#danny ramirez edit

The elevator doors slid shut behind you, sealing you in a glass box suspended between floors — just the two of you, the hum of the machinery the only soundtrack.

Joaquin’s fingers curled around your wrist, pulling you flush against him. His breath hit your neck, warm and heavy.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

You pressed your body harder against his, lips grazing the shell of his ear. “Show me.”

His hands slid to your hips, thumbs pressing into the soft curve beneath your dress as he leaned in, lips ghosting along your jaw.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer until his mouth captured yours — slow, demanding, tasting every inch.

The elevator jolted as it moved, but neither of you cared.

Your breath hitched when his hand slipped under your dress, tracing fire along your thigh, inching higher.

“Papi,” you whispered, voice thick with need.

He groaned against your lips. “Mami…”

The elevator dinged, doors sliding open, but Joaquin’s lips never left yours as he swept you into the corridor, eyes blazing with hunger.

“This is just the beginning,” he promised, voice low. “Wait until we get to the kitchen.”

——

The sleek kitchen was deserted, bathed in the soft glow of recessed lighting and the city lights spilling through floor-to-ceiling windows. The distant bass of the party upstairs was a muted pulse, a reminder of how close danger lurked.

Joaquin wasted no time. He pressed you against the cold marble counter, fingers tracing the curve of your spine beneath your dress.

“Tell me, mami,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Do you want to come right here? Right now?”

You swallowed hard, the thrill of being so exposed, so close to being caught, setting your nerves aflame.

“Yes,” you breathed, arching into his touch.

His hands slid beneath your dress, fingers exploring the heat of your skin as he teased and stroked, slow and deliberate.

You tugged at his belt, needing more — needing him.

He groaned low, slipping his fingers deeper as you shivered under his touch.

Then, without warning, you sank to your knees, lips closing around him with reverence and hunger. His name slipped from your mouth in a ragged gasp, and he bucked against your mouth, already lost in the delicious torment you gave him.

“Fuck, mami,” he cursed, voice thick with need. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You smiled up at him, eyes dark and playful. “That’s the point, papi.”

The cool marble pressed against your thighs as you knelt before him, lips and tongue worshipping every inch of Joaquin. His fingers tangled in your hair, steadying you, while his hips twitched with each desperate stroke you gave.

“Fuck, mami,” he groaned, voice thick. “You’re driving me crazy.”

You looked up at him, eyes dark and hungry, whispering, “Make me come later, papi. Right now, I want you.”

His breath hitched as you took more, hands roaming your curves, teasing you through the thin fabric of your dress.

When he pulled you up, spinning you around until your back pressed to the cool counter, his mouth captured yours with fierce urgency.

His hands roamed your body, fingers slipping beneath your dress to stroke you, teasing that spot that made you shiver.

“Tonight, mi reina, I’m going to ruin you,” he promised, voice low and rough.

——

 Joaquín’s mouth lingered on yours, dark and demanding, as he lifted you off the counter and carried you effortlessly toward the living room. The soft glow from the city lights painted shadows on his face, highlighting the hunger burning in his eyes.

He settled you onto the plush couch, fingers trailing along your bare thigh before slipping beneath the hem of your dress. His touch was electric, sending shivers racing down your spine.

Joaquín’s hands didn’t waste a second, his fingers trailing from your exposed thigh up beneath the fabric of your dress. The sensation was electric, making your skin flush and your breath hitch.

He leaned in close, lips grazing your jawline, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down your spine. “Tell me, mami, how badly do you want me right now?”

You bit your bottom lip, the mix of anticipation and heat burning in your chest. “More than you can imagine, papi.”

His grin was wicked, eyes darkening with hunger. His hands roamed with purpose — tracing the curve of your hip, sliding beneath your dress to cup your ass, pulling you closer until your bodies pressed together. The warmth of him was intoxicating.

Joaquín’s mouth found your neck, teeth grazing softly before he sucked a dark, bruising mark onto your skin. You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him deeper into your space.

