If you asked them both when the story actually started, it would either end in an argument or an agreement; there was no in between with these two. The only thing they would both agree on without a doubt was how close they became in such a short time after meeting. Their unbreakable friendship began online through some comment section of an artist they both shared a liking for. After Jen had told Mac she had tons of merchandising of them, their conversations jumped to direct messages in a flash. Then Mac shared her videos dancing to their choreos and hours later followed the memes. It turned out they were just about the same half of the same person, just an ocean apart; one in Europe, the other one in the U.S.A.

How they came to end up living together, though? That’s where their stories vary.

Mac would have said it began with an email; subject line too polite to match the impact it had. It was from a dance academy based in New York she had been eyeing since forever; one of those high-level studios with mirrored walls, brutal schedules and online classes broadcasted to young dancers around the world, along with training and exposure online giving you the possibility of being placed behind an artist if you worked hard enough and stayed lucky. She had been taking their online classes and learning their choreographies by heart for months if not years. Mac has always loved dancing, so after shaking off the ‘what if’s’ and the encouragement of her new found friend, she finally uploaded her homemade videos taken with her crappy phone camera and sent them to their scholarship program for “emerging talents”. It wasn’t fame being pursued, no, it was a doorway into following her dream career. So when they finally responded, she couldn’t believe her eyes. Mac reread the acceptance letter three times before it felt real, but it wouldn’t hit her fully until she set foot inside the studio months later.

Jen, on the other hand, would have said it started with a transfer request. Same retail chain, same corporate rules that pretended to care about work-life balance. But this location was bigger, busier, closer to the city center; still New York, but not the polished version. More foot traffic, more pressure, more opportunity. She was already a manager at her old store, acquiring that position just after a few months of working there, clearly stating how great of an employee she was; dependable and efficient enough that headquarters didn’t question her request too much. They approved it quickly. A promotion without a title change. A quiet escapeto a hopefully better place, both as a workplace and somewhere else to live.

Being at her parent’s home was doing the job of putting a roof over her head, but the reward was getting a bit too little, if anything, for the amount of effort she had to put in to get it. She was basically slowly being forced to become a servant at her own home, the obligation to take care of very capable and very much adult men that she had the pleasure to call brothers and father. It was when her dad asked her to put money towards rent, as if her paying for the groceries and other expenses as well as taking care of the house wasn’t enough, what broke the camel’s back for Jen. Needless to say, she put on that transfer request that exact evening and saved on her browser some housing websites to check the second she got a response from her boss about it, which took no time to be accepted.

Much like it always seemed to happen with whatever they did, both of them ended up searching for the same thing; Mac because she got the email, and Jen because she got the transfer approval. Even with different motives, they both came to their own realization that they needed somewhere to live, preferably an apartment relatively centered in New York City. Mac needed a place near the academy, a place close enough that late rehearsals wouldn’t mean unsafe commutes or impossible rent. She was moving countries, chasing a career that had no guarantees and very little patience for hesitation. Talent wasn’t enough and she knew that. And Jen needed out. Out of her parents’ place. Out of the constant negotiations of space and expectations. Out of a life where independence felt postponed.

The transfer gave her stability; the city gave her distance. What she didn’t have was a roommate she trusted; someone steady, responsible, not allergic to adulthood. She had originally planned to move out alone, especially after being stuck in a house with multiple people that took eating away at her nerves as a challenge, but the listing prices for apartments weren't cheap, and specifically not around the area she needed to move to. Fortunately for her, someone that ticked all of her requirement boxes came to mind, and they also happened to get a possible advantage if they were willing to move in with her.

So, unbeknownst to each other, they both sent the “I need to ask you something” text practically at the same time, unknowingly planning to ask for the same thing.

Jen🥀, 1:20am: Hey

Mac🩵, 1:20am: Hi!

Jen🥀, 1:20am: Wanted to ask you something

Mac🩵, 1:20am: ??? Yeah, sure. I wanted to ask you something too.

Jen🥀, 1:20am: So, I just got accepted to transfer to a new location, and I needed a roommate…

Mac🩵, 1:20am: NO FUCKING WAY!!

Mac🩵, 1:21am: YOU HAVE READ MY MIND!!! HAHAHAHAHAHA

Jen🥀, 1:21am: Are you willing to move here with me so you’re closer to your academy?

Jen🥀, 1:21am: what????

Mac🩵, 1:21am: I WAS GOING TO TELL YOU I JUST GOT ACCEPTED INTO THE ACADEMY WITH A SCHOLARSHIP AND I WAS GOING TO HAVE TO MOVE TO NEW YORK SO I NEEDED A FLAT TOO!! HAHAHAHAHAHA

Jen🥀, 1:22am: NO WAY! HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Jen🥀, 1:22am: HOW ARE WE SO IN SYNC?!?

Mac🩵, 1:22am: LITERALLY SYNCED HAHAHAHAHAHHAA

Jen🥀, 1:22am: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

Ideas messaged turned into plans, plans turned into discord late-night calls house hunting; apartment links, their income and rent prices were organized in spreadsheets. After many hours of debating and being outerly shocked by the prices, they decided on an apartment that wasn’t three times what they would’ve earned in a month together. It was a perfect middle ground for both of their needs though on the smaller side; Jen would live close to her new store and Mac would be near the academy. Two birds, one apartment, mutual survival.

They moved in together on a technicality: time. Jen was the only one able to see their future shared space in person, as her friend had to still file all the paperwork to be able to fly from Spain to the U.S.. Jen signed the lease that day; Mac’s signature had to be a digital one, but the flat was officially theirs now!

However, when Jen came back to the apartment after she was officially given the keys for both of them the next day, she found something completely unexpected: a pretty much empty place. She immediately called the owner, and after they didn’t pick up her call, Jen went to read the lease. Just as expected, in comically minuscule letters, there was a practically hidden clause that stated the apartment will be stripped off of furniture after signing. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Great. Phenomenal.” Jen was furious and amused at how fucking fast the moving companies worked around the area if it paid generously. She had no time to waste if she wanted to move all her stuff from her parents’ house there. She had her first meeting during Friday's starting shift to be all set for working that weekend and it was Thursday.

