I had a duty of care

You laugh quietly, watching his heartrate spike on a screen to the left. “You better be careful, pretty boy. Can’t show you how much I’ve missed you if you don’t make it home.” 

“Show me?” Joaquín echoes, grin audible. “How?” 

“Come home in one piece and you’ll find out,” you say, voice low, teasing. 

His heartrate spikes even higher, and you have to bite your lip to keep from giggling. 

“Jesus Christ,” Sam sighs. “Can you two at least try to be professional?” 

There’s another beat of quiet—only brief—before, at the same time, both you and Joaquín say, “No.” 

You can practically hear Sam roll his eyes. “Why the hell did I let him convince me to hire you?” 

You grin to yourself, eyes still flickering across your screens. “Because unfortunately for you, Cap, you’ve never met a more skilled analyst who’d rather work seven days a week than have a social life.” 

“Joaquín is your social life,” Sam mutters. “I unknowingly hired the two most annoying best friends in the world.” 

“You forgot talented,” Joaquín pipes up. “Two of the most annoying and talented best friends in the world.” 

Sam groans—loud, frustrated—but he doesn’t argue. Because unfortunately, you’re both right. You’re two of the best people he could’ve found for the job, and despite the never-ending banter and insufferable tension, he’d be lost without either of you. 

You met Joaquín in the Air Force. You were first stationed together at Ramstein Air Base in Germany, and it didn’t take long for the two of you to get close. At the time, you were both lower rank, training in field surveillance, comms, and tactical ops before choosing your respective career paths. But even across continents and during off-grid missions, you stayed close. 

Joaquín contacted you a little while after he first met Sam, asking for help tracking a super-soldier anti-nationalist group in Munich. You didn’t ask questions—you just helped—and after it all came to a head, Joaquín couldn’t wait to introduce you to Sam. 

Long story short, you were quickly recruited, given an office and a ton of cool tech, and now you’re their guy in the chair. Sam probably only regrets it a little, considering you’re actually very good at being in the chair—which makes up for all the unprofessional banter between you and Joaquín. 

“Eyes up, Torres,” you murmur, watching the live feed on your main monitor. “Two heat signatures ahead. Could be guards. Could be raccoons. Either way, I’d keep your pretty face out of sight.” 

Joaquín exhales, amused. “You must really miss me, hermosa—the way you keep callin’ me pretty.” 

Your cheeks flush, heat crawling up your spine, because yeah—you miss him. Like crazy. They’ve been halfway across the world for two weeks now, and it’s the longest you’ve gone without seeing him since you started working for Sam. 

To say you miss him is a gross understatement. But he can’t know that—not really—because whatever this thing is between you two, it’s fun. Playful. It isn’t serious or deep. It’s not soul-crushing or gut-wrenching like the paralysing crush you’ve been nursing for years. 

And there’s no way Joaquín needs to find out about that. It could ruin everything. 

“Can you blame me?” you ask, keeping your voice light. “I haven’t seen you in two weeks. What else is a girl supposed to do besides fantasise?” 

You can almost hear his grin. “You fantasising about me now, baby? Damn. This suit just got a whole lot hotter.” 

Then Sam’s voice cuts in, low and sharp. “Can we please focus? The place is crawling with armed hostiles and I’m not dying in a building that smells like asbestos and cat piss.” 

“Noted, Cap,” you say, eyes flicking to his heat signature on your screen. “But for the record, Torres—you’re my favourite fantasy.” 

It’s not a lie—and it makes his heartrate jump again. 

“Oh my God,” Sam groans. “Why do I even talk?” 

“You love us,” Joaquín says, voice low and breathless as he inches toward a door, slowly cracking it open. 

“No, I tolerate you. There’s a difference.” 

You watch the hallway clear, two red dots vanishing from the drone feed. “All clear ahead. Turn left at the next hall. Intel says the artifact is in the records room—bottom floor, east wing.” 

“Copy,” Joaquín says, his voice dropping as he reins in his focus. 

You lock in too—eyes fixed on the screen, breath held, fingers hovering over your keyboard. As much as you love your job, it’s stressful. Especially when the people in the field are the ones you care about most. So you’ve made it your personal mission not to let anything go unseen. 

You watch closely as Joaquín moves down the hall, turns left, and starts down the fire stairs. Sam is still working the perimeter, keeping out of sight and watching for any hostiles that might be closing in on Joaquín. 

It’s taken them two full weeks to find this place—after a discouraging series of dud leads. The artefact isn’t even being hunted, just protected. And for what? None of you know. But from everything you’ve gathered, it’s intel that could open the door to disaster. 

So Sam made the call to find it before it became a hot item—before someone could sell it on the dark web and hand a new villain the keys to world domination. 

What he hadn’t expected was for the mission to take two whole weeks. Fortunately, things have been quiet enough lately that they could afford the time—but that doesn’t mean it’s been fun. You’re pretty sure Sam is one more questionable pizza topping away from leaving Joaquín in Jakarta. 

A heat signature two floors above the records room catches your attention. Your eyes track it, nerves creeping up the back of your neck. You’re just about to say something when— 

“Holy shit,” Joaquín says, voice low and a little breathless. “It’s actually here.” 

You lean in, fingers poised over your keyboard. “Confirmed visual?” 

“Uh… yeah. Package secure?” 

Sam’s voice cuts in, flat. “Seriously?” 

“Dead serious, man. It’s just… sitting here. It’s actually here.” 

You let out a slow breath, tension easing from your shoulders as you watch the heat signature double back—moving away. 

“No traps, no alarms…” you say, scanning the feeds. “Someone’s either cocky or stupid.” 

“Or both,” Sam mutters. “Let’s wrap this up. I’m ready to never think about this city again.” 

Joaquín chuckles softly, his smirk practically audible. “Bet you’re smiling right now, hermosa.” 

“Maybe,” you reply, despite the very obvious grin on your face. “But you’re not out of the woods yet, pretty boy. Stay focused.” 

Joaquín laughs again under his breath. “Focused. Right. That’s what I am.” 

Your eyes flick to his vitals. “I can tell. Your heartrate’s through the roof again.” 

“Can you blame me?” he says. “Your voice in my ear, calling me pretty and saying all this smart stuff… this whole situation’s a little distracting.” 

You roll your eyes. “You forgetting the part where Sam’s one bad mood away from killing you?” 

“No. Just ignoring it.” He pauses at a corner, scans, then moves. “How mad do you think he’d be if I said I’m only doing this to impress you?” 

You lean back slightly, grinning to yourself. “He’d pretend to be annoyed. But secretly? I think he’s just relieved you deal with me so he doesn’t have to.” 

“Deal with you?” Joaquín echoes, voice soft and teasing. “Baby, you’re the reason I get out of bed every day.” 

Your heart lurches, but you keep your voice steady. “Keep talking like that and I might start hacking into your home security system.” 

“Do it,” he says. “I’d sleep better with your voice in my ear.” 

Your cheeks flush, breath catching. 

“Still here,” Sam cuts in. “Still sweating. Still regretting every life choice that led me to this team.” 

You glance at his vitals and smirk. “Vitals are solid, Cap. No cardiac distress.” 

“Yeah, well, if Torres drops anything on the way out, I’m blaming both of you.” 

Joaquín chuckles as he heads toward the extraction point. “Relax. We’re good. We’re almost out.” 

“God,” Sam sighs. “I cannot wait to get home.” 

“Hope you’ve got a hero’s welcome planned, cariño,” Joaquín says. 

You roll your eyes, smirking. “You want a medal or a kiss?” 

“Definitely the kiss,” he replies. “Medals are nice, but they wouldn’t taste as good as you.” 

You choke on nothing, face burning, pulse thrumming as you watch him move through the building toward where Sam is waiting. 

There’s a beat of silence—a loud, charged pause as you scramble for a comeback. 

“Wow,” Sam chuckles. “Think you broke her, Torres.” 

“Nah,” Joaquín says, smug as ever. “She’s just thinking about all the ways she’s gonna show me she missed me.” 

You draw a sharp breath, one hand gripping the edge of your desk, the other white-knuckling your coffee mug. 

“Alright, flyboy,” you mutter, trying not to smile. “That’s enough. Just get home safe.” 

“See you soon, princesa,” he says, voice low and warm in your ear. 

- 

The next twenty-four hours are the longest of your life—you’re sure of it. 

You try to distract yourself with work while Joaquín sends updates on their journey home, but you just can’t sit still. You’re too excited. You feel like a kid on Christmas Eve, except the presents aren’t going to be there when you wake up. No—you have to wait until six p.m. for Joaquín to be back. 

Once you finish work, you head home to your studio apartment—the one you spend less time in than your office—and put on a movie. Then another. And another. Because you’re too anxious to feel tired. Eventually, you drag yourself to bed and lie awake for a few hours before giving up at four a.m. and jumping in the shower. 

You take your time getting ready for work—doing your hair, a little makeup, picking your clothes, having a long breakfast. Then at six a.m., you’re out the door and on your way back to the office. 

Only twelve more hours to go. 

You settle in at your desk and try to review data from Sam and Joaquín’s mission, double-checking every log, every report—anything to keep your mind occupied. It feels like hours pass, but when you glance at the clock, it’s barely been one. 

So at seven a.m., you get up for a coffee, moving through the motions slowly and deliberately. 

By now, the office is starting to fill up. It’s never packed—Sam keeps the staff lean—but a few government liaisons, data crunchers, IT specialists, and engineers have started drifting in for the day. You know them all, and usually you’d be happy to have a little chat in the kitchenette while your coffee brews. But not today. 

Today, you’re stuck in your head—counting down the minutes until Joaquín walks through the door with that stupidly handsome grin on his face. 

God. You feel ridiculous. Missing him this much when he’s just a friend. 

Except, he’s not. Not to you—hasn’t been since the day you thought you lost him on a mission in Seoul. That was the moment it hit you. The moment you realised how much he meant to you—how in love with him you really were. 

He turned up hours later, a little battered and bruised but very much alive. And you wanted to tell him how you felt. Wanted to just blurt it out. But you didn’t. You couldn’t. Because it wasn’t worth risking what you already had. So you kept quiet, buried the feelings, and went on being his best friend. 

That was years ago. And now you’re so deep in the friendzone—so used to the playful flirting and easy banter—you couldn’t climb out if you tried. You’ve come to terms with it, of course. Accepted it. And decided that having even a small piece of him is better than not having him at all. 

You spend the next few hours sorting through analytics and going over maintenance logs from the mission—nothing major. Just a few software bugs and one broken ‘feather’ because Joaquín clipped a wing trying some fancy manoeuvre Sam explicitly refuses to teach him. 

By lunchtime, you’ve fielded a few queries from the engineers and booked in a meeting with one of the legal advisors about Sam’s passport renewal. It never fails to amuse you how superheroes still have to deal with the same boring admin as everyone else. 

The afternoon slips by faster than the morning, hours ticking past as you lose track of time in a haze of meetings and emails. You’re finally heading back to your office when your stomach grumbles—loudly—reminding you that it’s probably well past your five p.m. snack break. 

You swing the door open, mentally halfway to your snack drawer, when— 

“Look who finally decided to show up,” Joaquín says, sitting in your desk chair with that stupidly handsome grin. “And here I thought you actually missed me. Was it all a lie?” 

Your heart lurches. Your lungs seize. And instead of flashing him a smile or a snappy comeback, you just freeze. Everything in your arms hits the floor—your tablet, your phone, a folder you don’t even remember picking up—all crashing down with a clatter that makes you flinch. 

Because it’s not just that he’s handsome. No—he’s unfairly handsome. Criminal, even. Dangerous to your health, your peace of mind, and your goddamn ovaries. Joaquín Torres, sitting in your desk chair like he owns the place—with a freshly grown moustache and goatee—is nothing short of lethal. 

“You okay, hermosa?” he asks, grin fading as he leans forward a little. 

“I told him to shave it off,” Sam says dryly, stepping in behind you. “He looks like an Antonio Banderas knockoff.” 

Joaquín scoffs. “Please. I’ve got way more charm than that guy.” 

“Than Antonio Banderas?” Sam says, incredulous. “You’re delusional, you know that?” 

“I prefer endearing,” Joaquín grins. 

You still haven’t stopped staring at him—at the facial hair that’s apparently capable of triggering a full-blown hormonal crisis. 

“Delusional and endearing are not synonyms,” Sam adds, seemingly oblivious to said crisis. 

Joaquín’s eyes flick back to you, brows drawing slightly together. “You breathing, baby?” 

Your heart kicks again at the nickname you should be used to by now—and somehow, that’s what snaps you out of it. 

“Yeah—uh,” you clear your throat, “I’m breathing. I’m good. I—welcome back! But isn’t it early?” You glance at your wrist, searching for a watch that isn’t there. “Shit. Where’s my phone? Oh.” You crouch down and grab it from the floor. “Oh. It’s past six. Huh. That meeting must’ve run long. I didn’t even realise. I—” 

“Breathe,” Sam says, laughing softly as he drops a hand on your shoulder. “Just breathe.” 

You inhale deeply, cheeks burning, and glance back at Joaquín’s stupidly gorgeous face again. 

“So,” he says, mouth curling into a smirk that should be illegal, “you like it?” 

You shrug, trying to play it cool. “It’s… okay. Looks good, I guess.” 

Sam snorts. “Oh, she likes it, alright.” 

You turn around and smack him in the chest, shooting him a look that could kill—but he doesn’t flinch. 

“Alright, then,” he chuckles, stepping back. “I’ll let you two get caught up.” 

You roll your eyes and duck your head as you start gathering everything you dropped. You keep your gaze down, even when you hear footsteps and see Joaquín’s hands join yours, collecting papers that spilled from the folder. 

When you’ve finally got it all, you stand and hug the pile to your chest, letting your eyes meet his again. 

“So,” he says, still grinning as he holds out what he gathered, “about that kiss.” 

You shake your head, fighting the smile tugging at your lips. “Forget it. You’re dreaming.” 

He shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe. But hey, I’m coming over tonight anyway.” 

You arch a brow. “Oh? And why’s that?” 

He leans in slightly, eyes sparkling. “Because my place has no food… and yours has food. And you.” 

Your cheeks heat, but your voice doesn’t waver. “You’re impossible, you know that?” 

“Maybe,” he says again, that grin going a little soft. “But you love it.” 

You struggle to focus on wrapping up your work with Joaquín hovering around your office—ranting about the mission, touching your stuff, looking at you with that goddamn moustache on his face. What would normally take five minutes takes almost twenty, but by seven o’clock, you’re both in a cab on the way back to your apartment. 

When you open the door and step inside, Joaquín walks in like he lives there too. He drops his duffel by the lounge and heads straight for the fridge, pulling it open to inspect the contents. You know him well enough by now to know exactly what’s coming next—he’s going to complain about your lack of ingredients, then insist on cooking anyway. And somehow, it’ll still be delicious. 

“You know, cariño,” he calls, leaning deeper into the fridge, “most people throw milk out when it starts to smell bad. Let alone when it’s chunky.” 

“I haven’t been home much lately,” you say, a little defensive. “My best friend was on a mission and I was busy making sure he didn’t die.” 

“So you could kill me yourself with expired dairy products?” he asks, still wearing that ridiculous grin. 

You roll your eyes and bite back a smile, choosing to ignore him while you kick off your boots. He keeps rummaging through the fridge while you make your way through the small apartment, closing blinds, turning on lamps, and queuing up the show you haven’t touched in the two weeks he’s been away. 

“I’m going to shower,” you say, pausing at the edge of the kitchen. 

He glances over his shoulder, smirk firmly in place, brows raised. “That an offer?” 

Your eyes widen, cheeks burning. “God. What was in the water over there? You’ve come back even worse than when you left.” 

“Maybe I just missed you,” he says, stepping toward you. 

The kitchen isn’t big—much like the rest of the apartment—but with Joaquín standing barely a foot away, it feels downright claustrophobic in a very specific, very dangerous way. 

“You still haven’t given me my hero’s welcome,” he adds, eyes sparkling. 

You tip your head, ignoring the way your pulse spikes. “Didn’t have time to get the medal minted.” 

His grin turns wicked. “Guess you owe me a kiss, then.” 

You don’t answer. You just step forward, slow and deliberate, closing the space between you like it doesn’t matter at all—even though your pulse is in your throat. His brows twitch, surprise flickering across his face, but he doesn’t move. He holds his ground. 

You tilt your chin up, rising onto your toes until your lips are just a breath from his. 

His breath stutters, and you catch the sharp rise of his chest—like he forgot how to breathe. That cocky smirk slips away as your eyes linger on his mouth, then drop to that stupid goatee. Because of course he found a way to be even more ridiculously attractive. 

You could kiss him. Right now. You could close that tiny gap and change everything. 

But instead, your voice drops low—steady despite the way your nerves are buzzing. “You sure you’re ready for that, Torres?” 

His pupils blow wide, cheeks flushing. You see it. You feel it—the flicker of nerves under all that swagger. 

You drag your fingers lightly down the front of his shirt, watching him go still, revelling in the thrill that rattles up your spine. 

His throat bobs with a swallow, and you know you’ve got him. For once, he has no comeback. 

You smirk, dropping back onto your heels. “Didn’t think so.” 

Then you turn and walk into your room, heart pounding, head spinning, but your steps still steady. You shut the door and fall back against it, covering your face with your hands to keep from screaming out loud because God, that was hot. And holy shit did it take every ounce of self-control not to just kiss him. 

Eventually, you push off the door, strip out of your clothes, and step into the ensuite bathroom. You turn the shower on hot and wait while the water heats, wondering if Joaquín would notice if you took a little longer than usual. 

Which... you do. Because that ache behind your hipbones is insistent, and if Joaquín is going to be here all night, you can’t just be sitting beside him horny as hell or you might end up doing something stupid. 

So after a long, hot shower—and some quality time with the detachable head—you change into your pyjamas and emerge from your bedroom. The rest of the apartment smells like butter and garlic, and Joaquín is standing in front of the stove with a little crease between his brows as he flips what you assume is a grilled cheese sandwich. 

“Grilled cheese?” you ask, leaning a hip against the counter. 

He shoots you a sideways glare. “It’s the only thing I could think of with your serious lack of food. But it’s not just grilled cheese—it’s gourmet. With mozzarella—that I’m pretty sure isn’t off—garlic, caramelised onion, and basil.” 

You lift a brow, nodding slowly. “I’m impressed. And hungry.” 

He smirks. “And the tomatoes you had were too soft to put in the sandwiches, so I made a sauce.” 

“Wow,” you say, turning toward the cupboard. “Sounds like I had plenty of ingredients for you.” 

You can almost hear him rolling his eyes as you get out a couple of plates and wine glasses, knowing full well that you might not have much food in the house, but you definitely have wine. 

He finishes grilling the sandwiches and flips them onto the plates, garnishing them with something green that you hope is a herb and not something wildly out of date he found in the fridge. Then you pour each of you a glass of wine before taking your plate into the lounge room. 

“Hopefully you won’t be able to tell how stale the bread is,” Joaquín says as he sits beside you, his knee knocking yours as he shoots you another pointed look. 

You roll your eyes. “Please, sourdough doesn’t go off. Just gets chewier.” 

He frowns at you, eyes wide in disbelief. “That’s literally the definition of stale bread.” 

You just shrug, taking a generous sip of wine before biting into your sandwich. And God, it’s almost inhuman how this man can make some of the best food out of the crappy ingredients you have. 

“That good?” he asks, watching you with a smirk. 

“It’s alright,” you mutter, mouth still full. 

He chuckles. “That moan you just made says otherwise.” 

Your eyes widen. “I moaned?” 

He laughs a little harder, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he watches your cheeks turn pink. “Don’t be embarrassed, hermosa. I love the little noises you make.” 

Your heart lurches and your eyes snap down to your plate. 

“Wonder what other noises I could get out of you,” he mutters, low but just loud enough to catch your attention. 

You swallow hard on the half-chewed bite, wincing as it catches on the way down your throat. You cough and reach for your wine, taking a long, burning gulp that only fans the heat spreading through your chest. 

You cough again into your hand, struggling to catch your breath. 

“You okay, cariño?” Joaquín asks, light laughter in his voice. 

“Fine,” you choke out. “I’m good.” 

