cherie ♡

masterlist

You’ve barely knocked twice before the door swings open, revealing one very handsome Joaquin Torres. His curls have grown out since you’ve seen him last, and the way he looks at you takes your breath away. 

“You’re early!” he practically cries, his face lighting up as he takes you in. “You should’ve called me! I would’ve picked you up at the train station.” 

“I wanted to surprise you,” you interject, the sweetest smile on your face as you throw your arms around your boyfriend’s neck. 

“Oh my God, I can’t believe you’re here,” he groans, the feel of your body pressed against his, surreal and perfect. He takes a deep breath, reminding himself of how good you smell, as the two of you remain in his doorway. 

“Your hair!” you cry, running your fingers through his soft curls.

“I need to get it cut. It’s so long,” he shakes his head, though he can’t help the grin that’s permanently, he thinks, spread across his lips. “Don’t! I like it like this,” you tease him flirtatiously, giving his hair a playfully little tug. 

You pull back, just enough to plant one on him, pressing your lips to his. 

“Hi, baby,” you say softly, your heart practically melting.

He kisses you once more, this time for just a little longer than your last one. 

“Hi, mi corazon. It’s so fuckin’ good to see you,” he sighs, happier than ever as he pulls you in for another tight squeeze. “C’mere.” 

“It’s so good to see you. How was your trip?” you ask him, after Joaquin tugs you into his apartment, insisting that you let him get your bag. 

You listen to him as he explains the majesty of Wakanda, and how absolutely geeked out he got when it came to the tech, as you take in his apartment. It’s much bigger than you expected—and certainly much bigger than yours—your eyes glazing over the large windows that line one of the walls of his living room that look over Washington DC. 

“Holy shit… is there something you’re not telling me. Like are you rich now or what?” you blurt out, unable to hide your surprise. 

He chuckles, shaking his head, your duffle bag in hand as he answers: 

“Uh… no. Sam called in a favor to help me get the place and as for the rest, uh, well… VA loans.” 

“Woah.” He smiles, utterly charmed by the look of awe on your face, the crinkle in the corners of his eyes an indicator of such. 

“Can I give you the tour?” he offers, offering you his hand. “It’s not a huge place but… yeah, it’s nice.” 

You take it, gladly, taking every chance to be connected to the boyfriend who you haven’t seen in a couple of weeks, due to his work trip to Wakanda. You know he’ll have plenty of pictures to show you—of Wakanda, of his new suit, of all the things he got up to—and yet you know there’s plenty of time for that later. 

It hasn’t been very long since his trip to Philly, where a night of reminiscing led to a love confession that’d change the course of your relationship with him forever. 

That, and mind-blowing sex.

He takes you through his kitchen, one he barely uses, even with its long kitchen island that overlooks his spacious living room. Even with how roomy the apartment is, it’s not like it’s much more than a living area and a bedroom, so it’s only a matter of time before you end up there. Joaquin shuffles you through his bedroom door, to find, once again, large city-facing windows with the curtains pushed open. Curiously, you peek through his large bathroom area to catch a look at the adjoining bathroom and walk-in closet. Joaquin places your bag down on the floor of his bedroom, his bed made neatly from years of mastering perfect military corners, with a happy sigh as he watches you explore. 

“Convenient that your bedroom was the very last stop on this tour,” you note, leaning up against the door frame of the ensuite. 

“No ulterior motives, I promise,” he replies, holding his hands up in the air as if to say, ‘I’m innocent.’ “Well,” you take a step forward, especially now that his hands are free. “Maybe I have ulterior motives.” 

“Oh yeah?” he chuckles, a small smirk threatening the corner of his lips as he takes a few more steps towards you. “Yeah. You see,” you begin, giggling as you feel his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in so that you’re flush against his body. “It’s just… I sort of have this condition where if I’m in a room with you for longer than five minutes, I have to be naked.” “That’s so funny,” he plays along as you’ve now wrapped your arms around his neck. “ I think I have the same condition.” “Oh my god, I wonder if we’ll be included in the same medical study,” you let out a false gasp.

He shakes his head again, crashing his lips against yours, determined to spend the rest of the afternoon making you fall apart with his hands, his mouth, his cock, till neither of you can think straight. It doesn’t take long before he’s pulling you down on top of him, leading the both of you to his bed so that he can do just that. 

*

“You don’t think it’s too much skin?” you ask, suddenly shy, as you stare at your reflection. 

The silky, sage green, floor length dress that you wear, is deceptively modest at first glance: a high neck halter cut that shows an obscene amount of back with how low it dips, with the sweetest little button detail trailing down your low back. 

“Holy shit. You are so out of my league,” is all Joaquin manages to get out, as soon as he sees you. 

“Just answer the question, loverboy,” you tease him, turning towards him. 

Joaquin’s barely dressed, save for a black pair of trousers, in all of his shirtless glory—his hair, at least, styled. It’s his turn this time to lean up against the door frame of the ensuite as he looks you over, his words caught in his throat, like he didn’t just give you some of the best orgasms of your life mere hours ago. 

“I think…” he trails off, at a loss for words at how beautiful you are. He scratches the back of his head as he takes his time, searching for the right ones. “... that it’s just right, babe. People get all kinds of dressed up for these kinds of things. It’s-, you’re perfect.” 

“I-,” you chuckle, especially in regards to his final words. “... doubt that I’m perfect. I just mean, well, I don’t want it to be… you know… too sleazy or anything. I know it's an important fundraiser for Bucky.” 

“Well, if you ask me, I think you’re gonna help Bucky raise more money,” Joaquin flirts with you, a little more confident in his ability to tell you exactly what he thinks of how stunning you look. “Hell, I’d be halfway to giving up my life’s savings if I saw you at one of these things.” 

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m going as your date,” you flirt back. “Can’t have that.” And then. “Okay, but you need to get dressed! Didn’t you just say that Sam said the car’s gonna be here soon?” 

“Ah shit. Yeah, give me like five minutes,” he swears, hurrying back into his walk-in closet for the rest of his suit. 

In all the time you’ve known him, Joaquin Torres hasn’t been the most punctual human—outside of, you can only imagine, his commitments in the military. But of course, that’s not the version of him you’ve known your entire life. The Joaquin you know is the one that’s always thirty minutes to an hour late to the function, so you know you have to keep him on a timeline. 

You dig through your bag for the pair of heels you plan on wearing tonight, then make your way out to the living room to give him some space to finish getting ready. You take your time making sure that you have everything you need packed in your clutch—your phone, your ID, and lip gloss—before beginning to put on your shoes. 

You smell him first, having walked through a cloud of cologne he's sprayed, before hearing a shuffle of footsteps till he’s standing in front of you, dressed fully in an all-black suit. It takes everything you have in you not to let your jaw fall on the floor. 

“Told you I could get ready fast,” he smirks, unaware of the effect he has on you. 

You’re still figuring out how to metaphorically pick your jaw up off the floor as you rise to your feet, your lips beginning to curl into a smile. 

“You should only wear this,” you compliment him, feeling like your heart might burst out of your chest. 

“You like?” he asks, his eyes lighting up. “I love,” you emphasize, as you make your way towards him. 

“Good, because it’s my best and only suit,” he sighs, feigning relief. 

“Well, I don’t know if it’s your best,” you reply, cheekily. 

He shoots you a questioning look and you’re quick to remind him that your personal favorite suit is the one he was born in. 

“Ah yes, my very best suit,” he agrees with a chuckle. “Can’t exactly go out in that. Now that would be too sleazy.”

“Hell of a way to help Bucky raise campaign funds,” you tease him, joking along with your fine ass boyfriend. 

“Lucky for you, and only you, you’ll get to see me in both this weekend,” he winks in your direction, outright flirting with you. 

You smile. 

Because you know it’s true: 

You’re the luckiest, to get to be loved like this. 

"We should eat something before we go. There's never any real food at these things," Joaquin states, heading towards the kitchen area. "Oooooh! We should totally pick up a pizza on the way home," you suggest.

"Ugh, my girl thinks of everything," he grins, as reaches for a bag of white bread on top of his fridge.

You giggle together over PB&J sandwiches before Joaquin gets a text from Sam that says something along the lines of:

Car’s here, lovebirds. 

*

You ride with Sam and Joaquin in the car Bucky sent for the three of you, mostly observing the way Joaquin interacts with his friend and mentor with ease, practice, and the charm you’ve known your entire life. You wish you could say the same for yourself, but this all feels so new to you, especially as you stand next to your boyfriend, clinking glasses and making small talk with some of the most important people in Washington. 

“Sam, I mean. Captain America, sir. I-,” you stammer out, still navigating how starstruck you feel as you stand in front of Thee Captain America. 

“I told you. You can call me Sam. In fact, I insist,” he reminds you, his voice gentle yet certain as he tries to put your nerves at ease. 

“Yes, sir. I mean, Sam,” you smile, this time with a little more confidence. 

“And what do we have here,” you hear a voice say, as Buck Barnes approaches the three of you. You watch as Sam and Joaquin exchange hugs and greetings with the man of the hour before his attention turns to you. 

You introduce yourself, followed by a firm handshake from Bucky. 

“Bucky, this is my girlfriend,” Joaquin introduces you, at the same time that Sam adds:

“The kid’s girl.” 

“Wow,” Bucky marvels, his eyes darting from you to Joaquin, then back to you, before, with a laugh, declaring, “You are so out of his league. It's great to finally meet you.” 

“Buck,” Sam says, something warning in his voice.

“That’s what I said!” Joaquin exclaims, throwing his hands up in the air, feeling more vindicated than ever. You laugh, “Ehhh, I think I got pretty lucky with this one. Just had to put up with him being a pain in my ass all through our childhood.” 

“Well, you’ll be glad to learn that nothing’s changed in the pain-in-the-ass department,” Sam adds, playfully. 

“C’mon, Torres. I got someone I want you to meet,” Bucky announces.

“You good?” Joaquin asks you, his eyes soft. 

You nod, “Of course. Go shmooze, or whatever else it is you guys do at these things.” 

“Don’t worry, Torres. I’ll take good care of her,” Sam ensures, instilling confidence in the both of you with a nod, as Bucky ushers Joaquin away. 

“You look empty. Should we grab another drink?” you ask Sam this time. 

“Sure,” he replies, leading you through the crowd and back to the bar. 

By the time you’re waiting for your drinks, you’ve learned about Sam’s sister, Sarah, and his two nephews. It’s not like you were able to talk much the last time you saw each other, just barely in the same place at the same time, both worried about Joaquin. He’s finishing a story about the best plate in New Orleans, noting that next time he’s back home, you and Joaquin should join him. 

Joaquin catches your eye across the room, as if to check in with you, even though he’s supposed to be chatting up the men in suits Bucky’s introduced him to. When you know the men in suits aren’t looking, you give Joaquin a thumbs up to let him know you’re doing just fine, earning a soft laugh from Sam. 

“Glad to see he’s treating you right,” he says, as if he’s learned all he needs to know from the small interaction. 

“I-, yes. He’s the best,” you reply, halfway to swooning over Joaquin to… well, sort of his boss. 

“Sam,” you start, faking confidence in calling him by his name and not Captain America. “I uh… I never got to thank you. For calling me. You know… to come see Joaquin when he was in the hospital.” 

“Oh, no need to thank me. Seemed like talkin’ to you was making things better. Glad he could have a piece of home with him,” Sam explains with ease. 

“I just-. I don’t know. I don’t know if we’d be here without, well, without, for lack of a better term, parent trapping us,” you continue, half in disbelief that you’re standing here, thanking him for his romantic advice. 

He smiles, realizing what you’re saying, “Seemed like all he needed was a push. The both of you.” 

You smile in return. 

“Yeah, we did.” 

A beat. “Well, shit. Captain America and a matchmaker? What can’t you do?” you joke, taking a more playful approach this time. “Yeahhhh,” he sighs, jokingly. “Gonna add it to my special skills on LinkedIn. Could be the next Hitch. The reboot."

You were sitting on the couch sharing a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some action movie Joaquín had put on while you complained about the lack of fuckable men in your life. Joaquín, of course, acted all offended and joked about how incredibly fuckable he was—at which you snorted, but silently agreed.

There was one long, charged second where neither of you knew what to say.

Then Joaquín said it. He offered. Asked if you wanted to have sex—no strings, just good old-fashioned stress relief between friends.

You hesitated, of course. Torn between tearing off your—admittedly sexy—best friend’s clothes, or telling him that in no way was this kind of arrangement a good idea. You didn’t want to ruin what you had. Living with him was great, and the thought of messing all that up made you nauseous.

But then he licked his lips. Raised a brow.

And something deep inside you snapped.

You agreed. With two conditions: no kissing, and no falling in love.

Simple, right?

Well, you thought so. Until you found yourself under him—or on top of him, or beside him, or in some other twisted position—every second night. Panting, whimpering, crying out his name while he made you come with his mouth, his fingers, his very impressive cock. Once you started, you couldn’t get enough.

And slowly—somehow—you started feeling different. About him. About everything. Different in a way that made your heart race, your cheeks flush, and your stomach do weird somersaults every time he flashed that boyish grin.

You haven’t quite admitted it yet, but you’re pretty sure you’ve gone and broken one of those rules.

And not even the one that should have been the easiest to break—because even after almost three months of being roommates with benefits, you still haven’t kissed him. Not once. Not even almost.

The click of the front door lock startles you. You blink hard at the TV screen you’ve been pretending to watch for the past few hours, then crane your neck to peer over the back of the couch. And sure enough, there he is.

His curls are damp from the rain, clothes a little soaked too, and there are deep purple circles beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted—but somehow, still gorgeous. Still infuriatingly hot, even though you’re pretty sure he hasn’t slept the entire week he’s been gone.

“Hey,” you call, pushing up from the couch.

He drops his duffel and kicks off his shoes. “Hey,” he says, eyes lighting up the second they land on you. “I missed you.”

And God, it doesn’t help when he says things like that.

You roll your eyes and walk around the couch, leaning a hip against the back of it while he shrugs out of his wet jacket and hangs it on the rack by the door. The apartment isn’t huge—just an open-plan living and dining space, with the kitchen off to the side—which means there are only a few strides left between you and him.

“Don’t roll your eyes when I say that,” he adds. “I’m allowed to miss my best friend after being forced to spend a week in hell—or Nevada, as the locals like to call it.”

You laugh quietly, folding your arms just to stop yourself from reaching out. Because holy shit, you've missed him—but you’re not about to admit it out loud.

He misses his best friend.

You miss the boy you’re in love with.

It’s not the same. Not even close.

“I almost cried when it started raining on the cab ride home,” he says with a soft chuckle. “The desert sucked. I’m never going back there. I told Sam he can find a new Falcon if he wants to do more recon in a state that’s more red dirt than grass.”

“Wow,” you mutter. “Maybe Sam should find a new Falcon, then. One that complains less.”

He narrows his eyes as he steps forward, slowly closing the distance between you.

“You know,” he says, stopping barely a foot away, “this isn’t the kind of welcome I was hoping for.”

You lift a brow. “And what exactly were you hoping for?”

He shrugs, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Candles. Rose petals. Romantic music.” He steps in again, eyes dragging up your body—slow and deliberate. “You. On my bed. Naked.”

Your heart thuds in your throat, and heat blooms across your skin, but you refuse to let it show. You won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You’re used to this—to him. He was flirty even before you started sleeping together, but now? Now it’s like making you blush is his full-time job.

“Really?” you ask, keeping your voice level. “Didn’t think you’d be up for it tonight. Aren’t you tired?”

“Never too tired for you, baby,” he mutters—low and dangerous—as he closes the space between you entirely.

His hands find your waist and his lips drop to your neck, just above the collar of your shirt—his shirt—where he knows exactly how to make you sigh.

And you do.

Like you’ve been holding your breath all week, just waiting for his touch. And now, with his soft lips and wet tongue drawing a slow bruise into your skin, just above your shoulder—you can finally breathe again.

“Joaquín,” you whisper, “I’m your roommate, not your—”

He shoves his body against yours, the unmistakable, rock-hard length beneath his jeans pressing into your hip.

“Cariño,” he murmurs against your neck, “I’ve been living in a one-bedroom safe house with Sam for seven days. I haven’t come since you made me before I left. If I don’t come inside you tonight, it’ll be into my own hand while thinking about you. And I know which I’d prefer.” He presses a wet kiss just beneath your jaw. “What do you prefer?”

Your eyes almost roll back as he slides one hand beneath your shirt, fingers digging into the flesh at your waist. His lips continue their assault on your neck—sucking, licking, biting, soothing—while you choke back moans and grip the front of his shirt for dear life.

“Come on, baby,” he sighs, breath hot on your skin. “Don’t make me beg.”

You bite back a grin as you tip your head back, breath stuttering. “Maybe I want you to beg.”

He pulls back—lips puffy, eyes glazed, that familiar smirk still very much in place. “Want me to beg?” he echoes, brows lifting. “I’ll do it. I’m not ashamed.”

Then, slowly, he drops to his knees in front of you. His hands slide down your body, igniting fires in their wake and making your pulse stumble.

“I want to fuck you so bad, baby,” he mutters, tongue darting across his lower lip. “Please let me.”

The sight of him makes your knees weak—curls tousled, lips damp, eyes dark with lust and something darker, hungrier. God, if you said no to a man like this, you’d have to be insane.

Your breath hitches as he lifts the hem of your shirt and presses a kiss just above the waistband of your sweatpants.

“Please, cariño,” he whispers. “Please let me fuck you.”

He slowly pulls the grey fabric down, sliding it over your hips until it drops in a pool at your feet—leaving only a lacy pair of pink panties between him and what he wants.

You lean harder against the back of the couch, gripping it like a lifeline as he leans in again, lips brushing the tops of your thighs.

“Gonna need you to say something, baby,” he murmurs.

You swallow hard and let out a shaky breath. “Yes,” you manage. “Yes, Joaquín, you can f-fuck me.”

He grins up at you—boyish charm and deadly intention—as his fingers hook beneath your panties and slide them down. You gasp at the sudden exposure, and before you can say or do anything else, his hands grip the insides of your thighs and part them. Your grip tightens on the couch before your knees can give out, and you hear him chuckle as your legs shake with anticipation.

“So wet already,” he breathes, face barely an inch away. “Mierda, cariño… ¿todo esto para mí?” (Shit, baby… all this for me?)

You nod, once, because you know you can’t speak. Not with him on his knees. Not with his mouth so close to your cunt. Not after a whole week of that useless vibrator, waiting for him to get back.

“Been thinkin’ about this pussy all week,” he mutters, eyes locked on the apex of your thighs like he’s praying.

Then he hitches one of your legs over his shoulder—and his mouth is on you.

Warm, wet, and worshipful, he licks a slow stripe through your folds, lips and tongue coaxing every nerve alive. You gasp, fingers flying into his curls, and your back arches as a strangled moan slips free.

He works you open like he’s savouring every second, tongue deliberate and unhurried, lapping up every drop like it means something. A low moan rumbles in his throat—part pleasure, part hunger—and the vibration shoots straight through you.

Your hips twitch. Your grip tightens in his hair. He doesn’t flinch.

One hand steadies the back of your thigh. The other slides between your legs, fingers teasing your soaked entrance while his mouth keeps working, determined and relentless.

“Fuck,” he groans. “She missed me, huh?”

Two fingers push inside you—slow, careful, deep—and your whole body jolts. You cry out before you can stop yourself, head tipped back as he curls them just right, dragging along that spongey spot that makes your knees buckle.

His mouth stays pressed against you, tongue flicking over your clit in perfect rhythm with every thrust of his hand.

Your breath stutters. Your legs shake.

He’s so good at this. Too good. It’s almost unfair—the way he pulls you apart with his mouth and fingers like it’s nothing. Like he was made for it.

“Joaquín,” you whisper, barely able to speak. “I—fuck—”

He hums again, lips sealed to you like he can’t stand to let go. His fingers move faster, deeper, knuckles brushing as he works you open. Your whole body tightens, strung up and ready to snap.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice ruined and reverent. “Come for me, baby.”

It builds fast—hot and sharp and blinding. His hand slides from your thigh to your ass, pulling you tighter against his face, guiding you against his tongue until you can’t think, can’t breathe.

He sucks hard on your clit, and it hits. You let out a broken cry, hips jerking, grinding against his mouth as your eyes squeeze shut and—

You shatter.

The wave crashes over you, tearing through every nerve, and you collapse forward with a moan caught in your throat. Your thighs tremble. Your lungs burn. Your hands are still tangled in his hair, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

And he doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally goes slack, and the only sound you can make is a soft, helpless little whimper you don’t even recognise.

He lingers for a beat, lips pressing soft, soothing kisses to your thigh, breath warm against your skin, his hands sliding gently up your sides to steady you. Then he finally pulls back and looks up—curls messy, lips swollen, face glistening. And fuck, he’s never looked hotter.

“That was—”

“Quick,” you mutter, a little breathless, cheeks burning.

He blinks, then grins—slow and wicked. “I was going to say hot. But sure, quick works too.”

“Thanks,” you mutter dryly, eyes locked on the slick shine around his mouth. “You want to clean yourself up, or—”

“Oh, no. I’m not done with you yet,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, his brows drawing together just slightly. “I’m gonna fuck you properly now.”

Before you can reply, he straightens up and grabs the backs of your thighs, lifting you easily. You let out a startled yelp, but your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, your arms locking behind his neck.

“It’s my turn, baby,” he says, eyes sparkling. “And then probably your turn again, and again if you’re up for it.” He pauses, ducking his head to brush his lips against your collarbone. “Your vibrator dead yet?”

You frown as he starts walking down the hall. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He chuckles. “I figured with me gone all week, you’d be handling things the old-fashioned way. Thinkin’ about me while you—”

You smack the back of his head, which only makes him laugh harder.

“Just because you can’t stop thinking about me doesn’t mean I’ve been thinking about you,” you say, even though it’s a total lie.

He leans back a little, eyes narrowing as he kicks open his bedroom door and steps inside, stopping at the edge of the bed.

“Okay then,” he says, voice dark with challenge. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck you ‘til you can’t think about anything but me.”

Then he drops you.

You hit the bed with a squeal, bounce once, and barely have time to register the ceiling before his weight presses you down. He slots perfectly between your thighs, dragging the hard line of his denim-clad cock along your soaked cunt.

And God, does he fuck you.

He fucks you until you can’t think about anything but him. Until you forget your own name. Until your muscles shake and your lungs burn and your voice is hoarse from moaning his.

And then—after all of it—you fall asleep in his bed. In his arms.

And it’s the best sleep you’ve had since he left.

-

You wake before Joaquín, your nose pressed to his bare chest and his arms wrapped tight around you. One is tucked beneath your neck, the other curled over your shoulders, his hand cradling the back of your head like he’s holding something precious. His chin is resting at the crown of your head, and he’s softly snoring—a sure sign that he’s still deep asleep.

You wriggle a little, testing. He hums and tightens his hold, but doesn’t wake. He’s hard against your lower belly, and for a second you consider waking him with your mouth—but your bladder protests.

And so does your heart.

God, you should’ve made more rules. You should’ve protected yourself. You’ve always known you were soft for Joaquín—already halfway gone long before this whole thing started. And now? Now you’re all the way gone. Completely fucked. Up the creek without a paddle and regretting that you didn’t make a rule about cuddling, because waking up like this feels a lot heavier than just roommates.

You ease your way down the bed, slipping gently from his grip, being careful not to rouse him. He stirs a little, but doesn’t wake, and you realise just how tired he must be after that mission—yet somehow, not too tired to fuck your brains out last night.

You pick up the nearest item of clothing—his shirt, obviously—and slip it over your head as you pad across the hall to the bathroom. The only bathroom in the apartment, which hadn’t seemed like a problem when you first moved in—at least, not until Joaquín got very comfortable walking in on you mid-shower. Not that it matters much now. But still.

You go to the toilet, brush your teeth, wash your face, and count four new bruises along your collarbone—one a little higher than you’d normally let him get away with. Then you head into the living area to find your sweatpants—still crumpled on the floor behind the couch—and slip them on before starting a fresh pot of coffee.

You’ve got your head in the fridge, looking for the packet of bacon you know you bought the other day, when a knock at the door startles you. You stand up so quickly you bump your head on the way, cursing under your breath as you rub the sore spot and glance at the microwave clock—10:27AM.

It’s Sunday, which means no work, no plans. And you know Joaquín has this week off after the mission—so it definitely isn’t Sam here to collect his baby bird.

Another knock echoes through the apartment.

You shut the fridge, still frowning, and walk across the kitchen toward the front door. Every now and then, it does cross your mind that a dangerous criminal could show up looking for Joaquín—he is a superhero now—but today you decide that even criminals probably take Sundays off.

So you open the door.

“Hola… tú no eres Joaquín.” (Hi... you’re not Joaquín.)

It’s a woman, late fifties—you’re guessing—a little on the shorter side, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her eyes are dark and sharp, dragging up and down your body not with judgment, just curiosity. Her dark brows are drawn slightly, forming two small creases in the middle of her otherwise perfectly tan skin.

She looks familiar. But you know you’ve never met her before.

Oh no.

“¿Tú quién eres y por qué estás usando la ropa de mi hijo?” (Who are you and why are you wearing my son’s clothes?)

