#bee writes stuff

“Don’t fight it,” you murmured against his lips. “Not with me.”

When he finally let himself give in, the difference was staggering. His senses, sharpened by the pollen, made every brush of skin, every sigh, every tiny shift of your heartbeat feel like a universe exploding behind his eyes. He gasped into your mouth, overwhelmed, whispering broken things against your skin—how soft, how warm, how much he’d wanted this for years but never let himself hope.

And when you whispered back that you wanted him too—that you always had—his whole frame seemed to unravel. Every move he made was still careful, trembling on the edge of restraint, but you could feel the reverence in it, the awe, like you were something sacred he’d been entrusted with.

For Peter, the world had always been too loud, too sharp, too much, but in that moment, even with the pollen amplifying everything, you weren’t overwhelming. You were home.

Peter’s breath stuttered when your mouth brushed his, the smallest spark setting him alight. He froze, every nerve in his body on edge, and then he let out the softest, strangled sound when you kissed him again—deeper this time, certain.

His lips parted against yours like he’d been waiting his whole life for it. The taste of him was familiar and new, dizzying in the way only Peter could be. His hands, which had been hovering helplessly at his sides, finally found you—one trembling as it slid up your arm, the other gripping the back of your shirt like he was afraid you’d vanish.

The pollen made everything sharper for him—your heartbeat thundering, the faint shiver in your breath, the warmth of your skin under his fingertips. He broke the kiss with a gasp, his forehead pressing to yours, voice hoarse. “I can’t—God, it’s so much. You’re so much.”

“You can,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his. Your hand guided his back to your waist, urging him closer. “It’s just me. Just us.”

Something in him cracked at that, and then he was kissing you like a man starved. His mouth moved against yours with growing hunger, his tongue sliding to taste you, drawing a shiver from your chest. The sound made him groan, deep and desperate, and he pulled you flush against him like restraint was slipping through his fingers.

You let yourself melt into it, tangling your fingers in his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp into your mouth. His response was instant—his lips trailing to the corner of your jaw, down to your throat, each kiss hot and unsteady. He whispered your name there like a prayer, voice wrecked.

Every brush of his lips was frantic but reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you, every heartbeat, every breath. When you pulled his face back up to kiss him again, the world seemed to narrow to nothing but the two of you—heat, breath, hands, lips. For Peter, whose senses had always been a burden, right now they only told him the truth: you were his anchor, his match, his forever.

Peter kissed you like he was starving, and you matched him kiss for kiss, heat curling through your veins. His hands slid beneath your shirt, spreading across your bare skin, calloused fingertips brushing your ribs and making you shiver. He froze, groaning softly.

“You feel so good,” he muttered, voice cracked with need. His forehead pressed to yours like he was trying to ground himself, but his thumbs kept stroking your skin, unable to stop.

“Then don’t stop,” you whispered, tugging at his hair until his mouth was on yours again.

It grew messy fast—teeth clashing, lips swollen, breath stolen from each other. He pressed you harder into the wall, his body flush against yours, and you could feel him trembling with restraint. His hips rocked just slightly against yours before he yanked himself back with a hiss.

“I shouldn’t—I can’t lose it with you—”

“You won’t,” you breathed, catching his mouth again. “It’s me, Peter. I want this. I want you.”

The sound that left him was half-groan, half-plea, and then he was kissing down your throat, open-mouthed and wet, dragging his teeth along your skin. Your gasp made him shudder. His hands slid higher under your shirt, palms flattening against your back, dragging you closer.

“God, I’ve dreamed about this,” he whispered against your collarbone, voice wrecked. “About you. About touching you.”

You tugged at the hem of his shirt, desperate. He yanked it over his head in one frantic motion, and your hands mapped the lines of muscle beneath his skin, his body trembling under your touch. His mouth returned to yours, hungrier than ever, tongue sliding against yours, groan rumbling deep in his chest when you pressed your hips to his.

The pollen made every movement unbearable in its intensity—your warmth, your taste, your heartbeat hammering against his own. His senses drowned him in you, every gasp and sigh carving into him. He pulled your shirt off, hands roaming reverently, lips following—kissing across your shoulder, down the slope of your chest, back up to your throat, like he couldn’t stop worshiping every inch.

“Tell me to stop,” he begged against your mouth, even as his hands dragged you closer, even as his hips ground into yours with desperate friction.

“Don’t you dare stop,” you whispered back, biting his lip.

He groaned, ragged and low, and then you were both lost in the fever of it—hands tangled in hair, clothes tugged away in frantic touches, your bodies pressed tighter and tighter until there was no space left between you, only heat and want and years of tension snapping at last.

When you gasped his name again, Peter’s restraint shattered, and the world narrowed to nothing but you, him, and the inevitable.

Peter kissed you like he couldn’t get enough, like every second was a lifetime lost. His hands trembled as they slid beneath the hem of your shirt, fingertips tracing reverent lines up your spine before he tugged the fabric over your head and tossed it aside.

He stilled, eyes wide, chest heaving. For a moment, he didn’t move—just stared, drinking you in like you were something holy. “God,” he whispered, voice raw, “you’re… you’re perfect.”

You tugged his shirt off in return, letting your hands explore the planes of muscle beneath his skin, feeling every shiver that ran through him. His body was wound tight, vibrating with restraint, and when your palms brushed low on his stomach, he groaned into your mouth, clutching your hips harder.