“Así me gusta,” he whispered. “You’re mine tonight, mi reina.”

Your hands roamed over his broad shoulders, nails digging in lightly as his lips trailed lower, kissing a path down your collarbone and across your chest. His touch was both fierce and gentle, setting you ablaze with every breath and brush of skin.

You arched into him, your hips grinding against his hand as he teased you mercilessly. The world outside faded into nothing but the sound of your ragged breaths and the slick, urgent rhythm of his fingers.

“Papi…” you breathed, voice trembling. “Please, don’t stop.”

He chuckled low, voice thick with lust. “Only getting started, mami.”

With a firm grip, he pulled you fully onto his lap, pressing you flush against him. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your body on fire as he captured your mouth again in a fierce, demanding kiss.

Every touch, every whispered pet name—mami, mi reina, preciosa—was a promise of what was yet to come. The night was young, and neither of you were ready to let go.

Joaquín’s hands were everywhere — one palm pressed flat against your back, holding you steady, while the other explored your curves with expert precision. You could feel the hard press of him beneath your dress, every inch begging for more.

Your breath hitched as his mouth left a trail of heated kisses from your jaw down to your collarbone. His teeth nipped gently, eliciting a shiver you couldn’t hide.

“Te voy a hacer sentir cosas, mami,” he murmured against your skin. “Cosas que nunca has sentido.”

You bit your lip, your fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him back to claim his mouth in a fierce kiss. His tongue slid inside, matching your hunger stroke for stroke.

His hands tightened on your waist, grinding you into him as your hips rolled with his movements, the friction between you both electrifying.

“Papi…” you gasped, voice thick with need. “I want you so bad.”

He groaned, low and guttural, fingers dipping beneath your panties to stroke your most sensitive spots, sending waves of pleasure pulsing through you.

“Dime que eres mía,” he demanded, voice rough as he kissed down your neck again.

“Soy tuya,” you breathed, meeting his gaze, heat flaring between you.

His hand slipped lower, teasing, then curling inside you, making your breath stutter. You arched into him, hands clutching his broad shoulders for support.

“Así,” he whispered, “Just like that. You’re going to make me lose control.”

The couch creaked beneath you both as his hips ground harder, matching the rhythm of his fingers inside you. Every touch, every whispered pet name — mami, preciosa, mi reina — only drove you wilder.

You tangled your legs tighter around him, desperate for more as the tension built to a fever pitch.

“Papi, please,” you begged, voice trembling. “I’m so close.”

With a growl, he captured your mouth again, the taste of him intoxicating as he whispered, “Come for me, mami. Let me hear you.”

Your world shattered into sparks of pleasure as your body clenched around him, waves crashing through you again and again.

He didn’t slow, pushing you higher as he chased his own release, the sound of his groans filling the room as he finally spilled over the edge.

They collapsed together, breaths ragged, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding in unison.

Your limbs felt like molten fire, your body still trembling from the orgasm he pulled from you with nothing but his fingers and filthy words. But you weren’t done. Not even close.

Joaquín was still hard—aching, thick, straining behind his zipper. You could feel him twitching against your thigh as he shifted beneath you.

You dragged your fingers through his hair, tugging gently. “You gonna keep teasing me, or are you finally gonna fuck me?”

His gaze darkened instantly. Dangerous. Devoted. Desperate.

“Get on the floor,” he growled, his voice deep and rasping. “Hands and knees. Now.”

You didn’t even hesitate.

You slid off the couch, knees meeting the polished wood as he stood, eyes locked on you like you were prey. He shoved his pants down, groaning when his cock sprang free, thick and flushed and dripping.

You looked back at him with a smirk over your shoulder, arching your back slowly just to hear him curse under his breath.

“Fuck,” he hissed, kneeling behind you. “You’re already so wet for me.”

He didn’t rush. He gripped your hips with both hands, guiding you back until the blunt head of him nudged your entrance. Then—slowly, teasingly—he pushed inside.