You step back, eyes wide. “Uh, I—I’m sorry, Joaquín is just—”

“¡Mamá! Ay, por favor—¿por qué no me avisaste que estabas en camino?” (Mom! Oh, please—why didn’t you tell me you were on your way?)

You whip around to see Joaquín—curls messy, shirt only half on—appearing from his bedroom.

“No me dijiste que tenías novia,” the woman—Joaquín’s mother—says. (You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.)

Joaquín sighs. “No es mi novia, mamá. Es mi roomie.” (She’s not my girlfriend, Mom. She’s my roommate.)

She lifts one perfectly manicured brow. “¿Entonces por qué está usando tu camisa ella?” (So why is she wearing your shirt?)

“Porque ella solo—” He hesitates, clearly frustrated. “¡Ugh! No importa. Somos amigos. Don’t make it weird.” (Because she just— Ugh! It doesn’t matter. We’re friends. Don’t make it weird.)

“Lo raro es dormir con una amiga, mijo,” she says with a little smirk. (What’s weird is sleeping with a friend, my son.)

“¡Mamá!”

She shrugs. “Solo digo. Estas cosas nunca terminan bien. Además, es muy bonita—deberías salir con ella de verdad.” (Just saying. These things never end well. Besides, she’s very pretty—you should actually date her.)

Joaquín’s brow furrows, not in anger but something like defeat. “No es así.” (It’s not like that.)

“¡Podría serlo! Quiero nietos.” (It could be! I want grandbabies.)

“Mamá… ella entiende casi todo lo que dices.” (Mom... she understands almost everything you’re saying.)

His mother laughs again. “¡Qué bueno! Así sabe que necesito nietos antes de morirme.” (How good! That way she knows I need grandchildren before I die.)

Joaquín sighs, shaking his head. “Ay, Dios mío. Just speak English. If you're gonna embarrass me, just do it in English.” Then he turns to you with a sheepish smile. “This is my mom.”

You give him a wide-eyed look before turning back to his mother, who’s now grinning at you like you’ve just told her you’re expecting.

“Hi.” You give her a tight smile. “I’m the roommate.”

She grabs your hand and holds it in both of hers. “I’m Lucía, but you can call me—”

“She is not call you mamá,” Joaquín cuts in, exasperated. “We’re just friends, ¿sí?”

Lucía rolls her eyes, dropping your hand. “Okay, okay. Just friends.”

“Give me those,” Joaquín mutters, stepping up beside you to take her bags.

You move aside as he takes her things and ushers her into the apartment. Your feet feel heavy, your pulse is pounding in your ears, and your cheeks are burning so hot you wouldn’t be surprised if you spontaneously combusted.

“This place is nice, Joaquín,” Lucía says, her English carrying just the slightest accent. “Though I suppose it has a woman’s touch.”

She glances at you with a knowing twinkle in her dark eyes, like she’s already two steps ahead.

“Mamá,” Joaquín says, dropping her bags at his bedroom door, “are you going to be weird the whole time you’re here?”

She gives him a sharp smile. “And are you going to be oblivious your whole life?”

He frowns. “Oblivious?”

She looks back at you and nods. And God, you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“Joaquín,” you murmur, voice tight. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

His cheeks flush pink. “Yeah—uh, Mamá, we’re just going to—”

“It’s okay, mijo,” Lucía says, drifting toward the kitchen. “I’m going to pour myself a coffee.”

Joaquín smiles and nods, his eyes flicking back to you. “Come help me strip my bed?”

His mother chuckles softly but doesn’t say anything else.

You bite back the urge to whack Joaquín square in the chest as you walk past him, slipping into his room with him a step behind and shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me your mother was coming to visit?” you snap, eyes narrowing.

He shrugs. “I was going to. I just didn’t get a chance.”

“Oh, so you decided eating me out and fucking me four times was more important?”

His eyes go wide. “Shh! That woman hears everything—she has ears like a bat.”

You step forward, brow furrowed. “Joaquín Torres, I swear to God—”

“I’m sorry, okay?” he cuts in, lips twitching as he tries not to laugh. “I honestly forgot. I didn’t think she’d be here until later tonight. She called last week, said she missed me, and got all upset that I hadn’t invited her to visit since moving.”

“You could have texted me,” you mutter.

“I said sorry. I just—” He pauses, eyes dropping to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “I got distracted. But she’s here now, and she seems to like you. So, that’s a good start.”

You blink. “You didn’t think she’d like me?”

His eyes go wide. “No, no! I knew she’d like you... eventually. She’s just not always warm the first time she meets someone.”

“Joaquín,” you deadpan. “She was talking about me having your babies before you even introduced us. Doesn’t get much warmer than that.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, she did say that.”

You raise your brows. “Do you really think this is funny?”

He shrugs. “A little.”

You sigh out a heavy breath and drop your head into your hands, wishing you could close your eyes and start the day all over again.

“She’s not going to be here long,” Joaquín says. “Two nights, that’s it. Then she’s going to Tía Carla’s in Baltimore.”

You drop your hands. “Two nights?”

He nods.

“Where’s she going to sleep?”

He glances at the bed. “My bed.” Then he looks back at you, smirking. “After I change the sheets.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay. Where are you sleeping?”

“Well,” he says slowly, “I was thinking—”

“No,” you snap. “Absolutely not. You are not sleeping with me.”

He frowns. “Why not? We slept together last night.”

“Because your mother is going to be on the other side of the wall!”

He grins—slow and wicked. “I’ve got ways I could keep you quiet.”

Your eyes go wide. “Joaquín!”

“Okay,” he chuckles, “okay. I’ll sleep on the couch. It’ll be fine. It’s only two nights.”

You nod. “Good. Couch is good.”

“Besides,” he sighs, turning toward the bed, “I think you’re the one who won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself.”

You step around to the foot of the bed and start helping him pull the sheets up. “Excuse me?”

He flashes you another grin. “You heard me.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, pretty boy. Let’s not forget who practically mauled me the minute he got home last night.”

He bundles up the sheets and dumps them in a pile on the floor. “And let’s not forget who couldn’t stand on her own in the shower.”

You narrow your eyes, tongue running along your top teeth, watching him dismantle the bed with a shit-eating grin. You want to walk over there and slap it off his face. Or better yet, you want to shove him on the bed and let him fuck you so full of grandbabies you won’t be able to stand again.

Because like it or not, you’re hopelessly in love with Joaquín Torres—and you’re starting to worry that he might just know it.

After helping him make his bed with clean sheets and picking up all the evidence from last night, you reemerge from his room and head straight into your own. You can hear him and his mother chatting away as you gather fresh clothes and pad quietly into the bathroom.

You take a little extra time showering and getting ready, inexplicably wanting to impress his mother—as if you have something to prove.

Please, Mrs. Torres. Tell your son to fall in love with me!

You roll your eyes at your reflection as you apply a generous layer of lip gloss, then you quickly tidy the bathroom—making extra room on the vanity for Lucía—and step out.

“We could go to La Ventana Roja,” Joaquín says, his voice carrying down the hall.

Lucía sighs. “If I wanted to eat Mexican food, I’d cook dinner myself, chico estúpido.”

You press your lips together to keep from giggling as you drop your dirty clothes in the hamper just inside your bedroom door.

“Why do you come here just to insult me?” Joaquín asks, the pout audible in his voice.

“I come here to make sure you’re alive so you can give me grandbabies one day,” Lucía replies.

You step around the corner and spot them in the kitchen, each standing on opposite sides of the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee in front of them.

“Speaking of grandbabies,” she adds with a grin, “you look lovely, linda.”

You give her a soft smile. “Thanks, Lucía.”

Joaquín clears his throat, eyes flicking up and down your body as you come to stand at the end of the counter. “We’re trying to figure out where to go for dinner,” he says. “Sam’s coming too.”

“What about Oil and Salt?” you offer.

He nods. “Italian. I could do Italian.” Then he looks at his mother. “Mamá?”

She smiles. “Yes. Good boy, listening to your novia.”

Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you quickly turn toward the fridge, deciding to distract yourself with food.

“Ay, Mamá,” Joaquín sighs. “Stop saying that. She’s not my girlfriend.”

Lucía just shakes her head and takes a long sip of coffee while you keep your attention firmly fixed on the inside of the fridge—though you can feel Joaquín’s gaze burning into the side of your face.

Eventually he gives up on trying to get your attention and dials the Italian restaurant to make a reservation for tonight. You busy yourself making toast while he and his mom continue to catch up, muttering half in Spanish and half in English.

After two cups of coffee, they decide to head to the mall—Miami doesn’t have a Crate & Barrel like D.C., and apparently Lucía loves that place. They ask you to go with them, but your cheeks are still burning and there’s a strange tightness in your chest—because watching Joaquín with his mom, soft and attentive and effortlessly sweet, is making your heart do stupid things. So you decline.

Instead, you spend the day cleaning the apartment and doing laundry, taking extra care in Joaquín’s room to ensure Lucía won’t stumble upon any more evidence of your very not-so-friendly relationship with her son. You also take some time to plan an outfit for dinner—you haven’t gone out in a while, and you wouldn’t mind making it a little harder for Joaquín to keep his hands to himself.

By the time you hear them get home, you’re already halfway through getting ready. You’re in your room, sitting at the small mirror in the corner by the window, wondering what colour blush to use—or if you should use any at all. You’re wearing nothing but your underwear, with the silky, dark green dress you picked for tonight laid across the bed.

“We’re home!” Joaquín calls.

“I’m in my room!” you call back.

You can hear shuffling—paper bags, muffled voices—and then footsteps, getting louder down the hall.

You jump up quickly and dart across your room, planting both hands against the door just as the handle turns, stopping it from opening fully.

Joaquín gives it a shove. “What the—”

“Dude,” you hiss. “I’m not dressed.”

He peers at you through the gap, brows raised, lips twitching. “And?”

You stare. “And we’re roommates. Remember?”

“Right.” He chuckles. “Well then, roommate, are you going to be ready in half an hour? Sam said he’ll meet us there.”

“Yes,” you mutter. “If you leave me alone, I’ll be ready.”

He leans in a little, trying to see more through the narrow gap—like he thinks he’s subtle. “And if I don’t leave you alone?”

You brace yourself harder against the door. “Then you’ll be limping for the next week.”

He grins, challenging. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

He snorts. “You barely survived the week I was away. You wouldn’t add another—”

“Mijo, leave the poor girl alone!” Lucía calls from the kitchen. “Come help me unpack, and then you can get in the shower so you don’t smell at dinner.”

You can’t help but smile, laughter catching somewhere in your chest as you watch him roll his eyes and trudge back down the hall. Then you shove your bedroom door shut again and return to getting ready.

You finish your makeup, do your hair, and slip into the dress that slides against your skin like butter. It falls just above the knee—silky and forest green—draped in all the right places with a neckline that isn’t too low, but low enough to tease the smallest sliver of black lace if you lean forward just right. You finish the outfit with a pair of knee-high boots and an oversized leather jacket—for modesty, of course. Nothing to do with wanting to shed the jacket at dinner and make Joaquín choke on his own breath.

Half an hour later, you step out of your room into the bright, pungent cloud of Chanel No. 5 saturating the apartment. The bathroom door is shut, but you can hear Joaquín humming behind it, and at the end of the hall you spot Lucía waiting at the dining table.

“Just waiting on Joaquín?” you ask as you step into the kitchen.

Lucía hums. “Like always. He takes so long with the hair, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

You bite back a laugh. “Neither do I.”

Just as you unzip your purse to look for your lip gloss, you hear the bathroom door squeak open. The fan clicks off, footsteps echo up the hall—and then Joaquín steps into the kitchen like some kind of smug, fully-formed thirst trap the universe handcrafted to ruin your night.

His curls are damp and pushed back off his forehead, dark ringlets dripping slightly onto the collar of a clean, fitted black button-up. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms. His jeans are dark and well-worn in ways that should be illegal. And of course—of course—his shirt is unbuttoned one extra button more than necessary, exposing just a hint of warm, tanned chest.

Then he sees you.

And he stops.

His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, landing squarely on your boots.

“Well,” he says, voice lower than it needs to be, “look at you.”

You fold your arms to hide the way your hands start to shake. “Look at you.”

He hums—soft, appreciative—as his gaze drags up your legs again. “New boots?”

You shrug like your heart isn’t sprinting laps. “Maybe.”

He steps closer, leaning his weight onto one hip and folding his arms to mirror you. “Buy those just for me?"

You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Lucía clears her throat from the dining table, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Ay, por favor. The both of you—stop looking at each other like that. We are going to eat.”

You cough, straighten your jacket, and grab your bag. “Ready to go, then?”

Joaquín just grins—slow, wicked, knowing—and gestures for you to go ahead of him. Lucía sighs, muttering something in Spanish under her breath as the three of you head out the door.

The Uber ride to the restaurant isn’t long—but it feels like hours. With Joaquín’s dark eyes fixed on you through the rear-view mirror, you can barely follow whatever Lucía is saying as she points out the window. The driver tries to make small talk with Joaquín too, but it’s useless. The two of you are somewhere else entirely—a different universe, thick with tension and eye contact, and you’re about ten seconds away from spontaneously combusting and leveling half of D.C.

“Oh, we’re here,” Lucía announces at last—and only then do you realise the car has stopped. “Joaquín, ven a ayudar a tu mamá a bajar del auto.” (Joaquín, come help your mom get out of the car.)

Joaquín shakes his head and fumbles with his seatbelt, mumbling a quick thanks to the driver before stepping out. You blink hard, forcing yourself back to reality, and follow—circling around the rear of the car to find him helping his mother onto the sidewalk.

It’s almost annoying how sweet he is with her. Sure, he’s always polite—you’ve always known he was well raised—but seeing it is something else entirely. And seeing it while trying to ignore the fact that you’re already stupidly, painfully in love with him makes the thorns tighten around your heart. Clawing up your chest. Flower buds blooming in your throat.

“There she is!” Sam throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “How long has it been?”

You roll your eyes even though your lips twitch. “It’s been, like, two weeks, Sam. No need to be dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” he echoes. “Try spending a week in the desert with Fly Boy over there.” He jerks a thumb toward Joaquín, whose eyes are slowly widening. “Man would not shut up about you.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “About me?”

Sam nods with the weight of someone bearing deep emotional trauma. “Every day. Every night. ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’ ‘Do you think she’s sleeping?’ ‘Should I text her?’ ‘What if she—’”

“Sam,” Joaquín warns.

“No, no, don’t ‘Sam’ me,” he fires back. “You were a pain in my ass all week.”

You bite back a smile, heat blooming under your skin. “Wow. I know you missed me, but… that much?”

He shrugs a little too casually. “Sam exaggerates.”

Sam scoffs. “I wish I was exaggerating.”

Joaquín shoots him a glare that peel paint—but Sam just pats your arm.

“Anyway,” he adds with a grin, “good to see you again. Next time, don’t make me suffer through another mission with Lover Boy pining the whole time. You can tag along.”

Lover Boy?

Your heart starts to beat a little faster, heat crawling up your neck as you turn toward the restaurant’s front door. He doesn’t really mean that, right? Lover Boy. Sam’s just joking. Being dramatic. Trying to get a rise out of Joaquín.

Right?

You glance at Joaquín, but he refuses to meet your eyes. He just shoves his hands deep into his pockets, his cheeks a little redder than they were a few seconds ago. And when you look back at Sam, he’s already moved on—Lucía has her arm looped through his as they chat like old friends.

You follow them into the restaurant, pausing at the podium while the host checks the reservation under Joaquín’s name. Then you weave through tables until you reach a low booth, bathed in soft gold lighting and tucked away from the rest of the crowd.

Sam slides in first before Joaquín helps his mom onto the end.

“Can I take your coat, ma’am?” the host asks, almost startling you.

You glance at him, nodding. “Uh—yes. Please. That’d be great.”

You slip the leather jacket off your shoulders, and the reaction is instant.

Joaquín freezes.

His jaw drops, eyes dragging down the line of your dress, slow and hungry and stunned. He looks like he’s genuinely forgotten how to function.

“Holy fu—”

“¡Joaquín!” Lucía snaps, swatting the air. “Lenguaje.”

He swallows hard, jaw working as if he’s trying to form a second sentence and failing miserably.

Sam doesn’t even try to hide his amused snort. “Yeah,” he murmurs into his glass of water, “now I see why he wouldn’t shut up about you.”

Joaquín shoots him a murderous glare—but then his eyes flick straight back to you. The humour fades from his expression, leaving something quieter, darker, like gravity pulling between the two of you.

“You look…” His voice comes out rough, quieter than before. “Dios mío.”

Lucía clasps her hands together like this is the most romantic thing she’s ever seen, but Joaquín doesn’t seem to notice. His attention is pinned to you, every muscle in his body tense like he’s holding himself back.

Sam leans back in the booth, smirking. “Just pretend we're not here.”

And that’s when you finally look away—because if you don’t, you’re going to forget how to breathe.

Lucía clears her throat, clearly delighted. “Come, querida. Sit, sit—antes de que alguien se desmaye.” (Come, dear. Sit, sit—before someone faints.)

You keep your eyes down as you slide into the booth beside Joaquín—not across from him. His thigh presses against yours under the table, warm and solid and definitely intentional. Lucía is already telling Sam about today's trip to Crate & Barrel, but it all washes over you like white noise with Joaquín’s arm brushing yours.

Then the waiter appears.

He’s tall, all clean lines and easy confidence, a white towel draped over one arm. “Good evening,” he says, flashing a very professional—and very appreciative—smile in your direction. “Can I start you all with drinks?”

“We’ll start with a bottle of the house red,” Sam says.

The waiter nods—but his eyes stay on you. “And for you?” he asks.

“Oh—same is fine,” you say quickly, because it’s hard to think when Joaquín is sitting so close.

The waiter offers you another smile—warmer now. “Great choice.”

“Thanks,” you reply, trying to ignore the way Joaquín shifts just slightly beside you, his shoulder brushing yours like he’s reclaiming space.

“I’ll grab that bottle for you now,” the waiter says, barely even glancing at the rest of the table.

The second he’s gone, Sam looks pointedly at Joaquín, brows raised like he’s waiting for something. But Joaquín doesn’t say a word—he just clears his throat and busies himself with arranging his napkin on one knee like it’s a tactical operation.

“So, Lucía,” you say, desperate for distraction. “How long are you staying with your sister?”

She sets her glass down with a soft thunk, dark eyes meeting yours across the table. “However long it takes for me to convince Carla to break up with that criminal boyfriend of hers.”

Your brows shoot up, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “Oh?”

Joaquín sighs. “Mamá, he’s not a criminal.”

“Yes, he is,” she argues. “He has that awful little—uh, ¿cómo se dice perilla?”

“Goatee,” Joaquín mutters.

“Oh!” You giggle, turning to face him. “Weren’t you trying to grow a goatee last month?”

Lucía gasps. “¡Ay no, mijo!”

“That’s right,” Sam laughs. “Looked like he glued pubes to his chin.”

You laugh harder, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like a maniac.

Joaquín scowls at him. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It wasn’t good,” you mutter.

He whips around to you. “You said you didn’t mind it.”

You shrug. “I didn’t hate it, but it—”

“Tickled, I know,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes.

Your eyes go wide.

“Tickled?” Sam echoes, nearly choking on his water.

“¿Cosquillas?” Lucía repeats, looking mildly horrified.

You drop your face into your hands. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

Joaquín turns bright red. “Oh—no, I— that’s not—”

Before Joaquín can finish digging himself into a deeper grave, the waiter returns—wine bottle in hand.

“House red,” he says smoothly, presenting the bottle to you first. “Should I start you off?”

You look up, blinking. “Oh—sure.”

He uncorks it with practiced ease, and the whole table goes quiet. Even Sam stops smirking. The waiter pours a small amount into your glass and tilts it toward you with a gentle smile meant only for you.

“Tell me what you think.”

You pick it up and take a small sip. “It’s great.”

“Good,” he says—voice low and a little too warm. “I’ll pour for everyone else.”

He fills the other glasses—Lucía first, Sam second—and when he reaches Joaquín, he finally breaks eye contact with you. Just barely.

Joaquín meets his gaze, unwavering. His fingers tap once against the table. Sharp. Controlled.

The waiter doesn’t notice—or maybe he does, but his eyes slide right back to you anyway. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu, or should I give you a few more minutes?”

“Um.” You glance down at the menu, unopened on the table. “Maybe five more minutes.”

He nods once, still smiling. “Of course.”

Then he turns and walks away, hands clasped behind his back.

Sam chuckles. “Well, he’s friendly.”

“Too friendly,” Joaquín mutters.

You slide the menu off the table and finally flip it open. “He’s just doing his job."

Joaquín shifts beside you—his knee knocking yours, elbow brushing your arm—as he flips open his own menu. You glance at his other side, where he clearly has enough room to move over. But no. He’s going to stay right beside you, practically pressed against you, for some ridiculous reason.

Lucía and Sam start muttering about the menu, pointing at dishes and debating what to order. You can barely focus on any of it though—not with the heat still crawling under your skin thanks to Joaquín’s earlier slip-up. Your brain is fried, your whole body too warm, and by the time the waiter returns—not a second more than five minutes later—you haven’t even made it past the appetisers.

“Are we ready to order?” he asks, looking straight at you.

“Oh, um—” You glance at the menu, then back at him. “If you could just give me a couple more seconds, I—”

“Of course. I’ll start with the other side of the table.” He turns to Lucía. “What can I get you, ma’am?”

You drop your gaze again and start skimming the list. You’re not even that hungry—or at least, not for food—but this place has a great reputation, so you can’t not order one of the main dishes.

“You’ll like this one,” Joaquín says, pointing at a pasta dish. “Or that one.” He points to another.

You look at him from the corner of your eye. “Are you just saying that because you want to try those ones?”

His lips twitch. “Can’t both be true?”

You shake your head, eyes sliding back to the menu. “God, I know you too well, Torres.”

“And for you?” the waiter asks, turning to Joaquín with raised brows, no smile. “Sir?”

“I’ll have the chicken piccata,” Joaquín says, handing back his menu without breaking eye contact.

The waiter hums, scribbles something down, then looks at you. He’s smiling again—too warm—and his gaze flicks up to your face just a beat too late as you lift your head.

“Which would you recommend between the pappardelle and the ravioli?” you ask.

“I always recommend the pappardelle,” he says, leaning in slightly. “It’s rich. Creamy. Really indulgent.”

Joaquín’s arm tenses beside you.

“Great.” You close the menu and hand it to him. “I’ll get that.”

“Good choice.” His fingers brush yours—lingering just a second too long. “And if you need anything else, just let me know.”

You blink, the small frown between your brows slowly softening as realisation finally hits—he's flirting with you.

With one last smile, aimed only at you, he turns and walks away.

“I think—” you tilt your head, lowering your voice, “I think he was flirting with me.”

Sam snorts, and even Lucía gives a soft little laugh.

“No shit,” Joaquín mutters into his wine glass.

Your pulse trips, your heart stumbling out of rhythm.

Was that... jealousy?

No. It couldn’t be. Joaquín doesn’t get jealous. Not over you. Not when this whole arrangement is supposed to be casual and uncomplicated. Just two roommates who occasionally—and far too easily—find themselves tangled in each other’s sheets.

But there’s a tightness in his jaw now, and a stubborn set to his shoulders like he’s holding something back. Like that little brush of the waiter’s fingers just punched straight through something he’s trying very hard not to acknowledge.

And maybe you’re just imagining it.

Maybe it’s nothing.

But the warmth in your chest says otherwise, and suddenly the room feels smaller. His arm is still against yours, warm and steady, like he’s holding you there—or staking a claim.

You shouldn’t like it. You shouldn’t want the weight of it.

But you do.

You want him to be jealous.

“So,” Sam says, looking at you, “how’s work?”

You clear your throat, setting your wine down with an unsteady hand. “Good. Busy. But good.”

He nods, smirking. “Any interesting contracts lately?”

“None you’re cleared to know about.”

His brows shoot up. “Excuse me? I’m Captain America.”

You shrug, leaning back in the booth. “A spandex suit and an oversized frisbee doesn’t give you security clearance.”

Joaquín snorts beside you. “Ouch.”

You turn to him, one brow arched. “And what are you laughing about, fly boy? You think a mechanical bird costume is any better?”

“Wow.” Sam chuckles. “You actually managed to insult me twice.”

You laugh softly, fingers curling around your wine glass again. “I’m good, aren’t I?”

Sam rolls his eyes, Joaquín shakes his head, and Lucía just smiles into her sip of wine—like she knows something you don’t.

It doesn’t take long before Sam starts talking about their week in Nevada—joking about how much fun it was while Joaquín launches into a dramatic recount of why he’s never, ever going back. Lucía just laughs, muttering in Spanish about how much of a drama queen he can be.

You stay quiet, keeping your wine glass close to your chin and taking a sip every few seconds just to distract yourself from the warmth of sitting so close to him. From the way his thigh presses against yours, the way his arm keeps brushing yours every time he talks with his hands.

You’re so lost in the heat and the burn of wine at the back of your throat that you almost jump when the waiter steps up beside the table again.

“We’ve got the chicken marsala,” he says, placing a dish in front of Lucía. “And the lasagne.” He sets Sam’s plate down next.

Then he turns to your side of the booth.

He doesn’t announce Joaquín’s dish—he just sets it down without looking at him, then shifts the last plate into both hands and lowers it gently in front of you.