Then he was everywhere—his lips trailing down your throat, dragging over the curve of your shoulder, hot open-mouthed kisses marking your skin. His tongue traced along your collarbone, and when you gasped, his groan vibrated against your chest.

“I can taste your heartbeat,” he murmured, half-delirious, lips dragging lower. “Every part of you—God, it’s too much and not enough.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, tugging him closer, guiding his mouth wherever you wanted him. He obeyed without hesitation, kissing across your skin like he was worshiping, whispering broken confessions between kisses.

“Been dreaming about this—about you—for years.” His hands slid down your sides, thumbs brushing the edge of your waistband. He lifted his head just long enough to meet your eyes, pupils blown wide, desperate and reverent all at once. “Tell me if I go too far.”

“You won’t,” you promised, breathless, pulling him back down. “You couldn’t.”

That was all he needed. His mouth found you again, hotter, hungrier, leaving a trail of kisses that made your whole body arch into him. The pollen made every sound you made echo inside him, every shiver of your skin beneath his lips searing into his senses. He was unraveling under it, but instead of fighting, he clung tighter—worshipping, tasting, memorizing.

He whispered your name like it was both a prayer and a plea, forehead pressed to yours as though grounding himself in you alone. The pollen still made his senses scream, every sound, every heartbeat, every shiver magnified until he could barely breathe.

“Stay with me,” he begged against your lips, his voice breaking.

“Always,” you whispered back, pulling him down to you.

He hummed in mock sympathy, eyes trailing you like you were a tennis match and he was having the time of his life.

“Honestly,” you continued, breathless, “I should just let them eat it next time. See how they like it when—Joaquin?”

You stopped short because, mid-pace, he’d reached out and caught your wrist. He tugged gently.

“What?” you asked, voice low and out of breath.

“Come here,” he said with a small smile.

“I’m not done—”

“You’re sexy when you’re mad.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out as he guided you between his legs and pulled you down into his lap like you weighed nothing. Your spoon clattered to the floor. He leaned back, looking up at you like you were the most mesmerizing thing in the world. A little dreamy. A little reverent. A little too quiet.

“Keep going,” he said, voice low and smooth as warm honey. “I’m all ears.”

“You’re insane,” you muttered, flustered now, cheeks hot. “You are literally turned on right now, aren’t you?”

He didn’t answer. Just gave a little shrug and tilted his head, as if to say what can I say? — and that’s when you felt it. Your whole face went red.

“Oh my god,” you said slowly. “This is turning you on?”

Joaquin’s grin stretched even wider. 

“A little,” he admitted, completely shameless.

“You’ve got a hard-on because I was yelling about Lee and tactical incompetence?”

“More like because you were waving that spoon around like a dagger and looking like you were about to set the world on fire,” he said, voice thick with amusement and something else entirely. “I’m not made of stone.”

You stared at him in awe. He gave your hips a squeeze and said, very gently, “Please keep going.”

You narrowed your eyes and mumbled, “You want me to keep yelling?”

“Absolutely, mi amor.”

“You’re a menace, Quino.”

“And you’re so hot when you’re furious.”

There was a pause as you contemplated. Something about the way he looked up at you—smirking but reverent, cocky but needing—flipped a switch. The adrenaline hadn’t gone anywhere; it just… changed direction.

You gave him a look—equal parts exasperated and flattered—but your weight shifted slightly in his lap, and the unmistakable shape of him pressed hard between your thighs made you falter. Your breath hitched. His fingers gripped a little tighter. 

“... can I still be mad while I make out with you?”

“Definitely encouraged,” he said, before pulling you down into a kiss that absolutely made you forget why you were angry in the first place.

Well, almost. You’d find that spoon later stuck under the fridge and realize you'd never even finished your rant, but you had gotten something better.

You leaned in, lips barely brushing his when you quietly asked, “You really wanna do this here? In the kitchen?”

Joaquin pulled you down until your chests were flush. His hand was cradling the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair.

“I want you”—he said in between kisses on your neck—“wherever you’re gonna take out that righteous fury on me.”

You kissed him hard then—fast and a little messy, all teeth and heat, fingers tangling in the collar of his shirt. His hands roamed, slipping beneath your t-shirt and skimming the bare skin of your back. You rolled your hips on instinct and he groaned into your mouth, the sound rough and desperate.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “Keep doing that.”

You did. Through fervent kisses, you rolled your hips slowly, deliberately, letting the friction build. The fabric between you was a frustrating barrier, but the tension was delicious. You broke the kiss just long enough to yank your shirt over your head and toss it somewhere on the floor. Joaquin's eyes dragged down your body like he was memorizing every inch.

“You’re unreal,” he said, breathless. “Swear to God.”

You grinned and leaned in to whisper, “Still mad, you know.”

“Oh, I’m counting on it.”

You rocked your hips again—harder this time—and his head tipped back with a groan. He looked up at you like you were a storm he wanted to be swept away in.

“I’m not gonna last long if you keep doing that.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his ear. “Then shut up and take me to bed.”

Joaquin didn’t need to be told twice. He picked you up swiftly and locked you in close to him with another quick kiss. His hands squeezed your ass, and you giggled as he jogged to the bedroom.

A few hours later the bedroom was dim, lit only by the golden spill of light from the hallway. Sheets tangled around your legs, the air heavy with warmth and the kind of slow, buzzing satisfaction that only came after being thoroughly and lovingly wrecked.