He laughs softly, clearly amused but too hungry to press you any further. You watch his profile as he takes a bite of grilled cheese, chews, and swallows—and damn if that doesn’t just deepen the wildfire of nerves and heat roiling through you. 

Two weeks away from Joaquín, and every ounce of resistance you’ve spent years building up is gone. Shattered. Nowhere to be found. You feel like some virginal schoolgirl, wide-eyed and helpless, just watching his throat move as he swallows another bite. 

His eyes flick toward you, brows drawn, and you quickly drop your gaze back to your plate. You stuff the sandwich into your mouth and take a big bite to stop yourself from blurting out something dumb—like how insanely hot he looks when he eats, or how badly you want to know what that facial hair would feel like between your legs. 

“Hear anything from the lab?” he asks, snapping you out of your spiralling thoughts. 

You shake your head. “Not yet.” 

He nods slowly. “Sam’s probably bugging.” 

“Why?” 

“Reckons it’s something big,” he says. “Something dangerous.” 

You tilt your head. “Like what?” 

He shrugs. “Dunno. Maybe something alien.” 

“Nah.” You take another sip of wine. “It’s probably old data from some collapsed organisation. Looked more like a hard drive than an explosive.” 

As if on cue, your phone lights up, buzzing on the coffee table beside your wine glass. You drop your sandwich and reach for it, tapping the answer button and pressing it to your ear. 

“Doctor Chen,” you greet. “How’s it going?” 

“The captain was right,” Maya—one of Sam’s lab techs—says. “This is dangerous.” 

Your brows pull together as you lift the phone away from your ear and put it on speaker so Joaquín can hear too. 

“What is it?” 

“Old Stark tech. Data, to be precise,” Maya replies. 

“Have you told Sam yet?” 

“Not yet. You were my first call. I figured Joaquín was with you.” 

Your cheeks flush. “Oh. Uh, yeah. He’s here.” 

Joaquín meets your eyes and gives you a cheeky little wink, lips curving into a smirk. 

“I’ll see you both first thing in the morning,” Maya says. “I’ll call Sam now.” 

“Okay,” you reply, shoving Joaquín’s thigh with your knee. “Thanks, Doctor Chen.” 

The line goes dead, the soft disconnect tone buzzing through the quiet room—Joaquín having paused the TV without you noticing. 

“What kind of data do you think it is?” he asks, brow furrowed. 

You shrug. “Who knows. Maybe something that’ll finally tell us how to shut you up.” 

He scoffs, leaning in just a little. “Or maybe something that tells me exactly how to get you to kiss me.” 

Your heart stutters, breath catching just loud enough for him to hear. 

“Or,” he adds, eyes dancing, “I just keep saying shit like that until your brain short-circuits and you snap.” 

You suck in a slow breath, trying not to smile. Trying not to give him the satisfaction. 

“God,” you mutter, nudging him with your shoulder, “you’re so fucking annoying tonight.” 

He just grins wider and takes another bite of grilled cheese—completely unbothered, maddeningly smug. And of course, your traitorous eyes fall to the line of his jaw as he chews, which does nothing to help your situation. 

- 

“It’s not just old Stark data,” Sam says, standing at the head of the small conference table. “This hard drive contains preliminary code for the foundational architecture of Stark’s first AI.” 

“As in J.A.R.V.I.S.?” Joaquín asks. “The computer that ran his house?” 

“J.A.R.V.I.S. didn’t just run his house,” you cut in. “He was integrated into the Iron Man suits, and he was part of Ultron and Vision. In the wrong hands, this data could be... catastrophic.” 

“Right,” Joaquín nods. “So... we destroy it?” 

“We can’t destroy it,” Milton—one of Sam’s more insufferable government liaisons—says. “Per federal protocol, all recovered Stark-origin assets are to be logged, quarantined, and transferred to a Level Four secure facility for presidential review and Congressional oversight.” 

Sam sighs, visibly holding back an eye-roll. 

“Quarantined for review?” you echo, incredulous. “Graves, this kind of data in the wrong hands could—” 

“And what authority do you have to decide that?” Milton cuts in with his usual sneer. “Who’s to say you won’t use it to recreate this... jervis?” 

Milton is easily your least favourite person in the office. He’s a stickler for rules, an arrogant idiot, and completely insufferable—but he does make a good target for your and Joaquín’s boredom-induced pranks. Like the time you rearranged his keyboard to spell something wildly inappropriate and watched him struggle to fix it for thirty minutes. Or when you convinced him that ‘Camo Friday’ was an official dress code. 

Needless to say, he’s not your biggest fan. Or Joaquín’s. But unfortunately for him, you’re both basically Sam’s second-in-command. 

“It’s Jarvis,” Joaquín says flatly. “J-A-R-V-I-S. Want help with the alphabet, or are you still stuck on the letter J?” 

Milton’s lips curl, eyes narrowing—ready to fire back—when Sam steps in. 

“We haven’t made a final decision about the drive,” he says firmly, glancing between Joaquín and Milton. “I’ll speak with the Department of Damage Control myself. Until then, it stays here, under full-time protection.” 

Joaquín sighs. “Don’t tell me—” 

“You’re not on protection,” Sam cuts him off. “I’ve got others for that. I need you somewhere else.” 

Joaquín sits up straighter, head tilted. “Where?” 

Sam glances at you and nods. You quickly plug your tablet into the display, and a second later, the intel you and the logistics team pulled together flickers up on the screen.  

“Matías Navarro,” you say, zooming in on the mugshot of a stern-faced, middle-aged man. “Clean on paper, but deeply embedded in tech smuggling rings. Works through proxies, keeps his hands clean. No one knows where he gets the tech, and none of his buyers care. He’s been arrested a dozen times, but he always walks.” 

You switch to a series of ledgers. “His name is tied to the building we found the hard drive in—not currently, but previously. He either sold it or abandoned it. Either way, he’s the last known owner.” 

“So,” Joaquín says, “we find Navarro and… question him?” 

You nod. “Exactly. He’s mostly dealt in weapons and arms. He might not have known what was on the drive—but if he did, or if he made a copy, we could be in serious shit.” 

“Right.” Joaquín nods. “Where do we find him?” 

“Club Calavera,” you reply, tapping your tablet until a picture of a dark brick building fills the screen. “It used to be a Latin dance club. Now it’s more like a networking spot for arms dealers and petty crime lords who like to salsa.” 

“Navarro’s a regular,” Sam adds. “Every Saturday. Like clockwork.” 

“Club Skull,” Joaquín snorts. “Subtle.” 

“You should fit right in, then,” you say with a smirk. “You’ve got all the subtlety of a brick through a window.” 

His eyes go wide. “Fit in? I’m going in? Like… undercover?” 

You nod. “That’s right, pretty boy. You’re our distraction.” 

“Distraction?” he echoes, brows shooting up. 

“I need to talk to Navarro,” Sam says, “but I can’t just walk in—not with all the high-profile thugs that frequent the place. I’d be too easily noticed.” 

“Hence,” you say, grinning at Joaquín, “our distraction.” 

He shifts in his seat, eyes flicking between you and Sam. “Alright. What kind of distraction?” 

Sam folds his arms, smirking. “It’s a Latin dance club, Torres. What do you think?” 

“You want me to dance?” Joaquín asks, voice cracking. 

“Oh, no, flyboy.” You lean forward, grin turning wicked. “We don’t just want you to dance, we need you to cause a whole damn scene.” 

He swallows hard. “How?” 

Sam chuckles. “Ever seen The Mask?” 

“That movie with Jim Carrey?” 

Sam nods. 

“You want me to cause a scene in the middle of a club full of criminals big enough to distract every single one of them?” Joaquín asks, brows drawing tight. “I—I can’t. No one could. It’s impossible.” 

“Oh, come on,” you sigh. “You’re Joaquín fucking Torres. If anyone can cause a scene that big, it’s you. Plus, you won’t be alone.” 

He frowns. “What do you mean?” 

“You need a dance partner,” you reply simply, tapping your tablet. 

The screen flickers before bringing up three headshots of three different women, each with a brief bio beside the names—abilities and all. 

“Kate Bishop,” you say, enlarging the first photo. “Hawkeye-in-training. She worked with Clint for a while. Definitely has the social skills to work the room, plus charm and skill.” 

Joaquín shakes his head. “No, she won’t blend in. Not in a Latin crowd, at least.” 

“Okay,” you nod, moving to the next photo. “Ava Ayala, a.k.a. White Tiger. Fluent in Spanish and has the physicality to back us up if things go south.” 

Joaquín considers it, tipping his head before shaking it again. “No, it won’t work. I’ve heard she prefers solo missions—might not adapt well to a cover role that requires dancing and mingling.” 

You take a deep breath and move to the last photo. “Alright. Elena ‘Yo-Yo’ Rodriguez. She’s great at going undercover and knows how to stay cool under pressure. Plus, she can get you out fast if needed.” 

Joaquín’s eyes flick from the screen to you, then to Sam, back to you, and then the screen again. 

“I don’t doubt her skills,” he says. “But have you seen her operate in this kind of scene? Nightclubs and criminal networks require a certain… finesse.” 

Sam sighs and pulls out a chair, dropping into it. “Well, you can’t dance alone.” 

“I know,” Joaquín says firmly. “But I can’t walk into a club full of criminals and half-ass it with someone I don’t know or trust.” 

“That’s the whole point,” you say, setting your tablet down with a sigh. “You’re supposed to go in, pick someone from the crowd, and make it look spontaneous. A big, passionate moment. If it’s too polished, too rehearsed, they’ll sniff it out.” 

He leans forward, bracing his forearms on the table. “I get that. But it still has to be someone I’ve got chemistry with. Someone I’m actually attracted to.” 

You frown, glancing at the screen full of attractive women, then back at him—feeling your stomach twist, even if you don’t want to admit why. 

“They’re all attractive. I don’t see the—” 

“Sure,” he interrupts. “But what if there's no chemistry? This is a club full of Latinos. They’ll smell fake passion from across the dance floor, cariño.” 

You cross your arms and lean back in your chair. “So what are you saying? You won’t do it?” 

“Of course I'll do it,” he says, smirking now. “But I’ve got one condition.” 

You look at Sam, deadpan. “He’s got conditions now.” 

Sam chuckles. “This guy.” 

You turn back to Joaquín. “Alright, pretty boy. What’s your condition?” 

“You dance with me.” 

The room falls silent. 

You freeze, breath catching. “M–Me?” 

He grins. “You, hermosa. It makes sense. We’ve got chemistry, and all you have to do is follow my lead.” 

You glance at Sam, half-panicked. “I’m not a field agent. I’m not—” 

“Actually,” Sam says, thoughtful, “it does makes sense. The two of you could sell it. No extra variables, no risk of another agent blowing the op.” 

Your eyes widen. “You’re not serious. I—I can’t even dance.” 

“You don’t need to,” Joaquín says. “You just have to let me lead.” 

Your heart is pounding now, nerves sparking like live wires, sweat prickling at the back of your neck. You’re not built for this. You’re the guy in the chair. The one locked behind bulletproof glass and a million firewalls. 

“Joaquín, I—” 

“It’s the only way this works,” he says, his smile infuriatingly smug. 

“Kid’s got a point,” Sam adds. 

Your eyes bounce between them, wide and overwhelmed. “I’m barely trained for combat. If something goes wrong, I—” 

“That’s why I’m there, cariño,” Joaquín cuts in, voice low. “You don’t have to do anything except look pretty—which you already do—and follow my lead.” 

You’re running out of excuses. And Joaquín is looking at you with those big, stupidly pretty brown eyes that always get him his way. You don’t want to say yes. But you really don’t want to say no. Not to that face. Not to Sam’s, either—especially when he’s looking this hopeful and just a little smug. 

“Fine,” you mutter, glaring at Joaquín. “But if either of us die, I’m going to kill you.” 

He just grins—impossibly smug, unfairly hot. A walking wet dream with tight sleeves and a killer smile, practically glowing with anticipation. 

The next few days are a whirlwind of intel, training, and—to your immense displeasure—costume fittings. Because you can’t just wear jeans and a top. No. You have to look like a part-time salsa dancer and full-time prison groupie, which apparently means a sparkly dress with a hemline that barely covers your ass. 

But that’s not even the worst part. 

The worst part is that Joaquín refuses to practice with you. He won’t even show you a few steps. Because, like you said, it has to look spontaneous. It can’t be rehearsed or choreographed, or someone might clock it for the distraction that it is. 

So he won’t dance with you at all—which is not exactly something you ever thought you’d be begging him for. Not unless you’re talking about the horizontal tango—because in that case, yeah, you could definitely see yourself begging. 

“Ouch,” Sam mutters, freezing mid-step. “That was my foot.” 

You scowl up at him, arms stiff where they rest on his shoulder and in his hand. “I told you, I don’t fucking know how to dance.” 

“Relax,” he chuckles. “You’re not auditioning for Dancing with the Stars. You just need to get through one song without crushing Joaquín’s toes.” 

“If he doesn’t want his feet stomped on,” you snap, glaring across the room, “then he should be the one teaching me.” 

Joaquín rolls his eyes and pushes off the wall, tapping something on his phone to lower the music blaring through the overhead speakers. You’ve taken up residence in Isaiah Bradley’s gym for the past few days, using the open space—and the crash mats—as Sam attempts to teach you the basics of salsa dancing. 

It’s not going great. 

“You need to move your hips more,” Joaquín says. “Feel the music. Don’t fight it.” 

“‘M gonna fight you in a minute,” you mutter. 

Sam laughs again, clearly amused, as Joaquín steps in behind you—close—his hands landing firmly on your hips. 

Your eyes go wide. Your spine snaps straight. Your fingers dig into Sam’s shoulder. 

“Ouch,” he murmurs, wincing. 

“Shut up,” you hiss. 

He bites back a laugh. 

“Okay,” Joaquín says. “Let’s move through the steps slowly.” 

Sam nods and starts moving. You follow, trying to count through the steps you’ve half-memorised. Then— 

Joaquín steps in even closer, chest almost brushing your back, and without a word, he guides your hips into the right position. Your feet falter. Your heart stutters. His hands are big, steady—thumbs pressing lightly into the small of your back as he shifts your weight, encouraging a more natural sway from your hips. 

“Too stiff,” he murmurs, voice low. “You’ve gotta loosen up, cariño.” 

Then his hands trail—slow and deliberate—up the curve of your waist, just high enough for his thumbs to graze the underside of your ribs. It’s a fleeting touch, but it leaves a trail of fire in its wake. And then, like it was nothing, he steps back—cool, casual, unaffected. 

Your breath catches. Heat rushes up your neck and into your cheeks, your brain short-circuiting as your body fights to stay upright and not melt into a puddle of incoherent desire. Sam watches the whole thing unfold with an amused grin, clearly not missing the way your knees nearly buckle. 

“You okay?” he asks. “You’re lookin’ a little pink there.” 

“I’m fine,” you snap. 

Behind you, Joaquín turns the music back up and says, far too casually, “She’s just tense.” 

Sam snorts. “Oh, I don’t think that’s the problem.” 

You grit your teeth and take a deep breath through your nose, summoning every ounce of self-control you have to not to completely lose it. 

“Okay,” you mutter, “let’s go again.” 

You take it from the top twice more before Sam’s phone rings and he’s called away for a meeting with logistics. By that point, you’re tired, sweaty, and still wishing you’d said no, but according to Joaquín, your hips are moving much more naturally. 

You try not to think too hard about him watching your hips while you dance. 

While you stretch and cool off—which mostly just means lying on the floor scrolling through your phone—Joaquín starts boxing with Isaiah. And holy hell if that isn’t making you thirstier than two straight hours of salsa dancing did. 

You try to focus on the video of a puppy eating raspberries currently playing on your phone, but your eyes keep drifting to the other side of the gym. To him. 

Joaquín’s in the ring—gloves on, shirt off, moving like a goddamn dream. His skin gleams with sweat, muscles flexing with every jab and pivot, the line of his back carved like something out of a museum. Even his hair is damp, dark curls falling over his forehead—and God, you want to run your fingers through it, tug it just a little to see what kind of noises he’d make. 

You swallow hard, watching the way he bounces on the balls of his feet, light and fast. Isaiah swings, Joaquín dodges, and you’re embarrassingly close to moaning when he ducks and throws a clean uppercut that lands with a satisfying smack. 

Your imagination fills in the blanks way too fast. What those hands would feel like dragging down your body. What that mouth could do if it wasn’t behind a mouthguard. You’re picturing him pinning you up against the ropes for a very different kind of workout when— 

“Enjoying the show?” 

You startle, eyes flying up to find Joaquín leaning on the ropes, gloves resting on the top strand, smirk wide and knowing. His chest is rising and falling, skin glistening, and there’s a wicked gleam in his eye that says he’s seen every second of you ogling him. 

You blink. “Nope.” 

He laughs. “You’re a terrible liar. Come here.” 

“What? Why?” 

He grins, pushing open the ropes. “Get in the ring.” 

You frown. “Absolutely not.” 

“Come on,” he says, stepping aside so you can climb through. “You’re going undercover. You should know how to throw a punch in case something goes south.” 

“I did a combat course,” you say, slowly climbing up and stopping in the middle of the ring. “A few years ago." 

“And I haven’t eaten a donut since Tuesday. Doesn’t mean I’m in peak condition.” 

Isaiah laughs from the corner, tossing Joaquín a towel. “Have fun, lovebirds,” he calls, hopping down from the ring. “Try not to injure each other.” 

“I make no promises,” Joaquín says with a wink, then turns back to you, holding out a pair of gloves. “Hands up, cariño.” 

You roll your eyes, sighing, but slide your hands into the gloves anyway. “If I get hurt, I’m suing.” 

He steps closer to tighten the straps on your gloves, and you try—really try—not to stare. But his chest is right there, slick with sweat, rising and falling with every breath. Your eyes flick to the constellation of tiny moles scattered across his collarbone and up the side of his neck, and your brain starts wandering where it definitely shouldn’t. 

Like how warm his skin would feel under your mouth. 

How he'd taste. 

Whether that facial hair would scrape or tickle. 

“You spacing out on me already?” he asks, smug. 

You blink hard and force your eyes back to his. “No. Just visualising how hard I’m going to hit you.” 

His smile grows. “Hot.” 

You scowl, cheeks burning. “I hate you.” 

“No, you don’t,” he says easily, stepping back and raising his hands. “Alright, let’s start with a jab. Front foot forward, hands up, aim for my shoulder.” 

You shuffle your feet and throw the first punch. It’s not awful, but it’s definitely not impressive. 

And he dodges it with infuriating ease. “Again.” 

You go again—harder this time—and his face lights up. 

“There we go,” he says, circling you. “Now try a cross. Pivot your back foot a little. Twist at the hips.” 

He moves around you slowly, correcting your stance, touching your elbow here, your shoulder there. Every brush of his fingers lights you up like a fuse. You try to focus on your footwork, your form, anything other than the way he’s watching you—like he’s memorising every move. 

And when you land a solid hit against his open palm, his smile turns molten. “Damn. Maybe I should be worried.” 

“You should always be worried,” you mutter, blowing a lock of hair out of your eyes. 

He steps in close, lowering his voice. “You’re better than you think.” 

You swallow. Hard. Because now he’s too close, and you can smell him—sweat mixed with something warm and spicy, like cinnamon, cedar, and something darker, something dangerous. His eyes flick down from your face to your body, not even trying to pretend he isn’t checking you out. 

“You’re staring,” you say, a little breathless. 

He smirks. “So are you.” 

The space between you shrinks, and suddenly the air feels thick—too warm, too charged. 

“You’re dangerously close,” you tease, trying to keep your voice steady while your heart beats like a war drum. 

He leans in just a little more, hot breath ghosting over your damp skin. “Close enough to hear your heartbeat,” he murmurs, voice low. “It’s fast.” 

Your breath hitches, and you force yourself to look anywhere but at his lips. 

“Careful,” you murmur. “I might start thinking you want to spar for real.” 

He grins wickedly. “Oh, I’ve got moves that don’t involve gloves.” 

You laugh, but it’s shaky. “That a challenge?” 

“More like a promise,” he says, eyes darkening with mischief. 