“The pappardelle,” he says, smiling now.

You sit up a little straighter, creating the smallest sliver of space between you and Joaquín. “Thank you. This looks amazing.”

The waiter leans in—subtle, but noticeable. “It tastes even better.”

You glance up at him. “I bet.”

There’s a beat of silence—a quiet pause where everything at the table seems to still, leaving you and the waiter holding eye contact longer than you meant to.

Then Sam clears his throat. Loudly.

“Right.” The waiter straightens, clasping his hands behind his back—but his eyes don't leave yours. “If you need anything else, just wave.”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a small smirk. “Or just read my mind?”

His smile widens. “I’ll try my best.”

When he finally walks away, the table doesn’t fall back into easy conversation—not right away. There’s a subtle shift in the air, the kind that buzzes under your skin before you even turn your head.

Sam is staring at you like you’ve just pulled off something mildly impressive and deeply inconvenient for him. Lucía hides another knowing smile behind her wine glass. And Joaquín… hasn’t moved.

You shift a little and reach for your fork. “So… this looks great, right?”

Sam lets out a quiet scoff. “Uh-huh. Sure does.”

You shoot him a look. “What?”

Lucía waves a hand. “Nada, querida. Absolutely nothing.”

But there’s definitely something glimmering behind her smile.

Beside you, Joaquín finally shifts—only just—but it’s enough to draw your attention. His fingers tighten around his napkin, smoothing the fabric with unnecessary precision. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice, and then he reaches for his fork.

“Eat,” he says softly, not quite meeting your eyes. “Before it gets cold.”

You watch him for a beat, unsure whether he’s annoyed, flustered, or trying very hard to pretend he’s neither. “Okay,” you murmur, twirling your pasta.

The moment you lean slightly forward, his thigh presses into yours again—firmer this time, unmistakable in its intent. And unlike earlier, you don’t move. You let him close that tiny distance between you—and his shoulders visibly relax.

But Sam notices, because of course he does, and he kicks Joaquín under the table.

Joaquín jolts. “Ow—what the hell?”

Sam just raises his brows, the universal expression for please, I am begging you, get a grip.

Joaquín glares at him, then grabs his wine and takes a long, steady drink—long enough for you to feel the heat gathering in your cheeks again, pooling low in your stomach.

You look back at your plate, stirring the pasta you haven’t even tasted yet, trying—and failing—not to smile.

Because dinner suddenly feels less like dinner… and more like Joaquín’s own personal brand of torture.

The rest of the meal settles into something surprisingly easy. A few minutes pass, then a few more, and the earlier heat simmering beneath the surface evens out into something warm and comfortable—tensions forgotten.

Conversation drifts from Nevada to work gossip to an argument about the best empanada filling, and somewhere between the second glass of wine and Joaquín stealing a forkful of your pasta, the sharp edges of the night soften.

Lucía tells a story about Tía Carla’s neighbour who owns seventeen cats and one very unhappy parrot. Sam nearly spits his wine laughing. And Joaquín mutters something ridiculous about government oversight for bird safety, which makes you roll your eyes so hard your head tips back against the booth.

And all the while, his thigh stays pressed to yours—not tense anymore, not deliberate, just there. Warm. Familiar. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

By the time everyone’s plates are scraped clean and the last drops of wine have been poured, the earlier tension feels like a distant echo. You’re a little flushed, a little full, and dangerously close to believing this moment could last forever.

Then Lucía sets down her glass—slowly, deliberately—and her eyes slide to you with the kind of gentle curiosity that should terrify anyone in a ten-mile radius.

“So, querida…” she begins, voice warm and sweet and laced with landmines, “how long have you and my son been so… close?”

The air stills.

Your pulse skips.

Joaquín goes rigid beside you, wine glass halfway to his lips.

Sam inhales sharply through his nose like he knows exactly how fast this is about to spiral.

And before any of you can even attempt to recover—

“How’s everything going?”

The waiter appears beside the table with a bright smile and absolutely disastrous timing, dessert menus fanned in one hand like this is the best moment in the world to ask about tiramisu.

“Ay.” Lucía’s eyes brighten. “Sí, algo dulce suena perfecto.” (Oh. Yes, something sweet sounds perfect.)

The waiter hands both Lucía and Sam a menu, then places one on the table in front of Joaquín before turning back to you with a soft smile.

“If you’re thinking about something sweet,” he says, handing you the menu slowly, “the torta al cioccolato is my favourite. Rich. Intense.” His eyes flick to your mouth—subtle, but unmistakable. “And very, very satisfying.”

You let out a soft hum as you take the menu. “Well… I do like to be satisfied.”

Joaquín goes completely still beside you.

The waiter smirks. “Then it’s perfect for you.”

You tilt your head, looking up at him through your lashes. “You sure?”

“Positive.” His voice drops. “And if you want, I can—”

“We’ll take the check,” Joaquín says—sharp, controlled, dangerous.

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

The waiter blinks. “Sir, I—”

“Check,” Joaquín repeats through his teeth. “Now.”

Lucía sighs, dropping the menu on the table. “Ay, Dios.”

The waiter hesitates—only for a second—before retreating in stiff silence, and the moment he’s out of earshot, Sam groans, dragging a palm down his face like he’s aging in real time.

“Este niño…” Lucía mutters under her breath, shaking her head.

You’ve stopped breathing. Completely. All you can do is stare at Joaquín—at his rigid shoulders, clenched jaw, the way his eyes refuse to meet yours.

“Are you—”

“Fine,” he snaps, grabbing his wine and finishing what’s left in one gulp before he sets the glass down harder than he means to. “Totally fine.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah. That’s definitely the vibe you’re giving off.”

Joaquín shoots him a warning glare just as the waiter returns with the check, placing it delicately in the middle as if worried someone might bite him. Understandable.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he offers gently.

Joaquín snatches it before anyone else can blink. “We’re ready.”

Lucía lifts a brow. “Mijo…”

“I’ll pay at the front,” he mutters.

Everyone shuffles out of the booth and gathers their things. Lucía slings her purse over her shoulder, a different waiter—female this time—brings you your coat, and Sam adjusts the waistband of his jeans like he’s eaten far more than he planned to.

You reach for your bag, but Joaquín grabs it before you can. “I’ve got it.”

Then he brushes past you and stalks toward the front of the restaurant, broad shoulders tense, every heavy step barely controlled. The host standing by the register sees him coming and visibly pales, his eyes growing wider the closer Joaquín gets.

Sam whistles under his breath. “Well. This was fun.”

Lucía pats your hand. “Don’t worry, querida. He’s just… feeling something.”

Your stomach flips. “What do you mean?”

She only smiles—too soft, too knowing. “You’ll see.”

The three of you weave through the tables until you meet Joaquín by the front door—receipt in hand, jaw still set, mouth a tense line.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

There’s no room for argument. No waiting for anyone to gather themselves. He shifts until he's walking behind you, his hand hovering at your lower back but never quite touching—like he wants to guide you out but refuses to let himself.

The walk out is quiet. Heavy. Charged. You can feel his frustration radiating off him like heat, the kind that sinks beneath your skin and twists deep in your stomach. And the moment you step outside into the cool night air, he exhales—sharp, shaky, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.

After Sam bids everyone a good night—giving Lucía an extra warm hug and wishing her luck—the rest of you climb into an Uber. The ride home is almost completely silent, save for the soft crackle of the radio. Not even Lucía tries to make conversation. It feels like hours before the car finally pulls up in front of your apartment block, and when you climb out, Joaquín is already offering his mother an arm—just like he had outside the restaurant.

You make your way through the lobby in that same thick quiet, ride the elevator up without a single word, and by the time the doors slide open onto your floor, the silence has turned into something almost suffocating.

Lucía exhales loudly—dramatically. “Ay, por favor. I’m done. I need a shower and a prayer.” Her eyes flick to Joaquín, then to you. “And tomorrow? I expect better comportamiento from both of you.”

Once inside the apartment, Lucía beelines straight for the bathroom, muttering something indistinguishable under her breath as she shuts the door behind her.

The moment the lock clicks, silence settles over the living room. Heavy. Awkward. Ridiculous.

Joaquín stands in the middle of the room, jaw tight, eyes flicking everywhere but you. You stay by the door, arms crossed, not moving. Not blinking. Not giving him an inch.

You glare at him.

He pretends not to notice.

From the bathroom, you hear the shower turn on—pipes creaking, water running, Lucía humming softly to herself.

Neither of you move.

Neither of you speak.

You just... wait.

After what feels like the longest ten minutes of your life, Lucía finally steps out of the bathroom, calls her goodnights, and disappears into Joaquín’s room. You hear the light switch click, the faint rustle of sheets, and then—silence.

Real silence.

Nothing but the muted sounds of the city outside, and the two of you standing in the dimly lit apartment. Still. Tense. Frustrated.

You break the silence first.

“What’s your problem, Joaquín?”

He finally looks at you. “My problem?”

“Yes, your problem. Because you spent the entire dinner looking like you wanted to throw that waiter off a building.”

He steps forward, jaw tightening. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t flirt with someone who can’t read a room.”

“Oh, you mean you?”

“Me?” he snaps. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Keep your voice down,” you hiss. “Your mom doesn’t need to hear—”

“My mom just watched you shamelessly flirt with the waiter for two hours straight—I don’t think a little argument is going to shock her.”

“Shamelessly?” you echo, incredulous. “You really think I was the one in the wrong?”

He drags a hand over his face. “Can we not do this right now? I’m tired, I just—”

“No,” you fire back. “You've been acting like an asshole all night and you made a whole scene over dessert—so yeah, we’re doing this.”

“I didn’t make a scene.”

“You asked for the check like you were about to arrest him.”

“He was flirting with you,” Joaquín snaps. “Right in front of me.”

You frown. “So?”

He looks away, jaw flexing hard.

You take a step forward. “Answer me, Joaquín. Why is that a problem?”

“Because,” he starts, “we were—I mean, wasn’t it obvious that we’re—”

He stops.

Your breath catches.

“He was being unprofessional,” he mutters, too fast. “That’s all.”

“Oh?” You fold your arms, trying to hide the heat starting to crawl up your neck. “So I’m supposed to believe this is about restaurant etiquette?”

“Yes!” he snaps. “Friends don’t—” He cuts himself off too late, frustration spilling over. “Friends don’t do shit like that.”

The words hit you like a slap—and you go still. Very still.

“Right.” You try to laugh, but it comes out thin, broken. “Okay. You want to talk about what friends don’t do?”

His throat works once—visible, panicked—but he stays silent.

You step in, heat rising, heart beating too hard.

“Friends don’t sleep in each other’s beds,” you say, voice low and surprisingly steady. “They don’t shower together, or pin each other against walls, or—God, Joaquín—friends don’t fuck.”

His breath stutters, chest rising and falling too fast.

“And friends definitely don’t get jealous,” you finish, barely above a whisper. “So what exactly are we doing?”

Joaquín blinks. Once. Twice.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“I… I don’t know,” he finally mutters. “I thought we were just... friends. I thought we could do this without it getting too complicated but maybe—maybe we should just stop.”

You feel the words hit like a punch to the ribs.

“Stop?” Your voice is soft—dangerous. “That’s what you want?”

“That’s not—” He drags both hands through his curls, taking a step back, panic rising fast. “Look, I’m just saying… maybe this whole thing was a mistake.”

Mistake.

The word hollows you out.

You let out a breathless, humourless laugh. “Wow. That’s great. Really, Torres—thank you so much for finally realising what a mistake I am.”

He winces. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“Save it,” you mutter. “Just... don’t bother.”

Then you turn on your heel, fury and humiliation burning hot beneath your skin as you march down the hall.

Behind you, he calls your name—once, soft, almost pleading—but you don’t look back.

You stop at your bedroom doorway, the last of your patience snapping clean in half.

“I hope the couch sucks,” you say.

Then you slam your door.

Hard.

-

You wake late and lie in bed until you can’t ignore your bladder any longer. The light leaking through your curtains is soft and grey—because of course it’s raining today. The universe would never miss a chance for dramatic ambiance.

When you finally drag yourself out of bed, you avoid the mirror, already knowing you look like heartbreak leftovers thanks to all the crying last night. You shuffle into the bathroom, hearing the faint sound of voices from the kitchen and hating the way your stomach twists with nausea. You wash your face, brush your teeth, and emerge hoping—praying—Joaquín might have left for the day.

But he hasn’t.

Of course he hasn’t.

You step into the kitchen and find him standing at the counter in sweats and a t-shirt, hair messy, eyes fixed on the mug in his hands like it personally offended him. He stiffens when he hears your footsteps, but he doesn’t look up.

You clear your throat. “Morning.”

His reply is barely a breath. “Morning.”

Lucía is sitting at the dining table watching with exasperation, her brows drawn, lips pressed, eyes flicking between the two of you—and the fourteen inches of stubborn silence between your bodies.

“Niños,” she mutters into her coffee mug. “You look like you’re in mourning."

You blink, but stay quiet. Joaquín just sips his coffee.

The silence stretches—too long, too heavy—until you finally sigh and step into the kitchen, moving around him like he’s a live wire. You keep your gaze fixed on the coffee machine, every nerve acutely aware of him standing close enough to feel the warmth of his body, but stubbornly refusing to look at you—or move away.

Lucía watches you silently, stirring her spoon with the slow, patient judgement of a woman who has already written both of your wedding vows in her head.

“So,” she says, far too innocently. “Did everyone sleep well?”

“Sí,” Joaquín lies immediately.

“Fine,” you lie right after.

Lucía hums. “Interesting. Because the couch,” she glances at her son pointedly, “is not comfortable.”

Joaquín’s jaw flexes. “It was fine.”

Lucía eyes the both of you one more time, clearly unimpressed with the silence thick enough to spread on toast.

“Voy a cambiarme,” she announces, rising from the table. “Then we go out. I didn’t fly all this way to watch you two stare at walls.”

Joaquín nods without looking up. You nod without looking at him. It’s pathetic. She knows it. You all know it.

When her bedroom door clicks shut behind her, the apartment slips into that same strained quiet as last night—all sharp edges and swallowed words. You scull your coffee while Joaquín rinses his mug. Twice. Maybe three times. Then, without a word, you head back to your room and try not to cry while you pick something to wear for the day.

Eventually, you all reconvene in the living room. Joaquín grabs his jacket. You grab your keys. And you both follow Lucía out the door like lost ghosts.

She drags you both across D.C. like a tourist seeing the city for the first time—museums, a market stall, a coffee cart where she insists you try something sweet.

Joaquín softens around her. He links her arm in his, laughs when she teases him, smiles without thinking. It hurts in a stupid, petty way. And you can’t bring yourself to walk too close. To join them. You’re just near. Hovering. Following.

Joaquín steals glances when he thinks you’re not looking.

You look away every time, pretending to be fascinated by a city you’ve known for years.

Then there’s lunch—which is worse. Much worse.

Lucía, clearly at her limit with the brooding, decides to try—bless her meddling soul—to lighten the mood.

“So, querida… Juan was very handsome, no? The waiter last night?”

You choke on air. Joaquín goes stone silent.

Lucía smiles like she’s one rude comment away from exploding into laughter.

“Yeah,” you mutter, looking anywhere but at Joaquín. “I guess.”

Joaquín’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing.

And that’s the end of lunch. No one speaks for the rest of the meal.

By the time you get back to the apartment, you’re all exhausted. Not just from walking through the city, but from tiptoeing around whatever fragile thing is hanging precariously between you and Joaquín right now.

Lucía sighs as she kicks off her shoes, then presses two fingers to her temples. “I’m going to lie down,” she murmurs.

Joaquín gives her a soft smile as she starts down the hall toward his bedroom, and when the door clicks shut, silence spreads through the apartment again, heavy like smoke—slow and impossible to ignore. You move into the kitchen just to have somewhere to stand, fingers hovering at the pantry door even though you have no idea what you’re looking for.

Behind you, Joaquín clears his throat. “I can order dinner later,” he says. “If you’d like.”

A peace offering—fragile as glass.

You keep staring at the cereal box in front of you. “I’m not hungry.”

He shifts—the kind of shift you feel rather than see. “You barely ate at lunch.”

“And you barely spoke,” you say before you can stop yourself, finally turning to face him.

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t have anything to say.”

“You could’ve tried,” you murmur. “You could have said something.”

He swallows once. Hard. “I’m trying now,” he says quietly. “I’m asking you to eat dinner with me.”

It should feel good. It should feel like effort. Growth. Something inching toward reconciliation. But it doesn’t. It just feels like someone pressing a thumb into a bruise to check if it still hurts.

You exhale hard, gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t sit across from you and pretend we’re fine.”

He steps closer—barely—but it still feels like too much. “We’re not fine?”

Your eyes flick up, a short, hollow laugh slipping out. “You tell me, Joaquín.”

He doesn’t answer—he just looks at you, apology lingering at the edges of his gaze, swallowed by fear before it can reach his mouth.

“I’m gonna shower,” you say, already turning away. “I’ll... see you later.”

The bathroom door closes behind you without a slam—which is worse, somehow—a gentle surrender instead of rage. A reminder that you’re not angry, not really. You’re just... sad. Heartbroken. Finally at the crossroads you’ve been dreading, where you have to give up what you’ve been hopelessly holding on to.

Because it’s not real.

And you can’t keep pretending it is.

Under the hot spray of the shower, you press your forehead to the wall and let the water hide the tears you swore you were done with. When you emerge thirty minutes later, hair damp, wearing an old t-shirt you’re not even sure belongs to you, you can hear him in the kitchen with his mom—cutlery clinking over quiet conversation.

You hover in the hallway—not eavesdropping, just... overhearing.

Lucía’s voice is low, but not low enough.

“Joaquín,” she sighs gently, “¿Qué te pasa? You were cruel last night. And today? You barely spoke to her.”

“I wasn’t cruel,” he mutters. “I just—it's complicated and it got out of hand.”

Lucía sighs, exasperated. “You are so blind. How do you not see the way that girl looks at you? Desde el momento que abrió la puerta, I knew she was in love with my son.”

Your breath catches. Hard.

A chair shifts, scraping softly against the hardwood floor. You imagine him sitting back, rubbing the back of his neck—embarrassed, uncomfortable, running from the truth like it burns.

“Mamá…” Joaquín’s voice is soft, frustrated—afraid. “You’re reading too much into things. It’s not—we’re not—it’s just casual. Nothing more.”

Your heart lodges in your throat, fresh tears burning your eyes.

Lucía huffs. “Casual? Joaquín, cariño, nothing about the way you look at her is casual.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Thick. You know too well that kind—the kind full of truths that could shatter either one of you if you dared touch them.

You don’t wait to hear more.

Before anyone notices you standing there, you slip silently back to your room and close the door without a sound. You climb into bed, pulling the blankets up like armour, and stare at the ceiling as your heartbeat stutters in your throat.

Because she sees it.

Everyone sees it.

Everyone but him.

You lie there for what feels like hours. Or maybe it’s twenty minutes. Time is strange when your chest feels too tight to hold air properly. You stare at the ceiling until the shadows shift, then you roll over, curl into yourself, unfold again. You toss. You turn. You try to sleep.

But you don’t.

Your eyes burn, and you swipe at them with the heel of your hand like it might stop the ache. But it doesn’t. So you grab your phone, dim the brightness, and scroll mindlessly—news, memes, someone’s engagement announcement you want to be happy for but mostly you just feel hollow. You watch three videos of raccoons washing grapes and read half an article about hair loss you don’t absorb.

Eventually, you hear Lucía’s voice—soft, muffled—saying goodnight to Joaquín. Then a door closes, footsteps fade, and the apartment settles into stillness. The kind of quiet that leaves you alone with your thoughts. The kind you wish you could outrun.

You switch off your phone and try again—eyes shut, breathing slow, blanket tucked up to your chin. It’s peaceful for maybe sixty seconds.

Then thunder starts to roll, low and lazy across the night sky. Not dramatic, not a storm—just enough to rattle the window and stir something restless under your ribs. The kind of sound that makes you think of company, warmth, someone’s chest to press your ear against.

You squeeze your eyes tighter. It shouldn’t be like this. You don’t get to think about him right now.

He’s not yours—no matter how much you wish he was.

Then another rumble. Closer this time. Louder.

You shift onto your back and stare at the ceiling again—heart beating too loud, the air too thick, the walls too close. Every second stretches until you’re sure you could hear a pin drop.

And then—a knock.

So soft, it’s barely a tap.

You stop breathing.

Another knock—gentle, hesitant—the kind that asks for permission instead of expecting it.

You know that knock. You’ve felt it against this door before—late nights, whispered laughter, the weight of a body sliding under the sheets beside yours like it was natural.

“Hey—uh, are you awake?”

Your heart stutters hard enough to hurt.

“Um. Yeah.”

There’s a pause—like he’s gathering courage, or trying to decide if he should turn around.

“…Can I come in?”

For a moment, you consider saying no. You should say no. It’d be easier. Simpler. But your heart betrays you like it always does.

“…Yeah. It’s open.”

The door creaks, opening just enough for him to slip inside. The hallway light silhouettes him for a second—messy hair, wrinkled t-shirt, uncertainty shaped into a boy who looks like he hasn’t slept either. He closes the door softly behind him, as if a noise too loud might break whatever fragile thing hangs between you.

You sit up, dragging your knees to your chest and hoping your voice is steadier than you feel. “What’s up?”

He looks at you, then the blankets, then the window behind you.

“I… heard the thunder,” he says quietly. “Didn’t know if it bothered you.”

You huff a laugh. “It’s just weather, Torres. I’ll survive.”

He takes a tentative step closer. Then another.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But... still didn’t feel right leaving you alone.”

Your heart flips. Stupid, traitorous thing.

You tilt your head toward the foot of the bed. “You can—uh, you can sit. If you want.”

He hesitates—just a second—then sits at the edge of your bed, careful to keep space between you. Not touching, but close enough that the mattress dips toward him. Close enough that you feel him like static.

Silence settles. Not heavy like earlier—but fragile. Delicate. Like one wrong move could shatter everything.

Then Joaquín sighs, his shoulders sagging. “I hate this,” he admits.

Your throat tightens. “Me too.”

He nods, staring at his hands like the words he needs might be written in the lines of his palms.

“I keep trying to figure out what to say,” he murmurs. “But every version sounds wrong.”

You shift, not away from him but toward, the blankets rustling as you pull your knees tighter and wrap your arms around them. “You could try just... talking to me,” you whisper.

He exhales—a long, slow release that softens something rigid in his posture—and when he looks up, his eyes catch yours with a kind of tired honesty that twists something deep in your ribs.

“But what if I say something that ruins everything?”

Your breath stutters, just a little.

He notices—of course he notices. He always does.

Then, slowly, he shifts closer, like gravity is doing the work instead of intention. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and you feel it—not just physically, but in the air, in your bones, in the way your pulse picks up like it recognises something familiar approaching.

His knee brushes yours, light enough to pretend it didn’t happen.

Neither of you move.

The room is dim—only the glow of moonlight bleeding through your sheer curtains, soft and silver, painting the curve of his cheekbone, the soft dent beneath his lower lip where he bit down earlier without thinking. His curls fall messy across his forehead, still a little damp from his own shower, and he’s close enough now that you could count the beauty marks scattered across his skin.

He clears his throat quietly, eyes flicking to your mouth and back like he regrets looking—but can’t help it. “Do you remember,” he asks, voice low and too warm, “the rules we made? Back when this was supposed to be simple?”

Your heart squeezes, painfully.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I remember.”

He leans in a fraction, voice soft with something vulnerable. “What were they again?”

You feel it then—the moment the floor drops out from beneath you, the air thickens, the entire world shrinking down to the fragile space between your bodies and that question sitting between you like a live wire.

He knows the answer.

You know he knows it.

But he wants you to say it.

He wants to hear it now—from your mouth.

And God, it’s intimate.

Intimate in a way sex with him never scared you, but this does.

He waits—eyes searching your face like whatever you say next could ruin him completely.

Your voice comes out quiet, barely above a whisper. “There were only two rules.”

Something shifts behind his eyes—recognition, regret, something carved deep and unspoken. He leans closer. Slow. Careful. Like he’s approaching something he’s wanted for a long time but never trusted himself to touch.

Your breath catches when his thigh presses flush against your hip, when you can feel the warmth of his exhale on your lips. You don’t move away. You couldn’t if you tried.

“What were they?” he asks—soft, coaxing, like he wants you to ruin him.

You swallow, hard, because saying them now feels like prying open your own ribcage and handing him your heart still beating.

“No kissing,” you say, your voice thin.

His gaze drops to your mouth—slow, reverent—as though he’s memorising the shape of the rule he’s been breaking in every touch, every look, every moment he let himself linger. He’s close enough that one tilt of your chin would erase the space between you, and he knows it. God, he knows it.

“And the second?” he breathes.

Your pulse thrums in your ears, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it. You lick your lips without thinking—and his eyes follow the movement like he’s starving.

You breathe in once. Shaky. Unsteady. Then you give him the second rule like reopening a wound half-healed.

“No falling in love.”

The words hang between you. Heavy. Bare. Irreversible.

His breath stutters. You feel it—the tiny hitch in his chest, the way his fingers curl into the sheets like he needs to hold onto something before he reaches for you instead. He leans in a fraction closer, close enough that the tips of your noses nearly brush.