Not to her surprise, her family wasn’t willing to help her do it, claiming they were ‘busy’ with things. Jen wasn’t bothered at all, she was more than used to it, besides, she was already settled on transporting everything in multiple trips using the trunk of her car anyway. Thankfully all her stuff fit very crampedly inside her Cougar’s boot, and everything was finished by 8p.m. After climbing the flight of stairs for the nth time, she finally carried the last box to the apartment. What a perfect day for the elevator to be broken. Closing the door behind her with her heel, she let out a deep, exhausted sigh staring at her masterpiece. The ‘living room’ had been flooded by labeled cardboard boxes and her mattress on the floor, the yellow tainted light casting shadows that made it look even more depressing, if that was even possible. Did she sweep them before dropping it there? No. Should she have done that? Most probably, but her brain wasn’t thinking rationally at this point. Her muscles hurt and all she could focus on was how she had her job interview in a few hours. She dropped herself without care down to the mattress. “I’m just going to rest my eyes. I’ll keep on organizing before going to sleep…” she thought, but she did end up falling asleep without having anything to eat. She ended up waking up the next morning, about 5 hours before her interview, with plenty of time to get ready and arrive there on time and better rested.

*****

Jen met Valentine in his office.

She’d been told to “wait in the back” when she arrived that morning, handed a temporary badge and a clipboard like an afterthought. The store buzzed outside; customers, machines, voices blending into a constant hum but the office was quiet in that artificial, controlled way.

Valentine looked up when she knocked. He straightened immediately in her presence. “Oh—hi,” he said, standing a little too fast and smoothing down his shirt. His smile flicked on, bright and practiced. “Can I help you?”

“Jen,” she said, stepping inside and offering her hand politely. “I’m transferring in.” His eyes widened just a fraction.

“Right,” he said quickly, shaking her hand. “Of course. Uh— welcome.” He gestured for her to sit, suddenly attentive. “Corporate didn’t really give me many details.”

That told her everything she needed to know. Valentine leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “So… how long have you been with the company?”

“A few years,” Jen answered. “Started as a barista. Worked my way up.”

He nodded along enthusiastically, eyes searching her face for clues. “And your last location— was that, uh…” He trailed off, clearly fishing. She realized then what he thought. ‘He thinks I’m from higher up.’ Not corporate exactly, but close enough to make him nervous. A plant. An evaluator. Someone sent to watch him.

She didn’t correct him. Not immediately.

“I was managing the floor there,” she said instead. Calm, neutral, letting him assume. “High volume. Similar issues to what I’ve seen here already.” Valentine laughed a little too loudly, clearly uncomfortable after being caught in a tight spot by someone he thought was over him.

“Yeah, we’ve been, uh, having some staffing challenges.” He tried smoothing the situation, letting slide the blame to the employees instead of claiming it as his own.

“I noticed,” Jen replied politely before he could continue with his excuse. He shifted in his chair, suddenly eager.

“Well, we’re really happy to have you. Really, anything you need, anything at all. Just let me know.” That was when she decided she didn’t like him. The way he was so ready to throw his employees, people he saw as lesser, under the bus seconds ago but was acting so obliging towards her because he had mistaken her for a higher up sickened Jen.

“Actually,” she said, tilting her head, “I just transferred. I’m not from corporate.”

Valentine froze. “Oh.” She watched the relief wash over his face, visible immediately, almost embarrassing. His shoulders dropped, his smile loosened into something more genuine, less performative. “Right,” he said, chuckling. “Got it. Just a transfer.”

‘Just.’

“Yes,” Jen confirmed. “But I do plan on keeping things running smoothly.” Valentine nodded rapidly.

“Absolutely. Of course. We’re a team here.” She smiled back, all professionalism.

“I’m sure.”

As she stood to leave, she caught the way he relaxed fully now, already mentally downgrading her from threat to resource. Jen stepped out of the office knowing two things:

Valentine was more than willing to underestimate those around him.

And he feels threatened when someone else’s confidence pushes through his.

Jen knew walking into a new store meant tension. Transfers always did. New faces, unspoken hierarchies, people silently measuring you up to see whether you were worth respecting or resenting. She’d learnt long ago not to take it personally. So when Valentine announced her in front of everyone, she stood straight, hands clasped loosely in front of her, offering a small smile that said ‘I’m not here to step on toes.’

“This is Jen,” Valentine said. “She’s transferring in as manager. She’ll be helping run the floor.” A few nods, a few polite smiles. Nothing unusual.

Jen let out a quiet breath of relief. Valentine kept talking, too loudly, as always, listing her experience like a résumé she hadn’t asked to be read aloud. She scanned the room instead, trying to put names to faces, already thinking about who looked tired, who looked overwhelmed and who might need extra support. That’s when she noticed him.

Diego.

He stood near one of the registers, posture stiff, expression carefully neutral but his eyes were fixed on her. Not curious. Not welcoming. Sharp.

Jen’s smile faltered for half a second before she corrected it. ‘Okay,’ she thought. ‘Rough morning, maybe.’ Valentine gestured toward him. “Diego’s our assistant manager. He knows the store inside and out. He’ll get you up to speed.”

“Oh, great,” Jen said honestly, turning toward him. “Thank you, I really appreciate it.” Diego nodded once. “Yeah.” Short, efficient.

As they started the walkthrough, Jen focused on absorbing everything; register quirks, backroom organization, schedules that made absolutely no sense. Diego explained things quickly, clipped, like he was reading off a checklist he’d already memorized years ago. She assumed that was just his style. She asked questions, took mental notes, complimented things he clearly handled well. “That’s smart,” she said at one point. “My old store struggled with that.”

He didn’t respond.