He steps even closer, just enough for your bodies to almost touch, the heat radiating off him setting your skin alight. Your hands twitch, itching to reach out, to feel the solid strength beneath those muscles. But instead, you bite back the impulse, take a breath, and jab forward, aiming a quick punch at his bicep. 

He’s faster—too fast—and his hand catches your wrist, grip firm. “Not bad,” he says, voice rougher now. “But you’re getting distracted.” 

You glance down at his fingers wrapped around your wrist—strong and warm—then back up at him. “Maybe I like being distracted.” 

He chuckles, low and throaty. “You have no idea what you do to me, cariño.” 

Your cheeks flush, and suddenly the gym feels smaller, the world reduced to just the two of you—the thud of your hearts, the quick intake of breath, the heat humming beneath your skin. 

He leans in again, his breath warm against your lips. “One more round? Winner gets to decide what happens next.” 

You bite your bottom lip, eyes flicking down to his mouth, then back to his gaze. “You’re on.” 

You throw yourself into the next round, fists flying, breath ragged—but he’s relentless, every move calculated to push you harder, closer. He’s not holding back anymore; his feet are quick, his hands even quicker. You feel like you’re flailing, only landing punches when he lets you. 

Then, without warning, he ducks a blow and catches you from behind, one arm wrapping tight around your neck. Not enough to choke—just to claim. His other hand finds your hip, fingers digging in, pressing bruises into your flesh. Your pulse spikes as your body freezes, caught between wanting to fight and drowning in the heat of him pressed against you. 

Your breath hitches as you recognise the undeniable length of him digging into your ass—heavy and hard. His mouth hovers just at your neck, warm breath teasing, lips barely brushing. “Careful, nena,” he whispers, voice thick with something dark and urgent. “You’re playing with fire.” 

Your hands tremble, heart pounding in your throat. Every second, every shallow breath drips with desperate hunger. His fingertips dig into your skin, pulling you impossibly close—his hips grinding slow and deliberate against your ass. 

You want to say something, anything, but the only sounds are your uneven inhales and the thump of your racing heart. Then—just as your resolve begins to crack— 

The gym door swings open, and Sam bursts in. “Alright, what’s the verdict? Lunch or more sparring?” he calls out, completely oblivious to the heat hanging thick between you two. 

Joaquín straightens, sliding his arms away with a slow, wicked grin, eyes sparkling with amusement and something more primal. He moves off to the side of the ring, turning away from Sam—no doubt hiding the bulge in his gym shorts. 

You’re burning up, cheeks flushed crimson, every nerve screaming as you struggle to breathe normally. 

Sam quirks his head, brows furrowed. “You alright? Is he pushing you too hard?” 

God. Something is too hard. 

You shake your head. “N-No. Just... sparring.” 

“Right,” Sam says, not sounding fully convinced. “Well, go clean up. I’m starving.” 

- 

After a shower—a very cold shower—a quick lunch, and several meetings, you’re back in your office combing through security tapes from Club Calavera, scanning for any familiar faces that might compromise tomorrow night’s mission. 

You’re midway through last Saturday’s tape when Joaquín pops his head in the door, grinning like he hadn’t pressed his hard dick against you just a few hours ago. 

“Sam’s hungry,” he says. “Again.” 

You clear your throat. “Already? It’s—” You glance at the clock, brows lifting. “Oh. It’s nearly seven.” 

“Yeah,” he says, stepping in and closing the door behind him. “He wants wings.” 

There’s nothing overtly threatening about the way he stands in front of your only exit—but it still feels dangerous. Being alone with him in this tight little four-by-four office, with nothing between you but a desk and a couple monitors, feels very dangerous. 

You’re not sure what changed while he was away on that last mission—all you know is that something did. And now, the tension between you is almost impossible to ignore. 

“Wings,” you echo, dragging your eyes back to your screens. “Got it. The usual?” 

“Yep,” he nods. “Extra ranch.” 

You smirk as you open a new tab—typing in only a few letters before the URL auto-fills. 

Joaquín frowns. “What’s that look for?” 

“Nothing,” you say quickly, shaking your head. 

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t press. He just stands there, back against the door, watching you order the food with his bottom lip caught between his perfect teeth. 

“There,” you say, clicking submit order. “Death wings for Captain America, and a baby batch for The Falcon.” 

His eyes widen as he tries—and fails—to fight another grin. “I knew you were laughing at me. It’s not my fault I was born with a spice intolerance.” 

You lean back in your chair, rolling your lips to suppress a giggle. “I wasn’t. I swear.” 

“I’m brave in other ways,” he mutters, folding his arms across his chest. 

“I know.” 

You stare at each other for a beat too long. The air thickens, tension crawling over your skin, heavy and charged. Your eyes trace the line of his jaw, the sharp slope of his nose, the curve of his cupid’s bow beneath that maddeningly hot little moustache. 

Your fingers twitch over your keyboard, itching to touch him. To grip his shoulders. Tug his hair. Wrap around his hot, hard— 

Bang, bang, bang. 

Joaquín startles as Sam shoves at your office door from the other side. 

“Move your ass, Torres,” he calls, voice muffled. 

Joaquín exhales a shaky breath and steps aside—and you swear you see him subtly adjust himself in his jeans. 

“Wings ordered?” Sam asks, pushing the door open. 

You nod. “Death by buffalo coming right up.” 

He grins. “Good. Now get your asses to the conference room. Tactical support wants to run one last debrief.” 

“Ooh,” you say, jumping to your feet. “Do I get any weapons?” 

Both men whip toward you—eyes wide, brows drawn—and in perfect unison say, “No.” 

You sit in the meeting, pretending to listen, while mostly ogling the way Joaquín is testing out his gear. Without the wings, he’s going to be packing an assortment of easily concealed weapons, and something about the way he handles everything with practiced ease has you squeezing your thighs beneath the table. 

His hands are sure and precise—strong fingers wrapping around grips, forearms flexing subtly with each flick and pop. There’s a quiet confidence in the way he inspects every piece, the kind of focused intensity that makes your pulse quicken. 

His jaw tightens slightly, eyes narrowing in concentration, brows drawing together just enough to highlight the sharp line of his cheekbones. It’s like watching a master at work—every subtle motion deliberate, effortless. The way his muscles tense and relax, the small, almost imperceptible shifts in his stance… it all speaks of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing, and how much power he wields beneath that calm exterior. 

You can’t help but admire the rhythm, the flow, the way he seems to command the weapons almost as if they’re extensions of his own body. Your gaze lingers longer than it should, tracing the sinew in his forearms, the curve of his wrists, imagining what it would feel like to be touched by those hands—steady, confident, and undeniably capable. 

“You need a napkin, or are you just gonna keep drooling on the table?” Sam asks, startling you out of your daydream. 

You whip toward him, brow furrowed, one hand swiping instinctively at the corner of your mouth while the other smacks his bicep. 

He chuckles. “Wow. I could call HR, you know.” 

You roll your eyes. “Do it.” 

“Actually,” he says, tilting his head, “I think Joaquín should call HR, with the way you were eye-fucking him across the table. But the boy’s too stupid to notice.” 

Your eyes snap to the front of the room, expecting Joaquín to still be there—but he’s not. In fact, it’s just you and Sam left in the conference room. Even the weapons have been packed up and hauled off. 

“Oh,” you blink. “Is it over?” 

“Been over for a while,” he says with another soft chuckle. “My wings here yet?” 

Your eyes go wide. “Shit. The wings.” 

You jump up and dart out of the room, jogging down the hall to the front reception where you told the delivery driver to leave the food. Thankfully, it’s still there—and when you pick up the bag, it’s warm enough that Sam won’t kill you. 

With a relieved sigh, you carry the wings back through the building, past the now-empty conference room, and straight to Sam and Joaquín’s office at the very back—the one with the giant, obnoxious Captain America symbol frosted onto the window glass. 

“Special delivery,” you say, walking straight toward the table surrounded by low blue lounges. 

You pull out the Styrofoam containers and start sniffing each one to determine which is which. Sam appears beside you with three cans of beer, and Joaquín flops onto one of the lounges, grabbing the bag to pull out a wad of napkins—because you always ask for extra. 

“Shit. They forgot the wet ones,” he says, glancing up at you. 

“Don’t worry,” you mutter, “we’ve got enough wet wipes to stock a preschool.” 

Joaquín chuckles as you cross the room toward Sam’s desk, opening the middle drawer of the cabinet and pulling a fistful of wipes. 

“God, I’m starving,” Joaquín groans. 

You turn back just in time to see him sliding one of the containers toward himself. Your brow furrows, eyes narrowing, and just before realisation hits—before you can say anything—he opens it and lifts a wing to his lips.  

“Joaquín—!” you yelp, eyes wide. 

His gaze flicks to you, confusion creasing his brow—then it hits. 

His cheeks flush immediately, sweat prickling at his hairline and sliding down the side of his face. His eyes go wide, his body locking up—the wing still caught between his teeth.  

“That’s Sam’s!” you exclaim, rushing over. “Spit it out, you idiot. You’re gonna go into cardiac arrest.” 

“Wait,” Sam leans forward, eyes bright. “Did he just—?” 

You nod. “Yeah.” 

“One of mine?” 

“Yep.” 

“Holy shit.” 

“Joaquín,” you say firmly. “Spit the goddamn wing out.” 

He does, letting it drop back into the container with a wet plop. 

“Gross,” Sam groans, sliding the container away from Joaquín. 

“You okay?” you ask, biting back a grin. 

He looks like he’s been pepper-sprayed. Face red, eyes watery, lips puffy, breath coming and going in shallow gasps. 

“Uh uh,” he groans, shaking his head slowly. “Burns.” 

“I know, baby,” you giggle, unable to stop yourself. “I’ll go get some milk.” 

He nods slowly, tears slipping from the corners of his eyes. 

You let out another laugh—louder this time—as you run out of the room and jog down the hall, pivoting into the kitchen. You yank the fridge open, pull out the bottle of milk, and retrace your steps. 

By the time you return, Sam is grinning like a demon, face smeared with sauce, and Joaquín is full-on wheezing, fanning his mouth with his hand. 

“What happened?” 

“He drank the beer,” Sam says, clearly very entertained. “Made it worse.” 

“My god, Joaquín,” you sigh, dropping the milk in front of him. “Didn’t you smell the hot sauce?” 

He shakes his head, already chugging from the bottle. Milk dribbles from his lips and down his jaw, sliding down the column of his neck—and suddenly, you’re having thoughts. Filthy ones. 

You drag your eyes away, cheeks hot. 

Jesus Christ. Even watching him drink milk is hot now? 

“I just don’t understand how your tolerance for spice is so bad,” you mutter. “You’re half-Mexican for crying out loud.” 

He stops long enough to gasp for air—then burps like a frat boy. “That’s racist.” 

“It’s not racist,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I’ve been to your house. Your mama’s tamales are hot. And delicious.” 

“Ooh,” Sam smirks. “Tell me more about his mom’s tamales.” 

Joaquín shoots him a slow, deadly look over the milk carton as he continues drinking. 

“His mom makes the best food,” you say, finally opening your own container of wings. “The rest of his family can handle heat just fine—but this pretty boy always gets a custom serving. Mild.” 

“Wow,” Sam snorts. “Way to let the ancestors down, Torres.” 

Joaquín finishes the entire bottle of milk—though it was only half full—before he’s finally able to breathe normally again. His cheeks are still flushed, his hair a little damp, but at least he no longer looks like he’s about to explode. 

“Better?” you ask, smirking behind a half-eaten wing. 

“You know,” he says, leaning forward, that stupid, smug grin back in place, “might help if you kiss it better.” 

You raise your brows. “Your mouth?” 

He shrugs, eyes sparkling. “Probably a couple of places you could kiss that’d help.” 

Your eyes go wide, pulse spiking. Across from you, Sam chokes on a mouthful of chicken. 

“No,” he says between coughs. “Stop it. Both of you. I am not sitting here while you do your weird flirting shit. Leave me out of it.” 

Joaquín just grins, completely unaffected, and opens his container of mild buffalo wings. It shouldn’t be sexy, the way he sinks his teeth in and tears the meat off the bone. Or how his tongue flicks out to catch a drop of sauce at the corner of his mouth. Or the low, satisfied groan he lets out, like it’s the best thing he’s tasted all week. 

But God, when it comes to Joaquín Torres, you are well and truly screwed—just not in the way you want to be. 

- 

Your heart is in your throat. Your hands are trembling. Your back is sweating. 

Every step you take deeper into Club Calavera brings you one step closer to puking. 

The inside of the club is soaked in red light and velvet, thick with smoke and perfume. Velvet booths line the walls, half-hidden in shadow, crowded with people who look like they have knives in their boots and secrets in their smiles. The bar glows low and warm on one side of the room, casting amber light across bottles arranged like trophies. 

The music is bass-heavy, slow and deliberate, and the dance floor pulses with bodies moving close—too close. Everything sparkles—sequins, sweat, the occasional flash of a watch or the glint of a gun tucked just out of sight. 

It’s the kind of place where everyone’s watching, everyone’s working an angle, and no one’s here by accident. 

You feel completely exposed without so much as a headset or earpiece, but Sam insisted—strictly no comms. It’s too risky in a place like this. 

Teddy from logistics is ‘in the chair’ tonight, doing what you’d usually be doing—watching live feeds, monitoring heat signatures, keeping an eye out for trouble. You all know the signals. The procedures. Where to meet if it all goes sideways. But none of that is making you feel even remotely safe in this den of criminals. 

You take a slow, deep breath and continue weaving your way through the crowd, keeping your chin up—confident, not cocky. Your movements are measured. Deliberate. 

You know where you’re going. You’re not nervous. You fit in. 

“Hey, gorgeous,” someone murmurs beside you. 

You offer a small, coy smile, then duck away, putting several bodies between you and whoever that was—for good measure. 

The club is crowded enough to disappear in. You just have to make sure you don’t move too fast. Don’t draw too much attention. 

Not that this goddamn dress is making it easy not to draw attention. 

It’s gold and slinky, catching the light with every step, made from a breathable stretch-knit lamé mesh—fine metallic threads woven into silky, weightless fabric. The outer layer is a sheer gold sparkle mesh, densely packed with glittering micro-sequins that flash like fire under the club lights. 

It’s cut obscenely short—the hem grazing your upper thighs—with a scooped neckline just low enough to tease, and long flared sleeves that shimmer from shoulder to wrist. It doesn’t cling—but it follows your shape with a sleek, deliberate grace that leaves no doubt it was tailor-made for you. 

Beneath all that glitter, the bodice is reinforced with a discreet layer of ballistic fabric—a Kevlar-knit that’s thin and flexible enough to contour to your body, but strong enough to slow a small-calibre round or deflect a blade. So, as long as any would-be attackers aim for the dress and not your legs, you might just have a shot at making it out alive if things go sideways. 

“Excuse me,” you murmur, voice low as you squeeze between two people who were definitely not excusing you. 

You pop out of the crowd at the edge of the dancefloor just as the music shifts. It pulses low and slow at first, a sensual rhythm driven by a deep reggaeton beat. Then a plucked guitar winds through the bassline—sharp, teasing, almost flirtatious—while maracas and other percussion add a soft shimmer beneath it all, like heat rising off pavement. 

There’s a slinky sway to it, like hips rolling in time with every beat. The tempo is deliberate, confident, impossible to ignore—each note coaxing movement, inviting bodies closer. It’s the kind of music that wraps around you like smoke, warm and heady, and refuses to let go. 

You don’t see him at first—just feel it. That ripple in the air. A subtle shift in energy that tells you someone is watching. 

And then you spot him. 

Joaquín steps through the crowd like it’s parting just for him. He’s traded his usual tactical black for loose tan trousers that hang low on his hips, a gold chain draped from the belt loops. A crisp white shirt is thrown over a fitted tank, sleeves rolled up like he’s halfway between saint and sin. His hair’s slicked just enough to look intentional, a single curl falling over his brow, and there’s a glint of gold at his throat that catches the light every time he moves. 

He doesn’t just look good—he looks dangerous. Not in the gunmetal, locked-and-loaded way you’re used to. This is softer. Smouldering. The kind of danger that tempts instead of threatens. The kind that makes your breath hitch and your knees weaken. 

And he’s looking at you. 

Head tilted, tongue grazing the inside of his cheek like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Like he’s been thinking about this all night. All week. About you in that barely-there dress. About what’s underneath it. About how many people are in this room—and how little he cares. 

Your stomach flips. 

Your whole body hums with anticipation. And you haven’t even touched him yet. 

You're still catching your breath when he reaches you. 

No words. No warning. 

His hand slides around your waist, the other catching your wrist, fingers brushing the underside of your arm like a question. Your body answers before your mouth can—yes. Whatever this is, yes. 

The music throbs through the soles of your feet as you move deeper onto the dancefloor. His hand drops lower, finding the curve of your hip. He steps in—chest to chest—warm breath grazing your cheek. 

You take a deep breath, reminding yourself that you’re working. This is work. Just a distraction so that Sam can get to Navarro. 

But right now, with Joaquín’s fingers splayed across your lower back, guiding you into the sway of the beat, your focus is wrecked. 

And this doesn’t feel like work. 

His body moves against yours with practiced ease—hips rolling slow and sweet. The rhythm is deep, deliberate, and he follows it like it’s stitched into his bones. His thigh slides between yours as he guides you, hand firm at your waist as you pivot together—tight, fluid, seamless. 

You loop your arms around his shoulders, fingertips grazing the back of his neck, and his mouth is suddenly very close to your ear. 

“Hola, mi vida,” he murmurs, “estás espectacular.” 

You might not know much Spanish, but you’ve spent enough time around Joaquín to know exactly what he just said. 

You tilt your head just enough to meet his gaze. “So do you.” 

He laughs under his breath—low, dangerous—and dips you. Hard. Your spine arches, body bending back over his arm, one hand clutching his shirt for balance. His mouth drops to your chest. Breath ghosting over your skin—warm, damp, too much. 

He lingers there. Like he's waiting for permission. 

Then— 

His tongue darts out. Wet heat against your chest. 

You yelp—then freeze. 

The crowd around you stills. Heads turn. All eyes on you. 

“Showtime, cariño,” he mutters, low and smooth, just for you. 

He pulls you up again—slowly. His hand drags from your spine to your waist, fingertips digging in like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. And if it weren’t for his grip, you’re not sure your knees would hold. 

He doesn’t even glance at the crowd. He just smirks. 

Because this was his plan all along. This is why he hasn’t practiced with you all week. Why he refused to rehearse. 

Because Joaquín Torres knew exactly how he was going to play you—just like he’s about to play this entire room full of criminals. 

The music builds again, deeper, filthier. That slinky reggaeton rhythm thickens with every beat, and Joaquín takes the cue. His hands slide down your waist, anchoring you as he rolls his hips into yours, slow and smooth—grinding to the beat like he’s got all the time in the world. Like no one else is here. Like the two of you don’t have an entire operation riding on this moment. 

Your hands grip his shoulders, then slide up to the back of his neck. The world narrows to the heat between your bodies, to the heavy pulse of the music, to the way he leans in close and breathes against your skin. 

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he murmurs, lips brushing your ear. “Just like we practiced.” 

You snort—soft, breathless. “We didn’t practice.” 

“Exactly,” he smirks. 

He spins you suddenly, one arm looping around your middle to keep you close as your back hits his chest. His hand splays across your stomach, pulling you flush against him, and he starts to move again—grinding up behind you in slow, rhythmic thrusts. Filthy. Hypnotic. Perfect. 

Someone in the crowd whistles. 

You tilt your head just enough to meet Joaquín’s eyes over your shoulder. He’s looking down at you with heat, with purpose. Selling it for the crowd—but that look doesn’t feel like an act. 

Your gaze flickers past him, scanning the shadows—and there. You spot Sam slipping through the crowd, unnoticed, just as planned. 

Good. 

You drag your eyes back to Joaquín and grind back into him, slow and intentional. He groans—quiet, but real—and dips his head to the crook of your neck. His lips skim your skin, his breath hot and shallow. 

“Still working?” he murmurs. 

You bite your lip. 

“Because if this is just a mission…” He trails off, tongue flicking just beneath your jaw. “You’re the best actress I’ve ever met.” 

You laugh—shaky, hushed, raw. “Shut up and dance.” 

So he does. 