Your mouth fell open in a silent gasp.

He was thick. Deep. Stretching you in the most perfect, obscene way. You could feel every inch as he sank into you inch by inch, until his hips met your ass and you were full—finally full of him.

He stayed there, just breathing hard behind you, hands tight on your waist.

“Joaquín,” you whined, rocking back against him. “Fuck me, papi.”

That broke him.

He pulled out halfway, then slammed back in hard enough to knock a moan out of your throat. And again. And again.

The sound of skin slapping filled the room. Your palms braced flat on the floor as he pounded into you from behind, each thrust harder, deeper, more punishing than the last.

“Ese es mi chica,” he groaned, his hand sliding up your spine. “Taking me so good. Tan jodidamente perfecta.”

You met every thrust with one of your own, crying out as the pleasure twisted tighter and tighter inside you.

His hand slid around your throat, not squeezing—just holding. Anchoring.

“Mía,” he growled. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you gasped. “Papi—I’m yours.”

——

Your cheek pressed to the floor, the cool hardwood no match for the heat rolling off your skin. He fucked you like a man starved — hard, fast, filthy — each thrust driving the breath from your lungs, each drag of his cock hitting deeper than the last.

His fingers dug into your hips, holding you steady as you clawed at the floor for something to grip, moaning shamelessly as the sound of skin-on-skin echoed through the room.

“Look at you,” he rasped, leaning over you, his chest brushing your back. “Taking all of me, begging for more. You like being fucked like this, huh? Face down, ass up, dripping all over my cock?”

You moaned, arching your back harder, pushing back against him. “Yes—fuck, yes. Don’t stop, papi.”

That hand on your throat came back, a little firmer this time, just enough to make your head spin while his other snaked around your body, finding your clit and rubbing tight, fast circles.

“I wanna feel you come again,” he growled. “Wanna feel this pussy squeeze the fuck outta me.”

Your eyes rolled back, body jerking as pleasure spiked — his cock deep inside you, his fingers working you mercilessly, his grip tightening at your throat in that perfect balance of control and hunger.

“I’m—fuck, I’m coming—” you cried out, voice raw.

He didn’t stop. He slammed into you harder, chasing your orgasm with his own. Your body convulsed around him, toes curling, vision going white-hot as you shattered all over his cock, screaming his name.

“Goddamn,” he groaned, voice guttural as he followed you over the edge, burying himself deep and spilling inside with a low, desperate grunt.

He didn’t pull out right away. His forehead rested against your back as you both panted on the floor, your bodies still twitching from aftershocks.

Then his hand slid over your ass, giving it a sharp slap that made you gasp.

“Don’t get comfortable, mami,” he murmured darkly. “We’re not done.”

Joaquín pulled out slow, letting every inch of you feel the drag as he slipped free, your body shivering from overstimulation, thighs sticky with both of you. But he wasn’t finished—not even close.

He gripped your waist and helped you to your feet, only to lift you into his arms like you weighed nothing. You giggled breathlessly against his shoulder, still dizzy from the last orgasm.

“You’re insatiable,” you panted.

He grinned against your throat. “Y tú eres adictiva.”

He carried you down the hall, past the dim glow of the common area, until you reached the sleek glass-walled office off the corner. The lights from the city cast long shadows through the room—and there it was.

Tony’s ridiculous, custom-built, twelve-thousand-dollar desk.

Joaquín set you down on the edge and kissed you deep, tongue slick and possessive, hands sliding between your legs again as you leaned back onto your elbows, legs spread for him.

He looked down at the mess between your thighs and groaned. “Fuck… look at this pussy. Still wet, still twitching. You ready for another round, preciosa?”

“Come take it,” you dared, voice hoarse, smirking. “Unless you’re too tired.”

His eyes flared. “Oh, you wanna be a smartass?”

He flipped you over so fast you barely had time to react—palms flat on the smooth surface, ass in the air. You felt him line up behind you again, his cock dragging through your slick folds.