Joaquin lay beside you, half on his side, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder. His hair was a mess. His chest was still rising and falling a little fast. But his smile? That soft, ruined thing? It was all yours. You let out a long sigh and flopped your hand across his chest, eyes closed.

“Just for the record,” you mumbled, “I’m still mad at Lee.”

Joaquin laughed, low and husky. 

“You tore my soul out and rode it into the void, and you’re still thinking about Lee?”

You cracked one eye open. “Tactical rage doesn’t just go away because I got laid.”

“Laid?” he echoed, mock-offended. “Babe, seriously? That—that was a transcendental experience.”

“God, shut up,” you snorted, turning to bury your face into his chest. 

He kissed the crown of your head, his hand finding yours beneath the sheets.

“Seriously, though,” Joaquin murmured, “I love how fired up you get. You’ve got a look like you’re ready to fight God and win.”

You went quiet for a beat, fingers curling with his.

“Sometimes I don’t think they really listen to me,” you admitted finally, voice smaller now. “I can prove them wrong a hundred times … and no matter what ... they still hesitate.”

“I know,” he mumbled, soft and serious now, “but I don’t. Not once. Not ever.”

You looked up at him, and he met your gaze with nothing but truth.

“You’re not just someone I believe in,” Joaquin said, “you’re the standard I measure everyone else against. You’re it.”

You didn’t answer right away, didn’t need to. You just pulled him closer and let your forehead rest against his. And when he whispered, “Still mad?” with a teasing smile, you hummed.

“A little,” you said, “but it’s manageable.”

“Guess I’ll have to keep managing it,” he said, voice dipping low again.

You smirked, shifting closer. “Better keep the kitchen chair ready.”

“Shit,” he laughed, tightening his arms around you. “I knew I should’ve reinforced it.”

You stayed like that for a while—limbs tangled, laughter fading into lazy kisses and soft murmurs. Eventually, sleep pulled you both under, wrapped in heat and something gentler, something unspoken but understood.

By the time morning crept in, the chaos of the night had stilled. The kitchen was quiet—sunlight slanting in across the counters, soft music playing low from someone’s forgotten playlist. You padded in barefoot, hair a little wild, one of Joaquin’s shirts hanging off your shoulder. The spoon from last night was under the fridge, just like you’d suspected.

You knelt down to grab it, only for a pair of warm arms to slide around your waist.

“Morning, rage demon,” Joaquin murmured against your neck, stubble scratching gently.

You rolled your eyes, straightened, and turned in his arms.

“You really wanna start with that before coffee?” you asked, smiling when you kissed him softly.

“Just trying to gauge your mood…” He just grinned at you, unapologetic. “You know … for tactical purposes.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Tactical, huh?”

“Absolutely. Gotta know if I need protective gear or the chair again.”

That made you laugh—really laugh—and the sound echoed warmly in the small space between you. He looked at you like he was memorizing it, just like last night. Just like always.

“Ass,” you muttered fondly, kissing his jaw.

“Boss,” he corrected, hands sliding down to your hips. “Battle goddess … authority I fear and adore.”

“You’re such a dumbass,” you said, but you didn’t pull away. You rested your forehead to his chest, breathing him in. He made you feel calm, steady, and safe.

The mission, the frustration, the doubt—you knew it wasn’t over—but in this moment, tangled up in his arms and that smile that said you are everything, it felt manageable.

He nuzzled your hair and whispered, “Still mad?”

You sighed, letting it all out with one long breath, and then said softly: “Only at everyone who isn’t you.”

Joaquin chuckled, kissed your temple, and murmured, “Good. Let them try you again. I’ll be right here with the fire extinguisher. And maybe a helmet.”

“Idiot,” you laughed. You shook your head, grinning.

“Yours,” he said, holding you tighter.

“So… you two like psychic or something?” he joked, trying to keep it light. You just shrugged, and Joaquin didn’t even look up from cleaning his rifle.

Another time, after a particularly brutal obstacle course that ended with the two of you dragging half the squad to the finish line, someone muttered, “They’ve gotta be cheating.” No one replied, but the air got tight for a moment. You were still catching your breath, mud streaked up your arms, lungs burning. You heard it—felt it, more than anything. The weight of accusation dressed up as sarcasm. The kind of comment that didn’t need to be serious to sting.

Your eyes flicked up. Joaquin’s jaw flexed, subtle but sharp. He didn’t say anything either. Just stood there beside you, breathing hard, fists still half-clenched. His gaze didn’t even shift toward the guy who said it—but you knew him well enough by now to read the shift in his stance. He was pissed, but he wouldn’t rise to it.

That was the thing about the two of you: you didn’t waste your breath on people who couldn’t keep up. You didn’t need to defend what you’d already proven in sweat, bruises, and hours. Still, your pinky twitched by instinct nudging his pinky, like a quiet prod. Let it go, it said. We’ve got bigger things to prove.

Without looking down, Joaquin hooked his pinky with yours, just for a second, just enough. Then he let go, exhaled slowly, and took a step forward. You followed without a word, side by side as always, leaving the tension behind in your wake. Because the truth was, it didn’t matter what they said. You weren’t here to impress anybody. You were here to survive—and do it together.