He drags one hand down your thigh, slipping briefly beneath the hem of your dress, just high enough to make your breath catch. Then he spins you again, facing him, and pulls you back into his chest with a practiced flourish—showy enough to earn a cheer from the sidelines. The lights flicker like heat lightning across his face, casting gold in his eyes, sweat glinting at his hairline. 

The air between you crackles. 

Then—he leans in, voice low, mouth ghosting yours. “Tell me when this stops being a game.” 

You don’t answer. You can’t. 

Because you’re not sure it ever was. 

“Confía en mí, mi amor,” he murmurs—trust me, my love—and you barely have time to register the words before he spins you out with a flick of the wrist, one hand still gripping yours. 

Your body twirls away from him, dress shimmering beneath the lights, the crowd around you gasping at the drama of it—and then you’re pulled back in just as fast. 

He catches you tight. 

One hand at your back, the other sliding low as he grabs your thigh and lifts—hitching it high against his hip, his fingers digging into your flesh. Holding you there. Staking a claim. 

Your breath punches out of you, caught between the sudden closeness and the weight of his grip. His eyes are dark, gleaming with heat and purpose, and you’re not sure which part of this is still the performance. 

His lips are inches from yours, breath warm, tension thick between you as the music pulses around your locked bodies—sweat, sequins, heat, and hands, everything glittering under low crimson light. And still, the crowd watches. Spellbound. 

So you decide to give them something to watch. 

You swallow hard, gather what’s left of your composure, and let your hand slide slowly down his chest—fingertips tracing the line of his sternum, dragging over warm fabric, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm. You sway your hips with the music, then pivot—smooth and deliberate—until your back is flush to his chest again. 

His breath catches. You feel it. 

You roll your hips back into him, slow and sinful, and his grip tightens on your hips. 

Your hand snakes up behind you, into his hair, curling tight just enough to make him tilt his head. Then, with a smirk tugging at your lips, you twist to whisper against his jaw—soft, breathy, just for him. 

“Papacito… ay, qué rico tú.” 

You feel the way his whole body reacts—his inhale sharp, his fingers flexing against your skin, his composure cracking for just a second. Just long enough for you to feel victorious. 

But then—he snaps. 

He grabs your hand and spins you back around to face him, hard and fast. His grip is sure, his eyes burning. He’s flushed now, lips parted, chest rising with every breath like he’s trying to get a grip—but losing it. On you. 

And then he drops. 

Not suddenly—deliberately. 

His hands trail down your sides as he lowers himself, eyes never leaving yours. Not until his breath hits your chest, lips ghosting over your damp skin. 

His mouth moves lower—hot, open, dragging over the glittering fabric until it settles just below your navel. The pressure is maddening. More suggestion than kiss, but it sets your nerves on fire. 

He rests on one knee. His breath is hot through your dress. His grip, searing. 

You feel his nose graze along the line of your panties, the heat of him soaking through the fabric. He lingers—mouth parted, exhale shaky—and you know that if he moves even half an inch lower, you’re going to moan out loud. 

Your knees almost buckle. 

So you do the only thing you can—you throw your arms up, eyes fluttering closed, and let the music carry you. You sway to the rhythm, pulse thudding in your ears, hips shifting just enough to brush against his mouth again. 

And when you dare to look down… 

He’s still there. On one knee. A hand branding the back of each thigh. 

Looking up at you like you’re the only thing in the world worth getting on the floor for. 

And God help you—you want him to stay there forever. 

But after a few beats, Joaquín lifts his head slowly, mouth brushing over your dress on the way up, trailing heat with every inch. His hands slide up your thighs, over your hips, gripping tight as he rises. 

You meet him halfway. 

Your fingers sink into his hair. Your body moulds to his. Breath mingling. Lips so close—so heartbreakingly close—you could count the seconds before they meet. You can feel the heat of him, taste the want on his breath. 

His mouth hovers over yours, a whisper away. The music fades. The crowd vanishes. It’s just him. Just you. Just this. 

Then—he pauses. 

His eyes flicker. Something cracks beneath the surface—heat, hesitation, hunger. 

And he pulls back. 

Not far. Not fast. Just enough to tear the moment in half. His gaze locks on yours, sharp and steady, full of something unspoken. A promise, maybe. Or a warning. You’re not sure which—only that it leaves you aching. 

Your breath catches. Your chest tightens. You blink up at him, dizzy, throat thick, trying to smile like it hasn’t cost you something. 

He leans in again, lips grazing your cheek—not your mouth—and whispers, “Sam’s clear.” 

You nod—barely, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the music. 

Then he steps back, slow and sure, every muscle coiled like he’s holding something back. 

You follow his lead, putting just enough distance between you to play the part. You sway with the rhythm—two agents, two dancers, nothing more. 

But your body still burns. 

And the ghost of his mouth still lingers, like a secret you’ll never know. 

Eventually, Joaquín leads you off the dancefloor and toward the bar, his hand warm and steady at your lower back. 

Eyes follow you—hungry, speculative. You feel them trailing over your thighs, your back, the glitter of your dress. Men watch like they’re waiting for their turn, like they saw the performance and think it was an invitation. But you don’t care. You’re too distracted by the phantom of Joaquín’s mouth, the ache of something unfinished still pulsing behind your ribs. 

At the bar, he flags the bartender down with a subtle nod and orders for both of you—something cold and sharp that might steady your nerves. You rest your hands on the counter, trying to slow your breathing, trying not to look at him, trying not to feel too much. 

“Pretty bold dance out there,” a voice says beside you, too close. 

You turn your head to find a stranger leaning in, all confidence and cologne, eyes skimming your neckline like he owns it. 

“How about a private encore?” 

Before you can respond, Joaquín shifts. Not aggressively. Not even visibly angry. But his body angles between you and the guy with a quiet finality, one arm draping casually across the bar behind you. 

“She’s not available,” he says, voice low but pointed. 

The stranger laughs like he’s not threatened—like he hasn’t realised the mistake he's made. “Didn’t look like that a minute ago. Looked like she was auditioning.” 

You barely see Joaquín move. Just the way his jaw tenses, the slight twitch of his fingers curling at the bar, the heat rolling off him in waves. But it’s enough. 

You touch his arm gently. “We should go.” 

He doesn’t look at you right away, not until the guy finally backs off, muttering something under his breath as he fades back into the crowd. Then Joaquín turns, his gaze softer now—but his hand is still tight on your waist. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Let’s go.” 

Getting out of the club, into the night, and down the street is all a blur. Your feet move, but your mind is still back on that dancefloor—on Joaquín’s wandering hands, his breath hot against your skin, his eyes burning. 

Your chest aches at the memory of his mouth hovering over yours. Close enough to taste. Close enough to make you believe. He could’ve kissed you. He should have. He was going to. But he didn’t. 

And you can’t stop asking yourself why. 

By the time you reach the van parked a few blocks away in a shadowy side street, you’re grateful one of you is paying attention, because you don’t even remember the walk. 

Joaquín opens the passenger door and helps you in like you’re breakable—like you’re something valuable that needs securing. He reaches across and buckles you in, knuckles brushing your thigh in the process, lingering just a second too long. 

Then he’s gone again—door shut, around the van, into the driver's seat. He jams the key in, turns the engine, and starts reversing slowly out of the alley. Like nothing ever happened. Like you didn’t just nearly shatter years of friendship in a single, heated moment. 

You stare out the window while he drives, lost in your thoughts and the lingering warmth of him on your skin—sweat, spice, and something that feels specifically made for you. Something that makes your heart race and your knees weak. 

“Where did you learn that?” he asks suddenly, voice low and rough. 

You frown, turning to face him. And God, is it a sight. Flushed cheeks, sweat-damp skin, eyes glittering even in the dark. 

You clear your throat. “Learn what?” 

“What you said to me,” he says, glancing at you before turning back to the road. “When we were dancing.” 

“Oh.” You shift in your seat, dragging your gaze away from him. “Just one of those songs you always play.” 

“Right,” he mutters. “Do… do you know what it means?” 

There’s a beat. Only the soft hum of tires on asphalt fills the silence. 

Then you murmur, “Daddy, oh, how delicious you are.” 

His breath hitches. His knuckles go white around the steering wheel. 

You wait another beat before adding, “That’s right, yeah?” 

He nods. “Right.” 

He shifts in his seat—subtle, but telling—and you don’t dare let your eyes drop to his lap. 

He clears his throat. “The—uh—the pronunciation was good. Accent could use some work.” 

You snort—sharp and dry. “Thanks for the feedback. I’ll be sure to pencil in some extra Spanish practice.” 

“Let me know if you need a tutor,” he says, smirking now. 

Your heart thuds—heavy, too hard. You want to tease back. You want to slip into the familiar rhythm, the easy banter. But you can’t. Because now you’re confused, and a little wrecked, and everything feels off. 

“Oh, you don’t have time for that these days, Falcon,” you say, forcing a lightness you don’t feel. “I’m sure Gabe or Ceilia would be happy to give me lessons.” 

Two of the engineers you’ve often heard Joaquín arguing with in lightning-fast Spanish. 

“Gabe or Ceilia?” he repeats, tone unreadable, eyes fixed on the road. 

You don’t answer. You’re not sure what you could say. 

So you just turn your head back to the window, watching the quiet city blur by, willing yourself not to cry. Not yet. 

Not until you’re alone. 

- 

You wake up to a bright streak of sun slashing across your face. 

Your eyes are sticky—thanks to all the tears—and your body aches. You stretch your legs out and roll onto your back, careful not to slip off the couch cushions you curled up on last night. 

After regrouping at the office, both Sam and Joaquín offered to drive you home. You declined them separately—telling each you’d already agreed to leave with the other. It took some careful phrasing and a few weirdly timed trips out the front door, but it worked. And eventually, you were left alone. 

You stripped out of your dress and showered—because of course Sam has a shower at the office—before changing into a spare set of clothes you keep in case of emergency. Which, as it turned out, meant an old pair of loose gym shorts and one of Joaquín’s worn Air Force shirts. 

Then you settled in front of your computer and worked until it felt like your eyes were bleeding. You filed mission reports, checked maintenance logs, combed through security footage, and even tried digging deeper into Matías Navarro. But by four a.m., you were in Sam and Joaquín’s office, curled up on the low blue lounges and crying yourself to sleep. 

Partly from exhaustion. 

Partly from heartbreak. 

Mostly because you have no idea what to do about Joaquín Torres now. 

The sound of your phone vibrating against the table forces you to sit up. You rub at your eyes, yawn widely, and reach for it, flipping it over to see Joaquín’s goofy caller ID photo lighting up the screen. 

You stare at it, gnawing on lower lip until the call ends. Then a notification pops up—missed call from Joaquín—followed by a flurry of texts asking how you are, where you are, and if you want to hang out today. 

It’s Sunday. Which means usually, you’d be dragging him to a market or a movie—something sickeningly wholesome, the kind of thing real couples do on their days off. But you’re not a real couple. You never were. And you really need to remember that. 

So you slip the phone into your pocket without replying, deciding to do it later—when you’re less raw. 

With a heavy sigh, you push off the couch and head for your own office, pausing only to start up the coffee machine on the way. You wake your computer, rubbing at your temples as the screen flickers to life. While you slept, it’s been classifying intel, parsing Navarro’s comms for patterns, links, anything actionable. And surprisingly, it’s found some. 

Good. Now you have something to show Sam so he doesn’t kill you for working all weekend. 

You skim the new data for a few minutes before deciding that no amount of international weapons trafficking can be dealt with without caffeine. You’re halfway out your office door when— 

The alarm blares. 

You flinch. “Fuck!” 

Then you jog down the hall, push through the doors into reception, and swing around the desk. You punch your code into the alarm panel and silence the sirens—leaving only the sound of your pulse hammering in your ears. 

The system has been glitching for weeks—tripping randomly, resetting itself, spamming your phones with false alerts. But still, you drop into the chair and run a security check just in case, scanning for any open doors or tripped sensors. 

Once you get the all clear, you sigh and head back to the kitchen—now in desperate need of that goddamn coffee. 

You spend the next half hour glued to your screens, sipping coffee like it’s oxygen and stretching your sore back every five minutes. You’re so deep in the data that you don’t even hear your office door open. 

Not until— 

“Did you sleep here, cariño?” 

You jump, knocking your chair back a couple inches and sending your coffee mug clattering across your desk. 

“Shit, Joaquín,” you mutter, reaching for the tissues. 

“Sorry,” he chuckles, stepping in and snatching the box before you can. 

Luckily, the mug was nearly empty. There’s only a small puddle to mop up—which he does for you, dabbing at the spill with a clump of tissues, careful not to let anything touch your electronics. 

“There,” he says, tossing the wad into the bin. “Now, are you gonna answer me?” 

You frown. “Answer what?” 

He rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of your desk, invading your space and flooding your senses with the sharp, fresh scent of his cologne. He’s clearly just showered, and God, it’s almost rude how good he smells. 

“Did you sleep here?” 

Your cheeks burn. “Maybe.” 

His smile fades, eyes narrowing. “You told me Sam was taking you home.” 

“And I told Sam you were taking me home.” 

“So you lied.” 

You shrug. “Embellished.” 

He groans, tipping his head back. “Por Dios, me vas a matar algún día.” 

You squint up at him, lips pursed. “Something about God and dying?” 

He looks back at you, amused now. “You really need those Spanish lessons, mi amor.” 

“Well,” you sigh, dragging your eyes back to your screen, “I’ll try to squeeze it in, but I’m a field agent now. My time is valuable.” 

He chuckles again, low and warm, and shifts on the desk—just enough for his body to inch closer. Close enough to feel. Close enough to make your skin heat and your heart race. 

“What are you doing here, anyway?” you ask, forcing yourself not to look at him. 

“The alarm went off,” he says, holding up his phone. “Then I checked whose code turned it off and saw that you’re working. On a Sunday. You know Sam’s going to kill you, right?” 

You frown at your screen. “So if you figured I was working… why are you here? To watch me type?” 

He pauses, eyes fixed on you. You feel the weight of it, even as you refuse to meet his gaze. He knows something is off. He’s not stupid. He probably knows you better than you know yourself—and this? This isn’t normal. Not your usual rhythm. Not your usual banter. 

“Actually,” he says, sliding off the desk. “I’m here for your Spanish lesson.” 

That gets your attention. 

You glance up, brows pinched. “What are you talking about?” 

He moves toward the small whiteboard on the wall beside your desk and plucks the marker from the tray. 

“Joaquín,” you sigh, spinning in your chair to face him. “I don’t want a Spanish—” 

“Ah,” he cuts in, brow raised. “En español.” 

You give him a deadpan look. “I don’t know it en español.” 

He smirks. “Then it sounds like you really do need a lesson.” 

You exhale hard and lean back in your chair, crossing your arms and then your legs. “Go on, then. Maestro.” 

His eyes light up. “Muy buena, cariño. Now you’re getting it.” 

You don’t reply. You just stare at him, lips pressed into a flat, unimpressed line. 

He turns to the whiteboard and scribbles a phrase. You try not to look at his forearm as it flexes with each stroke of the marker—but God, it’s hard not to. 

“Alright,” he says, turning back with a smirk. “Go on.” 

You squint at the words, digging through years of memories—listening to Joaquín talk, watching him text his mother, the cheeky little notes he used to write in your birthday cards. 

“Estás... muy... guapo... hoy,” you say slowly. 

He chuckles, stepping closer. “It’s not ‘ess-tass.’ Loosen your tongue, cariño. Eh-stás. More breath. Less bite.” 

You roll your eyes, but try again. “Estás muy... guapo... hoy.” 

“Don’t chew it,” he says, folding his arms—and Jesus, do his biceps have to be so distracting? “It’s not gwaah-po. It’s cleaner. Crisper. Guapo. Let the ‘g’ glide. The ‘o’ is round. Like your mouth when you—” 

He stops—and laughs quietly, eyes gleaming. 

“Never mind. Try again.” 

You scowl at the board, determined not to let his arms—or his mouth—throw you off. 

“Estás muy guapo hoy.” 

He doesn’t say anything at first—just looks at you. Then that slow, dangerous grin spreads across his face. 

“Eso, mi amor,” he says. “You’re getting it.” 

Your lips twitch, but you don’t let him see it. You roll them together and raise your brows instead—quietly daring him to give you the next one. 

He turns back to the board and quietly writes out three more phrases. Each scribbled letter winds the tension tighter, threading the air with heat and anticipation—but you don’t know why. Not yet. You recognise some words, sure, but you can’t piece together the full sentences. 

“Me vuelves loco,” he says, overpronouncing it like a smug high school Spanish teacher. 

You sit up a little straighter, arms still folded tight across your chest, and echo, “Me vuelves loco.” 

He quirks an eyebrow. “Bien. De nuevo.” 

You know he’s just told you to say it again—more from the look on his face than his words. 

“Tell me what I’m saying first.” 

He grins, eyes darkening with something dangerous. “You drive me crazy.” 

Your breath hitches, pulse spiking—but you manage to keep your cool. 

“Me vuelves loco,” you repeat. 

He nods. “Very good, cariño. Next one?” 

You drag your gaze away from his stupidly handsome face—ridiculous facial hair still perfectly intact—and squint at the next phrase. You don’t recognise it. 

“Ponte… de… rodillas?” 

He chuckles—low, throaty—and steps forward, stopping directly in front of you. “It’s not a question, mi amor. Say it like you mean it.” 

Your brow furrows as you look past him at the board. 

“Ponte… de rodillas.” 

He moves closer, voice dropping. “The ‘r’—you’re swallowing it. It should roll. Just a little. Ro-dí-llas. You’re saying it too flat.” 

You try again. “Ponte de… rodillas.” 

He tsks. “Softer on the ‘ll’. It’s not rod-ee-yas, it’s ro-dee-yas. Let it melt. Let it glide off your tongue.” 

You give him a look. “If you think I’m going to get turned on by grammar—” 

“Not grammar,” he smirks. “Just me.” 

You roll your eyes—but he’s stepping even closer now, towering over you, eyes gleaming with that same reckless hunger he wore last night. 

“Say it right,” he murmurs, “and maybe I’ll listen.” 

“Listen?” 

He nods once. “Maybe I’ll do what you’re telling me to do.” 

You’re breathing harder now, your chest rising and falling beneath crossed arms. Your legs feel heavy, unsteady—too tense to stay crossed—so you shift in your chair, uncrossing them as Joaquín watches every movement like a predator tracking prey. 

“Look me in the eye,” he says softly. “Say it again. And mean it.” 

You clear your throat and meet his gaze. “Ponte de rodillas.” 

There’s a beat—one, long charged second where he just stares. 

Then—he sinks to his knees. 

His hands slide up your thighs as he settles between them, a wicked smirk curling his lips. He looks entirely too pleased with himself—and something else. Something darker. 

“See?” he murmurs. “Estoy de rodillas por ti, mi amor.” 

Your heart is in your throat, pulse pounding like a war drum. It fills your ears, thrums beneath your skin. Every nerve ending burns where his hands rest—just above your knees—like he's branding you. 

“Next one,” he murmurs, leaning in. 

Your voice catches before you can speak. You’re frozen, eyes locked on him as he lowers his face between your thighs, gaze fixed at the apex. 

You force yourself to look away—back to the board—blinking until the letters come into focus. 

“I… I don’t know.” 

“Just try it, baby,” he says, breath hot against the tender skin inside your thigh. 

You swallow, voice shaking. “N-Necesito… sentirte… adentro.” 

He draws a sharp breath, jaw tightening like he’s barely holding himself together. His hands slide higher, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shorts. 

Your whole body tenses. 

“Joaquín, I—” 

“Uh uh.” He pulls back slightly, just enough to make you ache. “Dilo de nuevo.” 

You blink down at him. “What?” 

“Say it again,” he murmurs, dark eyes dragging up to meet yours. “And I’ll reward you.” 

Your head spins. He’s still there, between your legs, looking at you like you’re something holy and wreckable all at once. This has to be a dream. There’s no way this is real. 

But the heat is real. The ache. The want. 

“Necesito,” you say slowly, breath shaky, “se—sentirte adentro.” 

He groans low, sliding his hands higher, fingertips brushing the edge of your panties. 

“Better,” he mutters. “But I know you can do it right, cariño.” 

You clutch the arms of your desk chair, grounding yourself, trying not to move. Trying not to beg. 