And then he slammed into you.

The sound was obscene—skin smacking against skin, desk creaking beneath the force of it.

“Papi!” you gasped, nails scraping across the polished wood. “You’re gonna break it—”

“Let me worry about the desk,” he growled, fucking into you harder. “You just worry about coming on this cock again.”

His hand tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough for his lips to brush your ear.

“Say my name, mami.”

“Joaquín—fuck—Joaquín, you feel so fucking good—”

“That’s right,” he hissed, breath hot against your cheek. “This pussy’s mine tonight. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to hear you cry like this.”

He reached around, fingers finding your clit again, circling it as he thrust even harder, angling himself deeper. You cried out, legs shaking as that familiar pressure built again—sharp and hot and too much.

“I—I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” he growled. “One more, baby. Give it to me.”

You shattered around him again, sobbing out his name as your body convulsed, pussy clenching so tight it dragged him over the edge right after. He spilled inside you again with a groan, hips jerking as he rode out every wave.

This time, neither of you spoke for a long moment. Just breathing. Shaking. Fucked-out.

Then Joaquín leaned down and kissed your shoulder, whispering:

“…think there’s enough time to ruin that couch again before we shower?”

The desk was left in shambles—stained, creaking, an obvious crime scene of pleasure—but you didn’t even stop to catch your breath. You pulled Joaquín by the wrist back into the living space, both of you flushed, panting, half-dressed, bodies slick with sweat.

You shoved him down onto the couch with a grin that could’ve killed him.

“Sit back,” you purred, straddling him. “Let me ruin you this time.”

His head fell back against the cushions as you reached between you, wrapped your hand around him, and guided him right back inside you in one smooth, slick slide. He groaned—loud and hoarse—his hands flying to your hips on instinct.

“You’re so tight,” he gasped. “Still?”

You leaned down close, lips brushing his as you whispered, “You should’ve fucked it loose by now, Papi. Maybe you’re just not doing it hard enough.”

His growl vibrated against your throat—but you were already riding him, hard and fast, bouncing in his lap like you needed to break him apart with nothing but your body.

His hands grabbed your ass, your thighs, but you were in charge now. One of your hands wrapped around his throat, light pressure just enough to make his eyes roll back.

He choked on a moan, grinning even as he gasped, “You tryna kill me, mami?”

“You love it,” you growled, grinding your hips down with more force, more hunger. “Look at you, so pussy drunk already.”

And then—God help him—you opened your mouth.

“Spit in it.”

He blinked, breath catching.

“You want that?” he rasped, pupils blown wide.

“Do it, Joaquín.”

His eyes locked with yours, and he spit—slow, dirty, right onto your waiting tongue.

You swallowed it with a moan and laughed when he cursed under his breath like he was going to lose his mind.

“You’re gonna make me fucking come,” he warned, already trembling.

“Not yet,” you hissed, grabbing his jaw, fingers hooking inside his mouth, dragging his bottom lip down in a filthy, possessive gesture. “Not ‘til I say.”

You fucked him harder, using him, letting his cock hit deep, filthy angles inside you that made your vision spark.

And then—one palm slipped between your thighs. A slap. Quick, sharp, right to your soaked center.

You cried out, body jolting, clenching around him in surprise.

“Like that?” he panted.

“Again.”

Smack.

Your back arched violently, your nails digging into his chest as you rode harder, chasing another high that felt just beyond reach. The sound of your skin slapping against his filled the room, drowned only by the wet, breathless moans you couldn’t hold back.

“You’re my nasty little girl,” he groaned. “Fucking own me, mami.”

And you did.

You choked him again—light, loving, filthy—watching his eyes flutter as your pace picked up. Both of you right there, right at the edge, your bodies a slick mess of overstimulation and desperate need.

When he started to beg, you finally gave in.

“Now,” you gasped. “Come with me. Now.”

And you shattered. Together. His hands bruising your hips as he came inside you again, your body convulsing with one last orgasm that shook you to your soul.

