#danny ramirez

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

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

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

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

But then he licked his lips. Raised a brow.

And something deep inside you snapped.

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

Simple, right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He misses his best friend.

You miss the boy you’re in love with.

It’s not the same. Not even close.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath stutters. Your legs shake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You shatter.

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

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

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

“That was—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he drops you.

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

And God, does he fuck you.

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

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

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

-

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

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

And so does your heart.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another knock echoes through the apartment.

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

So you open the door.

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

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

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

Oh no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“¡Mamá!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He frowns. “Oblivious?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You could have texted me,” you mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shrugs. “A little.”

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

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

You drop your hands. “Two nights?”

He nods.

“Where’s she going to sleep?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyes go wide. “Joaquín!”

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

You nod. “Good. Couch is good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about Oil and Salt?” you offer.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re home!” Joaquín calls.

“I’m in my room!” you call back.

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

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

Joaquín gives it a shove. “What the—”

“Dude,” you hiss. “I’m not dressed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Try me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he sees you.

And he stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your eyebrows shoot up. “About me?”

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

“Sam,” Joaquín warns.

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

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

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

Sam scoffs. “I wish I was exaggerating.”

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

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

Lover Boy?

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joaquín freezes.

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

“Holy fu—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then the waiter appears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Goatee,” Joaquín mutters.

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

Lucía gasps. “¡Ay no, mijo!”

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

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

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

“It wasn’t good,” you mutter.

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

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

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

Your eyes go wide.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look up, blinking. “Oh—sure.”

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

“Tell me what you think.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sam chuckles. “Well, he’s friendly.”

“Too friendly,” Joaquín mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joaquín’s arm tenses beside you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your pulse trips, your heart stumbling out of rhythm.

Was that... jealousy?

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

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

And maybe you’re just imagining it.

Maybe it’s nothing.

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

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

But you do.

You want him to be jealous.

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

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

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

“None you’re cleared to know about.”

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

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

Joaquín snorts beside you. “Ouch.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he turns to your side of the booth.

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

“The pappardelle,” he says, smiling now.

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

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

You glance up at him. “I bet.”

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

Then Sam clears his throat. Loudly.

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

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

His smile widens. “I’ll try my best.”

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

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

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

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

You shoot him a look. “What?”

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

But there’s definitely something glimmering behind her smile.

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

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

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

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

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

Joaquín jolts. “Ow—what the hell?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The air stills.

Your pulse skips.

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

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

And before any of you can even attempt to recover—

“How’s everything going?”

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

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

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

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

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

Joaquín goes completely still beside you.

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

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

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

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

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

The waiter blinks. “Sir, I—”

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you—”

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

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

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

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

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

Lucía lifts a brow. “Mijo…”

“I’ll pay at the front,” he mutters.

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach flips. “What do you mean?”

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

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

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You glare at him.

He pretends not to notice.

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

Neither of you move.

Neither of you speak.

You just... wait.

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

Real silence.

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

You break the silence first.

“What’s your problem, Joaquín?”

He finally looks at you. “My problem?”

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

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

“Oh, you mean you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t make a scene.”

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

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

You frown. “So?”

He looks away, jaw flexing hard.

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

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

He stops.

Your breath catches.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His breath stutters, chest rising and falling too fast.

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

Joaquín blinks. Once. Twice.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

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

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

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

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

Mistake.

The word hollows you out.

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

He winces. “I didn’t mean it like—”

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

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

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

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

“I hope the couch sucks,” you say.

Then you slam your door.

Hard.

-

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

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

But he hasn’t.

Of course he hasn’t.

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

You clear your throat. “Morning.”

His reply is barely a breath. “Morning.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sí,” Joaquín lies immediately.

“Fine,” you lie right after.

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

Joaquín’s jaw flexes. “It was fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You choke on air. Joaquín goes stone silent.

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

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

Joaquín’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

A peace offering—fragile as glass.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because it’s not real.

And you can’t keep pretending it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath catches. Hard.

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

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

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

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

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

You don’t wait to hear more.

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

Because she sees it.

Everyone sees it.

Everyone but him.

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

But you don’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then another rumble. Closer this time. Louder.

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

And then—a knock.

So soft, it’s barely a tap.

You stop breathing.

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

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

“Hey—uh, are you awake?”

Your heart stutters hard enough to hurt.

“Um. Yeah.”

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

“…Can I come in?”

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

“…Yeah. It’s open.”

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

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

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

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

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

He takes a tentative step closer. Then another.

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

Your heart flips. Stupid, traitorous thing.

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

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

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

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

Your throat tightens. “Me too.”

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

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

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

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

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

Your breath stutters, just a little.

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

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

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

Neither of you move.

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

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

Your heart squeezes, painfully.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I remember.”

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

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

He knows the answer.

You know he knows it.

But he wants you to say it.

He wants to hear it now—from your mouth.

And God, it’s intimate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the second?” he breathes.

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

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

“No falling in love.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m done pretending,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches somewhere between want and fear.

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

The whole world stops.

You don’t say no.

You don’t even think it.

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

And that’s all it takes.

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

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

And it does.

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

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

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

You go willingly.

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

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

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

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

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

You kiss him again.

Harder this time.

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

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

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

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

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

Whatever restraint he had left dissolves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re so beautiful.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then he moves.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Breathing. Shaking. Whole.

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

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

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

“Fuck, Joaquín—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your whole body arches, breath caught in your chest, every muscle drawn tight as the pressure builds, sharp and consuming. His thumb doesn’t let up—circling, pressing, teasing—until it’s too much, not enough, and everything in between. 

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick and gone. “I’ve got you.”

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

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

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

And then everything goes white.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You smile against his mouth, breath still shaky.

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

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

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

He noses your temple.

You smile.

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow, chest tightening.

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

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

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

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

Your eyes burn—warm, aching.

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

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

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

“And now?” you ask.

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

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

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

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

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

Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks softly.

Lucía’s door, maybe.

Or fate laughing quietly to itself.

Either way, you fall asleep smiling.

-

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

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

For a few minutes you don’t move.

You just watch him breathe.

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

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

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

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

It would be easy to stay here forever.

Too easy.

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

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

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

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

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

He offers his hand, and you take it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But you love me.”

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

And then you kiss him again.

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

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

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

And that’s when—

“Ahem.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your stomach drops. “Haunted?”

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

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

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

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

“You know what kind of noises, hijo.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know where babies come from, hijo.”

You’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somewhere from the kitchen, Lucía calls out—

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

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

The world feels warm. Ridiculous. New.

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