“Necesito sentirte… adentro.” 

His hands move again—slow and sure—one hand pushing your shorts aside, the other tracing down your centre, teasing along the fabric of your panties. He lets out a deep sigh before pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses to the inside of your thighs, moving higher with each wet press of his lips. 

“Better,” he mutters against you. “But it’s not ‘sen-teer-teh’—you’re flattening the ‘i’. It’s sentir—longer. Feel it in your throat. Let it roll.” 

His thumb drags gently along the crease between your thigh and your core, teasing the elastic. 

“You want it?” he whispers. “Say it right.” 

Your grip tightens on the arms of your chair. You close your eyes, suck in a breath, and try again—voice lower now, weighted with need. 

“Necesito… sentirte adentro.” 

A sound escapes him—almost a growl—and he dips lower, mouthing you through the fabric. You gasp, hips twitching. The heat of his breath, the shape of his mouth—it’s overwhelming. 

“Good girl,” he says softly, lips dragging over you. “Almost perfect.” 

You whimper, your body arching involuntarily. “Tell me,” you whisper. “Tell me how to say it.” 

He chuckles against you, the vibration sharp and sinful. “You’re rushing it. Slow down. Let me hear you want it.” 

His hands are steady on your thighs now, anchoring you open as his mouth hovers just above your pussy. Breath hot, cheeks flushed, dark eyes locked with yours—waiting. 

You draw a breath, forcing your voice to steady, and say, “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

“Sí,” he groans. “Eso es todo, mi amor.” 

Then his fingers hook around the fabric of your panties and shove it aside. His mouth is on you just as quick, tongue hot and slick and merciless as he finally rewards you—lapping at your wetness like a man starved. 

You break—letting out a broken cry. One hand flies to his hair, threading through the curls, while the other grips the edge of your desk. Your hips lift into him as his broad tongue licks a slow stripe from entrance to clit. He groans into you, the vibration sending sparks shooting up your spine. 

Your thighs shake, breath coming hard and fast, but Joaquín doesn’t let up. He works his tongue in slow, devastating circles around your clit—just light enough to drive you insane, just heavy enough to make you twitch with every pass. Then he flattens it and licks up again, long and firm, before closing his mouth around your clit and sucking—slow, purposeful, obscene. 

“Así,” he growls into you, voice low and ruined. “Así me gusta verte.” 

Your hips buck. Your fingers tighten in his curls. 

“Joaquín—” 

He slides one hand higher, fingertips trailing over your inner thigh before gliding straight to your entrance. He drags two fingers through your folds—slow, deliberate, torturous—coating them in your slick, collecting the wetness, then finally pushes in. One knuckle, then two, sinking deep into your heat, his breath catching as he feels how ready you are. 

You gasp—sharp and high-pitched—and he groans into you like the taste is making him drunk. 

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs against your cunt. “Mierda.” 

You whimper something incoherent, every nerve in your body screaming, and he curls his fingers just right—hooking them inside you, hitting that spongey spot that makes your thighs spasm and your mouth fall open. 

And still, his tongue doesn’t stop. He licks and sucks and flicks, lips wrapped around your clit like a prayer, and when he groans into you—low and wrecked—it sends a full-body shudder straight through you.  

“Say it again,” he pants, fingers pumping deep and slow. “Say it. Dímelo otra vez.” 

You’re half gone—hips jerking forward, body sliding closer to the edge with every wet, filthy sound echoing between your thighs. 

You choke on your breath, trembling as you manage to say, “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

He growls—honest-to-God growls—and his fingers speed up, curling faster, thumb brushing your clit just as his lips close around it again. 

“Buena chica,” he rasps. “I’m going to make you cum with my mouth, with my fingers—todo lo que me pidas.” 

Then he sucks—hard. One long, deep pull with tongue and fingers working in tandem, filthy and focused and fucking lethal. 

You cry out, hips bucking, the hand on his hair holding him against you as you grind on his mouth. 

He groans into the mess he’s made, lapping it up like it’s sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, fucking you with his fingers while his tongue traces lazy, hungry circles. 

Your body shakes. You grip his hair like a lifeline, breath shattered. 

“Joaquín,” you pant, tugging on his curls. “Joaquín, I need—I need—” 

“Gonna cum, baby?” he murmurs, curling his fingers again. “Gonna cum on my tongue?” 

You let out a strangled moan as he licks you again, the tip of his tongue swirling around your clit as his fingers pump in and out with an obscene squelching sound. 

“Joaquín,” you say again, firmer this time. 

His eyes flick up, meeting yours. 

“Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

He freezes. Everything stops. His fingers stop mid-thrust and he just stares at you, lips glistening, eyes wide. 

“Joaquín Torres,” you say, breathless, chest heaving. “I need you inside me. Right fucking now.” 

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares up at you like you’ve broken something in him—something sacred. 

Then, slowly—deliberately—he pulls his fingers from your body and rises to his full height. 

You whimper, aching at the loss, feeling hollow. 

His face is flushed. His lips are swollen and slick. He looks wrecked, staring down at you now with wide eyes and an expression so raw it makes your chest tighten. 

“Are you sure, cariño?” he asks, voice quieter now. “We don’t have to. I—” 

“I’m in love with you,” you say, rising from your chair to stand in front of him, a small, sheepish smile tugging at your lips. “And I’d really like it if you fucked me right now.” 

He just stares. Lips parted. Eyes wide. Brows drawn like he’s trying not to cry or laugh or do both at once. 

Then, slowly, his lips curl into that familiar grin. The one you know too well. The one you love more than anything else on Earth. 

“I knew it,” he says. “I fucking knew it.” 

You roll your eyes, biting back a grin. “Oh, did you now?” 

He nods, arms sliding around your waist, pulling your body flush to his. “Why do you think I just gave you the best head of your life?” 

Your brows lift, and a laugh bubbles from your throat despite yourself. “Of my life?” 

He nods again, grinning like a kid on Christmas morning. 

“I don’t know,” you murmur, gaze dipping to that stupid moustache—still glistening with your slick, making your thighs clench. “I didn’t even cum…” 

His grin drops, and he growls. A deep, guttural sound—low in his throat and hot on your skin—as his hands flex around your waist. Then in one fast, fluid motion, he twists your bodies and slams you back against the desk. 

You gasp, hands flying to grip the edge for balance. But before you can speak, his mouth is on yours. 

And fuck. 

It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s not careful. 

It’s years of holding back, years of wanting, all pouring out in one searing, breath-stealing kiss. His lips crash against yours, tongue demanding entry, teeth nipping at your lower lip like he’s angry he waited this long. 

Your arms wind around his neck, pulling him closer, tighter, until there’s nothing between you but heat and desperation. He kisses like he wants to devour you—like he’s trying to rewrite every second you spent not doing this. 

His hands fumble at your waist, tugging at your shorts, pulling them down as you shift your hips to help. Once they fall to the floor, he starts yanking at his belt with shaking fingers. 

“Fuck,” he mutters against your lips, breath ragged. “Fuck, I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long—” 

You reach down to help, fingers brushing his as you undo his fly and push his pants and briefs down just far enough. His cock springs free, thick and flushed and already leaking against his stomach. 

Your hand wraps around him on instinct—hot, hard, pulsing in your grip—and he curses again, burying his face in your neck. 

You stroke once. Twice. Just enough to hear him moan against your throat. 

Then—he pulls back, eyes wild, teeth clenched as he grabs the base and drags himself over your still-covered core. Nothing but the soaking wet scrap of lace left between you. 

“Feel that?” he rasps. “That’s what you do to me.” 

He pushes again, the thick head of his cock dragging over your clit through the soaked fabric, the pressure maddening. Your hips jerk, mouth falling open. 

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters, dragging the tip down your slit again. “You’re so fucking wet.” 

Your hand grips the desk, the other tangled in his curls as you breathe out, “Joaquín—please—” 

He looks at you like a man on the verge of losing control. Then he nudges your nose with his, resting his forehead against yours, breath mingling, eyes blazing. 

“Say it again,” he breathes. “One more time. Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

Your breath shudders as your eyes lock on his, your voice barely more than a whisper—raw, pleading. “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

He groans—low, filthy, possessive—and grabs your thighs, lifting you onto the edge of the desk so fast it knocks the breath from your lungs. Then his hands are under your shirt—palms searing as they skim your stomach, over your ribs, until they find your bra. 

Without hesitation, he shoves it up—then your shirt—baring your breasts. He groans, deep and guttural, eyes locking on you. “Fucking perfect,” he mutters, voice reverent and wrecked. 

His mouth latches to your chest, hot tongue flicking over your nipple before his lips wrap around it and suck—hard. His other hand is already at your soaked panties, pulling them to the side again, and you feel the head of his cock notch against your entrance. 

“Please,” you gasp, one hand tangled in his hair, the other clawing at his bare back. “Joaquín—now.” 

He lifts his head, eyes burning, forehead resting against yours again. 

“You want me?” he asks, cock dragging along your folds. “You want every inch?” 

You nod, breathless, trembling. “Yes. I want you to fill me up. I need to feel you inside.” 

He curses under his breath, grips your waist, and thrusts forward. 

All the air leaves your lungs in a strangled cry as he slides inside—slow, thick, relentless. He doesn’t stop until he’s buried to the hilt, your bodies pressed tight, his mouth open against your throat. 

“Jesus, baby,” he groans, “you feel so fucking good. So warm. So tight. So perfect around me.” 

You whimper, legs wrapping around his hips, pulling him deeper—closer. He starts to move, hips rolling forward, dragging his cock nearly all the way out before driving back in with a filthy, wet sound that echoes in the office. 

“Fuck,” you gasp, nails raking down his back. “Just like that—don’t stop.” 

“I’m not stopping,” he growls, thrusting harder now. “Not until you scream my name. Not until everyone in this damn city knows you’re mine.” 

His hand slides up again, squeezing your breast, thumb flicking your nipple as he pistons into you—faster, deeper, every stroke hitting that spot that makes your vision go white at the edges. 

“You’re gonna cum for me now,” he pants, “and I’m gonna feel every second of it. You hear me?” 

You nod—wild, breathless—but it’s not enough. 

He thrusts hard, dragging a moan from your throat. Again. And again. Every push deeper, rougher, angling just right. Your head tips back, your hands scrambling for purchase—on the desk, on his shoulders, anywhere. 

“Fuck, Joaquín—” you gasp, already so close. 

But suddenly, he stops. 

Buried to the hilt and breathing like he ran a marathon, he stills, chest heaving. 

“Look at me,” he growls, his hand catching your chin and forcing your gaze to his. “I said look at me.” 

Your eyes snap open, dazed and wide, vision blurred. 

“I fucking love you, cariño,” he says—raw, desperate. “So fucking much. You feel that?” He rolls his hips, just once, dragging a broken sob from your lips. “That’s what love feels like. Me, inside you, losing my fucking mind.” 

You whimper, thighs trembling around his waist, and he doesn’t wait. He starts to move again—deep and punishing, hitting every spot that makes you see stars. 

“Tell me you love me,” he growls, one hand sliding up under your shirt again to squeeze your breast, fingers pinching your nipple until you're writhing. “Tell me, baby. Say it.” 

“I love you,” you gasp, voice breaking as he thrusts deeper, harder. “Fuck, Joaquín—I love you—I love you—” 

“That’s it,” he mutters, pressing his forehead to yours, fucking you like he means it—like he needs it. “Say it again.” 

“I love you.” 

His mouth crashes to yours mid-moan, swallowing the sound as he pounds into you, the desk rattling beneath your ass, every stroke sending shocks of heat down your spine. You can feel it building—tight and dangerous—coiling deep in your core like a spring about to snap. 

“You gonna cum for me, mi amor?” he rasps, lips dragging along your jaw as his thrusts start to stutter. “Gonna cum on my cock like a good girl?” 

Your entire body is shaking, one hand in his curls, the other clawing down his back as you choke out, “Yes—yes, I’m so close—don’t stop—” 

“I won’t,” he promises, voice wrecked. “Not until I feel you lose it. I want it all, baby. Cada maldita gota.” 

His hand slides down your torso, fingers finding your clit and rubbing tight, filthy circles in perfect rhythm with his hips. The pressure hits you like lightning—sharp, electric, blinding. 

“Oh my God, Joaquín—" 

You break. 

You fall apart. 

Your orgasm hits with devastating force, tearing through you in waves, pulsing around him as he groans—loud, low, carnal. He thrusts once, twice more, then stills inside you with a harsh, broken shout of your name, spilling deep as he holds you close like he’ll never let you go. 

You’re both panting, chests heaving, grinding slowly to ride out the high and clinging to each other in the aftershock—sweat-slicked, breathless, totally undone. 

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t move. Just presses a soft kiss to your temple and stays buried deep inside you. 

“I’m so fucking in love with you, it hurts,” he whispers. 

You let out a breathless laugh—half delirious, half disbelieving—and tip your head up to look at him. His hair is a mess, his face flushed, his lips swollen from kissing you stupid. He looks wrecked. Ruined. Beautiful. 

“I can’t feel my legs,” you murmur. 

He grins, still inside you, still pressed so close you can feel his heartbeat hammering through his chest. 

“Good,” he says, smug and a little dazed. “Means I did my job.” 

You smack his shoulder, giggling now, and he catches your wrist—pressing a kiss to your palm, then the inside of your elbow, then the curve of your jaw. 

“You’re such an idiot,” you say, fingers carding through his curls while his lips assault your neck. 

His nose nuzzles into your skin. “Yeah,” he whispers, “but I’m your idiot.” 

“God help me,” you mumble, smiling into his shoulder. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression so open it makes your stomach flip. “You okay?” he asks, voice low and sincere. “Not just physically—I mean, really.” 

You nod, heart suddenly so full you feel like it might burst. “Yeah. I’m better than okay.” 

His smile softens. “Good. Because I’m not pulling out until I get at least one more necesito sentirte adentro.” 

You bark a laugh, head falling back. “You’re insatiable.” 

He shrugs, hips shifting just enough to make you gasp. “And you’re going to be fluent soon.” 

You tip your head forward, looking at him through your lashes, voice dropping to a sultry murmur. “Necesito sentirte adentro.” 

“God,” he groans, dropping his forehead to yours. “Vas a ser mi muerte.” 

He rolls his hips again, and you suck in a breath—he’s still hard, still thick and hot, dragging through your slick with maddening pressure. Your fingers twist tighter in his hair as you lift your chin and kiss him—hard and soft all at once, pouring everything into it. 

But then— 

You stop. And pull back. 

That sharp little ache flares behind your ribs, reminding you why you were in this office on a Sunday in the first place. Why you cried yourself to sleep. Why you weren’t even sure you could look at Joaquín today, let alone fuck him. 

He blinks, brow creasing. “What’s wrong, mi vida?” 

“Last night,” you murmur, eyes dropping to where your hand is fisted in his shirt. “Why didn’t you kiss me?” 

He gently hooks a finger beneath your chin, guiding your gaze back to his. “On the dancefloor?” 

You nod slowly. 

“I didn’t kiss you on that dancefloor in front of a hundred criminals because I didn’t want our first kiss to be undercover,” he says softly. “Didn’t want you thinking it was just for show.” 

“Oh.” Your lips twitch into a smile. 

He chuckles, soft and low. “Is that why you were upset? Because I almost kissed you and didn’t?” 

You nod again, slower this time. Cheeks burning, heart thudding. 

“Oh, mi amor,” he sighs, voice warm with laughter. “What am I going to do with you?” 

“Well,” you murmur, fingers curling tighter in his hair, “you could start by fucking me again.” 

That’s all the encouragement he needs. His lips are back on yours in a second, hips rolling forward, his hard length pushing into you with the most delicious stretch. You moan against his mouth, hiking your legs up higher around his waist to feel him deeper. 

His hands grip your hips with bruising intensity, searing fingerprints into your skin—marks you know will make you squeeze your thighs every time you see them. 

And then— 

Ping! 

The sound of your phone cuts through the soft whisper of skin on skin. Neither of you can help but glance at it, sitting screen-up on the desk right beside where Joaquín is fucking you slowly. 

“What’s that?” he asks, eyes narrowing. 

“Just a motion alert,” you reply. “I set it up a while ago when I was working a lot of weekends because Sam would come in and scare the crap out of me.” You look back at him, eyes trailing over his face so close to yours. “Doesn’t help though. I didn’t see the notification when you came in.” 

He frowns. “So it alerts you when someone enters the building?” 

“Yep.” 

“Right.” His eyes flick to the phone, then back to you. “So... someone just entered the building?” 

Your eyes go wide. “Fuck.” 

You grab the phone and unlock it with shaky fingers, bringing up the security system app and quickly flicking through the camera feeds until you find movement. 

Your breath catches. “It’s Sam.” 

“Shit,” Joaquín hisses, pulling out so quickly it leaves you winded. 

You let out a pathetic little whine, and he can’t help but chuckle as he fumbles with his pants. 

“Later, baby. I promise,” he says, stealing one last kiss. “But Sam is going to be here in a few seconds, and he’s going to know what just happened in here if we don’t—” 

Knock, knock, knock. 

“You in there, kid?” 

You both whip toward the door, seeing Sam’s blurred silhouette through the frosted glass. 

“Quick, cariño,” Joaquín whispers, helping you off the desk. 

You scramble into your shorts, yank your bra and shirt into place, then turn to Joaquín, raking your fingers through his wild curls—both of you stifling laughter like love-drunk fools trying to clean up a crime scene. 

Knock, knock, knock. 

“I can hear you.” 

You clear your throat, nod at Joaquín, and step around the desk toward the door. As you grab the handle, you glance back—and spot a little pool of evidence on the desk. 

“Joaquín,” you hiss, pointing at it. 

His eyes go wide, and he quickly sits on it, trying to look casual—as if he hadn’t just been buried inside you right there thirty seconds ago. 

Then you yank the door open, plastering on your most innocent smile. 

“Hey, Sam!” you say, probably a little too brightly. 

His hand was poised to knock again, but he drops it slowly, eyes narrowing as they bounce between you and Joaquín. 

“Hi,” he says, slow and suspicious, stepping into the room. 

You shuffle back toward the desk, sliding in beside Joaquín, praying to any god that might listen that Sam can’t read the Spanish on the goddamn whiteboard. 

“What are you two doing?” Sam asks, brows raised. 

“Working,” you both say, in perfect unison. 

Sam cocks his head, clearly unconvinced. “Really? On a Sunday?” 

You nod. “Yep. I was running data on Navarro all night and found a few leads. He frequents this deli in Washington Heights, owned by—” 

“Why does it smell weird in here?” Sam interrupts, sniffing the air like a police dog. 

“Weird how?” Joaquín asks. “I came straight from the gym, so if it’s sweat, that’s probably—” 

“Did you two have sex in here?” Sam exclaims, eyes wide—locked on that fucking whiteboard. 

“No,” you say quickly. “I was learning Spanish. Joaquín was teaching me—” 

“I know what that says,” he cuts in, pointing at it, brows drawn and lips pursed like he’s trying not to gag. 

“I was just being funny,” Joaquín says, tone light. “Nothing happened.” 

Sam raises a brow. “Oh, okay. So if I check the security footage, it’s not going to show anything?” 

Your heart lurches, your cheeks burn, and you turn toward Joaquín, burying your face in his chest with a groan. 

You hadn’t even thought about that stupid little security camera in the corner of your office. 

“I knew it!” Sam cries. “I can’t believe you two. This is a place of work,” he goes on, already climbing onto his high horse. “You just violated my trust—and the trust of everyone on this team. This is an environment for professionalism, not sex. I can’t believe you’d do something so reckless, so—” 

“Didn’t you bring a date back here the weekend after we started operating?” Joaquín asks suddenly, brows raised. 

You lift your head, blinking. “Oh my God. You did! What was her name—Kylie? Casey?” 

Sam freezes. His expression drops. 

“You know,” Joaquín continues, turning to you, “we could probably find the footage from that night. I think I remember the date.” 

“Wouldn’t take long,” you add, grinning now. “Could scrub through it before we erase ours.” 

“Okay!” Sam blurts, throwing up a hand. “Okay. You heathens win.” 

Joaquín grins, wide and smug, wrapping an arm around your shoulder and pulling you closer. 