You collapsed against his chest, both of you shaking, breathless, clinging to each other like you didn’t know where you ended and he began.

Neither of you said a word.

Still panting, still trembling from round two—or was it three?—you tugged him by the wrist straight into the bathroom, stepping under the hot stream like your body knew what it needed before your brain did.

You didn’t even look back.

The second the water hit your skin, steam rising around you, he followed—fully naked, flushed, and still hard, already pressing up behind you.

“You trying to kill me?” he murmured, breath hot against your shoulder as his arms wrapped around your waist.

“No,” you said, reaching behind to stroke him once, slow and firm. “Trying to drain you dry.”

He groaned—deep and hoarse—grinding into your palm like it hurt to hold back.

You turned around slowly, water trailing between your bodies, and looked at him—really looked. Hair soaked, jaw tight, lips kiss-bruised. His eyes roamed you like he couldn’t decide where to start.

And then his mouth was on yours.

Slippery. Starving.

He kissed you like it was still the first time, like you hadn’t just ridden him raw on the couch, like you hadn’t screamed his name already. Tongue deep, hands groping your ass, pressing you against the slick tile until your back arched into him.

You broke the kiss with a gasp, head tipping back. “You gonna fuck me again?”

His grip tightened.

“Right here, against this wall. You want it?”

You nodded.

He bent just enough to hook your leg up around his hip, lining himself up without hesitation—and slammed inside.

You both groaned—loud, desperate, echoing in the steam.

“Fuck,” you cried out, fingers clawing at his back. “Still so full.”

“Still so tight,” he hissed, moving inside you slow at first, then faster—rough, punishing, deep. “How are you still this wet?”

You gave a breathless laugh, eyes fluttering shut. “Because you haven’t stopped fucking me.”

He grinned, licking the water off your throat as he thrust into you harder. “Good. I don’t plan to.”

Your wet bodies slapped together, each movement messier than the last. He wrapped both arms around your thighs, lifting you fully off the floor so he could fuck you harder, deeper—your back flat to the wall, your moans echoing off the tile like a song he was desperate to memorize.

“You feel that?” he panted, forehead pressed to yours.

“Yes—yes, I feel everything—”

“Good,” he growled. “I want you sore tomorrow. I want you remembering this every time you shift in your seat.”

You whimpered, nails raking down his back.

He slammed into you once—twice—and then suddenly dropped to his knees, letting your legs slide off his shoulders as he kissed his way down your stomach.

“What are you doing?” you gasped.

He grinned up at you.

“Finishing what I started.”

And then his mouth was on you again—filthy, tongue lapping between your thighs while water streamed down his back. You cried out, one leg lifted over his shoulder, fingers tangled in his wet hair as he devoured you.

Moaning into your pussy like it tasted better every time.

Like he’d never get enough.

His tongue had barely left your clit before you grabbed him by the jaw and hauled him up.

“Get on the floor,” you growled, voice shredded and dripping with lust. “Now.”

Joaquín blinked, stunned for half a second—then smirked. “Yes, mami.”

He sank down onto the slick tile, leaning back on his elbows, legs sprawled, cock flushed and thick between his thighs. You straddled him before he could say another word, water cascading down your bodies, steam rising in waves.

“You said you wanted me sore,” you panted, grinding your soaked pussy along his length, not letting him inside yet. “Then take it.”

And then you slammed down onto him in one brutal thrust.

He choked on a gasp, head tipping back against the wall. “Shit—”

“Oh, don’t go quiet now,” you purred, circling your hips with slow, punishing control. “You said you could handle it.”

His hands gripped your thighs, trembling. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear.

“Good.”

You rode him hard—slick, wet, unforgiving—your ass smacking against his thighs, water splashing beneath you, moans echoing off the glass. Your nails dragged down his chest as your pace built to something wild, frantic. Unhinged.

His hands came up to your hips, trying to slow you—but you slapped them away.