There were bets, theories. Rumors that maybe you’d trained together before enlisting. That maybe you’d grown up in the same town. Shared a childhood. Shared more. But every time someone asked, you both gave the same answer: Nope. Met on day one.

Still, it didn’t make sense to anyone how you always seemed to anticipate each other’s moves, how you never needed to speak. Even in chaos, even under pressure, your rhythm stayed intact. And that confused people. Sometimes confusion looks like admiration. Sometimes, it looks like resentment.

There was a stretch where a few squad-mates tried to break the pattern. They tried to insert themselves into the formation during drills, edge their way between you two during tactical exercises. It didn’t work. It never worked and not because you pushed them out, but because it was like your bodies and instincts rejected the interference. The timing collapsed; the symmetry vanished.

You weren’t cold about it, just focused—and focus earned results. You passed every exam, every simulation, with scores that made even the instructors squint. If there was a partner exercise, your names were locked in before the sergeant even called them.

During group tasks, everyone started looking at you two first waiting to see how you’d move, what call you’d make, how you’d fall into formation. Respect didn’t come overnight. It came slowly, quietly. The jokes thinned out. The jabs stopped. One by one, your squad-mates stopped trying to figure you out and started trusting you instead—started following your lead.

By the end of month two, no one asked anymore why it worked. They just made room for it. Because whatever this was—whatever you and Joaquin had—it got results. And in basic, that was the only thing that really mattered. No one knew how to counter it.

In combat sims, you swept through rooms like a storm, without a word spoken. You traded weapons mid-fight without looking. Communicated in eye contact and shoulder nudges. When one of you went down during training, the other made it their mission to carry both of you across the finish line.

It didn’t take long for instructors to start using you as examples.

“Move like The Ghost.”

“Cover your six like they do.”

“Train until you’re even half as coordinated as The Ghost.”

One of them, Staff Sergeant Morales, said it loud enough for the entire class to hear after a brutal room-clearing exercise: “If I had ten more just like them, I could win a war with my damn eyes closed.” He didn’t say it like a compliment. He said it like a warning. Some recruits hated it. Others watched in awe. Instructors admired it. Leaders feared it. Regardless, no one stayed indifferent for long.

The bond followed you into active duty. By the time you deployed, people knew to look for you two together. You sat next to each other on transport flights. Shared gear. Shared rations. Picked up each other’s slack without being asked. He knew how you took your coffee; you knew how to spot when he was hiding an injury. Your squad placed bets—first on who’d screw up and break formation (neither of you ever did), and later, on when you’d finally cave and admit you were in love.

You pretended to be annoyed by it, but the truth was … they weren’t wrong. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was a quiet understanding that grew over late-night fire watches and adrenaline-soaked post-mission come-downs. You looked at him and felt steady. Looked at you and saw home. Joaquin never said it outright, not at first. He didn’t have to because you just knew.

So when the explosion hit—when the world erupted in fire and dust and you watched Joaquin vanish under a collapsing roof top—it felt like someone had ripped the oxygen from your lungs. You didn’t think. You ran. You ran through fire, through shouts, through people trying to hold you back. You found him crumpled under half a collapsed wall, suit blackened and wings mangled, blood streaming from a gash across his forehead. You dropped to your knees, shaking hands pressed to his pulse point.

Joaquin’s heart was still beating but barely. You whispered his name over and over. When they carried him off in the evac chopper, your hands were still stained red from holding him together. You were too stunned to move, and your two best friends had to quite literally drag you after Joaquin towards safety.

Joaquin spent three days in a medically induced coma. You sat by his bedside the entire time. You didn’t leave except to wash off the ash in the ensuite bathroom. You didn’t sleep except in 30-minute intervals. Every beep of the monitor, every shift of his fingers, every flicker of breath—you memorized it all.

Until finally, on the third morning, his eyes fluttered open. You surged forward in the chair beside his bed, your heart catching in your throat. But the second he looked at you—truly looked at you—you knew something was wrong. Joaquin didn’t smile. He didn’t reach for you. He blinked slowly and said, in a hoarse, confused voice:

“¿Dónde estoy…?” Joaquin croaked, his eyes panning the room. Your breath caught. And then—barely audible, like it cost him everything to say—“Who… who are you?”

The words hit harder than the blast had. Harder than the moment you saw him fall. Three words. Who are you? They split something open in your chest.

You’d prepared for wounds, for rehab, for months of physical therapy. You’d braced yourself for the nightmares, for the scars, for helping him heal. But not this. Not him waking up and looking at you like a stranger. Not the emptiness in his voice where your name should’ve been. You gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles white, willing yourself not to cry—not yet. Not when he was alive. He was here. He was here with you, even if he didn’t remember you, even if he didn’t remember The Ghost Formation.

Before you could speak—before you could shape the reassurance that had been burning in your chest for three endless days—Joaquin’s face crumpled. His breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, chest rising too fast.

“I don’t—” he rasped, eyes darting around the room like he didn’t recognize any of it. “I don’t know where I am. I don’t—why can’t I remember—”

His hands trembled. His voice cracked.

“I’m—I’m scared,” he gasped, the words tearing out of him between labored breaths. “Why can’t I remember anything?”

You were crawling into his bed in seconds, legs hanging off the side, torso hovering over his, hands hovering just above his arms—close enough to comfort, not close enough to overwhelm.

“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” you said, voice low and steady, the way you used to talk to him in the field when the adrenaline got too loud. “You’re safe. Breathe with me, okay?”