“Shit,” he whispers, eyes searching yours. “We really fucked that up, didn’t we?”

Your lips part—but nothing comes out. You’re not sure you could speak even if you tried.

He lifts a hand, slow as forgiveness, fingertips trailing along your jaw in a feather-light graze. A question. A plea. Permission hanging on a breath.

“I’m done pretending,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches somewhere between want and fear.

“And I’m about to break both of those rules.” His voice drops low, wrecked. “Unless you tell me not to.”

The whole world stops.

You don’t say no.

You don’t even think it.

You just breathe his name—soft, helpless, like a prayer you’re tired of choking down. “Joaquín.”

And that’s all it takes.

He moves first—barely—just a tilt of his head, the faintest brush of his lips to yours like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he touches you too quickly. It’s soft, tentative, a question disguised as a kiss. His mouth is warm, careful, almost reverent. Like he’s been waiting to do this for a lifetime and doesn’t want to rush the first second of it.

You inhale sharply—not out of surprise, but relief. Relief so deep it aches. You kiss him back just as gently, your fingers curling in the sheets like you need something to anchor you before gravity takes over.

And it does.

Because when you don’t pull away—when you lean in the smallest amount, when your lips part on a quiet, helpless sound he swallows up—Joaquín breaks.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, drawing you closer with a desperation he’s fought too long to hide. The kiss deepens—slow at first, then hungry, then all-consuming—months of every touch but this, every touch but the one that mattered, breaking open between your mouths like those rules were never meant to exist.

He tastes like mint toothpaste and that fruity soda he had with dinner—familiar and new all at once, like something you’ve known forever and only just realised you were starving for. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying possessively, tugging you across the sheets and into him like he needs you closer—closer still—not just next to him, but against him.

You go willingly.

Your knees uncurl, your body shifting until you’re pressed chest to chest, breath mingling, heartbeats stumbling over one another. His curls brush your forehead, damp and soft, and he makes a sound low in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—just pure want.

When you kiss him deeper, his fingers tighten at your waist; when you slide your hand into his hair, he exhales like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. The world narrows to mouths and heat and the slow drag of his thumb at your jaw as if he can’t believe you’re real.

He pulls back just a fraction, lips hovering over yours, breath shaky and warm.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

And the way he says it—raw, unguarded, like confession and promise tangled together—makes your stomach twist, makes your pulse leap, makes any distance between you feel unbearable.

You kiss him again.

Harder this time.

His mouth meets yours, deeper this time—no hesitation, no gentleness left unspoken. The kiss steals whatever is left of your breath and gives back something hotter, hungrier. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, and he goes willingly, like he’s been waiting his whole life to be asked.

As you lay back, his weight settles fully between your thighs—careful, but urgent—and the low sound he makes against your lips borders on a plea. He’s everywhere at once—the warm press of his chest, the slow drag of his palm up the back of your thigh, the way his nose bumps yours when he tilts his head to kiss you harder.

He pulls back only far enough to speak, breaths mingling, foreheads pressed together.

“Tell me you want this,” he whispers—like he needs the words to anchor him. “Tell me you want me.”

Your thumb brushes his cheekbone, soft and trembling. “I want this,” you whisper. “I want you.”

Whatever restraint he had left dissolves.

He surges forward, kissing you like he’s making up for every night he talked himself out of this—slow, then deep, then deeper still, like he’s afraid to come up for air in case you disappear.

His hand slides beneath the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your ribs, reverent fingertips mapping skin he’s only ever touched in half-dark—never like this, never with your lips and your heart, never sacred.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you—really look—eyes glassy like something inside him cracked open and light spilled out.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks, voice rough. “My mom’s still here, we can just—”

“Joaquín,” you breathe, “shut up and fuck me.”

He drops his head and groans against your throat, lips brushing your pulse, each word a confession pressed into skin. “I want you so bad,” he murmurs. “I want every last part of you—I need you."

He lifts the hem of your shirt higher—slow enough to back out if you push his hand away, slow enough for consent to breathe between you—but your hips arch instead, inviting, answering without words.

He exhales a shaky laugh—relief, disbelief, hunger—before pressing a kiss to your sternum through the thin cotton.

He helps you sit up just enough for the shirt to slip over your head, leaving you in nothing but underwear and the soft shadowed light. His gaze drags over you like a touch, slow and adoring, and his voice drops to something quiet and raw.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Then he leans down again, kissing the newly bared skin of your collarbone, then lower—trailing devotion like a rosary he’s repeating in reverse. His hands slide along your waist, your hips, your thighs, guiding you back into the pillows with something between gentleness and possession.

Your hands skim down his chest and curl into the fabric of his shirt, bunching it up until you can’t pull it any higher. A soft whine slips from your throat—wordless, pleading. He breaks the kiss only long enough to laugh under his breath, a low sound that vibrates where your palms rest on his skin, and then the shirt is gone—pulled over his head and tossed somewhere you’ll never find again.

He barely has it off before you’re touching him again, palms exploring lower, nails dragging lightly over the ridges of his stomach. He exhales like the contact winded him, like your touch is enough to undo him. Your fingers find the waistband of his shorts—hooking, tugging—and his breath catches as he shifts to help, pushing them down over his hips with a quick, desperate motion, never breaking the kiss for more than a second.

Your panties are last. The last thing between you and everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t real. Wasn’t more.

His fingers hook in the waistband, dragging them slowly down your thighs with a reverence that borders on worship—slow enough for you to feel every inch, slow enough to make your whole body spark. You gasp when his fingertips brush the inside of your thigh, a shock of heat rippling through you, arching you off the mattress without conscious thought—just hunger. Just him.

When they’re finally gone, he settles between your legs again—and you gasp, sharp and helpless. He’s already hard, heavy, sliding through your slick with a slow grind that feels like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. Like he needs the friction. Like he needs it more than he’ll ever admit.

A strangled, unhinged sound tears out of you when the head catches just barely at your entrance—too close to ignore, not close enough to satisfy. Just torture.

He smiles against your mouth, voice a low murmur of affection and arrogance all tangled together. “Always ready for me, huh, cariño?”

Then he moves lower, his mouth closing over your nipple, and you break—back arching, thighs squeezing around his hips as his tongue flicks and his teeth graze just enough to make you burn. His hand cups your other breast, thumb circling lazily in a rhythm that steals the air right out of your lungs.

“Joaquín—” your voice catches when his hips roll, dragging the thick length of him over your clit, slow and deliberate.

“Shh, baby,” he whispers, breath hot against your skin as he moves to your other nipple. “Gotta be quiet for me.”

You bite your bottom lip hard—copper blooming faint on your tongue—trying to hold in the sounds clawing up your throat as your body arches beneath his mouth. He’s warm above you, solid and shaking, teasing you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that skim right where you’re aching for him. Heat coils low and deep, tightening with every breath, every touch.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as his mouth trails up your collarbone, voice rough like gravel dragged over confession. “I was jealous last night.”

You let out a sound—half laugh, half desperate moan—nails digging into his back like you need something to hold onto before you break apart under him. Words scatter. Thinking is impossible.

“I wanted to kill that guy,” he breathes, lips brushing along your jaw, voice dark and sinful. “The way he looked at you…” His tone drops lower—a growl you feel in your spine. “You’re mine.”

The word detonates inside you. A shockwave of want. Of relief. Your back arches, thighs trembling as heat rushes through you like a fuse lit too fast. You swallow a moan, shoulders pressing into the mattress.

“P—please,” you pant. “Joaquín, just—”

He shifts, slow and deliberate, guiding himself against you again—teasing, sliding through your slick, dragging pleasure through you in agonising, perfect strokes that make your vision spark.

“Please what?” he breathes, noses brushing, lips hovering over yours. “Use your words, cariño.”

His forehead rests against yours, breaths shared, hot and uneven. You feel him steady himself before sliding along you again, slow strokes that have your whole body trembling, coating himself inch by inch in the proof of how badly you want him.

You whimper, hips tipping up instinctively in invitation, but he still doesn’t push in—not yet. Instead he catches your mouth again, kissing you slow and messy like he’s trying to burn the shape of your desperation into his mind, rocking his hips just enough to drag pleasure through you until your legs shake.

He groans against your lips, the sound deep and unguarded. “Dios, baby… you’re already so wet for me.”

“Joaquín—” your voice breaks, raw and pleading. “Please. I need you.”

He lets out a sound—half laugh, half pained relief—and shifts his weight to one arm, the other hand sliding between your bodies like he needs to feel exactly how ready you are for him.

“You sure?” he murmurs, searching your eyes like he’s asking for more than just consent—like he’s asking for trust.

Your hands move to cradle his face, holding him there, close. “Joaquín, I’m going to scream if you’re not inside me in the next five seconds.”

His answering laugh is wrecked, soft with something dangerously close to love. “As you wish.”

Then he moves.

He drags himself down, nudging right where you’re open for him, and pushes in—slowly, unbearably slowly—like he wants to feel every inch of you take him. Your body stretches around him, tight and warm, and his breath breaks in a shuddered moan at the sensation.

“Fuck—” he manages, voice thick and ruined. “You feel… Dios… you always feel so good.”

Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer without thinking, legs tightening around his hips like instinct. He sinks deeper, then stills, foreheads pressed, chests heaving together as the moment settles—heavy, holy, too much and not enough all at once.

His eyes open just enough for you to see them—dark, vulnerable, worshipful. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, like he means it. Like he finally understands it.

Then his mouth is on yours again, soft at first—an exhale, a promise—and then he sinks into you fully, slow and steady, until he’s as deep as you can take him. The sound that escapes the both of you is almost identical—relief, disbelief, something too raw to name.

For one suspended, impossible second, you just hold each other there.

Breathing. Shaking. Whole.

Then—on a breath that brushes your lips—he starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Each roll of his hips measured, deliberate, like he’s speaking with the motion instead of words—I love you. I want you. I’m yours. You’re mine.

Your fingers find his back, shoulders, curls, anything you can hold onto as your body moves with his like instinct. Your lips graze his jaw, a half-moaned, half-cracked sound caught in your throat.

“Fuck, Joaquín—”

He answers with a groan that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape. He pulls back only to return with more intent, more need, and the drag of his body against yours sets your nerves alight. Heat coils low and tight in your belly, slow-building and unstoppable.

“Feels so good,” he whispers against your mouth, voice frayed. “You feel so good, cariño. I’m not—God—I’m not gonna last long.”

Your legs tighten around his waist, urging him closer, urging more, and he kisses you again—slow, hungry, desperate—even as his rhythm deepens, pace picking up like he can’t help it. Like you’re pulling it from him.

Each movement has you gasping softly into his mouth, the world narrowing to shared breath and heat and the way he holds you like you’re something holy.

“You’re mine,” he breathes between kisses, voice rough, almost breakable. “All mine. Gonna keep you right here—wrapped around me, making those pretty little sounds.”

You whimper, helpless to stop it. Every inch of him is inside you, moving through you, dragging against that tender spot that makes your vision blur. The tension between you—months of denial and longing—sparks like a live wire, lighting up every nerve in your body.

His thrusts grow harder, quicker—hungry now—each one hitting deeper, stealing the air from your lungs. Heat coils lower in your belly, winding tight, your whole body trembling under the rhythm of him. There’s nothing but the press of his chest, the warmth of his breath, the drag of his body inside yours. Too much. Not enough. Everything.

“That’s it, cariño,” he groans in your ear, voice rough. “You take me so fucking well.”

You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—something broken, needy—and your hand slides up your chest, fingers pinching lightly at your nipple. His rhythm stutters, a shaky moan falling out of him at the sight.

“Shh,” you breathe, or try to, voice wrecked. “Gotta be quiet—your mom—”

“Fuck,” he gasps, hips snapping harder. “How am I supposed to be quiet when you—God—when you feel like this?”

His hand tightens on your hip, the other pushing your leg open wider so he can drive deeper, like he wants to carve himself into every part of you. Each thrust is devastating—deep and relentless—pleasure building sharp and fast, curling tight behind your ribs.

Skin meets skin in soft, desperate rhythm—wet, breathless, messy—the only sound in the room besides your shared panting, his soft curses pressed against your mouth, your throat, your shoulder.

Your thighs shake where he holds you open, but you barely register anything beyond the pressure building, climbing too fast, too much. Your fingers tug at your breast again, desperate for more, your voice breaking against his shoulder.

“Joaquín—” it’s barely a word, more a prayer. “I’m close. I’m—fuck—I’m already so close.”

“I know, cariño,” he grits, sweat dripping from his temples. “I can feel it. You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

His pace stutters, then finds a slow, devastating rhythm—deep enough to bruise, tender enough to worship. He kisses you again, sloppy and hungry, like letting go would kill him. You feel how close he is too, can hear it in his jagged breathing, feel it in the way his muscles tremble with restraint.

“Gonna come for me, baby?” he breathes against your mouth, voice raw enough to break you.

You whimper, nodding helplessly. Words are impossible now—your mind gone, your body nothing but nerve endings and him. Every thrust hits that perfect spot inside you, grinding up into your clit with each downward roll of his hips. It’s maddening. Hot. Unforgiving. You’re shaking, eyes fluttering, breath catching in broken gasps.

Your fingers claw down his back, reaching for any grounding you can find, your other hand sliding down your stomach—needing more, needing something—

But he catches your wrist, pushes it away, replacing it with his own hand like he knows exactly what you’re asking for without you saying it. His thumb finds your clit and circles—slow at first, then with steady, knowing pressure that has your breath catching sharp in your throat.

Your whole body arches, breath caught in your chest, 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 murmurs, voice thick and gone. “I’ve got you.”

Your thighs tremble around him, the pleasure twisting tight like a live wire pulled to snapping point. You choke out something broken—half a sob, half a plea. “‘S too soon—”

He lets out a wrecked, disbelieving laugh, forehead pressed to yours. “No it’s not. I’m right there with you. I—fuck—”

You crash your mouth to his, hips rising to meet the next thrust just as his thumb presses down perfectly—

And then everything goes white.

It hits you like a tidal wave—your orgasm ripping through you so fiercely it borders on pain, heat flooding every nerve as your body locks tight around him. You cry out before you can stop yourself, legs shaking, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’ll fall through the mattress if you don’t hold on. You pulse around him—slow, deep, relentless—and it feels endless.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice wrecked as he buries his face in your neck. He keeps moving through it, slower now but deeper, like he wants to feel every second of you coming around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You don’t even have time to breathe before he breaks too.

His hips falter, then stutter, and he lets out a sound you’re going to think about for the rest of your life—something raw and helpless and entirely yours. He thrusts once, hard and final, and you feel him come with a shudder that shakes through both of you, spilling into you as he gasps out a broken, devastating, “Fuck—I love you.”

You hold him as he falls apart, his body trembling against yours, his breath hot and uneven at your throat. The room is quiet except for your mixed breathing—heavy, tangled, like you’re still sharing lungs.

For a long moment, neither of you move. You just exist in each other’s arms, skin to skin, hearts trying to beat out of your chests and into each other’s.

Then he lifts his head and kisses you—slow and gentle. The kind of kiss that feels like an apology and a promise and a confession all at once.

You smile against his mouth, breath still shaky.

“I think,” you whisper, “we might have been a little loud.”

A huff of laughter escapes him—soft, breathless—like he’s too wrung out to laugh properly but too happy not to. He presses another slow kiss to your lips, then one to your cheek, then your jaw, like he can’t decide where to love you first now that he’s allowed to.

You both sink back into the pillows, limbs tangled without thinking. His weight settles partially on top of you, heavy in the nicest way—grounding, real. His hand slides under your ribcage and tugs you closer until your thigh is hooked over his hip, your chests pressed together, hearts finally beating in something that feels like harmony instead of war.

He noses your temple.

You smile.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak. You just breathe. Warm. Shared. Safe.

Your fingers trace lazy shapes up and down his spine, memorising him in quiet ways—the dip at his waist, the slope of his shoulder, the tremor still hiding in his breathing. You’re both wrecked. You’re both glowing. You’re both absolutely done for.

“Why now?” you murmur into the dark, voice soft and a little fragile. “We’ve been doing this for months. So… why now?”

He stills—not tense, just thoughtful—his thumb brushing the underside of your breast absentmindedly, like he’s touching you just to reassure himself you’re real.

“I’ve always loved you,” he says finally, voice quiet and unbearably honest. “I just… didn’t let myself say it. Or think it.”

You swallow, chest tightening.

He shifts, just enough to see your face in the low spill of moonlight, curls falling across his forehead. You run your thumb along the curve of his jaw, and his eyes flutter shut like the touch knocks something loose inside him.

“When we were in Nevada,” he admits, “I kept turning over in bed expecting to find you there. I kept looking for you in every stupid moment—at breakfast, in the hall, brushing my teeth—and you weren’t. And it felt like someone carved something out of me and forgot to put it back.”

Your breath catches. “It was only a week, Joaquín.”

“And then last night,” he continues, voice even softer, “watching that waiter look at you like he had a chance—like he could be the one to make you laugh, or hold you, or wake up next to you—I realised I couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t share you. Couldn’t pretend this was casual. Not when every part of me already feels like it belongs to you.”

Your eyes burn—warm, aching.

“Joaquín...” you whisper, not sure how to hold everything he’s giving you.

“I don’t know why it took me so long,” he says, thumb tracing slow circles at your hip. “But I know we broke that rule months ago. I just didn’t have the guts to say it.”

You run your hand through the curls at his nape, gentle and slow.

“And now?” you ask.

He kisses you—soft, sure—like the answer is in his breath and not his words.

“Now I’m yours,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re stuck with me.”

You tuck your face into the curve of his throat, breathing him in—warm skin, mint, something that feels like home. His arm curls around your waist, holding you like he doesn’t plan to let go this time. Maybe ever.

This time, when you shut your eyes, sleep comes easy.

And when it finds you, it’s tangled together—his fingers laced with yours, your leg thrown over his, his breath slow and steady against your shoulder like a promise.

Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks softly.

Lucía’s door, maybe.

Or fate laughing quietly to itself.

Either way, you fall asleep smiling.

-

Sunlight wakes you before anything else—soft, warm, slipping through the curtains in thin golden stripes across the sheets. The first thing you register is heat against your back. A slow rise and fall. An arm around your waist. A leg tangled with yours like he anchored himself there in his sleep and never let go.

You turn your head just enough to see him—hair a mess, mouth soft, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks young like this. Peaceful. Like last night cracked something open and let light in.

For a few minutes you don’t move.

You just watch him breathe.

Like a creep—maybe—but you don’t care.

Eventually, he stirs—nose brushing your shoulder, fingers flexing at your hip like his body notices you’re awake before his mind does.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

You turn enough for your noses to brush, and he kisses you—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels like a secret being shared instead of stolen. His hand slides up your spine, fingertips barely there, just tracing, memorising.

It would be easy to stay here forever.

Too easy.

But your stomach growls—loudly. You didn’t eat dinner last night.

Joaquín snorts, his laughter warm against your mouth. “Okay,” he says, “I think that was a cry for food.”

You shake your head, nuzzling into his neck. “Five more minutes.”

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips like punctuation marks. “If we wait five minutes, we won’t leave this bed.”

And he’s right—because the way he’s looking at you makes it a dangerous truth. So you groan, flop onto your back, and let him sit up, curls messy and lit by the bright morning sun.

He offers his hand, and you take it.

You both slowly find your clothes from last night, thrown somewhere across the room. It isn’t fast, because every time you get close, you pull each other in for another kiss. Just one more. Which is a lie every time, because after ten minutes of getting dressed, you’re both still only halfway there—sprawled across the bed again, hands roaming, smiles pressed against each other.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, you’re both half-dazed, hair scrambled, wearing the kind of glow you couldn’t hide if you tried.

Joaquín moves around the kitchen with that easy familiarity he always has—barefoot, shirtless, sunlight catching the slope of his shoulders as he rummages through the pantry. You hop up onto the counter just to watch him move, legs swinging, hands gripping the counter edge. It’s embarrassingly domestic how natural it all feels.

When he reaches the coffee machine, you feel your skin warm with recognition. His hand brushes your knee on the way, thumb lingering just a second too long. And the moment the button clicks on and the machine hums to life, you wrap a hand around his bicep and tug him closer.

He lets out a surprised laugh but goes willingly—slotting between your legs like he belongs there, looking up at you with those stupidly soft brown eyes that have completely ruined you.

“Can I help you?” he asks, smile lazy and lovesick.

You hum, hands sliding up to cradle his jaw. “I don’t know. Got anything to offer?”

“For you?” His fingers tighten at your hips, warm and sure. “Anything. Everything. Just ask.”

You try to roll your eyes, but it dies halfway with a lovesick grin to match his. “God, you’re cheesy.”

“But you love me.”

You inhale, leaning in until your noses brush. “Yeah,” you breathe. “You’ve got me there.”

And then you kiss him again.

Slow at first—soft and morning-warm—but it deepens quickly, heat sparking under your skin like flint to tinder. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he goes pliant in your hands, mouth parting for you like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact contact.

The kiss turns lingering. Then hungry. Then something sweeter—fed by new honesty instead of tension.

His mouth trails to your jaw, down your throat, kisses slow and sweet and sinful, and your fingers dig into his shoulders as he presses closer, hips nudging against the counter between your thighs. You gasp against his lips and he swallows the sound eagerly, thumb brushing your jaw, eyes dark with softness and hunger all at once.

And that’s when—

“Ahem.”

You jolt so hard you nearly knee Joaquín in the stomach.

Lucía is standing at the edge of the kitchen—still in her slippers and robe, smirking like God personally handed her front-row tickets.

“Well,” she says, “glad you two have finally learned how to communicate.”

Joaquín’s cheeks go pink, and you bury your face in his shoulder.

“Buenos días, Mamá,” he mutters, voice embarrassingly wrecked.

“Buenos días, mijo,” she says, smirk widening as she steps around you both toward the coffee machine.

Joaquín peels himself away from you, strategically keeping his back to his mother as he rounds the breakfast bar to stand on the other side in the world’s most obvious attempt at dignity. His ears are red. His neck is red. He is, in fact, a tomato with abs.

You slide off the counter and drift to his side, like gravity is a concept invented just for the two of you.

“Sleep well, Lucía?” you ask, trying for casual and missing by a mile.

She hums as she pours her coffee. “Very well.”

Then she pauses, takes a slow sip, and turns to face you both—with a smile so smug it should be federally regulated.

“Although,” she says lightly, “I think this apartment is embrujada.”

Your stomach drops. “Haunted?”

She nods, far too innocent. “Sí. I heard… noises… in the middle of the night.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks so violently you’re surprised the lights don’t flicker.

“Oh?” Joaquín replies, edging behind you like the coward he is. “What kind of noises?”

Lucía takes another sip—slow, dramatic, weaponised. Her eyes never leave her son.

“You know what kind of noises, hijo.”

Lucía sets her mug down, eyes twinkling with wicked amusement. You already know she’s about to deliver something lethal—and she does.

“Bueno,” she says casually, as if commenting on the weather, “if you two are finished making the walls shake, maybe we can celebrate properly. A nice dinner? Or…” she pauses just long enough to kill you both, “the engagement party later?”

You choke on air. Joaquín chokes harder, spluttering like someone handed him a live grenade instead of a mug.

“Mamá,” he manages, voice cracking in the middle. “We literally just—”

She waves a hand, dismissing his suffering. “Ay, por favor. Why so embarrassed? You’re grown adults. You don’t think I know how these things work?”

She pauses—taking another slow, theatrical sip of coffee.

“I know where babies come from, hijo.”

You’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body.

Heat floods your cheeks and you step back, searching desperately for dignity and finding absolutely none. “I’m—uh—going to… get dressed before I die of embarrassment,” you say, words tripping over each other as you retreat like you’re escaping a burning building.

You make it halfway down the hall when arms wrap around your waist from behind—warm, strong, sure—and a laugh ghosts against your neck.

“You’re really just going to leave me to suffer alone out there?” Joaquín murmurs, voice low, teasing, already smiling.

You try for stern and fail spectacularly. “Yes. Obviously. That's your mother.”

He spins you gently—not dramatic, just enough that your toes leave the floor and you let out a startled squeal you’ll deny later. You land against his chest, palms splayed over warm skin, and he looks at you like last night wasn’t a mistake or a question—like it was a beginning.

His forehead dips to yours, voices low enough that Lucía can’t hear.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers. His hands slide to your hips, grounding you, worshipping you in the simplest way. “Not a chance.”

Somewhere from the kitchen, Lucía calls out—

“¡Cierren la puerta si van a hacer más ruido!” (Close the door if you're going to make more noise!)

You bury your face in Joaquín’s shoulder as he walks you backward toward your room, and he’s shaking with silent laughter, kiss landing on your cheek like it belongs there.

The world feels warm. Ridiculous. New.

And when he nudges your door open with his foot, you know exactly how your day is going to end—happy, stupidly in love, tangled up in him with no intention of ever letting go.

What was meant to be a little treat after answering emails all morning—more emails than you’d signed up for considering you were working with literal superheroes, but whatever—was now dripping down the bridge of your nose and painted across your white t-shirt.

You stared blankly ahead at the fridge, simply blinking.

Sam called your name again. “Hello? Usually a conversation is something that happens between two people and not—” He turned the corner, stopping abruptly at the sight of you. “Oh.”