“Go through the cameras,” Sam instructs, already backing toward the door. “Delete the footage. Both incidents.” 

“No offense, Sam,” you mutter, grimacing, “I really don’t want to see that.” 

“I’ll do it,” Joaquín says cheerfully. “I’m actually a little curious about how Captain America—” 

“Enough,” Sam snaps, pointing at Joaquín—but the twitch in his lips betrays him. “Do it. Go home. Take tomorrow off. Hell, take the whole week if you’re going to be all over each other like this. Just don’t defile any more government property.” 

Then he’s gone. Out the door and down the hall, muttering something about kids these days. 

Joaquín hops off the desk and wraps his arms around you, smiling like a sinner who just got a free pass to heaven. 

“You think we should keep a copy?” he asks, eyes gleaming. “I bet it’s hot.” 

Your thighs clench instinctively, and you wrap your arms around his neck. 

“Oh, definitely. And Sam’s too—for blackmail. Just in case.” 

Joaquín laughs. “God. Could you imagine if Captain America’s sex tape got leaked?” 

“Might boost his approval rating,” you snort, moving to slide into your chair. 

He stands behind you while you pull up the security system app, his arms around your shoulders, lips brushing over your hair again and again. 

He murmurs it at first—I love you, I love you, I love you—until the words melt into Spanish, growing filthier, hungrier. You can’t understand all of it, but it doesn’t matter. 

Because you’ll make him teach you. 

Slowly. Thoroughly. 

Between your legs. All fucking night. 

On your way out of the gym, you swipe your access key at the gates and head for the exit.

“Happy birthday!” the woman behind the front desk calls out.

You almost do a double take, pausing mid-step toward the doors.

She laughs softly. “It pops up on our computer when you swipe your access key.”

“Oh,” you say, laughing too. “That makes sense. Thanks.”

She smiles. “Have a lovely day.”

You nod, flashing her an appreciative smile before slipping out the doors.

Even a simple interaction with a woman you’re pretty sure you’ve never spoken to before leaves you feeling warm. Some years, your birthday just feels good—and this year is one of those.

You head home, shower, and change into something soft and comfortable. You don’t always take your birthday off work, but this year you did. You’ve got big plans for rotting on the couch, baking yourself a cake, and eventually facetiming Joaquín—the only person you’re really waiting to hear from today.

You moved to D.C. with him not long after Sam officially made Joaquín the Falcon—not into the same apartment, but close. He helped you land a decent-paying job in a lower-level government office and, over time, started looping you in on all things Captain America.

You’ve been best friends since freshman year of high school... and in love with him since junior year—when the hormones kicked in and you started wishing your vibrator was him instead.

The years between high school and moving to D.C. sucked whenever he was deployed—but the second he came home, everything felt right again. You tried dating, tried moving on—but nothing ever really worked out, and eventually, you accepted your fate. You made peace with the fact that you were doomed to live out your days as a semi-tragic spinster hopelessly in love with her best friend.

It’s honestly not as depressing as it sounds, because having Joaquín in your life, in any capacity, has always been enough. You love him regardless. He doesn’t need to know just how much—only that you’re always here for him.

And the rhythm you’ve found together is perfect. There’s no point risking it just because he happens to be the single most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

You’re perfectly content with fantasising about him in the dark, missing him when he’s off on missions, and enjoying your perfectly platonic Friday night 'date nights' whenever he’s got time between Falcon duties.

You’re happy. Truly.

Perfectly satisfied with the life you’re living—if you ignore the way your chest aches whenever you think about it a little too hard.

By one p.m., your cake is in the oven, the sun is bathing your studio apartment in warm golden hues, and you’re curled up on the couch watching one of your favourite 90s romcoms. It might seem a little sad to someone on the outside, but honestly, you couldn’t be happier.

Moving to D.C. meant leaving most of your family and friends behind, but being near Joaquín has meant you’ve never really been lonely—unless he’s off on missions, of course. And even then, he texts you, calls you, checks in—even if he’s halfway across the world in a completely different time zone.

This time, he’s in Hawaii. You’re not exactly sure where, but you know he’s about six hours behind. Which means…

You grab your phone off the couch beside you and check your notifications. There are a couple more messages from extended family, a few happy birthday promotional emails, and a single response from a friend you replied to earlier.

Huh. Weird.

It’d be at least seven a.m. for him by now—he should definitely be awake.

Maybe he’s just got stuff to deal with. Maybe he’s getting himself sorted for the day before he calls or messages. You can understand that—sometimes you just need a shower or a coffee before facing the world.

You drop your phone back on the couch, face down, and try to will your pulse to settle.

It’s fine. There’s no need to be dramatic.

It’s Joaquín.

You’ll hear from him soon.

Once the movie finishes, you start another—one you often watch when you need a little comfort. You keep yourself busy by decorating your cake, planning what you’ll order for dinner, and doing a little online shopping you’ve decided you’re absolutely entitled to today.

By the time that movie ends, you let yourself check your phone again. And—

Nothing.

Okay. Very weird.

It’s at least nine a.m. in Hawaii. He usually messages you by now.

You scroll back and reread the first message from yesterday.

12:02PM: Good morning, cariño! How did you sleep? I miss your face and I miss my bed. I’m convinced this motel bed is filled with nails.

That would have been six a.m. for him. A little early—but not unusual for him to text at that time. Still, it doesn’t mean he’s forgotten. He’s probably just busy. Maybe he slept in and had to rush around this morning. You wouldn’t put it past him.

For him, the day is still young. And he’s on a mission.

There’s no need to cry. Pull it together.

You blink quickly, swallow the lump in your throat, and toss your phone aside again.

For the next couple of hours, you do everything you can not to think about Joaquín. You do a face mask, a hair mask, take an extra-long shower, spend way too long moisturising every inch of your body, and then sit down to paint your nails. You smudge them several times and start over with a new colour—twice—before giving up entirely.

Then you decide to make yourself some tea, cut a piece of cake, and settle on the couch for yet another movie.

You check your phone a couple of times, unable to stop yourself now, and your stomach sinks lower with every disappointing flash of your lock screen.

Now you’re starting to panic.

Is he hurt? Missing? Bleeding out in some alley while you’re sitting here waiting for a text?

Could he have been kidnapped? Detained somewhere? Or worse—

No. You can’t think like that. This is Joaquín you’re talking about. He’s the Falcon. Ex-military. Strong. Capable. And this mission isn’t even dangerous—just recon and a little training for some of Sam’s new field operatives.

Joaquín is fine. He’s just busy.

Maybe he’s out in the field today and doesn’t have reception.

There are a million possible explanations for his lack of communication—and none of them include him being dead.

But still, you feel sick. It’s past six p.m. now, which means just after noon for him. It’s unusual not to hear from him by now, but maybe he’s just waiting until he can call you.

Yeah. That’s probably it.

He’s going to call later, and he wants to save everything he has to say for then.

You take a deep breath and try to focus on ordering dinner. You pick your favourite restaurant, order more food than you usually would, and hit submit.

Then you turn your attention back to the TV and pick a movie with an actor in it that kind of reminds you of Joaquín—a small slice of comfort that makes you feel just a little less alone. On the one day you were sure you wouldn’t feel as lonely as you have all week while he’s been away... somehow, you feel worse than ever.

After dinner, a couple of phone calls from family, and a glass of wine, the tears come.

You try to hold them back, but it’s no use.

You’re halfway through what feels like your twentieth movie of the day when you suddenly break. One minute you’re fine—numb, maybe—and the next, you’re sobbing. Full-body, can’t-catch-your-breath crying. Your chest is tight. Your head aches. Your breathing turns shallow and quick until your toes go numb, but none of it matters.

Because right now? You’re absolutely wrecked.

You don’t know whether to be angry or worried. You haven’t heard from Sam either—not that you expected to—but his silence only makes the panic worse. Joaquín could be hurt. He could be caught up in something. But deep down, one explanation cuts sharper than all the rest.

He just forgot.

You know it happens. You know he’s a superhero with bigger things to worry about than your goddamn birthday, but still—it hurts.

Because you would never forget his. Not even if you were on the other side of the planet. Not even if you were in another time zone, or fighting for your life. You would still find the time to send a text. Just something simple.

‘Happy birthday! Sorry I’m super busy today, but I’ll call you later. Love you!’

How hard is that? Just a quick message. Twenty seconds. One tap.

It’s not hard at all—and that’s what guts you the most.

Because if he really cared—if he cared about you the way you care about him—he would have done something by now. Anything. And maybe you’re being dramatic. Maybe you’re blowing it out of proportion, making the situation worse than it really is. But maybe you’re not.

Because this isn’t just silence. It’s a reminder. A reminder that you love him more. That you care more. That you’ve always been the one waiting, hoping, holding out for something he was never going to give.

You’ve always known you love him differently—in a way he doesn’t reciprocate—but you’ve always believed that you mattered to him. That he still loved you in his own way. That you were still important.

But apparently not.

Apparently, you don’t even make the list today—of all days.

And that’s why you’re sobbing into your couch cushion—shoulders shaking, face hot, heart splintering under the weight of it all—feeling like you should just pack up your whole apartment and move back home. Back to the people who at least care enough to send a goddamn birthday text.

It takes almost an hour for you to calm down enough to breathe properly—long, full breaths that actually get oxygen into your bloodstream. When you can finally feel your limbs again, you start to move. You turn off the TV, pack away the leftovers, and make your way to the bathroom.

You brush your teeth, wash your face, stare at your puffy, swollen eyes in the mirror, then head into your room and collapse into bed. You curl up beneath the covers and check your phone one last time.

And your heart nearly stops when you see his name on the screen.

You blink hard and rub your eyes to clear your vision, then tap on the message.

Hi, mi amor. Sorry I’ve been MIA today, I was training some of the new recruits for Sam and had to focus. I’m exhausted now. Want to call tomorrow night? I still miss your face.

You choke on your breath, your pulse thundering in your ears as the truth pulls at you like undertow, dragging you under before you can catch your breath.

Yeah. He forgot.

Tears rise again, quick and hot, spilling sideways onto your pillow as you stare at the message and wonder if you should even reply. You could send him a thumbs-up, or a simple k—but you’re not even sure he deserves that.

Then your phone buzzes with another message—this time from Sam.

Happy Birthday! Sorry I couldn’t message you earlier. I was stuck in meetings all day. I hope you had a great day, and I’m sorry for stealing your best friend, but I’m sure he’ll make it up to you when we get back. Only three more days. I promise not to extend it this time! xx – S

Normally, you’d laugh at the fact that Sam signs off all his texts, even though you have his number saved in your contacts—but not today. Today, it’s not funny.

With tear-blurred vision, you type out three red heart emojis and hit send—the only thing you can think of to reply with. Then you put your phone on Do Not Disturb, drop it face down on the bedside table, and cry yourself to sleep.

-

Your alarm wakes you up, and you turn it off without even glancing at the notifications on your screen. Every part of you wants to stay in bed, to disappear into the blankets and pretend the day doesn’t exist—but you force yourself upright and start moving through the motions of getting ready for work.

You still feel heavy—sad and a little hollow—but you know yourself well enough to understand that going into the office is better than wallowing in self-pity all day.

By nine a.m., you’re seated at your desk beneath the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, trying not to think about anything at all. Your email inbox isn’t too bad, which is a small mercy—because you truly don’t have it in you to do much today. In fact, you’re already planning to leave early, feigning a doctor’s appointment so you can crawl back into bed and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.

That’s the plan for the entire weekend, too. Even once Joaquín gets back. Even when he inevitably tries to see you—after you’ve ignored every call and text for the next few days. Whether he shows up at your apartment or, worse, your office, it doesn’t matter. You won’t be talking to him.

Still, a small and anxious part of you wonders if he’ll even try.

What if he doesn’t? What if your silence is all he needs to walk away? Maybe this is easier for him. Maybe he’s relieved. Maybe this was the plan all along—to forget your birthday, to push you away, to finally cut the tie without having to say the words.

What if he asked Sam to schedule the mission on purpose? What if it was deliberate, calculated, something he’s been building toward for months—just waiting for a clean excuse to let you go?

The thoughts hit you hard and fast, spiralling tight in your chest until it feels like you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but sit there beneath the buzz of the lights, nausea churning in your empty stomach as you try to hold yourself together.

“Hey.”

Your manager’s voice startles you, and your eyes snap up to where she’s standing beside your desk.

“You alright, hon? You look ill.”

She’s always been kind—warm in her own way, if a little distant—and you’ve never minded that management style. You like being trusted to work independently.

You clear your throat. “Yeah—um—well, actually, not really. I’m feeling a bit nauseous.”

Her brows pinch together, and she leans in slightly. “Go home if you need to.”

You take a deep breath and offer her a watery smile, blinking back the sting of fresh tears. “I might just clear some emails and head home in a couple of hours. Is that alright?”

She nods. “Of course. Just let me know when you’re heading out.”

“I will. Thank you.”

She gives you a small, thoughtful smile, her dark eyes lingering for a moment—quietly curious—but she doesn’t press.

Once she walks away, you turn back to your screen and try to focus. You manage to lose yourself in the rhythm of work, the comfort of something familiar. One hour turns into two, then three, and before you know it, four hours have passed. You’re numb now—too empty to feel anything—but your empty inbox quickly invites back the swirling thoughts from before, and your eyes stray toward your untouched phone. The little device you’ve been ignoring since last night. Still on Do Not Disturb. Still sitting lifeless on your desk, exactly where you put it when you arrived this morning.

You take a deep breath and reach for it, feeling how unusually cool it is beneath your fingertips. Your heart pounds in your throat as you tap the screen and watch it light up. You flick off Do Not Disturb and slowly start scrolling through the notifications.

There are seven missed calls from Joaquín—some rapid-fire earlier this morning, the rest spaced further apart, and the last one only two minutes ago. Then there are his texts, too many to count, stacking one after another as you open the thread and begin to scroll.

Shit. I messed up. I’m so sorry. Please pick up, or call me back. I’m so sorry, cariño.

I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean to forget. I don’t have an excuse, but I need to talk to you. Please.

I don’t blame you for being angry, but I need you to answer me, cariño.

Please answer. Just let me know you’re okay.

I need to know you’re okay. Just one reply, please.

I can fix this, okay? I can make it up to you. I promise.

I need you to say something. I’m going insane over here.

I don’t blame you if you hate me, but I swear I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.

Baby. Please.

You read until your vision is too blurred by tears to make out the words. Then your phone starts buzzing in your hand, and you flinch. Sam’s name flashes on the screen—but you know it’s Joaquín.

You quickly decline the call, wipe the tears off your cheeks, and begin packing up your desk. Thankfully, the office isn’t too busy today, and no one seems to notice your breakdown—or if they do, they don’t seem to care.

By the time you’re ready to leave, your manager is still in a meeting, so you send her a quick text to let her know you’re heading home. Then you all but fall into the elevator and sob into your hands, trying to pull yourself together before you reach the ground floor.

You walk across the lobby with your head down, doing everything you can to avoid drawing attention.

Once outside, you hail a cab—desperate to get home as fast as possible—and cry quietly in the backseat while the driver glances curiously at you in the rearview mirror.

When you finally stumble into your apartment, there are two more missed calls and three new texts—one of them from Sam, asking if you’re okay. You don’t know if it’s really him or if Joaquín is using his phone still. Either way, you don’t care. You’re not replying.

Still crying, still gasping for a proper breath, you strip out of your work clothes, wash the makeup off your face, and collapse into bed. Then you cry harder. You sob. You spend the next hour—maybe more—howling into your pillow like a newly widowed wife.

You feel ridiculous, of course, but you can’t help it. Your heart hurts. Everything hurts. He seems sorry—he seems genuinely distressed—but you still can’t shake that awful weight from yesterday. The realisation that the person you love most in the world doesn’t love you back. Not the way you love him.

Maybe that’s why it hurts so much. Because deep down, you were still holding out hope—despite all the times you told yourself you’d made peace with it. Despite swearing up and down that you were happy just being his friend.

Maybe the truth is… you’re not.

You’re not happy. Or satisfied. Or content at all.

You’re lonely and aching and hopelessly in love with a man who has everything he needs without you. And that’s what guts you most. Because you know—deep in your chest, in the hollowed-out place where his absence lives—that Joaquín is okay without you.

But you without him? You’re unravelling. You’re not okay. You’re falling apart at the seams and he doesn’t even know it. You haven’t even truly lost him—not yet—but you feel like you have. And maybe you will. Because you don’t know if you can keep being his friend, not after this. Not now that you’ve seen the truth so clearly.

That you’ll never mean as much to him as he means to you.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

And you don’t wake up until midnight, when the world outside is dark and quiet and your body aches from the way you’ve been lying for hours—tangled in blankets, face swollen, head pounding from crying and dehydration. You feel dull all over. Empty. Like your emotions are swinging on a pendulum that just won’t stop—pulling you from the depths of heartbreak to a hollow, numb nothingness that makes your skin itch and your chest feel too tight.

You hate this. You hate how small you feel, and the fact that you still want him. Still want to hear his voice, feel his arms around you, have him whisper that everything’s going to be okay. That it was just an accident. That it didn’t mean anything.

But you can’t have that. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

So instead, you drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, hoping that a hot shower might help ease the ache in your limbs and loosen whatever vice is still wrapped around your chest.

After showering, brushing your teeth, and drinking at least a litre of water, you collapse onto the couch and pull out your phone. You take a deep breath and tap the screen, watching it light up with a ridiculous number of new missed calls and texts.

It’s chaos.

Please, please answer me, cariño. I’m begging you.

I know I messed up. I’m so sorry. I’m trying to fix it.

I’m getting a flight back tonight.

Your breath catches when you read that, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Sam is trying to hook me up. I’m not doing a layover, I’m coming straight home.

You don’t have to forgive me, but please hear me out. I know I’m an idiot, but I can’t lose you.

Your chest rises and falls too fast, breath coming in shallow gasps as you keep reading.

I think I have something. I’ll be home when you wake up tomorrow.

I hate how far away I am from you.

Your chest aches. Fresh tears sting your eyes.

Flight booked. I’m leaving soon. I love you so much and I can’t wait to see you.

I’m getting on the plane now. See you soon, baby.

Your hands are shaking. Your whole body feels tingly—nauseous, anxious, strung-out. You’ve never had such a physical reaction to anything in your life, but right now? You might actually throw up.

Because as much as you want to see him… you also really, really don’t. You know it’ll hurt too much. You don’t even know what you could possibly say.

With trembling fingers, you type the only thing you can think of—a weak attempt to stop him before he gets to you.

Don’t. I need space.

You don’t wait to see if he reads it. You don’t wait to regret it. You just power the phone off entirely and shove it beneath the couch cushions like that will somehow bury everything you’re feeling along with it.

Then you get up and start pacing. Back and forth. Over and over. Breathing hard. Thinking too fast.

What are you supposed to do when he shows up? What the hell are you supposed to say?

Could you ignore him? Pretend not to be home? Would he knock until the neighbours complained? Would he wait outside all day, refusing to leave until you answered?

God. You feel sick all over again.

And the worst part? You only have nine hours before he lands.

Nine hours to somehow piece yourself back together—before he walks through your door and tears you apart all over again.

-

You go back to bed at two a.m., but you can't sleep. You toss and turn, checking your phone for another message—just like yesterday, waiting for that birthday text that never arrived—but now for something else. Something worse. Something real. But of course, there’s nothing. He’s on a goddamn plane. On his way home. And in about seven hours, he’ll probably be standing at your front door.

By three a.m., you give up entirely. You throw the covers off, change into your gym clothes, make your bed with precision, and then start deep cleaning your apartment. All four hundred square feet of it—already spotless, already organised—because what else are you supposed to do?

You empty every cabinet, clear every shelf, strip the couch cushions, and move every piece of furniture. You dust, polish, vacuum, and mop until sunlight begins creeping through the curtains and your muscles throb from overuse. And when everything is finally back in place—looking exactly the same as it did before, just a little shinier—you’re exhausted.

So you drag yourself into the bathroom, peel off your sweaty clothes, step into the shower, and stand beneath the hot spray for far longer than necessary. You don’t even hear your phone ring while you’re in there, too focused on scrubbing every inch of your body, as if you can wash away the anxiety prickling beneath your skin.