Joaquin’s eyes found yours again—wide and wet now, tears slipping down his cheeks. A fresh ache bloomed in your chest, but you pushed it down. Swallowed it. Because this wasn’t about you.

“I don’t know you,” he whispered, voice cracking like it hurt to admit it. “Why don’t I know you?”

“You do, Quino,” you said gently. “It’s okay if you don’t yet. I’m not going anywhere until you remember me.”

His hands clenched weakly into the blanket. The monitor beeped faster as his breaths became shorter, more panicked. You reached out—slowly, carefully—and set your hand over his. The touch was electric for both of you. It was warm, solid, and real.

“Just breathe with me,” you whispered. “In and out. That’s all you have to do right now.”

Joaquin listened and followed you. His breaths were ragged at first but became steadier. Then, barely audible but certain enough to break the tension, he repeated, “You’re here …  and I’m okay … I’m because you’re here.”

As he said it, his fingers twitched—almost unconsciously—and slowly, he intertwined your fingers. Your thumb instantly traced over his knuckles. His grip was tentative at first, then with growing strength. Joaquin squeezed your hand hard, not letting go. The words trembled out of him again, shaky and unsure, but they were yours. His words were a lifeline thrown across the darkness. You smiled through the tears you’d been holding back. You heard a nurse jog into the room, their steps rushed to a halt when they realized what was happening.

“Yes,” you assured him quietly, your fingers tightening gently around his. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You stayed right there, never breaking eye contact, never letting go of his hand.

“I’ve got you,” you told him softly, anchoring both of you with those three words.

You weren’t leaving. Even if he didn’t remember. Even if he was scared. Even if your name didn’t mean anything to him—yet. Somewhere beneath the panic, the confusion, the fear you saw something in his eyes: a flicker. Not quite recognition but undisputed trust. It was instinctive, unexplainable—like something in him still knew. You held onto that. You held him through the shaking, the tears, the jagged breaths. You would keep holding on until he remembered everything you were. Until he remembered everything you still are. 

For the rest of the day, nurses came in and out, checking vitals, adjusting equipment, but they never tried to pry you away. Their hearts were breaking for you. And even if they wanted to, they couldn’t bring themselves to ask you to step aside. Joaquin didn’t let go of your hand for at least an hour—not until one nurse carefully said she needed to place a pulse oximeter on his index finger. He hesitated, fingers curling tighter for a moment as if he was afraid. 

Then, reluctantly, he let go, but his gaze never left yours. Was he worried you’d be angry? Worried you’d vanish if he loosened his grip?

“It’s okay,” you whispered. You gently placed your hand on his knee, just above the blanket.

That small gesture seemed to settle him as he slowly let the nurse take his hand. You settled onto the bed for the rest of the day; stretched your legs out toward the headboard so you could watch him from near the foot of the bed. Your knees bumped lightly against his in quiet solidarity, an unspoken connection. 

As visiting hours approached late that evening, the attending doctor stepped in. None of the nurses had the heart to ask you to leave—they all knew you didn’t want to leave.

“It’s time to leave now that he’s awake,” the doctor said softly.

Your mouth twitched, ready to protest, but deep down, you knew. You should leave. You should give Joaquin the space he needed… After all, he didn’t remember you. Then, quietly, low and sure, Joaquin spoke:

“She stays.”

You and the doctor both whipped your heads toward him, mouths open in stunned surprise.

“It’s okay, Quino,” you stammered, your voice shaky. “I—I can leave—you need to rest—”

But he was firm now: “You stay.”

Joaquin’s hand reached for yours, but he hesitated. His fingers hovered, confused, unsure if he should bridge the gap again. And then, softly, almost shyly, he said, “You said we’d watch that movie about the lion fighting his uncle.”

A lump caught in your throat. That memory—the movie you both loved, the one you’d promised to watch together as soon as he woke from the coma—was buried deep beneath the fog. Somehow, it was still there. It was a beacon, a thread back to you. You squeezed his hand, voice thick with emotion.

“I’m here,” you whispered, “and I’m not going anywhere.”

And for the first time since the explosion, you saw something more than confusion in his eyes. You saw hope. At that moment, the cracked door swung wide as two nurses filed in quickly. One held the TV remote, fingers already tapping to pull up The Lion King online. The other came bearing sheets and pillows, her arms full, setting about making the room more comfortable.

You glanced at Joaquin, who was watching them with wide, curious eyes. Before you could say anything, two more nurses appeared, wheeling in a cot. They placed it carefully between Joaquin’s bed and the window, creating a small, cozy space for you to rest. The room, once sterile and tense, softened instantly. It felt less like a hospital room and more like a place where you could start reclaiming your life together.

You settled in next to Joaquin, the familiar opening chords filling the air. As the movie began, you held his hand tightly, ready to rebuild every memory, every promise—one scene, one smile, one heartbeat at a time.

The doctors called it traumatic retrograde amnesia. They explained it carefully, their voices clinical but tinged with gentle caution. It was likely temporary, they said, but no one could say for sure. The explosion, the crushing force, the head trauma—all mixed with prolonged oxygen deprivation—had scrambled his memories like a shattered puzzle. The pieces were blurred, missing, scattered beyond recognition.