By the end of the tour, her feet already hurt and her head buzzed with information. Diego handed her a set of codes and walked off without another word. “Thanks again.” She called after him. He didn’t turn around. Jen stood there for a moment, blinking, the faintest knot forming in her stomach. Something felt… off. But she shook it away. New stores always felt like this at first.

Still, she pushed forward. The first few days were going to be awkward, she knew that. She wasn’t here to threaten anyone, just to help keep the place afloat, but she couldn’t change the mind of whoever thought about it being a different way. At one point, she felt eyes on her back. She turned instinctively, right as Diego looked away. Jen frowned slightly, confusion flickering across her face before she brushed it off. ‘I’m overthinking,’ she told herself. ‘Everyone’s stressed.’

She had no idea that, behind her back, Diego’s glare followed her every step or that she had just unknowingly taken the position he’d been waiting years to claim.

After probably the most stressful first day she has ever had, she finally came back to her flat stumbling. She threw the bag with her work clothes inside aimlessly and laid down on the mattress that was way too close to the floor to be comfortable to sit on. Jen closed her hands over her head, making her mind that this was how her days will look like now: the tiredness coming back from double shifts to a living room hidden behind cardboard boxes and packing peanuts as carpet. But the relief of being able to relax somewhere without screaming as background white noise was enough to make her forget about how stressful these weeks were about to be, even if all she could afford to eat for now was takeout.

*****

About two weeks had gone by, and Mac was set to arrive any minute, with suitcases full of dance clothes, resistance bands, and a body that already hurt from pushing too hard; the cramps of being sat on a 9+ hour flight added weight to it. She couldn’t begin to imagine how horrible everything was going to be once jet lag caught up to her too. Due to the short notice and paperwork, she arrived mid training season, so her days were about to revolve around rehearsals and the constant pressure to prove the scholarship wasn’t wasted on her since the day she set foot on American soil without giving her time to rest.

Before she boarded the plane, she had sent Jen a message with the approximated time of arrival so they could pick her up. The day's air seemed crisper than the others, not in a nipping kind of way, the way that made it seemed all was at peace in the world. Jen parked her Cougar and walked inside the airport with a sly smile on her face, carrying the sign she had prepared days in advance. After what felt like an eternity at baggage claims, finally Mac’s suitcases rolled through the gates. Yawning from tiredness due to not having a proper night of sleep in over three days, she walked into the receiving area and scanned the room for her friend. It didn’t take her long to find the gremlin she was about to call flatmate from now on, shouting her name while parading a sign that read “WELCOME BACK FROM INTERNATIONAL PRISON".

“This bitch…” She couldn’t help but to scoff. For a moment Mac thought about walking past her and acting like she didn’t know her, but she was prepared for this kind of situation. Setting her bag down, she took out a sign herself out of her suitcase, hidden in between the crowd of people that was too busy welcoming friends and family members in through tears. “JENNIFER DIAZ?!” Mac stood up, arms straight up to the ceiling, showcasing her sign. After she shouted, some curious people turned around, read the sign and quietly walked away giving dirty, judgmental looks. Jen turned around when she heard her name being called. Before she gave herself time to happily greet her friend, she stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes squinted to read the sign she was holding. Grey cardstock paper, in big letters and with the infamous black and orange logo plastered in it read: “JENNIFER DIAZ. HOT LATINA MILF PORNSTAR”

She couldn’t help herself to bark out a laugh that almost threw her body to the floor. Mac stood there chanting her friend’s name holding the sign proudly high until Jen got closer.

“You know, you’re not embarrassing me with that sign,” Jen smirked “if anything, it makes me proud!”

“Well, I am. So fold that fucking sign of yours too and let’s get out of here before the guards kick us out.” Mac warned with a smile, finally lowering and folding her sign.

“Wow! Is that a threat? Already?” Jen placed a hand to her chest, acting offended. “You didn’t even say ‘hello’ to me…” Mac got closer, taking Jen’s paper into her own hands and leaning in to whisper into her ear.

“Hide this or I’m reporting your immigrant ass to ICE right here.” She said that with no intention of doing anything other than scaring her friend, no real harm behind her words. Jen thinned her gaze and shook her head comically like a bobbing head toy.

“Ugh! Fine! You left your fun side in Europe it seems!”

“No, I’m just tired.” She explained, as if the bags under her eyes wasn’t a clear indication that she hasn’t had a well rested sleep in a long time.

“Okay, okay! Let’s head to the car now.” Jen grabbed one of the suitcases as they started their way outside. “God! I have so much to tell you about!”

“I’m sure you do…!” Mac mocked, the corner of her lip twisting upwards, unamused at the statement. Jen audibly gasped.

“What do you mean with that?!”

The way Jennifer’s head whipped around made María burst out into laughter. Their bickering continued all the way to Jen’s car, and never really stopped once inside it. She talked Mac’s ear out from the moment they got in; telling her all about how work had been, her struggles with the apartment and how glad she was she’d finally arrived. Their cackling roared over the loud music playing on the radio for most of the trip. Still listening to their friend’s story, Mac leaned on the window. Looking outside, she checked the view of her new area, wondering about how everything was going to go from now on. All the thoughts, the loud background noise and the warmth of the moment, created the perfect cradle for her to slowly fall asleep.

“And then he was like ‘I bet he doesn’t even know how to make a latte for his own life, and he’s the owner’! And I had to hold my laughter because he was right there and—“ Jen gave a kick side glance to her friend on the passenger seat, not wanting to take her eyes fully off the road. “Hello? Earth calling Mac? Did you fall asleep?” She did long ago, but Jen was way too invested in recalling her work anecdotes that she hadn’t noticed the lack of commentary coming from her friend in the last fifteen minutes. “Oh, right. You did tell me you fall asleep with loud noises in the background, and you must be very tired…” There was a small pause, miniscule, before she kept on talking. “Oh well! Too bad! I’m still not finished! So then—“

*****

She didn’t really recall when she stopped listening or what happened; all she knew was that now they had arrived somewhere new, the car was parked, and Jen was rocking her shoulder.