“Don’t you dare,” you hissed, fingers gripping the base of his throat. “You take every fucking stroke.”

His hips bucked. “Mami—”

“I said,” you gasped, grinding deep, “take it.”

You felt him twitch inside you—felt his abs contract beneath your thighs.

“Look at you,” you whispered, cupping his jaw, riding him faster now, sloppier. “So good for me. So full. You gonna come again, Papi?”

He whimpered—whimpered. You’d broken him.

“I can’t—fuck, I’m close—”

“Give it to me,” you growled, riding him like he belonged to you. “Come for me. Let me feel that cock pulse while I’m milking it.”

He came with a shout, whole body arching off the tile, cock throbbing deep inside you. You kept going, grinding through it until you tipped over too—screaming his name, walls clenching around him in the wettest, filthiest orgasm of the night.

You collapsed on top of him, both of you trembling, panting into each other’s mouths, your bodies still moving—slow now, dragging every last pulse out of each other.

After a minute, he managed to speak.

“Marry me.”

You barked out a laugh, dazed. “Shut up.”

“Deadass. You just tamed me.”

You grinned, forehead pressed to his.

“Please. You’d be the one making out with someone on a rooftop in a thunderstorm like it’s a Nicholas Sparks novel.”

He grins. Shrugs. Doesn’t deny it.

“Not denying it,” he says. “I’d make it look good.”

He reaches for the popcorn bowl in your lap. His fingers brush yours. Neither of you move.

You clear your throat. Look away.

The silence stretches—comfortable and unbearable all at once.

Then Sam walks in and stops in his tracks.

He stares for a long moment, arms crossed, head tilted like he’s tired.

“You two…”

“What?” you ask, too quickly.

“Nothing. Just—at this point, I’m assuming you share a toothbrush.”

Joaquin gives him a lazy smile.

“Only when she’s out of toothpaste.”

You elbow him hard. He huffs out a laugh, grabs his chest dramatically like you broke something.

“We’re not a thing,” you mutter, but even you hear how thin it sounds.

Sam just stares.

“Right,” he says flatly, and walks off.

Joaquin leans a little closer. His voice low, teasing.

“You sure we’re not a thing?”

Your heart stutters. Your magic simmers.

You don’t answer.

———

Your fists fly, your magic crackles, and the reinforced training dummy is begging for mercy.

You blast it with one last hit of red chaos energy and pant through a crooked grin as it sparks, smokes, and stumbles to the floor in defeat.

Joaquin’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching like he’s thoroughly enjoying the show. You’re sweating, breathing hard, hair clinging to your neck and forehead.

“Okay, well,” he drawls, “remind me never to piss you off in close quarters.”

You shoot him a sharp look, but your chest is still rising and falling fast. You’re flushed. Overheated. Magic humming hot in your skin.

He walks over, a towel in one hand and a water bottle in the other. You narrow your eyes.

“That for me or are you just flexing your hydration awareness?”

“Both.”

He presses the cold bottle into your hand, but instead of handing you the towel, he lifts it and gently pats the sweat from your forehead.

Your eyes flutter, caught off guard by the softness of it.

“You missed your calling,” you mutter. “Could’ve been a very aggressive spa technician.”

He grins, still toweling off the back of your neck.

“Nah. You just looked like you were seconds from combusting.”

“I am combusting. That’s kind of my whole thing.”

“Yeah, but this version looked a little less magical and a little more meltdown-on-the-mat.”

You roll your eyes and take another sip of water. He steps back—barely—and watches you like he’s memorizing something.

Then he says, quieter:

“I like when you let yourself get messy.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Messy?”

“Yeah. All powerful, untouchable chaos witch and still out here sweating like a mortal. It’s… grounding.”

You huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Toss the towel back at him. He catches it without looking, too busy watching your mouth.

You smirk.

“You gonna keep staring or are you gonna fight me?”

He steps closer.

“You want me to pin you down that bad?”

Your magic flickers behind your eyes. He notices.