When you finally step out, you dry yourself off, change into an oversized old shirt and a pair of comfortable panties, and text your manager to let her know you’re taking the rest of the week off. Then you collapse onto the couch and reach for the remote.

You’re just about to click on Netflix when—

Knock, knock, knock.

You freeze. Your breath catches, your fingers still on the remote, hands starting to tremble.

Then a few seconds later—

Knock, knock, knock.

“Cariño, it’s me.”

His voice is muffled but unmistakable—low, thick, and painfully familiar.

“Please open up.”

Tears sting your eyes. Your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Please, baby,” he says, voice breaking. “I know I fucked up, but I need to talk to you.”

For a second, it almost sounds like he could be your boyfriend—pleading with you after a stupid fight. Maybe he stayed out too late. Maybe you saw him with his arms around another girl.

But he’s not your boyfriend.

He never was. Never will be.

“I—” he hesitates, then clears his throat. “I have a key, but I don’t want to use it. I want you to let me in.”

Your stomach drops.

Fuck.

You forgot about the spare key—the one you gave him when you first moved in.

You take a deep breath and push off the couch, your legs unsteady beneath you as you cross the floor.

Either way, he’s getting in. But maybe—just maybe—you can stop him before he steps inside. If you can keep your voice steady. If you can make him believe you mean it.

You blink a few times—fighting back tears—and take a deep breath.

Then open the door.

Joaquín is standing there in the hallway—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted like he’s just forgotten how to speak. His curls are messy, flattened on one side like he tried—and failed—to nap on the plane. He looks exhausted. Worn thin. But the worst part is the look in his eyes. That soft, aching guilt that tells you he knows exactly how badly he hurt you.

“What?” you say, surprised by the steadiness of your own voice.

He blinks, clearly taken aback by your icy exterior. “Hey, I—I’m sorry, I—”

“I get it,” you cut in. “You’re sorry. I got all the messages. Is that it?”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again—swallowing hard. “I didn’t mean to forget—”

“But you did.” You hold his gaze, arms crossing over your chest like a shield. “You forgot me. Not a meeting. Not a dentist appointment. Me.”

His brows draw tight, hurt threading through his features. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you ask, voice steady—too calm. “It’s one day, Joaquín. One day in the whole year, and it didn’t even cross your mind.”

He steps forward, and you step back.

“I—I’ve never felt worse about anything,” he says, voice catching. “I’ve never hated myself like this.”

Your heart twists, but you don’t let it show. “Good.”

His eyes shine now—big, brown, and filled with unshed tears.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did,” you snap, a tear slipping down your cheek.

Fuck. You thought you were keeping it together.

“Baby,” he murmurs, stepping forward again.

“I’m not your baby, Joaquín.” There’s barely a few inches between you now, the zipper of his hoodie brushing your wrist where your arms are still crossed tight. “Stop calling me that.”

He looks down at you—not angry, just wrecked. So incredibly fucking sad. You’ve never seen him like this, and it’s finding every weak spot in your armour.

“How can I make it up to you?”

You scoff, tears still falling. “You can’t. You forgot. You did something I could never do to you, and—and you just proved what I’ve always known.”

His expression tightens. “Proved what?”

“That you don’t love me the way I love you,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. “That you don’t care as much. Because I could never forget your birthday. Not if I was in a different time zone, or—or trapped at the bottom of the ocean in a fucking submarine. I’d still find a way to talk to you. To tell you that I love you. To say happy birthday. But you—”

“I do love you,” he says, a tear tracking down his cheek. “I love you so much. And I don’t have an excuse, except that I’m a fucking idiot who forgot what day it was.”

You tip your head back and laugh—dry and bitter. “Yeah. Same shit, Joaquín. You forgot me.”

“No.” His voice cracks. “It’s not. You’re not just a date on a calendar. You’re—you’re everything. I think about you constantly. I talk to you in my head when I’m halfway across the world. I land in a new time zone and I want to tell you what the sky looked like when we touched down. I see something dumb and want to send it to you because I know you’d laugh. I—” He falters, breath shaking. “I’m in love with you. And I still forgot. What kind of person does that?”

Something in you breaks—a rib, a wall, your resolve—something.

You’ve been waiting to hear those words for years. Dreaming of them. Replaying fake versions in your head just to see how they might sound coming from his mouth.

But now that he’s actually said it—now that he’s standing in front of you, broken and trembling and saying he’s in love with you—your mind just blanks.

It doesn’t compute.

It hits you like a punch to the chest, and for a second, you genuinely forget how to breathe.

Because he can’t mean it. He just can’t.

If he did, he never would’ve forgotten. He never would’ve let you cry yourself to sleep or spiral or feel so completely fucking invisible on the one day of the year you’re supposed to feel special—loved.

You swallow hard, staring through the blur of your tears. “The kind of person who doesn’t love me enough.”

“No,” he says, suddenly too close—his hands hovering near your waist, not quite touching. “The kind who loves you too much and keeps fucking it up anyway.”

He’s shaking now. Visibly. Tears clinging to his lashes. Jaw tight like he’s holding himself together by a fraying thread.

“I thought I’d have time,” he says, voice breaking. “I thought I could stay close, keep loving you from the sidelines, and you’d never have to know how goddamn ruined I am for you. I thought if I kept it quiet, I could keep you in my life—because that was better than losing you completely. And for a while, it was enough. Just being near you. Just pretending.” He breathes in hard, like it physically hurts. “But it stopped being enough. And I was too fucking slow to say anything. I waited too long. I thought maybe—maybe one day you’d look at me the way I’ve always looked at you. But now you can’t even—”

You don’t know who moves first.

You don’t know if it’s you or him or both at once.

But his mouth crashes into yours, and you don’t stop it.

You gasp into the kiss like you’ve been underwater for days, like you’ve been holding your breath since the moment he forgot you—and this is the only way you’ll survive. Your hands find his chest, his shoulders, his face, gripping him like he might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough. He kisses you like he’s unravelling, like he’s been waiting for permission to fall apart and this—this—is the moment he breaks.

It’s heat and ache and urgency, all tangled into one. He groans into your mouth, something low and wounded, and you feel his hands trembling where they’ve come to rest at your waist—thumbs pressing into your sides like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you.

You whimper when he deepens it, and it tears something out of him. His breath stutters, hitching against your lips, and then he’s murmuring into the kiss—“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry”—his voice cracking on every word.

Your fingers thread into the curls at the nape of his neck, anchoring him there, pulling him closer even though your chests are already flush. You don’t care that you’re both crying. You don’t care that you’re still angry or that this should be harder than it is.

All you know is that his mouth on yours feels like home.

Every kiss is an apology. Every touch is a confession. Every tear sliding between your cheeks is a year of aching, unanswered want.

When he finally pulls back just enough to breathe, your lips are red, your faces damp, and his hands are still shaking where they cradle your ribs like he can’t quite believe that you’re real.

“I love you,” he whispers, breathless. “I don’t know how to stop.”

You shake your head, voice wavering. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

His lips crash against yours again, desperate, trembling with soft sobs that mix pain and need. Like he’s unravelling in the moment, and you’re the only thing holding him together.

“I—I need to make it up to you,” he pants against your mouth. “Baby, you gotta let me—”

His breath catches when your hands slip under his shirt, fingers trailing over the firm planes of his stomach before dipping lower, brushing the waistband of his jeans.

“How’re you gonna make it up to me?” you murmur, voice thick with heat.

Your fingers hook behind his jeans, tugging him closer until his hips press flush against yours—and you can feel how hard he already is. Just from kissing you.

His lips curl into a slow smile against yours, his voice dropping lower, rougher—raw with promise. “I’m gonna make you come undone, cariño. Over and over. So many times, you won’t be able to walk by the time I’m done showing you how sorry I am.”

Heat coils deep inside of you, a rush of fire and ice that burns all the way down, settling behind your hipbones—pulsing with every quickened breath.

Before you can think of something to say, before you can even draw a full breath, he’s kissing you again. He moves forward, and you step back, his lips never leaving yours—even as the door clicks shut behind him.

Then his hands are on your hips, firm and warm, fingers slipping beneath your shirt, and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you never put on pants. A small part of you is impressed he managed to keep eye contact earlier. But another part—a more insistent, very aware part—registers the way he smells.

It’s not bad. Just not him. He smells like sweat and stale air. Like stress and adrenaline and a man who’s been trapped on a plane for nine hours.

You pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him properly—his hair flattened on one side, shirt rumpled, jaw dark with day-old scruff.

“I think you need a shower,” you whisper, voice shaky with half a laugh.

His lips twitch, eyes still glassy. “Only if you’re coming with me.”

You take him in for a second longer—the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the familiar shape of a face you know too well. And then his eyes catch yours—still a little bloodshot, but so full of love it makes your whole body pulse with the need to stay wrapped around him forever.

“Okay,” you mutter, sliding your hand into his.

You bite down on your bottom lip to keep from smiling—he hasn’t earned that yet—and turn to lead him through the apartment. He knows the way, but he follows close, like he’s scared you might disappear.

You step into the bathroom first, let go of his hand, and reach into the shower to crank the hot water. Then you turn back—and your breath catches.

Because holy shit.

He’s so beautiful.

Even now—sweaty and tired and a little rough around the edges—he’s breathtaking.

And you’re about to see him. Each other. Naked. For the first time. Ever.

He steps closer, eyes locked on yours as he shrugs his hoodie off his shoulders. The zipper clicks against the tile as it hits the floor, but neither of you look—you just keep watching each other.

Then his hands move to the hem of his shirt, fingers hesitating for half a second before he pulls it over his head. The fabric lifts to reveal warm, golden skin and the sculpted lines of his chest and stomach, a soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

Your breath catches as you drink him in, eyes trailing over every inch with a quiet hunger that pulses low in your belly. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat blooming between them like a fuse catching fire.

“I can’t believe you came back early,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of the running shower.

His gaze softens, a small, uneven smile tugging at his lips. “I couldn’t be away from you any longer.”

The shirt joins his hoodie on the floor, and his hands drop to his jeans. He starts to unbutton them, but you step forward quickly, your fingers brushing his to stop him.

“Wait.”

He freezes, eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow. “Everything changes if we do this.”

His expression melts as his hands find your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “I know. I want it to. But we don’t have to rush. I just want to be here—with you.”

And just like that, your ribs crack open, and your heart falls right into his hands. Not that he didn’t already have it—but now, it’s his completely. You exist only for him. And there isn’t a sliver of hesitation in you. You don’t want anything else. Not now. Not ever.

You already knew this, of course. But right now, standing in front of him, memorising a face that’s already burned into the backs of your eyelids, you feel it settle into something bone-deep and permanent. He’s all you’ll ever need. As closely as possible. As deeply as possible. In every way he’ll let you have him.

“I want to,” you say softly, stepping closer until your bodies almost touch. “God, I’ve wanted you for so long, I don’t even know how to not want you anymore.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, but it catches on something else—something tender and breaking and real.

His smile is crooked, lips kiss-bruised and pink. “So we’re both idiots, huh?”

You nod, heat blooming in your cheeks. “Yeah. The biggest.”

Then your eyes drop to where your hand rests over his, right at the waistband of his jeans. You gently pull his hands away and begin to unbutton them yourself—fingers trembling, but sure. His breath hitches the moment your knuckles brush over the length of him, already hard and burning through the soft cotton of his briefs.

Your eyes flick up to his face, only to find him already looking down—watching every slow, deliberate movement as you drag the zipper down and start working the denim down his hips. He moves with you, grabbing the back of his jeans and shoving them down until they fall around his ankles.

You step back just a little, giving him room to step out of them—and to look.

Because God. Now he’s standing in nothing but those briefs, cock straining against the fabric, chest rising and falling like he can barely catch his breath. And it’s doing something to you.

He’s barely touched you, and you’re soaked. Just from looking at him.

“Think you need to catch up, mi amor,” he murmurs, voice low and thick.

His eyes drag up your bare legs and pause where the hem of your shirt brushes your thighs. He knows you’re not wearing anything underneath.

And now you’re trembling for an entirely different reason.

Your cheeks burn as you reach for the hem of your shirt and hesitate—but only for a second.

Then you quickly pull it over your head and let drop to the floor.

“Fuck,” he whispers, low and shaky.

And then he’s on you.

His hands are hot and urgent as they wrap around your waist, dragging you in until your bare chest presses flush to his. You gasp at the sudden rasp of his skin against your nipples—sensitive and aching—and he groans, deep in his chest, as his mouth crashes into yours.

The kiss is devastating. Open, messy, a little too much and nowhere near enough. He kisses you like he’s branding you—like the taste of your mouth belongs to him and he’s never letting you forget it.

You melt into it, into him, arms looped around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. His hips rock forward, cock grinding against your hip, and the friction makes you gasp again, makes your fingers tighten in his curls.

He groans into your mouth, deep and desperate, and the sound shoots straight through you.

You gasp against his lips as his hands slide lower, skimming the curve of your spine, tracing the waistband of your panties. He palms your ass, squeezing once—firm, possessive—before slipping his fingers beneath the fabric.

You whimper against his lips, knees almost buckling as he tugs your panties down in one swift movement. They fall to the floor, pooling around your ankles, and you step out of them blindly—too consumed by the way his mouth is moving over yours, by the feel of his skin against yours, to think of anything else.

Your hands find his hips, fingers curling beneath the elastic of his briefs. He groans as you drag them down slowly, the cotton catching on his hard cock before it springs free and the fabric falls to the floor. You suck in a shaky breath as you feel the full weight of him against your lower belly—then step back again just enough to look.

And fuck.

He’s so beautiful.

Chest heaving. Lips kiss-bitten and red. Eyes burning as they drag over your naked body like you’re the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen.

You take his hand in yours and step backward, pulling him toward the shower. The steam curls around you as you move, warm and thick in the air, and when you step beneath the warm spray of water, he crowds in again—bare skin pressed to bare skin, heat radiating between you like a second heartbeat.

He reaches for the body wash with one hand, the other trailing softly over your wet skin, and then lathers it between his palms before bringing them both to your body. He starts at your shoulders, working his way down your arms with steady pressure and soft murmurs.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice low and rough in your ear. “If I could take it back, I would. I love you so much, mi amor. I need you to feel it.”

You close your eyes and let him touch you, let his words wrap around you like the heat curling through the shower steam. His fingers glide over your ribs, your stomach, the undersides of your breasts. He’s gentle but thorough, brushing against the softest parts of you, the most vulnerable—never rushing, never greedy. Just present. Devoted.

“I missed you,” he says. “I miss you every second I’m not with you.”

Your breath shudders, and your hands move to return the gesture, trailing soap over the broad planes of his chest, down the ridges of his abs, over the sharp cut of his hips. He’s watching you—always watching you—with eyes that look like they might spill over at any second.

The quiet between you hums, heavy with want. Your fingers dip lower, following the lines of muscle that lead to his cock, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

But you don’t touch. Not yet.

“You’re killing me,” he says softly, forehead tipping forward to rest against yours.

You smile faintly, cheeks flushed from the steam—or maybe from the way you can feel him, hot and hard between you, aching to be touched.

“I’m gonna make it up to you, cariño,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your temple. “I promise. You’re gonna feel how sorry I am.”

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then dips lower—mouth dragging lazy, open kisses along your neck, over your collarbone, across your shoulder—each one slower than the last, like he’s trying to memorise every inch of your skin.

You can feel your pulse between your legs—heavy and insistent. Every breath makes you more aware of how slick you are, how achingly empty, thighs pressing together in search of friction that doesn’t come close to enough.

“Need a hand?” Joaquín mutters against your skin.

You whimper, fingers digging into his back as you wrap your arms around his neck and hold on tight.

He shifts closer, letting out a broken sigh when his cock brushes against your skin. “Gonna need to hear you say it, baby.”

He starts guiding you back until your spine meets the cool tile, his body boxing you in, all heat and muscle and sinful promise. His mouth keeps moving—hot, wet kisses trailing down your chest, leaving pink and purple marks in their wake—and you whine again, breath catching on the edge of a moan.

“Tell me you want me,” he murmurs, lips brushing even lower. “Tell me, and I’m yours.”

Then his mouth finds your nipple—warm, wet, perfect—and his tongue swirls over the sensitive bud until you're gasping.

“Need you, Joaquín,” you breathe. “Need you to touch me. I—I want you inside me.”

You feel his mouth twitch against your skin—still sucking, still relentless—but smiling

And then—

Oh, God

His fingers slip between your thighs and find your entrance with no effort at all—wet and ready for him.

He groans, guttural and low. “You’re so fucking wet, mi amor.”

You tip your head back with a breathless laugh. “Well, duh. We’re in the shower.”

He nips at your nipple in retaliation—just enough to make you yelp—then soothes it with his tongue before kissing across your chest to the other. The first brush of his mouth makes your back arch off the tile, heat flaring deep in your core.

His fingers dip lower—sliding easily through the wet heat between your thighs, and he groans again, like the feel of you is frying his goddamn brain.

"Fuck, baby," he mutters, voice ragged against your skin. "You’re so ready for me."

You whimper, thighs twitching as his fingers trace lazy circles around your entrance. Teasing. Testing. Making you shiver.

“Joaquín—"

He shushes you with a kiss, his free hand cupping the side of your face as the other finally slips one thick finger inside you. You gasp, nails scraping down his back as your hips stutter forward, chasing the stretch.

“So tight,” he breathes. “So warm.”

He starts to move—slow and steady—curling his finger just right as he watches your face from barely an inch away. And when your eyes flutter shut, breath hitching, he adds another.

Your moan echoes off the tile, high and broken.

“That’s it,” he whispers, breath brushing your lips. “Let me feel you.”

Your head drops back against the wall again, chest heaving, one leg lifting instinctively to hook around his hip and open yourself wider for him. He groans again—like he’s losing his sanity.

“Look at me,” he says softly, fingers working deeper now. “Wanna see you fall apart.”

You force your eyes open, blinking through the haze, and the second your gaze meets his—intense, reverent, absolutely wrecked—you clench around him hard enough to make his jaw snap tight.

“Fuck,” he growls, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel so good, baby. Gonna make you come just like this—just my fingers.”

Your breath comes out in shaky, desperate gasps, your hips rolling helplessly against his hand as he works his fingers inside you. Each curl brushes that perfect, aching spot, and your thighs are trembling now, barely holding you up.

Then his thumb finds your clit.

You cry out—sharp and breathless—as he rubs slow, deliberate circles that make your whole body tighten.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Feel so fucking good like this. Can’t believe I’ve never touched you here before.”

His mouth is everywhere—your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—before he finds your lips again and kisses you hard. Not sweet, not gentle. It’s filthy. Wet. Starving. His tongue curls into your mouth just as his fingers thrust deeper, his thumb grinding harder against your clit, and the moan you let out is swallowed by his kiss.

You’re panting into him now, legs shaking, nails raking across his shoulders. His cock is hard between you—thick and hot where it presses against your belly, and he shifts his hips just enough to drag it over your skin. Slow, firm pressure that makes your breath stutter and your knees nearly give out.

“You feel that?” he groans, rocking against you again. “Been hard for you since the second you opened that fucking door. Can’t stop thinking about how good it’s gonna feel when I’m inside you.”

Your head spins. The rhythm of his fingers, the pressure of his thumb, the weight of his cock grinding into your skin—it’s too much and not enough and you’re falling apart under it.

You gasp against his mouth, clinging to his shoulders. “Joaquín—oh my god—please—”

“I know, mi amor,” he pants, lips brushing your cheek as he fucks you with his fingers a little harder now, more insistent. “Almost there. Let me feel you come, baby. Just for me.”

Your whole body tightens. Heat coils low in your belly, fast and frantic now, about to burst—

And then he’s gone. Fingers, warmth, everything—gone.

Your eyes snap open just in time to see him drop to his knees, and the sight of him there—lips kiss-swollen, eyes dark with desperation—knocks you breathless.

“Let me taste you,” he says, voice rough and a little broken. “Please.”

You nod before you can even think—and then his mouth is on you.

He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and drags his tongue through your soaked folds with a low groan that vibrates through your entire body. You cry out, the sound ricocheting off the tile, and one of your hands flies to his hair—gripping hard, grounding yourself.