“Hey, Sleeping Beauty, we’re here!” Mac gave her friend a tired look; eyes adjusting to waking up, brows scrunching up. “Looks like you at least got a nice nap, though!”

“How long have I been out cold for, jeez…! My neck hurts.” She commented as she rubbed her sleepiness away.

“Yeah, no wonder. You should have seen your face! You were all like,” Jen let her head hang down painfully and mimicked soft snoring, copying how apparently Mac had been sleeping all the way. When she looked up, her eyes met with a very done gaze from her friend before she scoffed at her.

“I fucking hate you.” Mac said, the smile she tried hiding exposing her joking manner as she got out of the car.

“Well, you’re going to hate me more when I tell you we have to walk to the apartment for another 15-20 minutes or so.” The comment Jen just said non-chalantly as she took her suitcases out of the trunk made her freeze in the spot as if someone had stopped time.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Welcome to New York,” Jen closed the boot with a slam,” there’s zero to no parking space almost anywhere. And we don’t have a garage in our block, so.”

“Walking it is…” Mac continued as if finishing the sentence, the tiredness showing once again in her voice.

“Exactly. Well, at least I can show you around!”

Jen pointed out the buildings along the way to their place; stores she has checked out during her free time, good restaurants around the area, they even passed in front of her workplace. The cold evening air was doing wonders keeping Mac awake. She analyzed her surroundings with curiosity, making mental notes as well of everything they passed; memorizing street names, admiring the people strolling by and the surprising amount of trash that was on the floor. Somehow, it was strangely familiar. ‘This looks like Madrid…’ she thought. She chucked it to being a -big city thing-: very crowded, very loud, and a not so subtle hint of piss smell in some places; whether it was dog’s or human’s she didn’t want to know.

Eventually they stopped in front of a nice looking building after rounding a corner and walking through a less busier street. It appeared to be on the older side, but definitely has been renovated. Jen turned and motioned to the door. “And here we are.” Mac looked up, admiring the facade. “5th floor, D is ours.” The shorter one added as she opened the door with her key.

“Please tell me there’s a lift…” Mac prayed under her breath but loud enough for her friend to hear.

“There’s one,” she was about to let out a sigh of relief when Jen continued. “But it’s not working, so we have to take the stairs.”

“I swear to God, I just got here and I already want to kill someone…” Mac dramatically commented. All she was able to do was laugh at the absurdity of it all, and much to her discomfort, carried two of the suitcases and her backpack on the back all the way up to their floor.

“Here.” Once in front of the door, pretty much out of breath, Jen gave her keys. “I’ll let you do the honors.”

“How considerate of you…” Mac mocked. She just needed to say one more sarcastic comment before opening the door. The lock clicked just once before giving in, to which she turned back to Jen in confusion. “Did you not lock the door before going to pick me—?”

“OH MY GOD—! JUST GO INSIDE ALREADY!”

“Okay! OKAY! JEEZ!!” Mac threw her arms in the air begging for mercy from a very impatient Jen, tired of her friend’s sidetracks and snarky comments.

She pushed the door open with her forearm to a peacefully empty entry hall, just a single moving box that Jen had clearly put there.

“Is this our foyer table?” Mac joked pointing at the silly little box at her feet. Jen gave her a mean glare at the comment.

“For the meantime, yeah. Or do you have any complaints about my interior design abilities?” She frowned her eyes in her direction, passing her as to guide her around.

“No comment.” Mac rolled the suitcases inside, leaving them by the door to follow her friend.

Jen showed Mac around the apartment, starting by going down to the left of the entrance hall. She extended her arms out, pointing to the doors at both her sides by the end of the corridor.

“So this is bedroom one, and this is bedroom two.” Mac walked inside the room to the left, taking the empty space in, imagining how it could be decorated.

“Oh… when you told me it was empty, I didn’t think it would be this bad…” she commented with her arms crossed as she looked around. “I thought you were being dramatic, to be honest.”

“Me? Dramatic? How could you?!” Mac let out a cackle at Jen’s offended voice. “But no, I wish I was kidding. It really pissed me off. We don’t even have a table or chairs!” The Spaniard shook her head as she checked inside the closet. “I claimed the one to the right as my bedroom, by the way.” Jen announced with a sly smile.

“Is it bigger?” Mac left the room to look through the door frame immediately after she said it, and her suspicions were right: she did take the bigger room. “You bitch…”

Both of them laughed at her reaction.

“And this could be your studio or something. Or your room, if you wanna be next to mine.” Jen opened the door to the side of her bedroom, continuing with the tour. This room was just about the same size as the previous one, but the closet was not built inside the wall like in the other one; instead, the wardrobe covered most of the wall next to the door. Mac checked inside out of curiosity for the space; there was nothing inside other than some cleaning supplies tucked into the corner.

“No, thanks. I’ll take the other room and this could be my studio.” She decided, closing the wardrobe doors just to see her friend, seemingly offended with a hand clasped to her chest. “I’m not about to choose front row seats for whenever you fuck your boyfriend in your bed.”

And after that snarky comment, was when the realization hit her; all throughout the tour she hadn’t seen a single bed, so confusion filled her.

“Wait, so where are we supposed to sleep?” Jen closed her eyes and motioned Mac to follow her with a smile, which pretty much worried her more than anything.

“Behold!” Jen pointed theatrically to the middle of the living room, the biggest room in the house. Among some of the yet to be unpacked cardboard boxes was a single, twin size, mattress on the floor. María’s arms fell to her sides, her eyes closing as she looked up to the ceiling, defeated.

“Man… My bed back home is bigger…” She held her head with her hand. “I have crossed an ocean for this…”

“Yeah… My brothers have full size ones, but they didn’t let me take one of theirs.” Jen crossed her arms, staring at the mattress same as her friend, probably questioning how they were meant to fit in it at the same time too. Mac finally shrugged and let out a laugh.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind me cuddling.”

