another strawberry into your own mouth, chewing slowly, watching him. Your dress is hiked up a little from kneeling, the hem bunched around your thighs. 

You're not wearing a bra (you never do when you're with him) and the thin cotton of the dress clings to the curve of your breasts. 

You feel his gaze travel down, lingering, and then a slow smile spreads across his face.

"Lemme see, babygirl." 

Your heart stutters. "Dad…"

"C'mon. Just a peek."

He leans forward, his fingers hooking into the hem of your dress, lifting it inch by inch. The air kisses your thighs, your belly. You shiver, but you don't stop him. 

His eyes drop to the patch of white cotton between your legs, the damp spot visible, pale pink. He hums, low and appreciative. 

"So pretty," he breathes, and then he's leaning in, pressing his mouth to the inside of your knee, then higher, his lips brushing fire along your skin. 

You forget about your strawberries. You forget about everything. Your head falls back, a small moan escaping your lips.

His fingers find the waistband of your panties, sliding under, brushing through the soft curls. You gasp, the touch electric, and then he cups you, his palm warm and firm, pressing against the ache.

"Daddy," you whisper, your voice small. "S'full of blood. It's…messy."

He looks up at you, his mouth still against your thigh. "Don't give a damn, honeybun. You think I care about a little blood?" He shakes his head slowly, his eyes holding yours. "You're my sweet girl. Every part of you. Even the messy bits."

Your cheeks flush red. 

Then he shifts, laying you back on the grass, the ground soft and cool under you. 

The strawberry vines brush your arms, the leaves tickling your skin. He moves between your thighs, settling his weight over you, and you feel the length of him pressing against your hip, hard even through his jeans. 

"Let's make you feel even better, huh?" he asks, his voice a low, rough whisper.

You nod, your mouth dry.

He strokes your hair away from your face, his thumb tracing your jaw. "Are you gonna let dad see your pretty pussy?"

The words send a shiver through you, a wet heat pooling deeper than the cramping. You nod again, your eyes half-lidded, already sinking into that warm, foggy space where there's only him, only daddy.

He lifts the hem of your dress higher, bunching it around your ribs, and then he hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties and pulls them down slowly, deliberately. The damp cotton slides over your hips, your thighs, and then he's lifting your legs to slip them free. The air hits your cunt,  cool and tingling, and you feel the slow, thick trickle of blood sliding down to the grass. A sensation that would make you flinch if it was anyone else.

But it's Joel. 

He looks down at you, at the smear of red on your inner thighs, the way the ground beneath you darkens. He makes a sound, soft and almost reverent. "Look at you," he murmurs. "Bleedin' into the grass."

Your face heats. "Daddy…"

"Shh, baby. S'beautiful." He leans down and kisses your soft belly, just above the mound of your cunt. 

Then he's unbuckling his belt, pushing his jeans and briefs down just enough for his cock to jump free, already thick and flushed, the head glistening with pre-cum. 

You watch him stroke himself once, twice, his eyes fixed on you, nodding as if he is counting his strokes. 

"Tell me if it's too much," he says, but his voice is thick, and you know he's as desperate as you are.

He lines himself up, and you feel the blunt pressure at your entrance, warm and heavy. Then he pushes in, and the sensation is a shock—tight, wet, the blood acting as a slick, silky glide. You gasp, your fingers digging into the grass. Your body clenching around him, the fullness making you dizzy.

"Dad, oh—"

"I know, I know," he hushes, stroking your hair, his forehead pressed to yours. "Let go, honey. Let daddy in."

He pushes deeper, the squelching sound is loud in the quiet field, obscene but intimate. The blood and the wetness and the heat—it all blends together into that perfect, cozy feeling. 

That feeling only Joel could give you.

He starts to move, slow, deep thrusts that rock your whole body, the ground beneath you soft and yielding.

"Somebody'll see us," you whimper, but the words come out as a moan.

He shakes his head, his breath hot against your cheek. "Cleared the whole area before. It's not patrol time. Just us, baby bun. Just you and me."

He picks up a strawberry from where it fell, pressing it to your lips. You open, bite down, the juice running down your chin. He leans in, his mouth catching yours, and he swallows the bite from your lips, his tongue sliding against yours. 