You looked at him, the can of Dr. Pepper clutched tightly in your hand.

“I, uh, meant to tell you not to open that one.”

You blinked.

“When I was getting my water out, I dropped it. That’s why it was on the bottom shelf.”

You finally wiped the Dr. Pepper from your nose. “Oh yeah, because I was just supposed to know that a can on the bottom shelf means don’t drink.” 

Sam winced slightly, rocking his head left to right like he was thinking. “I meant to tell you; I just got busy.”

Moving over to the sink, you took your first and final sip of what was supposed to be your little treat, wincing and shaking your head. “Flat.” You poured the can out before turning back to face Sam. “I brought that specifically as a treat.”

Sam was staring at you, attempting to look sympathetic but mostly looking confused. “I’ll, uh, buy you another one.”

You waved at him dismissively. “It’s fine; I was just looking forward to it all morning. A reward after answering all those emails we’ve been putting off for weeks—but it’s fine.” You nodded resolutely, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Your words are not matching your tone right now, and it’s honestly a little scary.”

Leaning back against the counter, you couldn’t help the laugh that escaped you, abruptly stopping when you caught a glimpse of your shirt. Your formerly white shirt that was now decorated with…more than a little Dr. Pepper.

Your laugh quickly morphed into a sigh as you pulled your shirt away from yourself to fully assess the damage. It looked like the can had exploded, not opened after it was knocked on the ground. That’s not to mention the sensory nightmare that was currently seeping through, leaving you slightly sticky.

You peered at the clock on the stove, sighing again. “Sam, I have a Zoom meeting scheduled with Mr. Shostakov in fifteen; I cannot wear this science project of a shirt—” Pausing, you raised your eyebrows.

Sam raised his right back. “I don’t like that look.”

“If you could just—” You gestured wildly. “Fill in for me—”

He immediately started shaking his head. “No.”

“Sam—”

“I told you I’m not talking to-to—” He spluttered for a second. “The New Avengers?”

“No, no. They are not the ‘New Avengers.’” He spat out the name mockingly, almost like it hurt him to even utter it. 

“Okay, whatever, the wannabe New Avengers, the off-brand Avengers.” You shook your head. “Whatever you wanna call them, I’m not talking to them looking like this.”

Sam opened his mouth to protest, but you quickly cut him off. “Let me guess, you’re gonna say, ‘Oh, it’s just a Zoom call.’” You dropped your voice a few octaves in an attempt to sound like Sam. “To which I say, it doesn’t matter if it’s a Zoom call; I still need to look professional.”

“First of all, I don’t sound like that.”

“Oh, come on—”

“Second of all, exactly! Who cares what you’re wearing to talk to these—”

“Sam!” You exclaimed, exasperated. “I need to make a good impression, okay? I know you and Bucky’s conversation was—”

“Don’t.”

“Okay.” You held your hands up in surrender. “I won’t. Even though you won’t even tell me what he said—”

He said your name slowly, in a tone that made you feel like you were back in high school, getting told off by your dad for skipping class.

“Okay, okay. I’m done. Put that disapproving dad look away.”

“Okay,” he repeated, nodding. “And if you are so dead set on changing shirts—”

“I am.”

He shot you another look. Oops.

“I think Joaquín keeps a few extras in his desk.”

You blinked. “What do you mean he keeps extras in his desk? Does he regularly change clothes multiple times a day?”

“Yeah, we actually have a fashion show in here every—”

“Oh, ha ha,” you retorted.

Sam cracked a smile before clarifying, “For all-nighters. You know how he is; once he gets started on something, he won’t quit.”

A smile crept onto your face. “Yeah, that sounds like him.” Glancing back at the clock, you pulled your phone from your pocket. “I’ll just call him and make sure it’s—”

“Oh, it’ll be fine.” He waved you off.

You weren’t convinced. “Sam, I’m not just gonna steal one of his shirts.” 

“He won’t mind.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“Surely this is some kind of HR violation—”

Sam said your name, exasperated. “I promise you, he won’t care.” After saying that, Sam furrowed his brows, clearly fending a smirk off his face. “Well, he probably will care—”

“Sam.”

“But not like you think.”

You didn’t have time to figure out these riddles he was speaking in. “You sure it’ll be fine?” You glanced at the clock again. “Because I only have like ten minutes before I need to—” Sighing, you shook your head. “I’m just gonna call him and make sure.”

Sam sighed. “If you can get him to pick up.”

You waved a hand at him. “He’ll pick up,” you said confidently, dialing his number and pressing your phone to your ear.

…

…

…

“Okay…maybe he won’t.”

Sam raised his eyebrows, the ‘I told you so’ evident by the look on his face. “It’s the drawer to the right.” He then moved back over to his desk, plopping down in his chair and peering at his computer. 

You sighed, nodding as you moved to Joaquín’s desk. “Where’d he have to go?”

“The dry cleaners.”

“Dry cleaners?” You furrowed your brows, stopping way before you reached Joaquín’s desk. “What’d he have dry cleaned?” The moment the words left your mouth, you winced—you knew you were rambling. Stalling. “Oh shit, tell me that charity gala’s not tonight.”

“Yep,” Sam answered, somewhat mindlessly as he clacked away at his keyboard.

“I don’t have to, like, attend that or anything, do I? Not that I don’t care about charities, it’s just I don’t have, like, any fancy clothes or anything, and—”

Sam said your name.

“I mean, I might have a friend I might could ask to borrow some clothes from—”

Sam said your name again, and you could tell he was sporting that disapproving dad expression without even looking at him. “If you had to attend this gala, I would’ve told you weeks ago, and you know this.”

“Right, right.” You nodded, tucking a rogue strand of hair behind your ear.

“Joaquín’s not gonna hate you for borrowing a shirt,” he added, his tone a little softer. “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

“Hate” wasn’t exactly what you were worried about, but you definitely didn’t have time to have that conversation with Sam. He was just trying to be nice.

“I know,” you said, nodding. Sam hummed in response, like he wanted to say something else, but ultimately decided to stay silent. 

You stood in front of Joaquín’s desk, peeking over your shoulder to make sure Sam’s back was still to you. Your cheeks were flush and your palms sticky with sweat. Sure, you felt a little bit…wrong for essentially plundering at Joaquín’s desk while he wasn’t there, but another part of you felt almost giddy.

Getting to be at his desk felt like you were learning more about him, getting a peek at a different side of him, even. He was a great guy to work with and seemed like an even better guy all around. He was hardworking, determined, kind, funny, attractive—

He is your coworker, you screamed at yourself. Don’t make it into something! But a part of you knew that it was a little too late for that, especially given the fact you were schoolgirl-level excited just to look at his desk.

Oh my God, forget the desk—you were about to borrow one of his shirts. What if it smelled like him? What if you started smelling like him? Would he notice if you forgot to return it? What if he didn’t want you to return it? What if he wanted you to return it…but washed so he’d smell like you?

Oh, Christ. You furiously shook your head as if to rid those thoughts from your mind. 

Much like your own, his desk was almost like an extension of himself: various trophies, a speaker, and a Miami Hurricanes hat. You leaned closer to inspect one of the trophies. It read, “Most Improved: Joaquín Torres,” making you smile despite yourself. 

Spotting a picture frame, you leaned even closer. Joaquín was front and center, with a smile so bright that it overtook his entire face, with a small boy tucked in his side and another perched on his shoulders, all of whom were wearing similar smiles and had the same scrunch of their noses.

You recognized the boys from when Joaquín brought them to tour the office—his little cousins. Their dark eyes practically sparkled as he explained his gear, mirroring that of their older cousin so much that you could’ve been convinced you were peering into a time machine.

Joaquín had already looked so excited to show them everything but had practically beamed when one of them exclaimed, “I wanna be just like you when I grow up, Quíno!”

When he turned that proud smile to you, your heart had thumped a little quicker—similar to the way it was beating now. If you hadn’t known any better, you could’ve sworn Sam could hear it from across the room. 

You reached out to the drawer, yanking your hand away before you even touched the handle. You took a deep breath and ran a hand through your hair. Why did it feel like you were in elementary school again, dared to tell your crush you liked him? 

Except it wasn’t like that at all. You were just borrowing a co-worker’s shirt. That’s all. Even if you did think your co-worker was one of, if not the best, men you’ve ever met. 

Jeez.

Sighing again, you nodded to yourself, quickly opening the drawer before you could overthink yourself out of it.

“Huh.” It was full of various items—miscellaneous cords, a stapler, a bottle of cologne, sticky notes, a screwdriver, and a pair of sunglasses, just to name a few. It seemed like you found Joaquín’s junk drawer.

You blinked, letting it slam back shut and yanking the handle beneath it.

There we go.

Neatly folded into the small drawer were t-shirts. Knowing if you stood there any longer, you’d manage to overthink which shirt to borrow, you quickly grabbed the closest one. It was grey with a navy graphic of a jet, reading “United States Air Force.” The shirt was soft and the graphic faded, clearly very well loved. 

Heat pricked up your neck again as you went to the bathroom to change. You definitely didn’t bring the fabric up to your nose and inhale deeply. You definitely didn’t smile when you recognized his familiar scent. You definitely didn’t have to splash water over your face after putting it on because you just couldn’t stop blushing.

Definitely not.

Wearing his shirt, it was impossible to escape his familiar smell. It had taken over your senses, like it went up into your nose and managed to make its way down to your heart, keeping it trapped there, pumping through your arteries like blood.

You couldn’t help but cringe as you plopped back down in your chair. Here you were, freaking out because you smelled like Joaquín, when he probably didn’t even think twice about you. If you had any shame, you think you’d feel pathetic. But you didn’t.

You just logged onto your Zoom account and had to fight back a grin when you turned your webcam on and caught another glimpse of the graphic displayed across your chest. 

When you got the notification that Alexei Shostakov had joined the Zoom, you plastered a polite smile on your face. “Hello, Mr. Shostakov, can you hear me?” His square was dark, with the icon displayed that his microphone was muted. Smile faltering, you added, “Are you there?”

After a few moments of silence, his bearded face suddenly filled the frame. His smile was so big, you would’ve thought he had won the lottery. It was kind of endearing, actually.

“Ah, hello!” You greeted again. You watched as his mouth began to move rapidly, his microphone still muted. “Oh, uh, I believe your mic is muted.”

His eyebrows furrowed as he shook his head, mouth continuing to move. 

“I can’t hear you. Your, uh, microphone—”

He shook his head again.

Oh, Jesus Christ.

“There should be a button in the bottom left. You know, where you turned your camera on?”

He squinted at the screen, face drawing closer, before he flopped back against his chair and looked somewhere off-screen. Based on the way his shoulders shook, you could tell he was yelling.

You glanced nervously at Sam over your monitor, but the man was none-the-wiser, clicking away at his own keyboard. When you looked back down at the screen, a head of blonde hair was in the webcam.

You watched as the muted microphone icon disappeared from the screen. Yelena Belova leaned back and shot Alexei a smile that radiated passive aggressiveness, even through the computer, before retreating back off camera. 

Your best customer service look crossed your features. “Alright, Mr. Shostakov, I just wanted to thank you for taking time to—”

His mouth began moving once again. You blinked as no sound came out.

Maybe your shirt should’ve been the least of your worries.

“Sam!” You called, peeking over your monitor. “I can’t hear my Zoom call.”

“Uh, is your volume turned up?”

“Uh, yeah,” you mocked, but still double-checked just in case it wasn’t. God, imagine how embarrassing that would’ve been. 

“I dunno then.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, sighing. You knew Sam was being difficult on purpose—he wasn’t the one adamant on figuring something out with these “New Avengers,” you were. It was clear he didn’t want anything to do with it.

On your screen, a small crowd appeared to have gathered around Alexei’s screen. Yelena was standing next to Alexei while John Walker and some guy you didn’t recognize peered down at the computer. All of them shared similar looks of confusion.

“Sam, I seriously don’t—”

“Jeez, guys, sorry that took so long.” Joaquín came barreling through the door, two suit bags in his left hand and a brown paper bag and a drink carrier balanced in the other. He stumbled slightly over the suit bags as he quickly planted the contents of his right hand onto the nearest surface.

“Joaquín, perfect timing!” You called. “I can’t get this stupid Zoom to work.”

He hung the suit bags on the rack by his desk before leaning over your shoulder, face near yours as he peered at the computer screen. “Let’s see…” he mumbled, “click there.” He pointed to the lower corner of your screen.

“Here?” You asked, cursor following his instructions as you turned to look at him.

You flushed, his own gaze shifting to meet yours. He was so close that you could see the spots where his facial hair was beginning to grow back in. You tried to keep your vision there and off his full lips.

His eyes darted down to your chest and then back up to your face, his eyebrows furrowed. He did a double take. “Is—is that my shirt?”

“Oh! Oh, yeah. I, uh—Dr. Pepper exploded all over my white shirt.” You tugged at the neckline nervously. “Sam told me you kept extra shirts in your desk and that you wouldn’t care if I borrowed one.”

His expression remained unreadable, and you swore you could feel your stomach down in your toes. “I’m sorry—I can, uh—you—”

“No! I don’t.” He shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut. “I don’t mind. It’s fine.”

You weren’t convinced. “Joaquín, seriously, if it’s like…weird, I’ll change. I wasn’t trying to make you—”

“It’s fine. Like, seriously.” His gaze had shifted back over to the computer screen.

“Well, you’re not acting like it’s fine.” You chewed on your bottom lip nervously, the Zoom call the furthest thing from your mind. “I’ll just change—”

“No!” He exclaimed, surprising you. Based on the look on his face, it looked like he surprised himself too. “Keep it on.”

You swallowed deeply. “Are you sure?” You asked quietly. He still refused to look at you.

“Yeah.” He nodded, lips curled into the ghost of a smile. “Looks better on you anyway.” 

You blinked. “What—”

“Ah! The Falcon is ladies’ man, I see!” A voice boomed from your computer speakers. “Not just wingman, eh? You see what I did there? Wing. Man. You know, because he has wings.”

The entire desk shook with the force of your and Joaquín’s collective flinch, the various trinkets littered across your desk toppling over and your picture frame, the one with the group picture of you, Sam, and Joaquín, landing face down.

Your gaze shot back to the screen, where Alexei was grinning, Yelena was smirking with one hand perched on her hip, and Walker looked like he was seconds away from vomiting all over the keyboard. The mystery guy had disappeared.

Great. What a wonderful and professional first impression they had of you.

You looked between Joaquín and the screen a few times. “I, uh—I apologize. My, uh, sound wasn’t working.” A bashful smile was on your face, and you hoped your shitty webcam wasn’t picking up the redness of your cheeks.

“Ah, no need to apologize for young love,” Alexei responded.

“Oh—no, it’s not—”

“I was young once too, you know. Once, this woman—very large-chested woman, like bird—”

“Okay, and that is enough,” Yelena interjected.

“Lena, let me get to the good part.”

“I somehow doubt that there is a good part.”

“This woman, she was tough like boar—”

“Explain to me how this is important right now—”

As the two bickered, you turned back to Joaquín. “We can, uh, talk later if you want. Thanks for your help.”

“I mean, it’s not like I did much.”

You laughed. “Yeah. Guess you just have the magic touch.”

“Guess so.”

“See!” Alexei boomed. “The way they gaze into each other’s eyes,” he sighed. “Oh, to be young and in—”

You cleared your throat loudly, shooing Joaquín away so you could actually do what you got on the call to do. “Thank you again, Mr. Shostakov, for agreeing to speak with me. Especially behind the back of Ms. de Fontaine.” Just saying her name left a sour taste in your mouth.

At the mention of Valentina, Alexei seemed to straighten up. “I—yes, uh, of course. We have, uh, much to talk about!”

Joaquín shot you a thumbs up from behind your monitor. 

Finally, maybe you could make some progress with these guys.

You didn’t make any progress with them.

“It felt like I was talking to, like, the troll under the bridge or something!” You complained, hands thrown up in the air. You were perched on top of Joaquín’s desk while he leaned back in his chair. “I mean, I didn’t expect to suddenly solve all of our problems in one Zoom call, but still.”

“Well, you at least tried, right?” 

“I—well, yeah.”

He raised his eyebrows at you. “That’s something.”

You groaned. “But it’s not enough.”

“You said it yourself, this isn’t the kinda problem that’s gonna magically fix itself overnight.”

“I know, but—” You sighed. “The whole call, Alexei just…danced around what he wanted to say. I had to piece together what he meant half the time—almost like riddles or something.”

“Well, Valentina probably has everything in that tower bugged to hell and back.”

“I guess,” you mumbled, slouching slightly.

Joaquín leaned forward to nudge your knee. “You at least managed to actually make contact, right?”

“I guess,” you repeated. “It’s just so frustrating, and I get where Sam is coming from 100% don’t get me wrong, but I just wish he’d help me out here. And on top of all this ‘New Avengers’ shit, I was looking forward to drinking my Dr. Pepper all morning just for it to explode on me, like right before my Zoom— ” You paused, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Shit, you gotta go.”

He turned to check the time, shaking his head. “Nah, I got time.”

You sighed, shaking your head. You brought your hands to your face, pressing your palms into your eyes. “Jesus, listen to me. Complaining about it isn’t going to get anything done. Meanwhile, you actually have an important event to get ready for, and here I am bothering you with all my prob—”

“Hey.” Joaquín stood, placing a gentle hand on your knee. You could feel the warmth of his palm even through the thick fabric of your pants. “You could never bother me.”

You smiled bashfully and made the mistake of glancing up at him. His dark eyes were soft yet somehow still felt like they were piercing right through you. Quickly darting your eyes away, you placed your hand on top of his. “Thank you,” you said softly.

“I was serious about earlier, by the way.”

Looking back to him, you furrowed your eyebrows, confusion evident on your face.

“My shirt. It really does look better on you.”

If you weren’t blushing before, you were positively red now. “Oh, jeez, Joaquín.”

“I’m serious! Thought I was gonna drop dead when I walked in and saw you in my shirt. Had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t dreaming.”

You shook your head, smiling. “You’re being silly.”

“I’m so serious!” He shifted his hand, which was still beneath yours, where he could squeeze your hand. “You can keep it too.”

“Joaquín,” you started, “I don’t wanna steal—”

“Unless, I mean—” He shook his head as if he were mentally weighing his options. “You want to bring it back to me on Friday at 7?”

You raised your eyebrows, biting back the smirk that was creeping onto your features. “Where at on Friday at 7?”

“How would you feel about…Iron Gate? You know, over on Dupont Circle?”

You nodded slowly, pretending like your mind hadn’t been made up the moment the words left his mouth. “I think that sounds perfect.”

“Yeah?” He didn’t even try to keep the broad grin off his face.

“Yeah.” You grinned right back.

Before either of you could utter another word, the door to the office swung open. “Joaquín, man, come on!” Sam called, pausing when he noticed the two of you. “...Am I interrupting something here?”

Joaquín opened his mouth, likely to make a smart remark, but you quickly interjected, “Not at all. I was just leaving.” You hopped down off his desk, untangling your hands.

You made your way back over to your desk, glancing back at Joaquín, who had moved to grab his suit off the rack. “So, Friday at 7 at Iron Gate, right?” 

“Right.”

You smiled, ignoring the pointed look Sam was giving you both. “Have fun at the charity gala.” You grabbed your bag off your desk and gave the two one last wave, feeling more like you were floating instead of walking out of the office.

When the door shut behind you, Sam turned to Joaquín, who was busying himself with getting his suit out of its bag. “Are you committing some kind of HR violation?” 

Joaquín shook his head, not sparing another glance at the man. “Nah, man.”

Sam practically stared a hole into his back. “Alexei was right; you are a ladies’ man.”

Joaquín laughed. “Oh, come on, you know it’s not like that.”

“I know. If anything, I’m glad you finally grew the balls to ask her out. Maybe now you’ll stop longingly staring at her when you think no one’s looking—”

“Hey! I do not do that.”

“Sure, man.”

“I don’t—”

“Whatever you say. Now, hurry up; you’re gonna make us late.”

The next morning, you walked into the office, going to your desk to put your bag down before walking to the kitchenette to put your lunch away.

When you opened the refrigerator, you were greeted by a can of Dr. Pepper adorned with a sticky note that read “See you Friday – J ♥︎.”

QUINO 🪽: yo why are you on the news being announced as the new avengers lmao

You barely had time to process before the next messages dropped in.

QUINO 🪽: wait. hold on. is this for real??? 

QUINO 🪽: wtf???

Your stomach flipped. This was exactly the conversation you’d been putting off having with him. Because who doesn’t love a little light long-distance betrayal on a random Tuesday?

When his name lit up your screen with an incoming call, you hovered like a coward. It rang enough that you let it go to voicemail. When he called back, you decided you couldn’t avoid him forever.

“Heeeeeey, Quino,” you said, dragging out the greeting in the world’s least suspicious tone. “How’s it going?”

“How’s it—? What the hell is going on?” His voice crackled down the line, equal parts alarmed and offended. “Are you serious right now?”

You opened your mouth to answer, only for Alexei’s booming baritone to cut through the tower’s open-plan kitchen. “I was only trying to help!”

“Help?!” John snapped back, loud enough that you’d be getting noise complaints in a regular apartment complex. “You nearly set the oven on fire again!”

Ava’s dry voice chimed in. “Ten dollars says he’ll do it a third time by next week.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Yelena added, unbothered as ever. They shook on it.

Bob, poor soul, sat in the middle of it all on the sofa with a throw pillow hugged to his chest, swivelling his head back and forth like he was centre court at Wimbledon.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay, hang on, I can’t— one sec.”

“...Are you in the middle of a family reunion right now?” Joaquín asked, incredulous.

You snorted. Joaquín knew you didn’t know anything about your biological family; the Red Room made sure of that. “Something like that.” 

You ducked down the hall and made the now-familiar trek to your room. You’d requested one on the same floor as the common spaces because the other floors felt too empty. When you made it to your bedroom, you shut the door behind you and sighed in relief. 

Blessed, beautiful silence. Now that you lived at the Watchtower, it was rarer than you liked.

“Sorry,” you said, sitting on the edge of your bed with the phone pressed to your ear. “It’s been a crazy day. Or, you know, week.”

There was a beat of quiet on his end. Then, softer, “So it’s true? You’re one of them now?”

You sank back against your pillows, staring at the wall like it might have the script you’d forgotten to study. “Yeah,” you admitted, exhaling. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Joaquín exclaimed. “You were supposed to call me if anything major happened. I have to hear about it on CNN?” His voice cracked a little at the end, like he was trying to sound annoyed, but worry slipped through.

Guilt tugged at your ribs. “I know. I wanted to, but it all kind of snowballed,” you confessed. “One minute Bucky’s dragging me along as backup, and the next I’m knee-deep in whatever Valentina’s mess is. Then Yelena showed up, and you know our history. I couldn’t just leave her, and… it just spiralled.” When Joaquín stayed silent, you quietly added, “I didn’t plan any of this, Quino.”

Silence stretched, heavier this time, though not unfriendly. You could hear the faint rustle of Joaquín shifting on his end of the line. He probably had you on speaker while pacing his room, running a hand through his curls like he did whenever he was stressed.

You picked at a loose thread on your blanket. “The thing is, I don’t feel like I can leave. Not now. They’re…” You stopped, trying to find the words. “They’re ridiculous, obviously. You just heard the circus outside. But they’ve sort of wormed their way into my heart.” You smiled a little. “Alexei’s trying so hard to be everyone’s embarrassing dad. Yelena and Ava—I didn’t know I could have friends like that. And with Bucky, this is giving him something better to hold onto than that whole congressman crusade. I can’t walk away from that.”

On the other end, Joaquín made a thoughtful humming noise, then said lightly, “I could put on the Falcon suit and come take you away in a few hours. Just say the word.”

The laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “Don’t tempt me. You know we can’t.”

“I’m serious,” he teased. “No one would notice. I’d swoop in, whisk you out, and boom! You’re back where you belong. With people who actually own functioning smoke alarms.”

“Very funny,” you said, though your smile lingered. “But you know it’s not that simple. I love you, Quino. You and Sam are my family too. I’d never want to do anything to hurt you or make you feel like I’d betrayed you. But… I love them, too. The Thunderbolts.”

He went quiet. Long enough that you worried you’d overplayed your hand, or worse, confirmed some fear he hadn’t voiced yet. Then, “Who the hell are the Thunderbolts?”

There was a beat, and then both of you broke into helpless laughter. Yours came out wheezy, half-relieved, half-hysterical. Joaquín’s laugh rolled through the line warm and familiar, pulling you right back to every late-night hangout you’d ever had together.

When it finally ebbed into silence again, you were breathless, cheeks aching from smiling.

“You know you’re my best friend, right?” Joaquín said suddenly, earnest in a way that caught you off guard. “There’s nothing you could do that would change that. Not joining this team, not working with Bucky, not even— what did you call them? The Thundercats?” You knew he was teasing you.

“Thunderbolts,” you corrected him anyway, grinning into the phone.

“Sure, them,” Joaquín chuckled. “The point is, you’re stuck with me, cariño. No matter what headlines you end up in.”

The knot in your chest loosened. You pressed the heel of your hand to your eye, a little overwhelmed at how much lighter you felt just hearing him say it. “Thanks, Quino.”

“Don’t thank me. Just promise you’ll call me before you end up on the news next time,” he requested. “My heart can’t take that kind of shock.”