“Not at all, baby girl, however I do mind if we don’t get food. Got any cravings?” Jen said, hardly giving Mac any time as she took out her phone. The food delivery app ready on standby.

“What about Sushi?” Mac said, taking in the room as Jen nodded before shaking her head.

“Nahhhh, I had that two days ago, any other suggestions?”

Mac slowly turned back towards Jen, her new roommate smiling towards her phone in anticipation “Do you have anything in mind?” Jen’s eyes lifted, illuminated by the brightness from her phone as Mac seemed unimpressed by the smile that Jen held.

“Something that wraps up, maybe filled with meats”

“Shawarma?” Mac suggested, a glimmer of hope flashed within them.

“Nah, what about taco’s?” And just like that Mac’s hopes for Shawarma were crushed. Though her devastation was ignored as Jen practically skipped around the room in joy.

“If you wanted tacos all this time you could have just said that…” Mac thinned her eyes at the idea of having been played all along. “Besides, you do realize that I’ve had Mexican food before, right?” Mac said, Jen whipping her head towards Mac before shaking her finger.

“Nah, You have to eat real Mexican food, not whatever is in Spain.” Jen said, scoffing as Mac rolled her eyes at Jen's declaration. “Anway, how many should we get? You plus me is two, but I do love tacos and you need to try them… Whatever, I'll get twenty-five!!”

“Damn, girl! Why so many—?!” Before she could add anything else, Jen pressed a finger to her mouth, shushing her with it.

“You need to experience greatness in all its glory!”

*****

By the time the food had arrived, Jen was already by the door, waiting for a clearing of no neighbors to intervene.

“Okay, so this is what I got!” Jen said, excitement filled her voice as she tore opened the bags. The aroma of beef, chicken and flour masa filled the air. Mac could see Jen’s shoulders ease from tension, in fact, it seemed her whole body relaxed as she tore into the take out boxes. “We have Birria Tacos, Tacos al Pastor and Taco de lengua” Jen arranged them as if they were treasure, lids opened and tacos on full display.

“I still don’t understand why did you get so many… Are you trying to feed an army or something?” Mac questioned as Jen handed her a plate. Motioning her to pick from all three options, she bobbed her head back before glancing towards Mac sideways.

“Man, who are you to question me? Just eat your tacos” Mac laughed as Jen piled her own plate.

Rolling her eyes at her friend, Mac took a piece of lime and squirted it on top of the first taco, grabbing it carefully as so they filling didn’t spill from behind. Jen observed quietly, briefly pausing as Mac took a bite of the Birria taco. Jen stilled, muscles unmoving as her friend chewed her food peacefully. Mac flickered her eyes towards Jen, just noticing how much Jen was staring, waiting for some type of response

“So…? How are they?” Jen egged, her eagerness and excitement fluttering the air.

“I mean…” Mac tried to comment with food still in her mouth, but waited to finish the sentence until she swallowed. “I have told you I have had these before. They’re good, don’t get me wrong, just not ‘heavenly’...” Mac said, hand ready to go for a second taco as Jen sat next to her, her eyes holding disappointment as Mac raised an eyebrow to her friend's silence.

“I think you need to leave.” Jen hissed before dramatically screaming about ‘Betrayal and accusations of choosing the enemies side’. Mac just laughed at the dramatic antics of her friend, fighting for her to stop shielding the rest of the tacos away from her. “You don’t deserve to eat anymore if you can’t appreciate their godlike taste!” Jen kept proclaiming as she pushed the take out boxes to the side furthest from Mac.

*****

After having dinner, Jen got a change of clothes and walked to the bathroom to do her skincare routine before going to bed. Mac took that time to message her mom that she had arrived at the apartment, sending her some pictures of it and what they had ordered to eat. Then, she began to get ready for bed herself, opening one of her suitcases to the side in search of her pyjamas. She changed into a short-sleeved T-shirt and a pair of loose shorts; she had brought thicker, winter ones, but the heather was fairly high and, if she was meant to be all cuddled up already, she didn’t want to be warmer and start sweating like crazy.

Jen came about five minutes later; new change of clothes and her face clearly shining with moisturizer. Mac, still laying down on the mattress, turned to her side, a silly smirk crawling shamelessly to her lips once she took a look at Jen.

“I no longer have a problem with sharing a twin bed.” She affirmed, eyes very obviously not leaving the big chest of her friend, who was now wearing a tank top that could barely hold them. Jen placed one of her hands on her hip, popping it out to the side.

“Well, if I feel myself falling off, I’m grabbing your ass!” She warned Mac raising a finger at her, pointing out how she was wearing shorts that had almost her whole asscheek hanging out of them as well. Mac twisted her leg to the side taking over the whole mattress, making her butt wiggle with a tease, humming out a moan.

“I’ll make sure to push you then…”

They bursted out into laughter after the comment.

“Okay, now. Make some room, you hoarder!” Jen shoo her friend to the side, attempting to lay next to her.

“There isn’t much to hoard anyway. My ass is completely out of the bed right now.”

They adjusted themselves the best they could to be as comfortable as possible. Now, hours later, the lights were off, the city humming faintly through the window, and the two of them were crammed onto the mattress like a puzzle that did not want to be solved. Jen laid flat on her back, arms pinned at her sides; Mac half on her shoulder, half off the mattress, one leg hooked awkwardly over Jen’s because gravity had chosen violence.

“You know,” Mac spoke to her friend, who was trying their best to stay with their eyes closed concentrating into falling asleep, “this would be easier if you just let me big spoon you…” Jen gave her a side eye. “I swear it’s not because I want to hold your boobs. I literally can’t feel my arm, and I’m about to fall off.”

“Ugh! Fine.” She groaned as if she wasn’t uncomfortable as well and moving wouldn’t solve it. Eventually she caved and suddenly everyone had enough room.

“So… how long do we have to sleep like these for?” Mac scooted closer, shyly placing her right arm over Jen’s side.