As he pulls back, you see him gather a bit of spit and juice in his mouth, and when he opens, he lets it drip into yours. 

"Swallow," he murmurs, and you do. "That's my girl." 

His cock is a steady, dragging pressure inside you, sliding against that deep spot that makes your toes curl. Your hands find his chest, clutching his flannel, and you arch into him, desperate for more. The cramps start to dissolve under the pleasure, only the squelching sounds of blood being the proof of your period. 

The red and his cum will mix later, but for now, there's only that gentle rhythm, the wet slap of his hips against your thighs, the soft grunts he makes against your neck.

He looks down between your bodies, at where the red is pooling around you, staining the green leaves. "Aw, honey," he coos, and there's a tenderness in his voice that makes your heart clench. "Makin' a mess of yourself." He reaches down, his fingers dipping into the warm slick, and he brings them to his lips, tasting. "S'just life, baby. Nothin' bad."

Your eyes well up, a mix of embarrassment and overwhelming love. "Dad..."

He shushes you, kissing your eyelids, your nose, the corner of your mouth. "You're doin' so good. So beautiful. Just let it happen."

He slows his pace, making each thrust a languid, deliberate drag, and you feel every ridge of him, every pulse. Your body starts to tighten, the pleasure building like a wave, slow and inevitable. You're gripping him, your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him deeper.

"Close," you breathe. "Daddy, I'm—"

"I know, sweet girl. What did we speak about? Focus on that feeling. Focus on daddy." His voice dropping low. 

He reaches between your bodies with that, his thumb finding your clit, pressing in tight circles. 

The sensation spikes, your mind trying to focus on his thrusts and on the pleasure while a foggy cloud wraps around yours mind.

Joel coos and coos, persistent with his thrusts and rubs. 

"C'mon, peanut." 

And you shatter, your back bowing, a cry torn from your throat. Your cunt clenches around him in rhythmic waves, spilling blood, and he groans. His hips stutter as he drives into you one last time, spilling deep inside, the warmth spreading through you like honey.

He stays buried, his forehead resting on yours, both of you panting. 

The world is silent again except for the hum of insects, the distant rustle of leaves. You can feel the mixture of blood and cum seeping out of you, pooling on the grass, and for a second, embarrassment flickers.

But then Joel shifts, lifts himself, and looks down. 

He scoops his fingers through the slick, gathers a pearl of red and white on his fingertip. He looks at you, his eyes soft and dark, and brings his hand to his mouth, tasting it slowly.

"Tastes so sweet," he says, his voice husky.

You bury your face in his chest, hiding your blush, and he chuckles, wrapping his arms around you, pulling you close. He rolls to the side, careful not to crush you, and you curl into him, your head on his shoulder. The strawberry leaves are crushed beneath you, the juice and blood and cum mingling with the earth.

He picks a fresh strawberry from a nearby vine, holds it to your lips. You open, and he feeds you, watching you chew with that soft, paternal satisfaction. Then he plucks one for himself, eats it, and kisses you, sharing the taste.

"This was a good surprise," you murmur, your eyelids heavy.

"The best surprise is seein' my girl happy." He strokes your hair, his fingers catching on tangles, his thumb tracing the shell of your ear. "You feelin' better?"

You think about the cramps, which are still there, but muted now, cushioned by the glow of pleasure. You think about the blood, the mess, and how he didn't flinch, didn't make you feel less. You think about the way he looked at you, as if you were something precious and holy, even with red smeared across your thighs.

"Yeah," you whisper. "Much better."

He hums, satisfied, and pulls you tighter. The sky is deepening to gold and pink, the sun lower now, casting long shadows across the field. You're sticky and sore and perfect, and he's here, solid and warm, your daddy in a world that doesn't deserve him.

You reach for another strawberry, and he catches your wrist, bringing it to his mouth, biting it in half, offering you the other half with his lips. You take it, and the sweetness blooms on your tongue, the last light of day catching the red on his lips.

"My messy girl," he says, so softly it's almost a prayer.

And you smile, burying your face in the crook of his neck, the blood and the cum and the strawberries all blending together into one warm, pink, perfect afternoon.

This is so short🫣 i hope you all stay hydrated especially while taking antidepressants or stimulants!!! Also, i think the past tense and the present tense is very confusing in this, it's the one thing i struggle with most so im sorry...🥲