His long-term memory had been fractured. They warned you not to push him. They warned you to take it slow, to let his brain find its way back on its own terms. You nodded, smiled politely at their advice, but inside—inside you broke. Because when Joaquin looked at you for the first time since waking—when his eyes settled on your face—you were a stranger. Not the partner who had moved with him in perfect sync through every mission. Not the friend who had shared every secret, every laughter-filled night beneath endless stars. Not the soulmate who had bled and fought by his side.

None of it was there. Not the spark in his eyes when he looked at you. Not the private grin he reserved just for you after a mission went sideways and you both limped back in one piece. Not the playful bickering or the quiet moments that once said home better than any place ever had. Now, there was only a blank canvas where your history should have been; a raw, untouched surface that stared back at you with no recognition, no anchor.

But still—you stayed. You never actually left, not once. You didn’t ask to stay. Joaquin never begged the doctor, never pleaded with the nurses. Neither of you had to bring it up at all. It became a quiet, unspoken agreement among everyone involved—medical staff, command, even Sam—that you would be there. You’d stay at least for a few days. No one challenged it. No one wanted to challenge it. Sam showed up the second night with your go-bag slung over one shoulder. 

He had stuffed your bag with changes of clothes, travel-sized toiletries, your phone charger, and a battered paperback Joaquin had tried to convince you to read a hundred times before. Sam didn’t say much. He set the bag on the empty chair beside you, gave your shoulder a squeeze, and left without making you speak.

The nurses began folding extra blankets at the foot of the cot without asking. One of them quietly replaced your coffee with fresh mugs when yours had gone cold. Another started bringing you a second tray at mealtimes, no matter what the hospital’s policy was.

You slept in half-hour bursts with your head on the edge of Joaquin’s bed, your hand tucked in his. You learned the rhythms of the monitors like lullabies. The quiet hum of the machines, the occasional beep, the steady whoosh of the oxygen line—all of it became the soundtrack of your new reality. You filled the silence with the pieces of your life he’d forgotten.

You turned on the music you used to dance to in your kitchen. You started with the playlist he made for you after your first joint deployment. It was the one with soft Latin ballads and throwback pop and that ridiculous ‘80s synth song you used to mock but secretly loved. Joaquin didn’t recognize the songs at first; he didn’t respond immediately, at least not with words, but his fingers twitched against the sheets now and then, like his body remembered what his mind couldn’t.

You wore his favorite hoodie—the soft one that hit you mid-thigh, sleeves too long. The one he used to say made you look like you'd “stolen his wings and weren’t planning on giving them back.” Joaquin didn’t say anything about it the first few days, but by day four, his gaze lingered a little longer when he looked at you in it. You told him stories. You recounted all kinds of stories.

Funny stories like the time you accidentally wandered into a drill formation and almost got tackled by a training dummy before Joaquin swooped in with a ridiculous cover story about a “classified base scavenger hunt.” 

Sad stories about family. About missing home. About that one guy in your unit who used to sing lullabies in Tagalog on night watch, just to keep everyone grounded.

And the quiet ones—the stories you only ever told him. The ones about your childhood. Your fear of heights. Your dreams of opening a tiny bookstore in a coastal town once this life—the military life–was done.

You called him mi amor—not out of habit, but because it still felt true. At first, he didn’t even blink, didn’t flinch when you said it. In fact, he didn’t respond at all. You thought he didn’t react out of pity, afraid of offending you if he showed any negative reaction to the affectionate term. But you kept saying it. You whispered it like a thread tying you back together … and by the end of the first week, it landed.

You said it softly—“Buenas noches, mi amor”—and turned to gather your bag. Then you heard it. A breath. A shift. You looked back and found him watching you, eyes softer than you’d seen them since the blast. And then came that slow, crooked smile—the one that never reached his face unless it was real.

“I… think I like when you say that,” he mumbled, voice raspy but honest.

Your heart nearly stopped. Your knees almost caved. It wasn’t everything, but it was something. And in this quiet, in-between place where love held steady and memory had gone wandering, something was more than enough. You smiled back, tears in your eyes, and said it again—stronger this time.

“Good,” you murmured, setting on the side of his bed to brush his bangs off his forehead, “because I’m not going anywhere.”

The breakthrough came on a stormy night five weeks after he woke up. You hadn’t stayed the night for at least a week, and the nurses agreed to let you spend the night again tonight. Lightning flashed outside the hospital windows, and thunder shook the building. You were curled up on the couch in his room, half-dozing, when you heard him whimper loudly. You bolted up right in seconds. He was sitting up, drenched in sweat, chest heaving.

“Joaquin?” you gasped. You crossed the room in two steps, crawling into his bed.

“I saw you,” he whispered. “In a dream. We were dancing. You were laughing. We were—we were happy. And I think—” he swallowed, voice cracking, “I think I loved you.”

“You still do,” you said, voice breaking. “You just forgot for a little while.”

He stared at you like the sun had risen in the middle of the night.

“Your name, it’s…” he murmured. You nodded, tears falling freely now. “And I called you ‘vida mía,’ didn’t I?”

“You still do,” you whispered. “Whenever you’re ready.”

It all came back, little by little after that night. The smell of burnt coffee on your first night deployed. The time you patched up his arm with duct tape and a broken compass. The way your voice sounded in the dark, steady and calm, when everything else fell apart.

Eventually, he remembered your first kiss—after a mission gone sideways, covered in bruises and laughing in disbelief. He remembered whispering that he didn’t care if anyone else knew, that you were the only thing that mattered.