“Until I get paid.”

“Oh… so? Like a few weeks still?”

“Yeah… maybe more like a month?” Jen corrected. Mac groaned into Jen’s hair, questioning her life choices. “That’s the price of independence, I guess.”

Mac huffed a weak laugh, then went quiet. The kind of quiet that came from exhaustion now, not discomfort. Despite everything; the job, the classes at the academy starting in a few days, Valentine, the store, the apartment felt… okay.

Empty, unfinished. But theirs.

Tag list:

Eyes narrowing, you blow a breath through your nose as you try to read him. Is he serious? His unflinching gaze tells you that, of course, he is. Stunned, you ask, “You want me to practice?”

"Yes." Reacher gives a single nod, like this is tactical, and he’s running you through firearm drills or self-defense techniques.

"My parents are horrible. You saw their reaction. They don't need to know about my life."

He waits, silent and still—a beautiful work of art—captivating and evocative. A soft sigh passes your lips as you admire his form, thoughts hazing. He clears his throat, and you blink, catching the barely there smirk now present on his lips.

“You’re enjoying this,” you tauntingly accuse.

“No.” A single beat passes. “Maybe.”

The stare off continues, but it doesn't take long for you to fold. He always wins. It's embedded in his nature, how he's been trained—to give away nothing. Pride has you puffing your chest and tightening your arms to try to hold out just a bit longer. The action pushes your breasts up, straining against your t-shirt, granting you a small bit of satisfaction when his eyes briefly drop before locking on your face once again.

“Fine.” Dropping your arms, you adjust your stance like you’re about to address a courtroom. “Mom. Dad.”

Reacher’s mouth tightens, the closest thing to a smile he’ll give without being legally compelled.

Pointing at him like he’s evidence, you smile with saccharine sweetness. “This is my …boyfriend." It feels wrong, almost childish. An overwhelmingly inadequate word to describe this complex, mountain of a man. Telling your parents that you are, in fact, fucking, Reacher would be crude, but extremely entertaining to watch their faces pinch prudishly with outrage. Reacher arches a brow, nudging you to continue, and you grudgingly let go of those thoughts. Rolling your eyes, you frustratedly huff, "Boyfriend is so …just …ugh.”

He remains quiet, but you know that brain of his is far from being silent. Several minutes pass, and you're a split second from annoyedly walking away, when he states, “It could be something else."

"Like what? Gentleman friend? Significant other? Main squeeze?" Throwing your hands in the air, you quip, "Boy toy."

The last one finally elicits a response, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly before settling back into their semi-permanent furrowed state. You tilt your head, unable to hide your smirk, "What? I am older than you."

"I do not think five months and twenty-seven days constitutes a large enough gap for you to call me your boy toy."

He repeats the words with a grimace, as if they physically assaulted him, and you can't help but chuckle, then quickly compose yourself to continue. "Well, how about …This is Reacher, he’s very tall, as you can see,” while gesturing uselessly at all of him. “He's quite intelligent. Strong, too. I mean, look at those muscles. He's more powerful than a locomotive and can leap a tall building in a single bound."

"That's incorrect."

"What? Tall? Intelligent? Strong?"

"The Superman reference."

"Aw, c'mon! It was funny." You don't even get so much as an eye twitch. "Whatever." Waving a hand, you snark. “He’s from the ...Department of Reacher."

“That's not a real place.”

“I’m improvising.” With a wink, you offer him a little pout.

His eyes flick down to your mouth for half a second. “Continue.”

The heat in that cursory glance causes your nervous system to momentarily short-circuit before your brain kicks back in. “He's annoying, blunt, and has no sense of humor.”

“Not true. I have a sense of humor. You don't always understand it." Then affirms, "If being correct and direct with my responses is, as you said, blunt, then that is accurate.”

By ignoring the comment about being annoying, he proves your point, at least to you, but your heart decides to step in. “He's protective. He cares about me. More than he’ll admit even to himself.”

The slight softening in his demeanor would have gone unnoticed by anyone else, so even as he tonelessly states, "Accurate," your chest tightens a little.

Not ready to give in to sentimentality, you circle back to the reason this ridiculous conversation was started. "Are you still offended?”

The silence stretches as he studies you—the kind of silence Reacher uses like a weapon. “No,” he says softly, which seems impossible for someone of his size. "You didn't ask about the something else."

"What is …the something else?" you mock, certain that it's some obscure technical term you've never heard of, and your parents will not be able to comprehend.

Stepping forward, he hooks a finger under your chin, not forcing or demanding, simply claiming your attention.

"You could tell them we are living together."

"NO!"

"No?" Dropping his hand, he takes a step back.

"They won't believe it. I can guarantee that my mother snooped around on her way to the bathroom. Nothing here belongs to you."

"We should change that."

"Ha!" you scoff, "What's to change? You don't own anything except a toothbrush."

"Maybe I should change that."

Shaking your head in disbelief, you tease, "You going to buy a second toothbrush and a pack of underwear?"

"You do not want to live with me?"

"No. Yes. I didn't mean …" Closing your eyes, you heave out a breath. When you look up, you are utterly unprepared for the hurt in the eyes that meet yours. Yet, it disappears so swiftly, you're left wondering if you imagined it. "Wait. Are you asking? For real? Or is this like a fake dating thing?"

"Telling your parents that we share a home would cause them distress, correct?"

It hits a little harder than anticipated with the confirmation that it would just be for show. Apparently, you were mistaken about his reaction. Still, you can't deny how fun it would be to agitate your parents. "Absolutely," you laugh, but-"

"Your father is wearing a Rolex GMT-Master II, white gold, oyster band. Your mother's bracelets are platinum, not plated. Her wedding rings are white gold, with three French-corner princess-cut diamonds haloed by twenty round brilliant-cut diamonds, and twenty-four cushion-cut sapphires set in the split band. Her earrings and necklace are modeled to mirror her rings—sapphires surrounded by diamonds."