“I’ll put it on my to-do list, right under ‘stop Alexei from burning the tower down.’”

“Good,” Joaquín hummed. “Although, one of those sounds slightly more achievable than the other.”

You snorted. For the first time since the whole Void and New Avengers fiasco, the weight on your shoulders felt a little easier to carry. You stayed on the line a moment longer, reluctant to let the comfort of your friend go.

It still amazed you how all of this had started. 

You hadn’t been looking for new friends when Bucky Barnes had turned up on your doorstep with that gruff, awkward apology lodged in his throat. He’d braced for guilt, for explanations, for the familiar dance of trying to make amends the way his therapist wanted him to. Instead, you were the one who surprised him. 

You’d told him plainly that he didn’t need to answer for the Winter Soldier’s crimes; not to you, not to anyone. Somewhere in the middle of his therapy checklist, you’d adopted him instead. Bucky became your grumpy older brother, reluctant uncle, and occasionally an exasperated grandpa figure.

You met Sam soon after, and he introduced you to his protégé. Meeting Joaquín had been game-changing. It meant having someone closer to your age, someone who didn’t see you as a broken weapon or a case file. He helped you become a person who could laugh, tease, and stay up too late eating takeout on a worn sofa. 

It shifted something you hadn’t realised was stuck. He was a golden retriever puppy in human form, entering your life with boundless energy that made it very, very hard to keep the walls up. Before you knew it, Joaquín had woven himself into your life until you couldn’t imagine a single day without him.

When you’d moved to D.C. to help Bucky with his campaign—also known as keeping him from shit-talking his way into political disaster—being in the same city as Joaquín was a happy side effect. Close enough for coffee runs, late-night movie marathons, and the easy friendship that had become your anchor.

Sitting in the Watchtower a couple of hundred miles away, with Joaquín’s voice crackling through a line that already felt too short, you realised just how much you missed it.

“It’s really good to hear your voice again,” you admitted quietly. “Things got scary for a second there. I didn’t know what I was doing, or if I was helping or making things worse.”

Joaquín’s concern was immediate, voice softer than before. “Hey. Don’t say that. You can call me, you know. Anytime. I don’t care what’s going on. You can call until you’re absolutely sick of me.”

That earned a real laugh out of you, brighter than the earlier ones. “That’ll never happen. But fine, I promise I will. I’ll drive you insane with constant phone calls. Brace yourself.”

“I look forward to it,” Joaquín said, with a warmth that wrapped around you even through the static. Reluctantly, he sighed. “I gotta go. Falcon duties and all that.”

“Right,” you replied, though you clung to the moment until the call ended. “Talk to you soon.”

The screen went dark. You lingered in the quiet, phone still pressed against your ear, before finally dragging yourself back to the door. When you opened it, the chaos was still alive and well: John red in the face, Alexei defensive, Yelena and Ava gleefully egging them on.

You couldn’t help smiling. Yeah. You were in deep with these idiots.

Adjusting to life with the so-called New Avengers was a little like moving into a shared house where the neighbours were constantly on the verge of calling the cops. Which is to say: chaotic, loud, and kind of wonderful.

Alexei had decided, without consulting anyone, that he was the team’s fun dad. Which meant unsolicited pep talks, terrible jokes, and constant attempts to prove he could still do fifty push-ups in a row. He could not. 

Yelena endured this with the kind of long-suffering eye-rolls usually reserved for sitcom daughters whose fathers embarrass them in front of their friends. You, however, found it hilarious. Every time he started a story with, Back in my Red Guardian days, you could practically hear Yelena’s soul leaving her body.

Then there was John and Bucky. Together, they were like an odd-couple reboot no one had asked for. Two grumpy boomer figures trapped in a modern world they didn’t fully understand. John still called memes picture jokes. Bucky had once asked you in complete seriousness what yeet meant. You almost choked trying to explain it to him.

“Are you texting Joaquín about what I just said?” Bucky demanded one afternoon after you’d ducked into the corner, phone in hand.

You froze, glancing up and trying to look innocent. “...No,” you said, a little too quickly.

“Liar.”

“Fine, yes. But only because he needs to know that you actually said the words ‘thirst trap’ out loud.”

To his credit, Bucky only sighed and muttered something about kids these days being such little punks. You grinned even wider as you hit send. Joaquín’s reply came less than a minute later.

QUINO 🪽: lmao tell him he’s officially 106 going on 200

Meanwhile, Yelena and Ava were nothing short of revelations. Positive female friendships weren’t exactly in rich supply in your line of work. Having two women who just got it, who didn’t flinch at your past and still wanted to gossip about the others during stakeouts, made something inside you settle. Yelena wanted to, but Ava only tolerated it with minimal threats. 

You hadn’t realised how badly you’d needed it until it was right there, easy as breathing.

It wasn’t all sunshine. Training was brutal. Missions were worse. 

You still called Sam once a week, trading updates and making sure he wasn’t mad at you for joining a team that wasn’t his. He wasn’t, of course. Sam Wilson had more patience than saints. But it wasn’t the same as being back at the compound, where you could wander into the kitchen at midnight and find Joaquín raiding the fridge.

Still, there were good days. Great days, even. 

Days when Alexei’s antics made you laugh so hard your sides hurt. Days when Yelena and Ava dragged you into an impromptu game night, complete with verbal fights and everyone ganging up on John. Days when John and Bucky somehow managed to work together without yelling for a whole half hour. 

You started catching yourself smiling at nothing, storing up tiny snapshots of joy like you might run out if you weren’t careful.

And through it all, Joaquín was never far away. Every ridiculous tower moment got texted straight to him. The time Alexei tried to skateboard down the hallway and nearly took out a vase? Recorded, sent. Bucky falling asleep mid-mission briefing? Snapped and shared. 

Even the quiet moments, nights you chatted with Yelena about your past while Bob read a book upside down on the sofa, went to Joaquín. It was your way of keeping him tethered to your day-to-day, even when he wasn’t physically there.

In return, Joaquín sent you snippets of his world. Sweaty post-workout selfies, breathless but grinning as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Attempts at TikTok trends that usually ended with Sam shaking his head in the background, muttering something about kids and their internet dances. 

Joaquín always let you in on the more intimate parts of his life. A wide shot of the desert sunrise when his missions took him out west. A view from the cockpit, clouds stretching endlessly in every direction. His face when he turned the camera back around, softer somehow, like he knew you’d be saving it to watch later.

Sometimes, lying in bed after a long day of convincing Bob he should stop losing sleep over that time he went blonde, you let yourself wonder if you were leaning on Joaquín too much. But then your phone would buzz at one in the morning with a picture of his half-eaten pizza, and all the doubts would dissolve. 

Once, though, you picked up your phone and it wasn’t Joaquín at all. It was Sam.

“So…” Sam’s drawl came down the line, already laced with that particular brand of mischief he reserved for teasing you. “You and my guy Joaquín are still glued at the hip, huh?”

You froze mid-step in the tower hallway, nearly colliding with Bucky, who was carrying five grocery bags in one arm and looked alarmed at your expression.

“I—what—no,” you spluttered, waving Bucky away. “We’re just friends.”

“Uh-huh.” You could practically hear Sam’s eyebrow raise. “Look, I’m not here to pry. I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re okay out there.”

That disarmed you more than the teasing. “I’m… yeah. I’m okay. It’s a lot, but it’s good too.”

Sam hummed like he believed you, but not entirely. “You know you can call me if it ever isn’t good, right?”

Your chest squeezed a little at that. “I know. Thanks, Sam.”

“Good. Now go back to pretending you and Joaquín don’t FaceTime more than most married couples.”

You groaned loudly, especially when Bucky snickered, clearly overhearing.

Another tradition you loved was your TV nights with Joaquín. It started innocently enough: a “Hey, let’s watch something together like we used to,” that turned into a full-blown ritual. Now you and Joaquín were three seasons into his favourite show, a messy blend of soap opera drama and superhero action.

“Okay, okay, listen,” Joaquín’s voice crackled in your ear, bright and animated. “This is where it gets good. You’re not ready for this.”

Your stomach did a strange swoop at the sound of his excitement. You eyed the screen, unimpressed. “I bet you five bucks the dude with the bad haircut betrays them.”

“He’s not— what? No! He’s loyal. He’s literally their rock.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sure enough, three minutes later, Bad Haircut Man pulled out a knife and stabbed his supposed best friend in the back. Literally.

You sipped your tea like a smug cat while Joaquín groaned dramatically. “You ruin everything, you know that? I was so excited for you to see that twist!”

“Twist implies surprise,” you deadpanned. “I saw that coming from a mile away. His hair alone was a red flag.”

“You can’t keep calling him Bad Haircut Man.”

“Would you prefer Traitor Mullet?”

Joaquín made a strangled sound, half-outrage, half-laughter. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you replied knowingly.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched just a little too long. Butterflies stirred in your chest before Joaquín rushed in with, “Okay, fine, maybe a little. But still! You’ve got to stop predicting everything. Just enjoy it.”

“I am enjoying it,” you said, shifting so you could lie back against your pillows. Your phone was set to speaker mode beside you. “I’m enjoying being right about everything, like always.”

He groaned again, but you could hear the smile in it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you keep calling me,” you sang.

“Because I’m a masochist, apparently,” Joaquín said brightly, though he stumbled on the last word like he was trying too hard to keep it light.

That earned him a snort, which only made him laugh harder. It was the kind of laugh that was so bright you could almost see the way his face crinkled up with it. You could picture his warm brown eyes shining, and the curve of his mouth, and the image made your stomach dip again.

For a while, the two of you went back and forth like that, barely watching the show. You’d throw out another prediction to see Joaquín protest, and he’d respond with increasingly desperate defences of the show. 

“You don’t understand, this episode sets up the entire season four arc!” 

“Mm-hm, sure. Whatever you say, Quino.”

“C’mon, cariño,” Joaquín complained. The way he said your nickname this time was softer, though, almost breathless, and you had to clutch your pillow tighter to steady yourself.

Eventually, the TV faded into background noise, both of you too caught up in your own rhythm. It felt like he was right there on your bed beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him if you just leaned a little further into the sound of his voice.

“You’re quiet,” Joaquín said softly after a stretch of companionable silence. He was lying down now, too, you could tell by the muffled sound of his pillow when he shifted.

“Just tired,” you said, though the truth caught in your throat. Tired, yes, but mostly of pretending you didn’t miss Joaquín everyday.

There was a pause, then his voice came through, gentler. “I miss you.”

The words landed like a hand pressed to your sternum, grounding you even as your pulse kicked up. Joaquín always said things like that so easily, like it wasn’t a risk at all. Meanwhile, you had to wrestle your own honesty into submission before it could escape.

“…Yeah,” you finally admitted, words quieter than you meant. “I miss you too.”

Your ceiling blurred into soft shapes as your eyes stung, not with tears, but with the weight that had been building for weeks. On the other end, you pictured Joaquín sprawled across his bed, phone in hand, grinning that too-wide grin.

“You know what I’d do right now if I were there?” he asked suddenly, his voice dipping lower, hesitant.

You paused to consider it, your heart jumping into your throat. “Eat all the snacks I hid from Alexei?”

Joaquín laughed, low and warm. It came out a little breathless, almost shy, and the sound tangled with the butterflies already taking up permanent residence in your stomach.

“No. Well, maybe. But also—” Joaquín hesitated, and the pause stretched long enough to make your pulse race. Then, he barrelled on, “I’d bug you until you agreed to watch the next episode. In person. With popcorn. And you’d make fun of me the whole time, but I wouldn’t even care because you’d be here. Actually here, you know?”

Your lips curved despite yourself. “Sounds annoying.”

“You love it.” He threw your words back at you, smug and playful, but you caught the tiny stumble after love, like he’d almost said too much.

“Maybe a little,” you echoed his earlier response. You rolled onto your side, hugging your pillow like it might stop your heart from thumping straight through your ribs.

“I mean it, though,” Joaquín said, voice stripped of all his usual bravado. “It’s not the same without you here.”

You closed your eyes, wishing you could bottle his voice just as it was in that moment. Hushed, intimate, a little frayed at the edges. You wished you could reach through the line and trace the shape of that smile you knew was lingering.

“Don’t go getting all sentimental on me, Quino,” you managed, trying for lightness even as your chest ached.

“Too late.”

The two words hovered between you, more dangerous than any plot twist on his ridiculous show. You laughed because it was easier than admitting how much his words mattered. Easier than confessing that this—Joaquín’s voice in your ear, the soft cadence of his breath as he got sleepy—felt a lot like falling.

The credits rolled in the background, the show entirely forgotten. The line crackled gently beside you as Joaquín shifted again, probably stretching out like the overgrown golden retriever he was, all long limbs and restless energy.

“You’re gonna keep guessing plot twists next time, aren’t you?” he asked finally.

“Obviously,” you said, overly smug. “Unless the writing suddenly gets less predictable.”

Joaquín groaned. “Why do I put myself through this?”

You grinned. “Because you’d miss me otherwise.”

And though he tried to play it off with a mock-suffering sigh, you could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “Yeah, I would.”

The conference room was supposed to be a place of serious business. Debrief, strategy, updates. Instead, it had become a comedy club where the punchline was you and Bucky.

Everyone was trying, and failing, not to laugh. Shoulders shook. Snorts slipped out. Yelena had her face buried in her hands like she was praying, but her muffled giggles gave her away. John kept letting out little bursts of air through his nose, like an angry bull who couldn’t quite keep it together. Ava had her arms crossed, but her mouth was twitching dangerously at the corners.

And there you were, standing up front with your arms crossed beside Bucky, who looked like a dad dragged to a parent-teacher conference against his will.

“Stop it,” he said finally, gruff and unamused. “This is not funny.”

That did it. The room collapsed. Yelena wheezed, clutching her stomach. Alexei slapped the table. Ava actually let out a laugh, sharp and bright, like she couldn’t contain it anymore. Bob seemed to be holding back best, lips just slightly curved into a smile.

Through her cackles, Yelena managed to get out, “I’m sorry, but it’s hilarious that the tabloids think the two of you are dating!”

That just set everyone off again.

“Oh come on,” Bucky grumbled, glaring at them all.

Ava raised a brow, deadly calm but still clearly amused. “She’s not wrong. You’re literally old enough to be her grandfather.”

“Technically—” John started, but Bucky shot him a withering look that silenced him.

“Even if you go by his biological age,” Ava continued, ignoring him, “you’re still way too old for her. Not impossible, but kind of cradle-robbing.”

You had your arms folded tight. But honestly? Your lips were twitching too. Because you could totally see it.

Valentina had orchestrated the whole thing, of course. She probably thought pairing you and Bucky up in the public eye would soften your reputations or distract from less flattering headlines. So she’d whispered in the right ears, and suddenly three different gossip magazines had sources swearing you’d been together for years.

The articles came complete with a glossy little photo essay. A greatest-hits montage of every vaguely affectionate moment you and Bucky had shared since the Flag Smashers fiasco.

There was one of you walking side by side, shoulders brushing, both of you frowning like you were about to go punch something. The tabloids captioned it as STEELY LOVERS ON A MISSION.

Another was you handing him a sandwich of coffee after a mission. Innocent enough, except the angle made it look like you were gazing at him all adoringly while he took it. LUNCH DATE WITH NEW AVENGERS COUPLE, one magazine cooed, like you were influencers instead of international fugitives-turned-sort-of-heroes.

And then there was the pièce de résistance. The one that had everyone in stitches right now.

A few weeks ago, you and Bucky had ducked into a little coffee shop in disguise. Baseball caps pulled low, heads bent together, doing your best not to draw attention. Somehow, a photographer still caught the exact moment Bucky said something so grouchy that you’d lost it. 

He’d tipped his head back, laughing so hard it looked like joy had cracked him wide open. And you? You were doubled over, one hand braced against his chest, eyes squeezed shut as you giggled.

It was completely platonic. Just a rare, stupidly normal moment between the two of you. But freeze it in time, slap on a raunchy headline, and boom—suddenly you were the New Avengers’ It Couple.

Was it mortifying? Absolutely. Did you understand why the public ate it up? Unfortunately, yes.

“I mean,” Yelena wheezed, wiping her eyes, “you two do look cosy. Look at this one.” She held up her phone, flashing another coffee shop picture across the table like she was presenting evidence in court.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

You felt your own cheeks warm, though whether from second-hand embarrassment or the fact that the photo really was ridiculously convincing, you didn’t want to think about it too hard.

“It’s not like that,” you tried to say, but your voice came out too defensive, which only made everyone snicker harder.

Alexei tilted his head, shrugging. “We know this, but the public does not.”

This was what Valentina wanted. She wanted people to buy the story because a little romantic intrigue always sold better than the complicated reality that Sam was insistent the Avengers title didn’t belong to you.

You sighed, slumping in a chair at last. “I hate my life.”

“Tell that to your boyfriend,” Yelena teased, making kissy faces at Bucky.

Bucky groaned audibly this time, and the team dissolved into another round of helpless laughter.

Later that night, your phone buzzed just as Bob declared John’s collard greens were “life-changing” for the third time. John, who was on cooking duty and surprisingly knew what he was doing, was too busy shooing him away from the cornbread batter to notice your quick escape.

You slipped out of the kitchen, phone pressed to your ear before it could ring again. “Hi, Joaquín,” you said, leaning against the wall in the hallway.

“You didn’t tell me you were dating a centenarian,” he said without preamble. His voice was bright, teasing, but you could practically hear the grin through the line.

You groaned, rubbing your forehead with your free hand. “Not you too.”

“Am I supposed to act surprised? The whole internet thinks you’ve been sneaking around with Bucky.” You could hear the faux pout on his face when he said, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“Do you want me to hang up right now?” you threatened. “Because I will. Don’t test me, pretty boy.”

Joaquín laughed, high and delighted, like he lived for winding you up. There was something about knowing he could pull a smile from you, even miles away, that made him feel closer to you. “Relax, cariño. He does have that rugged, silver fox thing going on.”

You sighed, dragging the sound out dramatically. “Joaquín.”

“What? It’s a compliment. If I had half that man’s jawline when I’m pushing a hundred, I’d be thrilled.”

Despite yourself, your lips twitched. “Technically he’s not a hundred. He was cryogenically frozen, remember?”

“Feels like it,” Joaquín teased. “Anyway, I’m proud of you. Bagging a war hero? Iconic.”

You let out an exasperated laugh, sliding your back down the wall to sit down. “You’re the worst.”

“And you love me for it,” he declared.

That was the problem. Joaquín said it so casually, like it was just another joke tossed between friends. But your chest tightened all the same.

The laughter faded. Joaquín’s voice lowered, gentler now. “Look, it doesn’t matter what people think. Anyone who actually knows you knows the truth. He’s basically your weird adopted uncle.”

Relief loosened your shoulders. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

“Always,” he promised. 

But there was a pause. Joaquín hadn’t meant for the joke to stick in his throat, but it did. Because sure, he knew the rumours were ridiculous. He knew Bucku was family to you, nothing more. 

And yet when the tabloids plastered those photos everywhere, Joaquín couldn’t stop looking. He couldn’t stop picturing a world where they were true, except he was in the coffee shop with you, not Bucky. Joaquín laughing with his head tipped back, your hand pressed against his chest, the whole world catching on camera what he’d wanted for months: that you were his.

Instead, they thought you belonged to someone else.

He’d carried his phone from room to room that day, scrolling past those pictures even though he swore he wouldn’t. Each time his stomach twisted the same way, each time his chest burned with the same ache. He wanted to hack the internet just so he didn’t have to see you leaning toward someone else, even if he knew it wasn’t real.

Joaquín tried to shake it off because that wasn’t fair. You didn’t belong to anyone. But the image dug into him all the same. He hated that it made him jealous. Hated that the distance between you made it worse. 

He hated that he couldn’t reach out and be there. That he couldn’t press his palm to the back of your hand where it curled around the phone, couldn’t feel you laugh against his shoulder instead of hearing it through tinny speaker static.

All Joaquín could do was call, tease, and make you laugh until you sighed and softened. But at the end of the day, you were still hundreds of miles away, and the world was still convinced you were in love with someone else.

“I really do miss you,” you admitted quietly. The words slipped out before you could second-guess them.

On the other end, Joaquín’s breath caught, just for a moment. God, how he wanted to tell you he missed you so much it hollowed him out. That on some nights, he stayed awake replaying every single conversation, every shared joke, every spark of your voice in his memory, because it was the only thing that made the silence bearable.

Then he rallied, light again. “Miss me? Please. You’re probably just jealous no one here makes tamales like I do.”

You laughed, a soft, warm sound. “You don’t even cook.”

“I’d learn. For you, I’d learn.” The words hung there, playful but weighted. You knew Joaquín meant them. 

And on his end, lying back against a hotel pillow in a city that wasn’t home, Joaquín shut his eyes and let himself imagine it. A kitchen, your laugh at his side, a life where you were his. He wanted it so badly he could taste it, and the wanting was its own kind of torture.

He listened to you breathe. He should’ve said goodbye, but every second he didn’t hang up was another second where he could pretend you were close.

“Still there?” you asked, a little tentative.

“Yeah,” Joaquín said. “I just don’t want to hang up yet.”

Your chest pulled tight, something tender and dangerous blooming there. You should’ve teased Joaquín, but you didn’t. You just let it sit between you, honest and unassuming.

Footsteps interrupted the moment. You looked up to see Bucky leaning against the doorway. “Dinner’s ready,” he said, his voice gruff but softer than it usually was when it was just the two of you.

On the line, Joaquín went silent. He’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“Quino?” you prompted gently.

He cleared his throat, covering the hitch with a laugh. “Tell your boyfriend I said hi,” he teased, light and sing-song. Playful enough to pass as a joke. But underneath, you heard the thin crack in it.

You rolled your eyes, though your smile tugged wide. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Joaquín said, but softer this time, like the word was wearing something heavier than humour. “Talk soon, cariño.”

And before you could answer, the line clicked as he hung up.

You were perfectly content that afternoon. Curled up on the sofa with Bob pressed up beside you, his latest book splayed open in his lap. He gasped every few pages as though he hadn’t spoiled half the plot for himself earlier by reading reviews. 

You were scrolling aimlessly through your phone, not really absorbing anything, until the familiar script of Joaquín’s name lit up your screen. Your lips curved before you even tapped the notification.

The photo loaded, and you bit the inside of your cheek. Joaquín. Shirtless, sweaty, muscles catching the light. But instead of sultry intensity, he was grinning like an idiot, hair mussed from a workout, a dimple cutting into one cheek.

QUINO 🪽: bet I can still do more push-ups than sam. place your bets, cariño.

You laughed a little. Only Joaquín Torres could make a post-workout selfie funny and platonic. Except apparently you were wrong about that.

“What is this?” Yelena’s voice landed over your shoulder, dry as ever. She’d just come back from Oregon with John in tow, dirt coating her boots. “Why is Falcon sending you thirst traps?”

Your phone nearly flew out of your hand. “It’s not a thirst trap!”

Bucky, from his armchair across the room, gave a long-suffering sigh and stood. “Nope. Not doing this. I hear that phrase one more time, I’m gone.” True to his word, he disappeared down the hall muttering something about needing quiet.

“Yelena,” you began, but it was too late. 

She was already plucking the phone from your grip with ninja reflexes. “Ohhh,” she drawled, scrolling with deliberate slowness. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

John leaned over. “Lemme see.”

You lunged, but he was faster, bracing one big hand on Yelena’s shoulder as they both peered at your screen like it was evidence in a criminal case.

“Oh my god,” John said, half laughing, half stunned. “He’s obsessed with you. Look at this one! Morning stubble, pillow hair, abs in the background. That’s not friendly, that’s a man playing dirty.”

Heat crept up your neck, pooling in your ears. “No, he’s just— he always looks like that,” you defended your best friend. “He’s… naturally photogenic?”

Yelena snorted. “Photogenic? He’s flexing.” She tapped the screen, enlarging one of the photos. “See? Bicep angle. Classic.”

You flailed. “He’s literally just holding his phone!”

John wagged a finger like a teacher making a point. “Nah. Guys don’t send selfies like this unless they’re flirting. Trust me.”

The words hit harder than you wanted to admit. Joaquín, flirting? With you? Your stomach swooped, butterflies you thought you’d outgrown years ago suddenly alive and thrashing. You tried to smother but your pulse betrayed you, drumming in your throat as image after image passed under Yelena’s ruthless examination.

You caught glimpses of them too. Joaquín, half-asleep. Joaquín pulling a face mid-training session, sweat-dark curls sticking to his forehead. He looked like he was on the cover of Men’s Health in every single picture.

Your mouth went dry. What if they were right?

Bob, who’d been suspiciously quiet, leaned over the sofa. His eyes went wide. “Oh yeah,” he declared without hesitation. “That’s a slutty Florida man who wants you bad.”

The room froze. You, Yelena, and John turned to gape at him.

Bob blinked, then flushed scarlet. “What? He does! Don’t act like I’m wrong.”

You burst out laughing, loud and incredulous, mostly to cover the way your heart had launched itself into your throat. Yelena cackled, clapping Bob on the shoulder while John doubled over, wheezing.

That night, sleep refused to cooperate. You were on your back in the dark. The ceiling was an indistinct blur above you, Joaquín’s selfies branded behind your eyelids like they’d been carved there.