“Joaquín—oh, fuck—”

He eats you like a man starved. Like this is the apology. The penance. Like your pleasure is the only thing in the world he gives a damn about. His tongue swirls around your clit, then flattens and flicks with just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back.

He moans into you like you taste better than anything he’s ever had, and when he slides two fingers back inside, curling deep, it’s like your body just stops thinking and lets go.

Your legs quake. Your hips roll. You’re panting his name, over and over, thighs tightening around his head—and he just groans and keeps going. Keeps sucking. Licking. Fucking you with his fingers like he’s trying to chase your orgasm down and wring every last tremor out of it.

And then it hits.

White-hot and all-consuming

Your back bows, your voice breaks, and your climax rips through you—violent and endless and overwhelming—until your legs give out completely and you slump against the wall, heart hammering, chest heaving, Joaquin still between your thighs.

When the wave finally starts to ebb, you glance down—and he looks up at you like you’re a miracle.

“Still mad at me?” he asks, lips slick and smirking.

You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t even have the energy for that, so you just look at him. You watch him rise to full height and gently press his forehead to yours, letting the water run over both of you—warm and steady. Now he smells like coconut and sex and something so unmistakably him it makes your knees weak.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life between your thighs making it up to you,” he whispers, voice thick with promise.

You huff out a breathless laugh and bring one hand up to the back of his neck. “I might think about forgiving you,” you murmur, your other hand sliding lower, tracing the ridges of his stomach, “if you make me come with this.”

Your fingers wrap around his cock and he chokes—actually chokes—on a groan like he was punched square in the chest. You can’t help but giggle, slowly stroking him as his eyes flutter shut and his hips jerk desperately into your hand.

“Such a tease, baby,” he mutters, letting his head fall back.

You give him two more deliberate strokes—just to hear that little catch in his breath—before planting both palms on his chest. “Let’s get out before my water bill bankrupts me.”

His eyes snap open, and he hesitates for a moment but doesn’t argue. You both rinse off quickly, steam curling between your bodies in lazy spirals, the tension still crackling like static. Then he turns off the water and steps out, handing you a towel before grabbing his own, and the two of you start drying off in silence.

But there are more heated glances than actual drying, your eyes drawn to each other like magnets, and before you’re even halfway dry, he’s back on you—towel forgotten, curls still dripping, hands cradling your face as he kisses you like it might kill him not to.

“Can I show you how sorry I am now?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

You pull back just enough to raise a brow. “That wasn’t what you just did?”

He flashes that devastating smile—the one that would melt your panties if you had any on.

“Not even fucking close,” he growls.

Then his hands slide to the backs of your thighs and he lifts you in one swift motion. You gasp, arms flying around his neck and legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His cock presses hot and hard against you as he carries you—bare, dripping, aching—out of the bathroom and straight into to your bedroom.

He stops at the edge of your bed and drops you with a playful ease. You land with a soft squeal, the mattress dipping beneath you as he follows, crawling over you like he can’t stand even a breath of distance. His body hovers over yours for just a second—wet curls dripping onto your chest, breath hot against your cheek—before he sinks down, skin to skin, his weight settling perfectly between your thighs.

His cock is already so hard, heavy and leaking, dragging against your slick folds as he grinds into you slowly—like he needs to prove, with every aching touch, that you’re his. You gasp when the head catches just barely on your entrance, too close to be nothing, not close enough to be everything.

“‘M still sorry,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing the curve of your breast. “Still not done making it up to you.”

Then his mouth closes around your nipple and you keen, back arching, thighs tightening around his hips. He groans as he sucks, teeth grazing gently—just enough to make your whole body burn. One of his hands comes up to cup your other breast, thumb circling lazily until your breath turns shallow and your fingers claw at his back.

“Joaquín—” your voice breaks into a gasp as his hips roll again, dragging the thick, sensitive length of him over your clit.

“Say it again,” he whispers, switching to your other nipple, mouthing at it like it’s the only thing that will keep him sane. “Say my name again, baby.”

You do. Over and over. Between panting breaths and needy little whines, your body grinding up against his as the heat builds all over again.

“I’m gonna be so good to you,” he groans, moving lower, teeth grazing your sternum before he kisses back up your throat. “You have no idea how good I’m gonna be.”

His cock presses flush against your entrance again, thick and hot and teasing, and you let out a breathless, broken sound.

“P—Please,” you whisper, breath catching. “I need you.”

Joaquín exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment you opened the front door. His forehead drops to yours, noses brushing, lips just barely touching. You feel the tremble in his arms as he shifts his hips, lining himself up properly—his tip nudging at your entrance.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice breaking against your mouth. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby…”

You whimper, hips tilting up instinctively, but he doesn’t push in—not yet. He just keeps kissing you, slow and messy and reverent, while his cock slides through your folds again and again, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with the swollen head until you’re nearly shaking.

“Joaquín,” you plead, voice thin and wrecked, “I need you inside me now.”

That does it.

He drags his cock down, barely notching at your entrance—and then pushes in slowly. Excruciatingly slowly. Stretching you inch by inch like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he’s trying to savour the way you take him in. His breath hitches as you tighten around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, forehead still pressed to yours.

“Fuck,” he pants. “You feel—God—you feel so good.”

You clutch at his back, nails dragging, legs tightening around his hips to pull him closer. He slides in a little deeper, then stills, chest heaving against yours, giving you both a second to breathe. To feel everything.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “You’re everything. I’m never gonna stop being sorry for hurting you, but I swear—this, right now—I’m yours.”

He kisses you again, a soft sound caught between your mouths, and then pushes in the rest of the way—slow, steady, until he’s fully seated inside you and both of you are left shaking from the overwhelming relief of finally being whole.

For one breathless moment, you just cling to each other, suspended in it.

Then, with a low, strangled sigh, he starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Every thrust measured and deliberate, like he’s trying to say sorry with every inch of him. Like he’s trying to rewrite the last forty-eight hours with the press of his hips and the reverent way he touches you.

You hold on to him, hands grasping at every inch of skin you can reach, your mouth brushing his jaw as you gasp into the space between you.

“God, Joaquín—”

He groans low in his throat, the sound desperate and aching as he drags almost all the way out and pushes back in with a little more force. The drag of his cock inside you makes your toes curl, pressure building deep and steady, a fire licking up your spine.

“Feels so good,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing. “You feel so good, cariño. I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You squeeze your legs around his waist and roll your hips to meet his next thrust. “Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He laughs—a soft, breathless thing—and kisses you again, slow and messy, tongues tangling, your breath stuttering between moans as he begins to pick up the pace. Each stroke grinds deep, just enough to make your breath hitch and your thighs tremble.

You can feel every inch of him, the thick press of his cock dragging over that sweet spot inside of you, over and over. And the tension between you—emotional and physical—is like a live wire sparking in the dark.

“You’re mine,” he breathes into your mouth. “All mine. Gonna keep you like this forever—wrapped around me, panting my name. Gonna make it up to you, baby, ‘til you can’t walk.”

And then it hits you—like a lightning strike—right in the middle of him moving inside you, skin sliding against skin. The boy who’s lived in your heart for so long. The one you thought might never feel the same...

He loves you.

No hesitation. No pretending.

Just raw, desperate, breathless love.

Right here, right now, with him fucking you like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Your chest tightens, breath catching as the whole world narrows to the heat of him, the slick rhythm of your bodies, and the impossible truth that he’s yours.

He’s finally yours.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice breaking as his thrusts slow. “Baby, what is it?”

His lips press to your temple, then your jaw, trailing wet, fevered kisses as he holds himself above you—arms trembling, hands braced on either side of your head.

You glance up, meeting his eyes, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs.

“I love you, Joaquín,” you whisper.

His expression softens instantly, breaking into the kind of smile that could ruin you—gentle, wide, boyish—and then he’s leaning in, nuzzling your nose like the lovesick fool he is.

“I love you too, cariño.”

“And I forgive you.”

His smile shifts, curling into something smug—something wicked. “You do?”

You nod, barely, fingers toying with the curls at the nape of his neck.

He rolls his hips back slowly—deliberately—watching your mouth fall open.

Then he shakes his head, grin turning feral. “No, you don’t. Not yet.” He kisses you deep, then draws back just enough to growl, “I’m not done making it up to you yet.”

And with that, he sits up, still buried to the hilt—and his next thrust hits a new angle that makes your vision blur.

He grabs your thigh and lifts it over his shoulder, holding you open without hesitation. The new position has him even deeper, his thick cock dragging against every sensitive part of you, and it’s all you can do not to scream.

He thrusts harder now—rough, fast, relentless—finding spots inside you that you didn’t even know existed. Your body tightens, your lungs burn, and your eyes lock onto his, wide and wild and desperate.

“You gonna take my apology like a good girl?” he pants. “Gonna let me say sorry with every fucking inch?”

You moan something garbled, hands flying into your hair as your back arches off the mattress. His name spills from your lips in broken syllables, again and again, like prayer.

And it only spurs him on.

“That’s it, cariño,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Feel me. Let me make it up to you.”

You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—some ruined, hungry thing—and your hand moves to your chest, fingers tugging lightly at one nipple.

His rhythm falters. He groans—loud and helpless—the sight of you clearly undoing him.

“Fuck—look at you,” he gasps, eyes locked on your chest. “You gonna come like that? Gonna squeeze me so tight just from playing with those perfect tits?”

He adjusts his grip and thrusts deeper, harder, one hand anchoring your hip, the other pressing your leg back even farther as he drives into you like he can’t get close enough. Like the only way to be forgiven is to fuck you until the memory of anything else burns away.

Every thrust is devastating now—deep, punishing, perfect. The wet slap of skin against skin echoes in the room, nearly drowned out by the choked sounds spilling from both of you.

Your leg trembles where he’s holding it, thigh stretched wide over his shoulder, but you can’t even think about it—can’t focus on anything but the pressure building low in your belly, coiling tighter with every filthy grind of his hips. Your hand is still on your breast, tugging at your nipple, needy and impatient—like you can pull another orgasm out of yourself if you just try hard enough.

“Joaquín—” you gasp, voice cracking. “I’m—fuck—I’m getting close.”

“I know, baby,” he grits, sweat dripping from his temples, curls soaked, eyes fixed on where his cock disappears into you. “I can feel it. You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

His pace stutters, then steadies, grinding deep with a low groan that sounds like it’s been torn straight from his chest. He leans in just enough for your foreheads to touch, his breath hot against your cheek, and you can feel how close he is too—barely hanging on, every muscle in his body straining to hold back.

“You’re doing so good,” he pants, mouth brushing yours. “Taking it so good. You gonna let me keep saying sorry? Let me fuck you through every single thing I never should’ve done?”

You whimper, nodding, lips brushing against his, unable to speak as the pressure builds and builds. His cock drags against the sweet spot inside you that makes your legs shake and your eyes roll back, again and again, his pelvis grinding against your clit on every downstroke, drawing you tighter, higher, closer.

Your fingers scramble across his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades as your other hand slips down, desperate for more friction, for anything. But before you can touch yourself, his hand is there—slapping yours away and replacing it with his own. His thumb circles your clit, slow and slick and fucking perfect.

“Let me,” he growls. “Let me take care of you, cariño. Let me make you come.”

Your whole body arches, breath caught in your throat, every muscle drawn tight as the pressure builds, sharp and consuming. His thumb doesn’t let up—circling, pressing, teasing—until it’s too much, not enough, and everything in between.

“Come on, baby,” he pants, his voice thick, ragged. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And then you do.

It slams into you like a tidal wave—your orgasm ripping through every inch of you, hot and sharp and blinding. You cry out, legs trembling as your thigh slips from his shoulder, fingers clawing at his arms while your body clenches around him, slick and pulsing and endless.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, still moving inside you, slower now but deeper—like he’s trying to feel every last pulse of you coming around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

But you don’t have time to catch your breath—because he’s unravelling too.

His hips jerk, rhythm faltering, and he lets out a strangled noise—somewhere between a gasp and a moan—as he fucks into you hard one last time, spilling deep inside with a broken, breathless, “Fuck, I love you.”

You cling to him as he shudders through it, both of you shaking, bodies pressed tight and hearts pounding like they’re trying to break free from your chests.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. Laboured. Tangled. Shared.

And then he kisses you again, slow and tender this time, mouth soft and sweet against yours like he’s still trying to say sorry—only now with love, not desperation.

“I think,” you murmur, voice distant—breathless, “we might need to shower again.”

Joaquín chuckles, his chest rumbling against yours as he barely holds himself up on his forearms. “I don’t think there’s any point, cariño.” He flashes you a cocky grin. “I’m just gonna ruin you again.”

Your cheeks heat—despite everything you just did with him—and you giggle. “That so?”

He nods, then leans in to press a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Yep. But first—” He pushes himself up, muscles flexing— “I have something for you.”

The loss of his heat makes you shiver. The loss of his cock makes you whine.

He laughs again. “I’ll be back in a second, baby. Then I’ll be right back inside—I promise.”

He shuffles off the bed and throws a wink over his shoulder as he turns toward the door. You lie there, flushed and wrecked and floating, shamelessly ogling his ass as he walks away.

You can feel your pulse still thrumming through your whole body while you wait, anticipation building like static beneath your skin.

And when he returns, it’s hard not to stare—slick, still half-hard, still perfect. Holy shit. You’ll never get used to seeing him naked.

“Eyes up here,” he teases, smirking as he settles beside you on the bed.

You roll your eyes and sit up, dragging a pillow into your lap. Joaquín eyes it, clearly displeased with the coverage, but he lets it slide. For now.

“Here,” he says, offering you a little black box.

You frown but take it, confused—until you see the flush on his cheeks and the nerves written across his face.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs.

Your heart skips and you look down at the box, fingers trembling just a little as you open the lid.

Inside is a necklace—a delicate chain with a small bird charm in flight, wings spread wide.

Tears prick your eyes. “Joaquín…”

He looks so sweet—so fucking boyish—it knocks the air right out of you. This soft, thoughtful man just gave you the most perfect gift... after absolutely rearranging your guts.

“I didn’t forget forget,” he says quickly. “I just—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I just love you so much.”

Your throat tightens as you blink hard, tears slipping free. “I love you too.”

You set the box on your bedside table, toss the pillow aside, and crawl into his lap. His grin blooms wide as his arms come around you, brown eyes lit up like you just handed him the whole goddamn universe.

“Think you’ve got another apology in you?” you whisper, rolling your hips against him, feeling his cock swell beneath you.

“Baby,” he groans, gripping your hips, “I plan on apologising all fucking night.”

And he does.

He kisses you like it’s the first time. Fucks you like it might be the last. He moves with something holy in his hands, something feral in his mouth. He whispers I’m sorry, I love you, again and again, breaking you open with every thrust. And you forgive him—again and again—until the words don’t even matter anymore. Until there’s nothing left between you but sweat and breath and the way your bodies fit together like they were always meant to.

He doesn’t stop until you’re both boneless. Breathless. Too wrecked to move.

And then, finally—he pulls you into his arms, kisses your hair, and tells you he loves you until the only thing left is sleep.

You give him a look. “For you, pretty boy. I’m not the one holding the knife.” 

Joaquin grins at you before putting the knife down, wiping his hands on the cloth on the bench beside him and grabbing the apron hanging over the back of one of your bar stools. “Should I put this on then? Someone clearly isn’t enjoying the show.” 

“Baby,” you roll your eyes at him jokingly, crossing the room and snatching the apron out of his hands. “You know that’s not what I meant. I meant you could get burned by oil or slip and cut yourself or… well… there are plenty of dangers to cooking shirtless.” 

Joaquin smirks, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you to his chest so you’re pressed together. “Angel, all those things you just listed are also things that could happen to me if I were wearing a shirt. You know that, right?”

You can’t help the way you pout at him. “Not my point, Joaquin.”

He grins and presses a quick peck to your lips. “Was that what you were coming in here to talk about?” He asks, his thumb swiping gently back and forth over your waist. 

“No, actually,” you hum. “I was coming here to talk about this.” You motion in-between the two of you, at the contact between your bodies. You’re not not a fan of it – of course you love it – but it does amuse you, the fact that your boyfriend always wants to have a hand on you at all times. 

Joaquin raises his eyebrows. “We playin’ charades? Am I meant to guess?”

You laugh a little. “No, silly. This. The way I walked into the kitchen and you swept me up into your arms immediately. The way you always have a hand on my back when we walk somewhere. The way you put your hand on my thigh when we’re on the couch. The way you’re touching me all the time.” 

Irritatingly, your words have the opposite effect than intended and Joaquin steps away from you, removing his hand from your waist. You immediately miss the warmth of his body, the feeling of his hand on your waist, and almost reach back out for him. 

“You don’t like it?” Joaquin asks, eyebrows furrowed in worry.

You hate the look on his face – the way he looks like a wounded puppy. His usually playful eyes look sad, full of fear and you can read his expression immediately. He thinks that by doing these things, he’s made you uncomfortable.

“Baby, no – I love it!” You attempt to rectify the situation. “I just was curious about why.”

Unable to keep looking at his sad puppy dog eyes anymore, you step forward, cupping his cheeks in your hands gently. His hands tentatively rest on your waist, as if he’s afraid you’re going to move away at any second but he simply can’t help but to touch you, just a little.

“You’re so touchy and I love it, Joaquin. I love having your hands on me all the time, I swear. Just now when you took your hands off my waist it was like… like it was suddenly winter and I was freezing cold without them. I just wanna know why you do it,” you explain further, making sure you keep eye contact with him.

Joaquin frowns a little. “I guess I never really thought about it,” he replies. “I think I kinda just do it without meaning to. I just love the feeling of having my hands on you, feeling your warmth, reminding myself that you’re beside me. And I mean…” He clears his throat. “Have you seen yourself, angel? Why would I not wanna touch you at any given opportunity?”

It’s like his confidence makes a return to his body, then. His grip on your waist gets tighter and he pulls you closer, forcing you to drop your hands from his face. They rest on his shoulders instead as he backs you up a little so you’re leaning against the counter. His body is pressed against yours again, like it was only minutes ago. The warmth you’d missed before falls over you like a sheet of pure comfort.

You can’t keep the smile off your face at his words and actions. “That’s kinda cute, Joaquin,” you admit. “That you do it without thinking about it. Like I said, I love the feeling of you having your hands on me too.”

“Cute?” Joaquin looks at you with raised eyebrows. “You think I’m cute?”

It’s hard not to smile at his tone. “Yeah, adorable. You’re like a little puppy. You were looking at me before with the most puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen on a person. You looked so sad, I just wanted to pick you up and–”

Before you can finish speaking, Joaquin cuts you off by pressing his lips to yours. You moan at the sudden feeling of his lips, the feeling of his tongue swiping against your bottom lip. The way that his hands grip your waist tighter, one of them roaming up your back to grasp at the back of your neck so he can kiss you deeper.

The edge of the counter digs into your back but you barely even notice the feeling. One of your hands moves to run through Joaquin’s hair – it’s short, but long enough for you to grip, the other on his back. The feeling of his muscles against your palm only makes you want to kiss him more. The last thing you want to do is break apart for air.

Your breath hitches as he squeezes your waist again, forcing your lips apart. Both of you are breathing heavily, though the break doesn’t last long. Joaquin wastes no time in kissing you again, but this time his lips move from yours to your jaw. He presses soft, gentle kisses along the side of your jaw and down your neck. You tilt your head backwards, giving him better access. When your hand grasps onto his hip, he gasps a little and you can’t help but smile at the sound. 

“See?” You mutter breathlessly, tilting your head forward again to meet his eyes. “I told you that cooking while shirtless was dangerous.”

Joaquin laughs at that, a gorgeous smile finding its way onto his face. You look at him, at the sweat on his forehead, the look of lust and love in his eyes, the way his chest moves up and down quickly, his breath still heavy from your small make out session. He’s easily the most gorgeous man you’ve ever laid eyes on… and he’s all yours.

He moves his hands down to your waist again and before you can do anything about it, he’s lifting you up so you’re sitting on the counter and pushing your legs apart so he can stand in-between them. At this angle, you’re basically the same height.

“I see no problems here, angel,” he flashes that gorgeous grin again before messily pressing his lips to yours again. He pulls away quickly though, much to your disappointment. “Now that we’ve established that I’m not cute, I am going to continue cooking you dinner. I’ll let you go back to your book.”