"How-" You cut yourself off, remembering the jewelry heist case he helped you with, before you started sleeping together. There really is no reason to question him. The man is brilliant, and his attention to detail is meticulous. So, you nod for him to proceed and get to the point of all this.

"Their shoes are expensive, ridiculous-looking, and impractical. Their clothes are tailored, high-end wool and silk. He bought that piece of junk Tesla for the brand and the status he thought it would bring him, and he will never admit his mistake."

You can't help but snort at the assessment, but are brought up short when his subsequent observations are about you.

"You do not own a single piece of clothing that costs more than $50. Your shoes are made for comfort and functionality. Your car is nearly as old as you, but it is reliable and serves its purpose. Aside from the bed you recently purchased after we broke the other one, none of your furniture was procured brand new."

Shaking your head, you stop him. "Reacher, what does this have to do with our earlier conversation?"

"May I finish?"

Waving a hand exasperatedly in the air, you huff, "Fine."

"You don't speak of your parents unless directly asked. Your responses are vague, and you quickly redirect the conversation. The logical conclusion is that you are nothing like your parents.”

“I make a conscious effort every day not to be.”

He gives a brief nod, which you assume is approval, before continuing. “You became a private detective because you wanted to help people, but also because they would disapprove. You purposefully shun their wealth to prove to yourself that you can survive on your own terms. You want to claim your independence from them, which you have. You never ask for help. Likely because you never received any or were treated as a burden when it was requested." He pauses, directing a stern look your way, to ensure he has your attention. "Even now, you are reluctant to ask for my assistance, although I was the one to suggest it.”

His analysis, though not meant to be judgmental, makes you uncomfortable by touching on a vulnerability you don't want anyone to see. Not even him, at least not yet.

"I still don't understand what your point is."

“I wasn’t offended." Stepping closer, he brushes a thumb along your jaw. "I was checking.”

“Checking what?”

"You never answered. Are you ashamed of me?”

The faint modulation in his voice tells you what he’s not asking.

Do you only want me because it's convenient?

It's a question you've asked yourself about him more than once, because his lifestyle is the consummate definition of a nomad. Why would he choose to remain with you if a case isn't involved? He's left after others.

“Reacher ...”

“Are you ashamed of me?”

It's absurd that he could think that, but then it hits you like a lightning bolt. He's found himself in unfamiliar territory, a rare situation where he is unsure. In the time that you've known him, he's never shown insecurity, so if it's a shock to you, you can only imagine how he feels.

Hands flattened against his chest, you feel the calm, steady power he carries like it's nothing, as if he’s not the most dangerous man in any room he enters. Knowing what it's masking in this moment, you look into his eyes and find it. That tiny, almost invisible edge of uncertainty he probably thinks no one ever sees.

Voice soft, void of any annoyance you felt earlier, you profess, “I’m not ashamed of you.”

Reacher remains still, silent, like he’s waiting for the ‘but’. So, you step forward until there's barely any space between you, and he has to drop his head to look at you.

“I’m not ashamed of you.” You repeat more firmly. “I’m ashamed of them. My parents don’t approve of anything I do unless it fits into this pretty little picture they have.”

Reacher's hands drop to your waist, grip firm but not painful, protecting without thought.

“They always wanted me to marry someone with status,” you continue bitterly. “A doctor. A lawyer. Someone with a large bank account and prominent connections.” A mirthless laugh fills the air between you. “Instead, I chose a career where I carry a gun, lie for a living, and barely pay my bills. I am their biggest disappointment, and they never miss an opportunity to let me know. I didn’t want them judging you through me. Like you're another bad decision.”

"Do you think I'm a bad decision?"

"No."

"Then you should have introduced me properly."

Shaking your head, you smile. “You’re seriously hung up on this.”

“Details matter,” he states, as if it's new information for you. “I’m more than your colleague now.”

“Yeah?” you challenge, lifting your brows. “And what does more than a colleague do, exactly?”

Reacher’s gaze dips to your mouth. Your throat. Back to your eyes.

“More than a colleague, does this.” A hand glides up your side, thumb resting beneath your breast with gentle pressure. Thick fingers trace along your collarbone before lightly gripping the back of your neck, eyes never leave your face as he lowers his lips to yours.

There's no hesitation in the kiss. It’s not soft or delicate. It's not possessive or demanding. It's Reacher. Warm and unwavering. His massive arms engulf you, anchoring you to him like you’re the only real thing in a messy world.

You make a quiet sound against his mouth, and chase his lips when he pulls back.

Forehead barely touching yours, eyes dark, but shining, you feel like you're falling into a universe created specifically for you.

“Was that clear enough?”

Though spoken quietly, his question abruptly brings you crashing back to earth and your current situation. “Annoyingly clear,” you mutter, a canine catching on your bottom lip.

"There's more." It's not a question. He senses your lingering unease.

"They're cruel, and it's humiliating," you murmur, dropping your gaze to his chest. "I didn't want you to have to deal with that."

His features briefly harden, but you don't see it. Otherwise, you would know his statement is deceptively calm. “I shouldn’t have invited them for dinner.”

“It’s fine.” You wave it off with a deep exhale. “It isn’t just their judgment.”

“What else?”

“What am I to you?” Your gaze is wary as you push slightly out of his hold. “We don't have to label it or anything. It's just that what this …us." The shakiness of your breath exposes the fear you try to keep hidden. "This thing between us happened so fast. It could easily crumble just as quickly."

You've seen the look that washes over his face, protective instinct, but there's something darker edging it. Like he’s planning how to remove every threat from your orbit with his bare hands.

“You’re safe,” he says, simple as breathing.

“I know.” You're helpless to stop the slight smile, but that doesn't answer your question.

He brings a hand up to cup the side of your face, warm and solid. The arm still around you, squeezes you closer, like he’s promising never to let go. The way his eyes linger, his features, soft and open, are meant to show you how he feels, but you need to hear it—just like he did.