And on a quiet morning, months later, he turned to you in the apartment you’d shared long before the explosion, wrapped his arms around your waist, and murmured: “I remember everything.”

You pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “So do I.”

People still talk about The Ghost Formation. It’s in after-action reports, highlighted in red ink and circled twice. Instructors still cite it during training sessions, pointing to old footage and whispering to recruits, “This is what real trust looks like.” It’s even been immortalized in the rumors that echo through enemy channels—those who survived long enough to tell stories of the shadow-pair who moved as one. Who never spoke but always knew. Who cleared rooms like ghosts and left behind nothing but silence and stunned disbelief.

But for you, it’s never just been a nickname. It was never just tactics or coincidence. It was a promise. A vow forged in the dirt of the training field and tempered in the fire of every mission, every shared wound, every look that said I’ve got you without needing to speak. It held strong when everything else fell apart, when the blast hit, when the memories vanished… When the boy you loved looked at you with empty eyes and no trace of the thousand moments you’d built together.

Even then, The Ghost Formation held. Because it was never just in his memory. It lived deeper—in his instincts, his bones, the pull of his heart that still knew yours by feel.  And now? Now, Joaquin is back and he’s not just breathing and not just surviving. But he’s here—with you—eyes clear, smile familiar, arms wrapping around you like they were made for that purpose alone.

You still fight side by side, still fall asleep tangled together on long flights, your heads bumping lightly as the engine hums. You still argue over whose kill count was higher on the last mission, and you still laugh so hard your ribs ache when he does that ridiculous impression of your old drill sergeant. But there’s a softness now, a stillness.

The kind that comes after weathering the storm and knowing you’ve earned every second of peace that follows. Sometimes, late at night, he’ll reach for your hand without a word and you’ll squeeze back—just once—like always.

𝑰𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔: you’re enjoying the night on a rooftop, the city’s neon glow painting his face in shifting blues and golds. The hum of traffic below is distant, the air cool enough that you can feel the contrast of his warmth beside you. He glances at you, quieter than usual, eyes flicking between your face and the skyline. 

“I thought I was too busy chasing sparks to slow down…” Johnny murmured. 

His voice is softer than you’ve ever heard it. He’s vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. You smile, soft and sure, your chest aching in the best way. 

“But you’re right here now,” you whisper. 

Something in his expression shifts, the teasing edge you know so well replaced by something deeper, almost reverent. He holds your gaze, voice low and steady when he speaks: “Yeah. Because the brightest thing I’ve ever found … has been you.”

“You think you’re charming?” you deadpanned.

“You think I’m charming,” he teased, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

You opened your mouth to fire back something snarky, but the way his eyes locked on yours, dark and warm with just a flicker of mischief, derailed the thought. That look—focused, soft but unwavering—it stayed with you longer than it should’ve. You looked away first.

“Do you flirt with all your trainees or just the ones who challenge your ego?”

That earned a laugh out of him. A real one, low and surprised.

“Damn, you got some bite.”

“I have a lot more than that,” you fired back, already walking toward the next drill station.

“Yeah?” he called. “Prove it.”

The next few weeks were a blur of drills, bruises, and heat—some from the workouts, most from Joaquin’s proximity. He wasn’t easy on you. He corrected your every move, pushed you harder than anyone else, but somehow never in a way that made you feel small. Frustrated? Yes, but never insignificant.

He trained like he cared—like he saw something in you that was worth sharpening. Sometimes he’d linger behind after the others left. Stay while you reset your grip, practiced your stance, ran the course one more time. You never asked him to, and he never explained why.

“You’re not a project, you know,” Joaquin said, his voice low but firm as he crouched beside you in the dirt, offering you a half-empty water bottle. The sun was dipping low in the sky, casting long shadows across the training field. “I’m not trying to fix you.”

You were on your back, chest heaving, limbs shaking from exhaustion. Every muscle burned. Sweat clung to your skin in patches and streamed from your temple into the grit beside you. You reached for the bottle but didn’t drink yet.

“Then why are you here?” you asked, not harsh, but not soft either. Your voice was worn thin—half frustration, half vulnerability, all honesty.

He didn’t answer right away. Joaquin sat back on his heels, elbows resting lightly on his knees, like he wasn’t in a rush to speak until he meant every word. The wind tugged at a loose strand of hair stuck to your cheek, and before you could react, he reached forward and gently tucked it back behind your ear.

His fingers were rough, calloused, careful. His mouth twitched at the corner, but it wasn’t his usual grin. There was something steadier beneath it. Something he didn’t often let show.

“Because I’ve seen what you can be,” he finally admitted. “And I don’t want you to settle for anything less.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. The words hit harder than they had any right to. Maybe it was the day—how hard you’d pushed, how close you were to quitting halfway through. Maybe it was the fact that no one had ever said anything like that to you without expecting something in return.

But Joaquin meant it wholeheartedly, without question. You knew without needing to ask. Your heart gave a traitorous little stutter in your chest, and you hated how much he probably noticed. He stood, then extended his hand to you without a word. Solid. Steady. No pressure.

You stared at it for a beat and then took it. Joaquin pulled you to your feet with ease, the way he always did—like you didn’t weigh a thing. But he didn’t let go right away.