“Careful,” you whisper.

“Always,” he murmurs.

And then you’re both just standing there, chests nearly brushing, heat rolling off your skin—and not a damn thing happens.

Because you step back first.

Because you always step back first.

———

Your room is quiet. Dim. The moonlight filters in across the edge of your bed, silver and cold.

You’re curled under a blanket, scrolling through missions and notes, pretending your chest doesn’t feel tight after today’s debrief.

The knock comes soft.

Once.

Then twice.

You don’t even have to ask who it is.

The door creaks open slowly. Joaquin peeks his head in like he’s expecting to get yelled at.

“You still up?”

You raise your phone.

“Aren’t you always?”

He grins and slips inside, closing the door behind him. His hoodie sleeves are pushed halfway up his forearms and his hair’s messy—like he’s been running a hand through it for hours.

He walks over and holds up his phone.

“I found three videos I know you’re gonna hate but laugh at anyway.”

“Only three?”

“I’m pacing myself.”

You scoot over. He climbs into bed like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Because it is.

This has become your thing. 3AM visits. Secret scrolling. Close proximity under the guise of shared memes and exhaustion. Neither of you talk about it. Neither of you have to.

You both know.

The side of his arm brushes yours as he tilts the screen toward you. Your legs stretch out beside each other, ankles nearly touching.

He plays a video.

You snort.

“I hate that you’re right.”

He glances over at you, and you’re too tired to hide the smile curling at your lips.

He shifts onto his side a little, propped on one elbow now. His face close. His breath warmer.

Your blanket is barely covering either of you. The silence stretches.

“You had a rough day,” he says softly.

You don’t respond. You don’t have to.

He watches you like you’re glass. Like he’s trying to read your mind. Like he wants to fix something.

“You can’t fix everything,” you whisper finally.

“I’m still gonna try.”

That does something dangerous to your heart. To your magic. To your restraint.

You swallow.

“Joaquin—”

“I know.” His voice is soft. Gentle. “I’m not asking for anything. Just… this.”

He shifts closer. Just enough to rest his hand lightly against yours on top of the blanket. His fingers don’t move. They just stay.

Connected. Unspoken. Real.

You both fall asleep like that. Barely touching. Dreaming the same thing.

———

Everything goes sideways in seconds.

You were supposed to move in from the north—take out the guards, secure the intel. Easy. Clean. You’ve done this a hundred times.

But someone tipped them off.

Gunfire rains from above. Chaos erupts. Sam goes aerial, shouting into the comms. Joaquin darts into cover behind a container, motioning for you to take the left flank.

You move—too fast.

That’s when the trip mine goes off.

A deafening boom explodes beside you. You don’t scream, but you do go flying.

Joaquin sees it happen.

He sprints through gunfire, bullets whizzing past his ears. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t think. He just runs.

You’re sprawled against a concrete barrier, coughing from the dust, your body buzzing with leftover magic that flared up to shield you on instinct.

“Y/N!” he shouts, dropping to his knees beside you, hands already on your arms, your face, your shoulders—checking for blood, for wounds, for broken bones.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly. Your voice is shaking. “I had it under control.”

You didn’t.

There’s a deep gash on your shoulder where a shard caught you. Your lip is split. Your hand is trembling.

“That mine was primed, you could’ve—”

“But I didn’t.”

Your magic pulses too hot around your fingers, unstable. You clench them into fists to make it stop. You won’t look at him.

“Y/N,” he says, lower now, more breath than sound, “you can’t keep doing this. You’re not invincible.”

You finally meet his eyes.

And the look on his face—pure terror, heartbreak, relief—it guts you.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers. “Not like that. Not like that.”

You’re both breathing too hard. The fight is still going, but right now, this moment feels louder.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you murmur.

“You didn’t scare me,” he says. “You destroyed me.”

And you feel it—that awful, terrifying truth sitting in your throat like glass.

You almost died. And all you can think about is how it would’ve broken him.