Your teammates’ voices haunted you—especially sweet, unfiltered Bob’s.

You pressed your hands over your eyes, groaning into the darkness. What if they were right? What if those messy, unposed, grinning photos weren’t just Joaquín being Joaquín? What if you’d been too wrapped up in your own denial to notice that he’d been saying it all along without words?

Your stomach dropped just thinking about it, the kind of swoop that made you feel reckless and restless and half-sick with longing. Attraction, plain and simple, except you didn’t have the vocabulary to name it.

So when your phone buzzed across the nightstand, screen lighting up with his name, you didn’t even hesitate. “Quino,” you whispered, answering the phone.

“Cariño,” he answered, warm and teasing, mimicking your tone. “What? You weren’t asleep already, were you?”

“Obviously not. You know I never sleep before two.” You turned on your side and tucked your arm under your pillow. “What’s your excuse?”

“I was thinking about that mission briefing Sam gave earlier,” Joaquín said. “And then I started thinking about you, and— well, here we are.”

Your breath caught. Joaquín said it so casually, but now every word landed like a spark. After what Yelena and John had said, you couldn’t hear it any other way.

The conversation moved forward at its usual pace. Joaquín’s rundown of training drills, your sarcastic commentary about tower drama, but it all felt tilted. Each of his laughs sounded softer, more deliberate. 

When Joaquín told you about racing Sam up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and losing spectacularly, you pictured the sweat on his chest from that selfie, the sun catching the edge of his grin. When he groaned about a bruised shoulder, you thought about how his biceps had looked, corded and flexed, and wondered how they’d feel if you traced the curve of muscle with your hand.

It was stupid. You knew it was stupid. And yet your chest ached with how much you wanted to believe it wasn’t.

“Are you smiling right now?” Joaquín asked suddenly, his voice suspicious and boyish.

You swallowed hard. “Maybe.”

“Good. I like when you smile.”

Your heart skittered. Joaquín had said things like that before, but never had they felt so heavy. Confirmation bias, you told yourself. Except your body didn’t care about logic. Your body was all butterflies and fire.

The two of you drifted into a softer silence. Joaquín must have been lying down too, because his voice was lower now, the edges fuzzy with sleep.

“You know,” he murmured, “DC isn’t really all that far from New York.”

Your eyes opened, darting toward the ceiling like it could anchor you. “You’re kidding.”

“No, seriously. An hour and a half by plane, less than a half hour by Falcon-wings. If I had a free weekend…” Joaquín trailed off, hopeful in a way that made your chest squeeze.

You pressed the heel of your hand over your heart, like that could steady the gallop. “Valentina would kill me,” you whispered. “Especially now that Bucky and I squashed the dating rumours without permission.”

“I’d take the risk,” Joaquín said easily, without hesitation. “I’m pretty sure I can take her.”

You closed your eyes. “Don’t tempt me. Because I really, really want to see you.”

For a beat, neither of you spoke. Then Joaquín let out a soft laugh, breathless, almost shy. “Careful, cariño,” he said. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And lying there, phone warm against your ear, you almost wished he would.

Some days just conspired against you. Today was one of them.

It started in the morning when Bob, in a burst of affectionate enthusiasm, high-fived you so hard you nearly somersaulted backwards. He looked horrified, apologising six times, but the bruise blooming on your arm didn’t care. You knew he was still getting used to his super-strength, and you weren’t badly hurt, so you didn’t hold it against him.

Then Alexei ate the last of your cereal. He didn’t even seem sorry about it. He just shrugged and said, “It is better fuel for Red Guardian,” as if that excused everything.

The tiny miseries stacked higher as the hours went on. You stubbed your toe on the sofa. Your phone slipped out of your hand and smacked you square in the face when you tried to read lying down. Yelena left a damp towel on your bed after using your shower since you had nicer-smelling shampoo. Even the vending machine betrayed you, spitting out a packet of chips that was so broken up it was basically dust.

By the time night rolled around, you were exhausted in a way that wasn’t physical. Just wrung out, fed up, convinced the universe was laughing at you. You sat hunched on your bed, scrolling through your phone with the distinct energy of someone hoping to be distracted. 

QUINO 🪽: miss you today. there’s a package waiting for you in the quinjet hangar

You blinked at the words, frowning. A package? This late? And why had he written it like some secret spy dead drop? For a moment, you just stared at the message, heart ticking faster without permission.

Curiosity trumped exhaustion. With a sigh, you shoved your feet into slippers and pulled the sleeves of your sweater down over your wrists. The tower was quiet at this hour, the usual noise hushed down to a low hum as everyone relaxed in their rooms.

When you reached the far end of the bar area, you paused, drawn to the wall of glass overlooking the city. New York at night never failed to take your breath away. The whole city pulsed with restless life, and from up here, you could almost believe you were just an observer floating above them.

When you stepped out onto the hangar, the air was sharp and cool against your skin. But you hardly felt it, because there—standing with his wings tucked close, helmet off, green Falcon suit catching the floodlights—was Joaquín.

His head lifted the second you appeared, and his smile lit up brighter than the skyline behind him. Open, radiant, all warmth. Your heart squeezed so tightly you thought it might burst.

You didn’t think. You didn’t worry about who might be watching or what rules you were breaking. You just ran.

By the time you reached him, you were already laughing, already breathless. You launched yourself forward, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, arms locked behind his neck. His hands caught you without hesitation, steady and sure, like he’d been waiting his whole life for you to throw yourself at him.

“You’re here,” you breathed, words muffled into his shoulder. You didn’t even care that your voice shook. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Joaquín answered, laughing a little, but his arms tightened around you like he wasn’t planning on letting go. “God, I missed you, cariño.”

The admission hit you like a wave. You pressed your face closer, eyes stinging, and whispered back, “I missed you too, Quino.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You just held on, greedily soaking up Joaquín’s warmth, the faint smell of soap and jet fuel clinging to him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his chestplate. Months of phone calls, teasing texts and pixelated video chats melted away. 

Joaquín was here, actually here.

When you finally leaned back, you found his face only inches from yours. His eyes were wide, dark and searching, and you could see every ounce of what he felt written plain across them.

Neither of you spoke, but the tension thrummed between you like it had its own heartbeat. For months, you’d skirted the edge of this moment. Too careful, too uncertain, too far apart. But now, with Joaquín’s hands still firm at your waist and your fingers still curled into his hair, there was no more pretending.

You both leaned in at the same time. The kiss was everything and nothing all at once. Not dramatic, not cinematic, just inevitable. Joaquín’s lips were soft, insistent but devoted, like he’d thought about this a thousand times and still couldn’t quite believe it was real. You sighed into him, the sound swallowed up as he kissed you deeper.

“Took us long enough,” he murmured when you broke apart. Joaquín kept his forehead pressed against yours, breath shaky, grin unstoppable.

You laughed, nudging your nose against his. “Tell me about it.”

You reluctantly unwrapped your legs from around his waist, pressing a few delicate kisses to the corners of Joaquín’s mouth as if trying to memorise every curve. 

He shivered slightly in the night air, but didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands found your hips again, steadying you, and he bent his head, burying his nose just beneath your ear. You felt his warm breath brush against your skin, and then a quick peck at the hollow of your neck made a soft sigh escape you.

You pulled back enough to look at Joaquín, brushing your fingertips lightly over the curve of his jaw, the stubble rough against your skin. His eyes flickered to yours, wide and bright, and for a heartbeat, all you could do was stare. 

It was the kind of look that made you forget words entirely. You swallowed, heart thudding, and led Joaquín towards the Watchtower’s interior. The wind cut through the open hangar, tangling your hair and biting at exposed skin, and even through your sweater, you could feel the chills.

“Come on,” you murmured, tugging him gently along. “It’s freezing.”

Joaquín let himself be led, gawking as you walked through the communal bar and kitchen area. His eyes were wide, taking in the lights, the clutter of mugs and plates, the cosy chaos that was life here. 

“Wow,” he breathed, “this place is… It’s like a spaceship apartment or something. I love it.”

You grinned, feeling that familiar swell of affection that always accompanied his awe. “Yeah. It’s still homey, somehow.” 

You guided him down a couple of hallways, past the living room, and finally to your door. Inside, the air was warmer, the light softer. 

Joaquín paused at the threshold, taking it all in. Shelves lined the walls, filled with novels, a small stack of notebooks splayed on your desk, and a few mementoes from missions and friends. It was you, exactly you, and it hit him visibly.

He stepped forward, eyes scanning your room until they landed on a framed photo. He picked it up gently, cradling it as if it were fragile. It was the two of you from almost a year ago. You’d taken him to one of his rehab sessions and stayed the entire time to offer him some support. The two of you were laughing in a rare, unguarded moment.

“I have this exact picture in my room,” Joaquín said softly, reverently. “It’s… it’s always there, you know? Every time I look at it, I feel like you’re right there with me.”

Your chest warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the heater. 

He turned the photo in his hands, gaze lingering on your face before he met your eyes. “I like having a piece of you near me,” Joaquín murmured. “Even when I can’t actually be with you.”

Something fluttered low in your stomach, deep and insistent. You could feel your pulse in your throat, remembering the soft rise and fall of his chest against yours, the warmth of his body pressing against yours. 

Joaquín stepped closer, just enough to close the distance. “I couldn’t wait to see you,” he said quietly. “I’ve been feeling so homesick, and I just had to see your face.”

You swallowed, nodding, letting yourself lean into him. Your forehead rested against his shoulder, and you could feel every small inhale, every micro-movement of his adjusting just to be closer. You pressed a quick, delicate kiss to his jawline, then his temple, and Joaquín hummed softly. 

You both sank onto the edge of your bed. Joaquín’s grin was wide enough to make your heart ache. 

“I still can’t believe you kissed me back,” he whispered, voice a mix of awe and disbelief. “I mean, you want me the way I want you?”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched into a smile. “You’re dramatic,” you teased softly, brushing a curl from Joaquín’s forehead. “Of course I feel the same way.”

He let out a breathy giggle, head tipping back slightly. It made your chest feel like it could explode. “Wow,” he murmured, voice low, “so I’m not imagining it? You actually, really want me?”

“Maybe,” you said, letting the word dangle teasingly in the air. “Depends on the night. And the lighting.”

Joaquín leaned closer, nudging his forehead against yours. “I’ll take what I can get.” His thumb brushed across your cheek, light and deliberate. “Because I’ve wanted this for months. You don’t even know.”

You swallowed, heart thudding. The truth was, you did know. Or at least, you had known in fragments, tiny flashes of realisation that kept you awake on nights like this one. 

“I’ve wanted it too,” you admitted quietly, voice almost lost in the hush of the room. “Probably for just as long.”

Joaquín’s lips curved into a soft, contented smile, and he leaned in to press a quick kiss to your temple. “You’re a little terrifying,” he said, breath warm against your skin. “Independent, mysterious, and somehow perfect at winding me up and making me feel like I could fly.”

“I’m aware,” you murmured, letting a laugh slip out, low and soft. “You’re not exactly subtle either.”

He leaned back just slightly to look at you, eyes sparkling. “Subtle is boring. You, on the other hand, keep me guessing. It’s amazing.”

“So, do we… admit how badly we both want this?” you asked softly, teasing but earnest.

Joaquín chuckled, a warm, low sound that vibrated through you. “Maybe we should whisper it. Make it official. Even if the whole world can’t know just yet, I’ve been craving you.”

You let the words settle between you and whispered back, “Me too. Badly.”

He nudged your shoulder playfully. “So, now that we’ve officially confessed, does this mean I get to make you watch my TV shows forever?”

You smirked. “You can certainly try. But fair warning, I’ll be spoiling all the predictable plot twists.”

Joaquín leaned in closer. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His grin widened into a smirk. Joaquín leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. Your body reacted before your brain could even register it, arching instinctively into him as he hovered over you, fingers threading through the silky softness of his dark curls.

His hands braced himself on either side of you, sinking into your bed and positioning his knees between your parted legs. Your hands roamed over his shoulders, memorising the feel of him, the slight tension in his muscles from months of holding back the want you both now released.

Joaquín groaned softly, lips brushing against yours again and again, each one leaving fire in its wake. Your heart hammered in your chest, heat pooling low in your stomach as his tongue traced along your lower lip. The push and pull of it all felt at once new and achingly familiar.

Your hands drifted to his back, pressing him down against you. Joaquín’s careful weight was comforting, possessive, and thrilling. Your arms slid up and around his shoulders as your hips shifted, seeking more contact, more of the electric friction that had been building since the moment he’d arrived.

You broke the kiss only to gasp, shivering from the mix of cold air and heat radiating between you. Joaquín’s eyes were dark, glimmering with the same need that made your chest ache. He arched into you as you dragged your mouth across his face and to his neck, leaving gentle, needy kisses, nipping softly in a way that made his knees weaken.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Joaquín murmured, breath ragged. He tilted his head to give him more access. “You have no idea.” 

“I think I do,” you replied, grinning as you kissed along his jaw. Your fingers dug into the hard shell of his Falcon suit, tugging him closer as if you could somehow bridge all the months of distance in that single motion.

Joaquín groaned, a low, rough sound that sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands slid from the bed to the small of your back, pressing you into him with an urgency that made your knees shake. You tilted your head back, letting him take the lead, lips and tongue moving against yours.

Every kiss, every press of lips, every soft brush of teeth carried the electric thrill of new territory. You could feel the rapid thrum of Joaquín’s heartbeat against your own, matching your own frantic pulse, and it made your stomach flutter. You tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands wandered over your back, brushing against your sides. 

The taste of him, the faint tang of sweat from the day, only sharpened the sensation, making every inhale, every sigh, send sparks through your body.

Joaquín tilted his head, lips dragging down your jaw. You whispered his name, and he caught it in his mouth, murmuring yours back with a breathy groan. You tested boundaries you hadn’t dared before. Joaquín nipped your neck, and you responded in kind, teeth and lips and whispered moans overlapping in a rhythm all your own. It was messy and perfect.

“Cariño,” he groaned into your neck, voice rough. “I— fuck, I can’t believe this is happening”

“You better believe it,” you breathed back, pressing your lips against his shoulder, tracing the slope of his neck, memorising him again in every way you could.

The sound of the door swinging open didn’t give you time to react. “Hey, do you know why the security system keeps flagging something in the hangar—” Bucky froze at the sight of Joaquín on top of you, still wearing his Falcon suit.

The three of you stared at each other, eyes wide. After a moment, the surprise on Bucky’s face melted into something amused. He stood there, arms crossed, the sheer deadpan of his expression making your stomach flip between mortification and humour.

“I’m too old for this shit,” Bucky said flatly, voice cutting through the haze of heat and adrenaline like a guillotine. He blinked, clearly weighing his life choices.

John’s voice rang out from the hallway. “What’s going—” He gasped in a scandalised tone, opening your bedroom door wider and taking in the image before him. You were below Joaquín, your arms still tangled in his hair, while he had red marks littering his neck and jawline from your efforts.

Ava barreled past John, phone already raised. “Wait! Hold up!” She snapped a picture without a second thought, capturing Joaquín perched on top of you, grin wide, completely unfazed.

Bob shuffled in next. “Finally,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. You shot him an offended look that said you’re just as bad as the others, and he gave a little shrug.

Yelena followed, arms crossed, deadpan as ever. She looked at Joaquín and tilted her head, eyes scanning him like he was a puzzle she’d just solved. “Golden retriever,” she declared, nodding once. “Of course.” Her dry amusement made Joaquín grin sheepishly, and you groaned, covering your face with your hand.

Joaquín, however, didn’t flinch. Lips still swollen, jaw marked with your tender kisses, he stood up and waved at your team. “Hi! I’m Joaquín. Pleasure to finally meet you properly,” he greeted cheerfully, voice bright and undeterred. “I guess you already… uh… know of me?”

Bucky put his face in his palm. He gave a single, exasperated groan from the doorway. “I need a drink,” he muttered.

You sank further into the bed, using your blanket to cover your face as the rest of the team filed out, giggling. Joaquín leaned down slightly. 

“Don’t mind them,” he murmured, pulling the blanket from your head and brushing his lips against yours. “They’ll get used to me eventually.”

“I don’t know if ‘get used to’ is the right phrase,” you whispered back. You peeked up at Joaquín, who was still grinning like a fool. “Well, I guess the secret’s out.”

You were sitting on the floor of Isaiah’s gym, using your phone’s camera as a mirror while you were trying to braid your hair back. You had two small rubberbands between your teeth to tie off the small braids before you’d put it into one ponytail that you would also braid.

“What are you doing down there?” Isaiah asked, wearing the same grey sweatsuit you almost always saw him in.

“Do you have several of those or do you just wash the same one everyday?” You looked over with a deadpan expression that almost instantly broke when you saw him scowl at you. “I’m braiding my hair.”

“There’s a mirror in the bathroom.”

“I’m already almost done.” You tied off one small braid before moving to the other side of your head.

“If you don’t get off that floor...” He muttered.

“I need five minutes.” You argued.

“You’re a pain in my ass, kid. You know that?”

“I could say the same about you.” You made a face to yourself.

He muttered more complaints to himself before he walked away. You glanced over to make sure he was gone before you quickly mocked him. By the time your five minutes was up, you finished the second braid and had it all in a ponytail. You were braiding the entirety as you met up with Isaiah again.

“Told you.” You grinned triumphantly, tying off the final rubberband. You turned your head side to side so your fresh braid swung behind you. “All neat and out of the way.”

Isaiah sighed and gestured for you to start with the punching bag.

Your blood was pumping, breaths coming in heavily, and your muscles loose by the time anyone else arrived. You ran the back of your hand across your forehead to collect the sweat before it could get into your eyes while Isaiah went around to greet his guests. You watched the cranky instructor go and saw Sam coming your way with a shadow of his own.

“Good to see you putting in work, Y/N.” Sam smiled as you approached them all.

“Yeah, well.” You shrugged with a grin of your own. “Gotta stay sharp, right? Never know when you’ll need me.”

“Okay.” Sam laughed and crossed his arms. “You think you’re ready?”

“I trained for fights my whole life.” You met his gaze with a challenge in your eyes. “The Chaste trained me basically since I could walk… I may not be a super soldier-” You pointed to Isaiah. “-but I can hold my own, Captain.”

“Alright, alright.” Sam nodded, a sly smile on his face still. It was the look of someone that knew something you didn’t and it made you raise a brow. “You know this guy?” Sam gestured to his friend.

You looked over and hesitated. Dark curls neatly styled out of his face, broad shoulders with solid arms. Your eyes trailed down his figure shamelessly and you watched him shift slightly under your scrutiny. When you finally met his eyes again, he grinned and you cracked half a smile yourself.

“Joaquin Torres.” He extended a hand towards you.

“Y/N.” You shook his hand.

“No last name?”

“Not that you need to know.”

“Damn.” He nodded once as you released his hand.

You turned back to Sam and couldn’t keep the smirk off your face. He tilted his head in amusement almost instantly.

Isaiah tossed a pair of padded gloves and headgear at you.

“Is he breakable?” You asked, lifting your brows with a small smile.

“Excuse me?” Joaquin chimed in as Sam laughed and passed his friend a set of the same gear. The new guy’s tone made it sound like no one had ever made such a suggestion and it made you chuckle to yourself.

“You just might be the one to find out.” Sam joked and turned to his friend, who now had a nervous smile on his face. “What do you say?”

“Wha- You want me to fight her?” Joaquin asked.

“Sparring, technically.” You shook the headgear with your gloved hands before shoving it on your head. “Fancy gear means no one gets hurt.”

“You’ll snap that boy like a twig.” Isaiah commented and you grinned. 

“Come on!” Joaquin complained and then looked to Sam for help.

“My understanding is that she’s on par with Natasha Romanoff in hand to hand.” Sam shrugged, gently pushing his friend forward. “Give it your best shot.”

You took a few steps backwards and gestured to the open space.

“Unless you don’t think you can handle it…” Sam taunted.

Joaquin looked offended and you stifled a laugh.

“I can handle it.” He reasoned

“I’d love to see you try, pretty boy.” You shot him a wink.

“How long you think it’ll take?” Sam looked over your shoulder to Isaiah.

“Fifteen minutes.” Isaiah answered nonchalantly. The man always seemed tired of you and your antics, yet he oddly encouraged them. You didn’t have to see him to imagine how he was standing. Arms crossed, small shrug when he answered, furrowed brows with his permanent scowl.

“I can do a lot with fifteen minutes.” You chimed in. You looked Joaquin up and down once more. “It should only take two for you to finish.”

Joaquin’s eyes went wide and you grinned, a calm shrug as you began to pace around him.

“You talk like that with everyone?” He asked, turning with you.

“Does it bother you?” You flexed your fingers, noting how the padding felt against your knuckles. At least with your fingers exposed, you could still grab him if you needed.

Over his shoulder, you saw Sam move to stand with Isaiah. They whispered amongst themselves then shook hands, seemingly pleased with the arrangement. You squinted in suspicion and when Sam caught you, he pointed to something. Before you could figure out what, Joaquin tackled you to the ground.

You landed with a small ‘oof’ and his bodyweight was keeping you pinned. Your eyes flared wide for a moment but the stupid smirk he wore turned your surprise into annoyance.

“What happened to two minutes?” He taunted.

“I’ve still got time.” You answered.

You locked your knees on either side of his hips and you saw an expression of surprise cross his features. You laughed slightly and jerked your hips to the side to throw him off. You two rolled until you landed on top. Before you could get a solid position, his hands found your waist and pushed you off so he could scramble to his feet. You pushed up to your elbows and laughed again.

“Tick tock, Y/N!” Sam called out and you fipped him off.

“I’m being gentle.” You joked as you got to your own feet.

“That’s why I put you in gear.”

Joaquin turned to say something but you acted quickly. You threw a kick at his head but he lifted both forearms up to block it. Your move, however, was a bluff. You planted your foot against his forearms and jumped over your extended leg to land a kick with your other foot. You both landed on the floor and you pushed yourself forward, reaching to trap him in an arm bar.

Once your hand was on his wrist, his other hand grabbed your upper arm and swung you over him. You let out a small yelp but quickly tucked your knees. When Joaquin tried to pin you, you extended your legs and flipped him over your head.

From the ground, Sam tapped an imaginary watch on his wrist and your groaned slightly.

You craned your neck and found where Joaquin landed. You reached up and caught his wrist, using it pull yourself closer to him. You stood quickly, dragging him to sit up, and twisted his arm outward.

You lifted your other fist and feigned a punch to his temple. Instead of making contact, you tapped his cheek and let him go.

“Wasn’t two minutes.” Isaiah complained.

You shrugged a shoulder and offered Joaquin a hand. “I told you I didn’t wanna break him.”

“You took it easy on me?” Joaquin accepted your help to get to his feet, his expression betraying shock the entire time.

You grinned widely. “I trained my entire life to fight Japanese assassins that had lived several lifetimes, Joaquin. Fighting you was definitely not the hardest thing I’ve ever done.”

“Damn.” He nodded slightly. “Sounds like you’ve got some stories.”

“And the scars to match.”

“Like that one?” The back of his fingers tapped the half exposed scar down your side. Your cropped compression shirt only hid the top portion of it but when his skin touched yours, you flinched.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t have-“ He quickly began.

“No, it’s alright.” You answered and put your hand on his arm. “Your hand was just cold.” You laughed.

Shamelessly, he looked you up and down as you were talking. When his eyes met yours again, you raised your brows with a small, knowing smile.

“Just returning the favor.” He said innocently.

“You’re fun.” You grinned. “Let’s go again.”

Joaquin opened his mouth, thought better of his response, then laughed it off.

“Go on.” You laughed as you took up your fighting stance again. “I dare you.”

“I was just gonna say…” He explained. “I guess that means I’m doing something right.”

You shook your head with a smile. His hands raised for his fighting stance and you moved quickly. You threw haphazard punches, not putting any of your weight behind them. You threw one punch far too wide and he caught your wrist, spinning you quickly until your back was against his chest.

You let out a breathy laugh as he held your one arm out of the way and the other pinned to your side.

“Hey! Quit with the funny business!” Isaiah scolded and you laughed again, letting your head fall back against Joaquin’s shoulder.

“You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?” He asked, amusement in his words.

“Aren’t you?” You replied.

You dropped your knee and attempted to kick his feet from under him. He avoided your leg sweep and the distance he gained allowed you to get back to your feet. You threw a lazy roundhouse kick that he blocked with his forearms. He pushed your leg away but couldn’t duck the jab.

Thanks to the gloves, the impact hardly fazed him.

You reached for his shoulders, intending to send your knee into his stomach, but he ducked out of your hold and pushed you away.

As you stumbled past him, the man had the audacity to smack your ass.

Your jaw dropped for a moment once you regained your footing and you could hear Joaquin laughing.

You turned to him and he was still grinning. You couldn’t help but laugh slightly.

“What are you doing after this?” He asked.

“When time’s up?” You stalled, walking in a slow, wide circle around him. “Leak some pictures, maybe. Or just do something batshit crazy.”

“Hey, I got money on this, Joaquin. Come on now!” Sam heckled.

“Don’t make me do it!” You called over your shoulder.

“Show him what you got, Y/N!” Isaiah answered.