“You should’ve introduced me,” he murmurs before pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"Geezus!! Is that all you got out of this conversation?" Wriggling completely out of his grasp—and yes, you know he let you—you throw your hands in the air. "Fine, I get your point. I'll tell them. Seeing the look on their faces will actually be quite comical."

Reacher’s eyes do that thing again, that tiny twinkle when he’s pleased with himself. “Good,” he smirks.

Shaking a finger at him, you admonish, "But you need to answer my question first."

And as the universe has impeccable timing, your mother’s voice carries from the living room.

“Darling, do you need a hand with the drinks?”

Reacher has the nerve to actually chuckle when you growl, curling your fingers in the air like you want to strangle someone.

All amusement vanishes when you glare at him, though, and with a calm confidence of a man who has never feared anything in his life, he calls back, “We’re coming.”

Grabbing his arm as he walks past, you whisper, "Reacher?" And not for the first time since meeting him, you wish you were a mind reader. While not hard, the blank facade is back, eyes devoid of the tenderness you experienced only moments ago.

Shifting to face you fully, his fingers grip your jaw, guiding with soft persuasion, to give you a purposeful kiss. The tiny crook at the corner of his mouth is visible when he pulls back. "Tell your parents what you want. But for the record, I would be okay with making this a more permanent situation."

He moves with a quickness that would be oafish for most men his size, effortlessly lifting the tray of drinks and walking out of the room, while leaving you to stare dumbfounded at his broad back and thick thighs, nearly choking with the effort it takes to speak.

"Wait!"

You catch up with him just as he sets the tray on the coffee table and punch him in the arm. "You can't drop a bomb like that and then walk away!"

“It wasn’t a bomb, it was a statement,” Reacher corrects.

Poking a finger in his chest, you scowl. "It was more than a ‘statement’, and you know it!”

It's difficult to ignore your mother's exaggerated sigh, but you have more pressing matters to deal with at the moment.

"What are you talking about, Sprout?"

However, your father's words make you bristle. Reacher reacts to your shift in demeanor, face stern and muscles taut, as you both turn to face the man brushing nonexistent dirt from the chair's armrest, as if it might infect him.

His glib tone and demeaning actions send you over the edge, and you angrily shout, "HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU NOT TO CALL ME THAT?"

Standing behind your father, one hand resting on his shoulder, your mother brings her hand to her chest, like she's been morally offended. "How dare you speak to your father in that way!"

If you still weren't riding the shock of Reacher's words, you probably would have backed down to avoid an embarrassing argument. But the impact of their potential meaning is still very much burning through your system, so you look your mother dead in the eye and gleefully confess, "Reacher and I are sleeping together.”

Your mother gasps, fanning herself, very poorly acting, as if she might faint. Yet, she still manages to indignantly proclaim, "I told you, Bradley! Another loser to add to her collection."

"He is not a loser! He cares more about me than you ever have. HE TOOK A LITERAL BULLET FOR ME. YOU'RE SO SMALL-MINDED THAT ALL YOU CARE ABOUT IS HOW MUCH MONEY IS IN HIS BANK ACCOUNT. YOU HAVE NO- " Reacher rests a hand on the small of your back, as your father cuts you off.

"Young lady, watch your tone." The words are cold, meant to control. Shaking his head, he waves a hand in dismissal. "As always, such a disa-"

His low growl is felt before you hear it, resonating from his body to yours, and the air around him crackles with electric tension. The first thought that enters your head when you look up to see Reacher's expression is that you should probably warn your parents, but then you decide that popcorn would be a better option.

“You should leave …Now.”

Each word is stated with cold precision, making you actually shiver. Reacher squeezes your hip, pulling you a little closer, causing a small, quiet gasp to escape when you feel the restraint emanating from his taut, muscular frame.

"Young man," standing, your father squares his shoulders, broadening his chest, "you have no right to tell us what to do. This is my daughter's house."

You want to laugh at the absurdity of his attempt to assert authority. Your father would be nothing more than an annoying gnat for Reacher to bat away. Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek, eagerly anticipating the outcome of this standoff.

"Sir, respectfully …" You do scoff at that. In no world does your father deserve Reacher's respect. He gives your hip another squeeze, this time in warning. "I am about to fuck your daughter on every available surface in this room. So, unless you want to watch, I suggest you exit quickly."

The sound that leaves you is almost inhuman, and you bury your face in his side to hide your expression.

"NOW, YOU LISTEN HERE, SON!"

"I am not your son. If I were, it would be highly inappropriate for me to fuck your daughter."

The burst of laughter snags in your throat, altering itself into an awkward wheeze as you try to catch your breath. After a sharp inhale, you turn your head to peek at your parents. Your father's face is beet red, while your mother looks like she might genuinely faint this time.

Catching your eye, your dad angrily wags a finger at you. "WE ARE DONE!"

You didn't think he could turn any redder, but when you smile sweetly and give him a little wave, you'd swear he became brighter than a boiled lobster.

"Elizabeth, let's go!" Gripping your mother's elbow, he practically drags her across the room. The forceful slam of the door echoes throughout the space.

"Well, that was something." You look up to find Reacher smiling—an actual, full-on smile. Hiding your own glee, you purse your lips. "Proud of yourself, are you?" The rare and beautiful smile falters, and you almost regret teasing him—almost.

"I did not like the way they were speaking to you. I'm sorry if I overstepped. I-"

"Shut up." Fisting his shirt in your hand, you pull him toward you. "Thank you." The smile returns, and you place a firm kiss on those welcoming lips.

Lifting you, he urges you to wrap your legs around him, warm breath fanning your ear, "Where do you want to start?"

Arms draped over his shoulders, you lean back to look him in the eye. "Hold on. Just so we're on the same page, you're moving in, right?"

Spinning, he takes two long strides to your desk in the corner, gently depositing you on the surface. "Yes."

Holding his face when he drops to his knees, you wink. "Good."