His hand stayed on yours a second longer than necessary. His fingers lingered long enough to make you wonder if that was part of his point too—not fixing you. Just choosing to stay.

A storm was rolling in the night everything boiled over. You’d stayed late again, sparring with a sandbag instead of a partner because everyone else had clocked out. Joaquin appeared sometime around dusk, arms crossed, watching you with that unreadable expression of his.

“You’re gonna burn out if you keep going like this,” he warned.

“I’m fine,” you muttered, slamming your fist into the bag again.

“You’re not.”

You didn’t stop punching, but you still asked, “Why do you care so much, Joaquin?”

“Because I—”

“Because I’m a good student? Because you’re trying to mold me into something impressive? Is that it?”

He moved in before you could pull another punch, grabbing your wrists and stilling you. His hands were warm, firm.

“Because I care. Not as a trainer. Not as a soldier. Me.” Your breath caught. His voice softened as he continued. “I care every time you come in here bruised and pissed off. I care when you push yourself so hard you can’t breathe right. I care when you smile at stupid jokes I make and pretend it doesn’t mean anything.”

Lightning cracked outside. Rain started to fall. Joaquin’s gaze held yours like a lifeline.

“You think I’m training you because I want a perfect recruit?” he asked. “No, querida. I’m here because I can’t stand the thought of you going out there without knowing how damn capable you are. Because if you ever get hurt on a mission... and I know I didn’t do everything I could to keep you standing...” His voice shook slightly. “I wouldn’t forgive myself.”

Silence pulsed between you, and it was heavy. It was real. Then quietly, tentatively, you reached up and brushed your fingers along the edge of his jaw.

“You don’t have to protect me from everything,” you murmured, “but I wouldn’t mind if you stayed close."

His eyes flicked to your lips, then back to your eyes.

“I’m not going anywhere, cariño,” he replied.

PART II – THE RECOVERY

It took weeks, multiple surgeries, months of physical therapy—Joaquin never left your side. You were quiet, but no one blamed you. They chalked it up to painkillers and exhaustion, but only you knew the truth.

The nightmares came first. Then the flinching—subtle things like pulling away from sudden touch, or freezing when someone raised their voice. You masked it well, though. You smiled when people visited, laughed when Sam made dumb jokes, ate what you were supposed to, took your meds … but inside? Inside, you were unraveling.

You didn’t want anyone to see you like this, especially not Joaquin. You didn’t want him to see the version of you that woke up screaming in a sweat-soaked bed. Not the version of you that felt small in crowded rooms and couldn’t sit with her back to the door. Not the version of you that couldn’t even look in the mirror some mornings. So you lied—or rather, omitted.

“I’m good,” you told him when he asked.

“Just tired.”

“Just a headache.”

“Just a bad dream.”

Just. Just. Just.

PART III – CRACKS IN THE MASK

Joaquin noticed the little things a lot sooner than you realized. You stopped watching war movies with him; you used to love those. You startled when his boots thudded too loudly on the hardwood; you used to smile at the sound because it meant he was home, he was safe. You didn’t want to shower unless he stood guard outside the door; you used to never think twice. 

Joaquin didn’t push, but one night—one particularly heavy night, weeks after you’d been officially cleared for field duty (which you turned down, of course, claiming you “weren’t in the mood”)—your facade slipped.

You were supposed to meet him on the roof. He brought dinner, lit candles, hung up twinkling lights, and found your favorite records. He sat there waiting for fifteen minutes before he came back down, worrying gnawing at his ribs.

He found you curled in the corner of the bedroom. Eyes wide. Breathing fast. Shaking so violently your teeth chattered. You didn’t even hear him enter.

“Mi amor…” he breathed, crouching low.

You blinked. Then the mask snapped back into place. You jerked up, eyes averted, already scrambling to stand.

“I’m fine. I’m okay—”

“No estás bien.” His voice was low. Steady. Not angry. Not pitying. Just real. “You don’t have to pretend with me.”

“I’m not pretending,” you snapped, too quickly, voice brittle.

His eyes softened. “You think I don’t see it?”

You flinched again and balled your hands into fists, eyes squeezed shut. Your throat closed tightly. The wrong word, the wrong tone, something in the cadence set you off. 

You shook your head and muttered, “You don’t get it.”

“I do.” He moved closer, slower now, like approaching a wounded animal. “I don’t know what they did. And I won’t ask. But I know what it’s like to carry things that don’t let you sleep. To lie just to keep the people who love you from looking at you differently.”

He reached for your hand and you let him. In fact, you laced your fingers with his tightly.

“You don’t have to hide this from me, cariño. Not your fear. Not your anger. Not your pain. Nothing.”

“I don’t want you to see me like this,” you admitted in a whisper.

He brushed a tear from your cheek—one you didn’t realize had fallen.

“I’d rather see you like this than not at all.”

You broke then, and Joaquin caught you. He held you as you cried. No judgment, no pressure, just him and his heartbeat and the quiet promise in his arms that you were safe now.

PART IV – REBUILDING

Healing wasn’t linear. There were still bad days. There were still nights where the dark pressed too heavy, too loud. There were still moments you froze when someone moved too fast, but you stopped lying, stopped hiding from Joaquin.

Little by little, the weight got lighter. Because you weren’t carrying it alone anymore. Joaquin never once made you feel weak. He made you feel real, strong, brave, even when your hands trembled. Even when your voice shook. Even when you couldn’t speak at all.