You faked a sigh and focused on Joaquin again. He looked at you confused but when he opened his mouth to speak, you moved in. You hurried close, putting both hands at the back of his neck. You jumped and tucked both knees, dropping to the floor. Once you hit, your hands closed around the fabric of his muscle tee as you kicked your legs to flip him over. You threw your own body with him and landed on top.

“Pay up, son!” Isaiah celebrated as an alarm sounded.

“They actually set a timer.” Joaquin groaned.

You glanced over at them, caught a fake dirty look from Sam that you shrugged off, then looked back to Joaquin.

“Y/L/N.” You said, patting his chest before standing.

“Huh?” He made no effort to stand.

“My last name.”

“Oh, cool.” He smiled. “So… What would you say if I asked you to dinner?”

“Depends.” You leaned over him. “Are you asking me to dinner?”

“Would you say yes?”

“Absolutely.”

1.

You were in the middle of tidying up your apartment when Joaquín walks through the door like he lives there. Though you do always tell him you’ll leave the door unlocked for him, so you can’t really blame him too much for that. Before he even has two feet in the door, he begins spouting off random facts about his day or how many times Sam said something nice to him or how cool the stuff he had gotten to do was. You stop mid-dust to turn on your heels, watching as he shrugs his jacket off and steps out of his shoes. A small smile toys on your lips after you discard the duster on the side table and make your way towards him.

“And then he sa—,” He freezes, eyes zeroing in on the flower vase placed in the center of your small dining room table, “What are you doing with those? Those are lilies.”

“Yes, they are,” You curtly nod, gnawing on the inside of your cheek as you resist the urge to rub your irritated eyes.

You watch as something flickers in Joaquín’s eyes, something you can’t quite place, before he squints at you in disbelief. He drops his jaw to say something, but cuts himself off with a shake of the head. You can tell that he’s censoring himself, that he’s fighting off the urge to say what he truly wants to say. It seems to be a recurring theme in recent days. 

“You’re allergic to lilies,” He deadpans as he crosses his arms against his chest, “And so is Steve.”

“Tyler bought them for me,” You weakly sigh, casting your eyes to the ground in slight embarrassment, “He said he forgot I was allergic. I can’t throw them away, I’ll feel bad.”

Joaquín’s quiet scoff makes your face heat up because you knew ‘forgetting’ wasn’t a real excuse, but it was all you had. You tell yourself that it’s an honest mistake, and you believe him when he tells you he will remember next time. You give him grace and hope for improvement despite the subtle comments from all of your friends telling you that he wasn’t worth it and how you deserved so much better. However, when it was Joaquín on the other side of the conversation, it felt different. It felt worse, and you couldn’t quite figure out why. 

“Right,” He purses his lips and kisses his teeth, “If you say so.”

Silence fills the space around you, sticking to you as you chew on your bottom lip and attempt to segway the conversation into something less strenuous. The sound of soft thuds bounding near you breaks your concentration, your cat rounding the corner before he‘s gearing back to jump on the table. You were about to call out and stop him, but you were stopped by a tickle in your nose and, before you knew it, you were thrown into a burst of sneezes. You fold your elbow around your nose to keep yourself from sneezing all over the place before the palm of your other hand is rubbing at your eyes for relief. 

“Okay,” Joaquín calls out over your sniffling, and you can hear him gently shoving Steve off the table, followed by the glass scraping against the wood, “That’s it. I’m throwing these away, and you can tell him it was me who did it. If he even notices it.” 

You were blinking away the stars dotting your vision while he yanks the flowers out of the vase, throws them into the trash bag, ties it up, and places it right outside your door for him to take when he leaves. The entire time, you can hear him incoherently mumbling under his breath, but you don’t ask him what he was saying. The bits and pieces you think you’re able to make out were enough to tell you that he was far from impressed with your new boyfriend, and the last thing you wanted to face was his blatant disapproval head on.

However, little did you know, there was a much more prominent thought running amok in his mind. One that would change everything if you found out.

2.

The cafe was calm. A gentle hum of conversation filtering through the air, soft light decorating the space, comely art scattered on the walls. It had always brought you a sense of serenity you couldn’t find anywhere else. Well, almost anywhere else. Joaquín had a knack for bringing out the same tranquil feeling whenever he was around, but you didn’t dare admit that out loud. Not to yourself, and most certainly not to him.

“So, what did he get you for the big six months,” He asks, adjusting in the seat across from you as his knee almost brushes the inside of your thigh. 

It was innocent. A fleeting rush of air against the skin, but it makes your breathing falter. It makes a wave of heat rush to your cheeks, and a cloud of fog roll over your thoughts, but you shake it off like it meant nothing. Like it wasn’t the exact feeling you’d been waiting for the aforementioned He to give you since you’d met. You distract yourself by grabbing at the cup in front of you, twisting it on the table as you nip at the skin of your bottom lip and force the words to come out of your mouth. 

“Concert tickets,” You mumble without meeting his stare.

“What concert,” He presses with a quirk of his brow, mentally going over the list of all the artists he knew would be visiting D.C. soon. He couldn’t think of any you were interested in.

You sheepishly tell him the name of the rapper Tyler liked, and you have to busy yourself with aimlessly searching through your bag to spare yourself from the look that had undoubtedly twisted on his face. You’d already heard a long enough speech from your best friend and neighbor about how selfish the gift was, and you were praying that Joaquín was kind enough to spare you from his own. You were sure you wouldn’t be able to handle it from him. A few beats of silence pass, and you know you wouldn’t be able to avoid his gaze for too long, so, with your tube of lip balm between your fingers, you straighten your back and find his eyes.

“But you don’t like that kind of music,” He finally speaks up, voice strained with something terse and wired.

“I know,” You shrug, dragging the chapstick across your lips, “But he does.”

Joaquín’s focus briefly shifts to your mouth, but he’s quick to bring them back to your eyes so you don’t notice, his own lips pressed into a thin line before a deep breath passes through them, “Don’t you think an anniversary gift should be something you like? Or something you both like?”

Your body tenses as his words settle in your chest. He’s right, and you know he’s right, but you had already convinced yourself that it didn’t matter. That part of being in a relationship came with the obligatory notion of doing something for your partner that you didn’t necessarily like. Even if you had yet to do something with him that was just for you. It would happen eventually, right?

“It’s not a big deal,” You brush him off with a forced chuckle, “I’m sure it’ll still be fun.”

Joaquín doesn’t say anything else on the matter, choosing to let it drop because your words were painfully unconvincing, even to yourself, but there was nothing he could do. He knew the lingering comments he had been leaving were starting to irritate you, and he didn’t want to overstep in fear that all it would do was drive you away, because that was the last thing he wanted to do. All he can do is hope that you’ll see it yourself one day.

3.

When Joaquín had texted you and asked if you were free to come over to his place so that he could give you your birthday present, you were more than happy to agree. Mostly because it’s been a few weeks since you had last seen him, and you missed being around him, but also because you were curious to see what he had gotten you. He had always been a phenomenal gift-giver, and the fact that he knew you better than you knew yourself at times left you clueless as to what it could even be. 

“Who are you,” Joaquín forces his face to fall flat when he pulls the door open, “You look like someone I used to know, but I haven’t seen her in a year.”

“Okay,” You draw out with a feigned eye roll, “Tone down the dramatics, Torres. It’s been less than a month, and that’s no way to treat the birthday girl.”

“Your birthday was two weeks ago,” He playfully shouts as you push past him and into his apartment. 

“Semantics,” You wave him off, eyes darting around the kitchen and living room to see if he’d

left the box or bag lying around.

“Calm down,” He chuckles, letting the door fall shut behind him before he strides to you, knocking his shoulder against yours,  “It’s in my room. I’ll go get it before you pop a blood vessel.”

He shouts at you to get comfortable while he retreats down the hall, and you do just that. You had already kicked your shoes off by the door, which made it easy to fall onto the couch and pull one of your feet under your thigh as you wait for him to come back. Your gaze flutters around, taking everything in as if you hadn’t seen it a hundred times before. Pictures of his family littered the walls along with pictures of the two of you, and you can’t help but smile at that. Some of them are your most cherished memories, and the fact that Joaquín values them enough to display them makes something inside your chest swell.

Your peek into his choice of home decor comes to a stop when his voice echoes from his bedroom, shouting about how you need to close your eyes before he comes out. You do as he says, but not without a little complaining first, and wait for him to find his way into the living room. You can hear his footsteps slow when he nears the end of the hall, and you know he’s peeking around the corner to make sure your eyes are actually closed.

“Don’t open your eyes yet,” His voice is closer now, only a few feet away.

You feel the dip of the cushion next to you, followed by the soft crinkle of paper as he sets the bag on the coffee table. His shaky breath was so quiet you almost miss it, but you don’t say anything about it. You were growing impatient, the curiosity of the gift gnawing at you, and you were ready to see what he had gotten you. The teasing could always come later.

“Okay, you can open your eyes.”

Your eyes fly open, immediately finding the light purple bag that was stuffed to the brim with white tissue paper. Joaquín lets out a light laugh as he gestures for you to open it before he goes on a spiel about how hard it was to find. As you grab the bag, you realize it’s got some weight to it, which surprises you a little, though you don’t dwell on it for too long. You’re making sure to place the excessive amount of stuffing to the side, but you freeze when you catch a glimpse of what was underneath it all. 

“Joaquín, what the fuck,” You gasp, fingers tracing the stitching of the bag, “How much was this?”

“We both know I’m not going to tell you that,” He flatly says, his hands grasping the edge of the cushion as he leans forward to drag his eyes across your face, “Do you like it?”

“Like it? I love it,” You murmur, pulling the bag out so you can look at it in its entirety, “I’ve been looking at this for months, but haven’t been able to find one anywhere.”

“I know,” His voice is gentle and hesitant, “I remember you talked about it a while ago, so I pulled a few strings and managed to find one.”

You toss the bag to the side, instantly throwing your arms around Joaquín and pulling him into your hold. Without missing a beat, he winds his arms around your waist and rests his chin on your shoulder. The warm, fuzzy feeling in your chest wasn’t uncommon when you found yourself in his embrace, but this time it felt like there was something more. Something that someone in a relationship shouldn’t be feeling with someone else, and it made your stomach twist with guilt.

You hastily pull away, giving him a sheepish smile before Joaquín’s gaze locks onto the chain around your neck, his eyes quickly narrowing into a glare. You already know what he’s looking at, so you don’t ask. You let him find the words he wants to say as you uncomfortably sink into your seat, waiting for the unavoidable to come. 

“That’s a gold necklace,” He states, finally dragging his eyes away from your chest, "You don’t wear gold.”

“No, but it’s cute,” You pipe up, though the squeak in your voice gives way to the cracks in your facade, “Tyler got it for my birthday.”

The silence that follows makes you want to vomit.

“Look, I’m sorry for what I’m about to say,” He straightens in his seat, his chest tightening when your face visibly twists in discomfort, “But the two of you have been dating for almost a year and he doesn’t know all your jewelry is silver? He still seems to “forget” you’re allergic to lilies and that you hate rap music? He cancels on you last minute to hang out with his friends, which is really shitty. He’s shitty and you deserve so much better than that.”

Someone like me, he wants to say. Someone who knows you inside and out. Someone who would get rid of all the lilies in the world if it meant you could walk around without sneezing. Someone who would shamelessly ask Sam to pull any strings necessary to find a purse that had been sold out for over a year. Someone who wouldn’t even look at gold jewelry when shopping for you. Someone who saw you. 

“I—,” You cut yourself off, jaw going slack and shoulders falling as his words settle in your chest.

Any words you were going to say die in your throat as you nervously wring your hands together and chew on the inside of your cheek. The tension that fills the room around you doesn’t bother you all that much because you know that he’s right, and there’s nothing left for you to say.

4.

When you woke up with a scratchy throat and a runny nose, you told yourself that it would go away. That if you took enough allergy medicine and drank enough tea, you would be able to drug yourself up enough to be fine, but you were wrong. Two o’clock came, and you felt considerably worse than you had when you woke up. Now, you’re toying with your phone as you try to find the right way to tell Tyler that you can’t make it to the concert. A few rehearsed conversations later, you’re clicking the call button under his name.

“Sup,” He mumbles into the receiver, making you outwardly cringe.

Who greets their girlfriend they haven’t talked to all day with ‘sup’? 

“Hey,” You harshly rasp, “I don’t think I’m going to make it tonight. I’ve been feeling pretty bad all day, and I don’t want to get anyone sick.”

“Damn, babe, that sucks,” He plainly groans, and you can practically see his head being thrown back, “I think Garrett wants to come, so I’ll ask him right now.”

Before you even get the chance to open your mouth, the line disconnects. Slowly blinking, you pull the phone away from your ear, stunned and in disbelief. 

What the fuck?

Sure, you were going to tell him to find someone to go in your place anyway, but he didn’t even ask if you were okay. If you needed anything. He just hung up like nothing else except his stupid concert mattered, but the worst part is, is that you’re not even upset about that. You’re mad.

Mad that you’ve been wasting so much time on him. Mad that you haven’t been paying attention to the dozens of red flags being waved in your face. Mad that you’ve been making excuses for a man who considered swimming in a pool a replacement for a shower. Everything you’ve been brushing off as ‘not a big deal’ came rushing to the surface at once, and it made your head throb.

You knew that you wanted to break up with him, which was something you should have done a long time ago, but you also knew couldn’t do it yet. You were civilized enough not to do it over a text, and had enough human decency not to do it before a concert he was excited for. Not that he would care either way, but unfortunately, you still had morals. Instead, you decided to call the one person you knew you could always count on, no matter what.

“What’s up stranger,” Joaquín brightly greets, a quiet buzz of people in the background.

“Whatcha doin’,” You cooly ask, clearing the obnoxious tickle in your throat.

“I’m not doing anything,” You can hear a familiar deep voice protest in the background, “Are you feeling okay? You sound sick.”

“It’s nothing bad,” You try and play it off despite knowing he would be able to see right through you, “Just a sore throat and a headache. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll let you get back to your date with Sam.”

“No,” He rushes out, still ignoring Sam’s teasing comments beside him, “No, it’s okay. We were just finishing up. I actually have some sopita left in the fridge, so I’ll bring that to you, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

While you wait for Joaquín, you get comfortable on the couch and let your mind wander. You begin asking yourself the question you’ve been trying to ignore: Why stay with Tyler for so long? When you really thought about everything you looked for in a partner, he lacked almost every single one of those attributes. He wasn’t necessarily your type on paper, either. What he was, was close and low maintenance, and you thought if you were able to convince yourself that it was working, that maybe one day it would.

You couldn’t have been more wrong about something if you tried. 

By the time Joaquín was walking through the door, you had rolled yourself up in your blanket and dozed off into a short nap. You only roused when he was delicately shaking your shoulder, his small smile and soft eyes being the first things you see when you flutter your eyes open. He gently guides your body into a more upright position before turning to the coffee table, and as he pulls everything you’ve ever asked for when you were sick out of the bag, you realize that maybe everything you had been looking for had been in front of you the whole time.

+1.

A few months have passed since you broke up with Tyler, who took it a lot harder than you expected, and things in your life seemed to fall back into place afterwards Work seemed to be going smoother, you seemed to be in an overall better mood, the stubborn acne on your forehead, seemed to disappear, and you were back to spending all of your spare time with Joaquín. You felt like you were exactly where you were supposed to be, yet there was one constant thought nagging at the back of your mind. 

Maybe you felt something more for Joaquín than you had ever let on. Scratch that, you know you do. 

The more time you spent with him, the harder your feelings got to ignore, which, in turn, meant that your loose lips and uncontrollable facial expressions got the best of you every once in a while. You would leave passing comments that made his brow quirk in curiosity, you would sit a little closer to him than necessary, which didn’t go unnoticed by anyone, you would uncomfortably grimace when girls made obvious passes at him right in front of you. Not that you had a right to feel any sort of way about that, which you knew, but it served as a consistent reminder that even though he was right in front of you, he was still out of reach. 

Well, you thought so, at least.

When Joaquín got back home from some sort of mission with Sam, the first thing he did when he landed was call you and ask if you wanted to go to the state fair that was in town for the week. The speed at which you had said yes was slightly embarrassing, but he didn’t seem to mind it one bit. In fact, he matched your eagerness with his own and began spouting off a list of plans he had for the evening. All of which made it sound like a date, but you didn’t dare point that out. 

The two of you have only been there for an hour, and Joaquín has already managed to beat six of the seven rigged games he wanted to try. After the last prize he asked you to pick out for him, you playfully ask him to slow it down a tiny bit because you weren’t going to be able to carry that many cheap stuffed animals all night. Through feigned reluctance, he agrees to give them a break and guides you through the crowd in search of something else to do that wasn’t the ferris wheel. He wants to wait until the sun sets to do that. 

“C’mon,” He gently urges, palm splayed against your lower back as he applies the slightest bit of pressure, “Let’s go to the photobooth.”

You wordlessly nod, letting him usher you towards the empty booth with a small sign that said ‘Picture this!’ above it and was tucked in a quieter part of the lot. He doesn’t move his hand away, and it was taking everything in you to concentrate on what was in front of you rather than the way his touch made your skin burn even through the material of your shirt. It was a simple touch, something he’s done a thousand times before, but this time it was making your head spin and your heart race. It was making it harder to focus, harder to act like you aren’t about to run headfirst into the wall of feelings you’d been trying to dodge. 

Joaquín pulls the curtain back, head slightly jerking towards the inside before he’s gently shoving you in before him. You place the bag he had conned one of the workers into giving you for the prizes between your feet and move over in an attempt to give him as much room as possible, but the space was small. Even with your body at an angle and a shoulder pressed against the wall, there was still virtually no space between you. You weren’t sure where you ended and he began. Without a second thought, he throws his arm over your shoulder and pulls you even closer to his side while he clicks through the various backdrops. 

“What are we thinking,” His fingers brush against your collarbone, making your breath catch in your throat and a shiver run down your spine. Thankfully, he doesn’t notice, or he’s just really good at hiding it. “Old school Captain America layout, some weird safari one, or…”

His voice trails off while he shifts his gaze to you, dark brown eyes finding your own as his brow twitches. The subtle tilt of the head lets you know that he can tell something is off, but he can’t quite figure out what it is. The way he’s looking at you, like he was peering into the deepest parts of your soul, was making you breathless. It was making you forget how to speak. How to think. You force yourself to look away, instead leaning forward to select the ‘random’ button in the corner of the screen. You can hear Joaquín’s amused chuckle behind you, but you ignore it as you settle back into the seat and watch the numbers count down from ten.

“Smiles first,” You firmly nod, adjusting under his arm and focusing on the screen in front of you.

With a nod of his head, Joaquín tightens his grip on your shoulder and his lips tug into a bright smile that outshines your own. After the first one, he suggests that the two of you take a less serious picture, so you poke your tongue out of the corner of your mouth and wait for the second shutter click to go off. However, just as the number two rolls across the screen, he reaches over his torso and begins prodding your side, bringing out a round of involuntary giggles and shouts of mangled protests.

“I hate you,” You breathlessly call out, lightly slapping his chest while you attempt to squirm away from him despite there being nowhere for you to go.

“No you don’t,” His voice lowly rumbles, making warmth spread from your chest to your stomach until your entire body is on fire. 

When your nervous, yet curious gaze begins to slide up to his, everything that follows seemingly happens in slow motion. You meet his piercing stare. Your eyes flicker all across his face. He’s mirroring your every movement, but he lingers on your lips for a beat longer than you did. You swallow hard. The flash of the camera goes off. He brings his hand to cradle your jaw and his thumb caresses the apex of your check. Slowly, agonizingly so, the space between you becomes nonexistent. His lips are on yours. 

It wasn’t rushed, desperate, or hungry. It was soft, tentative, and quietly needy in a way that made it feel like you were being kissed for the first time all over again. He’s kissing you like you were anchoring him to earth, keeping him grounded and tethered to something that was raw and real. He slides his other hand down your spine, goosebumps forming in the wake of its path, until he reaches your lower back, and he’s pulling you closer into him than you thought possible. The loud hum of fair goers fade into nothing as your lips mold against his like you were made for each other. Though if you ask Joaquín, he would say that the two of you were made for one another. 

Neither of you register the last flash of the camera, both too lost in the feeling of each other, and it wasn’t until you hear a faint knocking on the outside that you reluctantly pull away. Your lips are parted as you try to catch your breath, blood pounding in your ears and your mind hazy from the feeling of his lips. Joaquín’s palm remains cradling your cheek, the skin underneath tingling from the touch alone, and he’s peering down at you with a look you’d seen on his face far too many times to count, but this time you aren’t afraid to face what it truly meant. 

“Told you you didn’t hate me,” He cheekily mumbles, thumb ghosting over your lips. 

“I guess not,” You bashfully hum, averting your gaze away from him before you weren’t able to resist the aching desire to kiss him again, “We should probably get out before the people in line hate both of us.” 

With an amused shake of the head, Joaquín places a quick and delicate kiss to your lips before he reaches to grab the bag from the floor and pulls the curtain back. You ignore the knowing looks the small group of people outside are tossing your way, choosing to quickly grab the printed pictures and tug him away from the photobooth. You don’t bother to drop his hand when you feel you’re a safe distance from the crowd, not that he would’ve let you if you tried, and it makes a certain feeling blossom in your chest. A feeling you’d been wasting your time trying to replicate with others for so long when it had been right in front of you all along.

“Let me see the pictures,” Joaquín softly demands, pulling you to a quick stop at one of the benches. 

You hand him one of the strips while you keep the other, eyes scanning each picture like you wanted to commit them to memory. They were all in black and white with various shaped green hearts decorating the edges. The first one is simple and cute. Smiles on both your faces, gentle twinkle in your eyes. The second one makes you playfully roll your eyes. Joaquín was poking at your side and your hands were pushing at his forearm, faces scrunched up with laughter. 

The third one might be your favorite of the four. You're both looking at each other with the same look in your eyes, the look of two people who are totally and entirely entranced with one another. It was the kind of look you would see couples give each other when they thought no one was looking. The fourth one makes you blush. Joaquín’s hand was cradling your face and his lips were pressed against yours, your visible hand clinging to his shirt like you were afraid he might disappear. It was a kiss straight out of a movie.

“We look hot,” He speaks up, nudging you with his shoulder, “I like them all, but the second one is my favorite.”

“That’s the worst one of me,” You throw your head back with a groan, “I look crazy.”

“Hey, don’t talk about my girl like that,” He mockingly protests, hand clutching at his chest, “I happen to like that crazy look, and think it’s the most beautiful sight in the world.”

You falter for a moment, two of his words ringing in your ears as you try to compose yourself. “Your girl, huh,” You quirk one of your brows, fighting off the urge to smile.

Joaquín’s entire body freezes before he sputters, “I mean, only if you want to be. Obviously if you don’t that’s okay. It is totally fine if you’re not into that. Just pretend I didn’t say anything.” 

You’ve seen him get flustered before, but this was a whole different level. His eyes are cast to the ground, his entire face to his ears are flushing a deep crimson color, garbled words are  tumbling from his lips and he’s shifting his weight on his feet. You curl your fingers around his bicep, forcing his attention back to you and you can visibly see him relax once he notices the teasing glint in your eyes.

“Obviously I’m totally into that,” You lightheartedly retort, “But you’ve got to take me on a proper date.”

His entire face lights up at your admission before he’s surging forward and peppering your mouth, cheeks, forehead, and nose with small kisses. “I’m going,” Kiss, “To take you,” Kiss, “On all the dates,” Kiss, “I’ll never stop taking you on dates.”

He kissed you a little longer this last time, not bothered by the blur of people crossing by you or the random comments from people who think they might recognize him. When he pulls away, it was only just enough for your lips to not be touching. He places his forehead against yours and pulls you into his warm embrace by your hips, your arms winding around his torso as you try and stifle a nervous giggle from being so close to him.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted this,” He mumbles, his breath fanning across your face, “How long I’ve wanted you.”

You let your head fall to the side as you pretend to think about it. “I’m guessing since you almost hit me with your oversized backpack three years ago.”

“Close,” He chuckles at the memory of your first meeting, his hands squeezing at your hips, “It was a few days before that, actually. I was leaving the sandwich shop and I saw you trying to shoo these pigeons off the sidewalk because a group of cyclists were coming. The second I saw you, I swear it was like everyone else disappeared except for you.”

His confession catches you a little off guard. You have a vague memory of that day, but you can’t recall seeing Joaquín anywhere near there. Although, you didn’t know him yet so you weren’t exactly looking for him then. Even then, you never would have assumed Joaquín saw you like that this whole time. 

Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.

“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.

“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement. 

“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.

“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.

“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”

“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”

You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut. 

“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”

“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”

You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”

Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“Machine giving you trouble again?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.

“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.

“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.

“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”

Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.

“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”

The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.

“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.

“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—

Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?” 

“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.

Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”

You made a face at her. “What are you on about?” 

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.

Right. Focus.

“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”

Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.

“I like the way you think.”

—

You knew Alpine would be your downfall.

The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.

So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to. 

You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.

Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.

The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?” 

You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.

“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”

“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.

“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. 

Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder.  “This is bullshit, and you know it—”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”

“That is not true!” 

“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.

“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.

Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.

“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.

The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.

“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both. 

“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.

Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”

“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”

As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.

“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew. 

Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.

“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.

“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.

Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.

“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”

“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.

“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.  “You what?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.

It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.

You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”

Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.

Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”