⸻

Now she’s on the roof hours later, alone, trying to get her shit together, trying to breathe again.

———

The city is quiet.

Up here, above it all, the air is cooler. Quieter. The chaos of your thoughts doesn’t echo as loud.

You sit on the edge of the rooftop, knees drawn up, arms resting across them. Red energy flickers at your fingertips—nervous, uncertain, soft. Just enough to keep you company.

Footsteps.

You don’t have to look. You already know it’s him.

Joaquin settles beside you, legs dangling over the edge. His hoodie sleeves are bunched up again, and he smells like something familiar—clean and safe and warm.

Neither of you speak at first.

The silence is comfortable. Almost.

“You always come up here when you’re avoiding something,” he says quietly.

You smirk.

“You always follow me when I do.”

“Because I don’t like the idea of you hurting alone.”

That makes you glance at him. His jaw’s tense. His eyes are tired.

You swallow.

“I’m not hurting.”

He raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t say it, but you both know that’s a lie.

He shifts, turning toward you more. You feel the heat of him, the closeness. Your arm brushes his. You don’t move.

“You scared me today,” he says.

That makes your heart stutter.

“You got reckless. You took a hit you didn’t need to. You’re better than that.”

You glance down at your hands. The red glow pulses faintly. He reaches out and stills them—his hand gentle as it closes around yours.

Your breath catches.

“You can’t keep carrying all of it,” he says, his voice low, barely above a whisper. “Even chaos needs a break.”

You meet his gaze.

It’s a mistake.

Because he’s looking at you like you’re his whole world. Like he’s been trying not to love you for months and just… lost the fight.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

Your pulse skids. You don’t breathe.

You both lean in at the same time—slow, tentative, like testing gravity.

Your noses brush. You feel his breath fan over your lips. His hand rises to your jaw, tentative, fingers grazing your cheek like you’ll vanish if he touches you too hard.

And god—you want it. You want it so bad it aches.

You tilt your head just a little, lips parted—

And then you stop. Frozen. Half a centimeter away.

Your heart is pounding. Your magic pulses between you.

You feel his breath catch.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely audible. “Don’t care for me like this.”

He stills.

“Too late,” he breathes.

You pull back, slowly. Like it hurts. Because it does.

“I can’t give you what you want,” you say softly. “If I do… and something happens to you… I don’t know if I could survive that.”

He searches your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“So what, we pretend this doesn’t exist? Pretend we don’t?”

You look away.

“We keep each other alive. That’s what we do.”

He nods slowly. But you don’t miss the pain in his eyes.

“Then I’ll keep pretending. If that’s what you need.”

You don’t speak. You can’t.

Because if you do, you’ll kiss him anyway.

———

The fluorescent lights are too bright.

The chairs are too cold.

And Joaquin is sitting too damn close.

You’re trying to breathe evenly, trying not to look at him, but his leg keeps brushing yours under the table and your mind won’t stop replaying what almost happened on the rooftop five hours ago.

His hand on your cheek.

His lips almost on yours.

That look in his eyes.

“Too late,” he said.

You haven’t slept.

Across the table, Sam Wilson drops a file onto the surface with a sharp thwap.

“This one’s high priority. We’ve got intel that a black-market transport vessel is moving refined adamantium off the Atlantic coast—”

Your stomach tightens.

“They’re skimming ocean territory just outside international lines, which means we need to get in fast, quiet, and untraceable.”

You nod, silent. Joaquin shifts beside you.

“The three of us go in aerial,” Sam continues. “Y/N, you’ll hang back until we ID the exact hold. I want you on overwatch until we breach. No showing off.”

He looks pointedly at you.

You smirk faintly.

“Define showing off.”

Joaquin snorts beside you. Sam sighs.

“Just stay alive. Both of you. The council’s already breathing down our necks about Wakandan metal, and I don’t need a damn rescue op on top of it.”

He looks between the two of you—like he knows something’s up but doesn’t want to deal with it yet.

“Wings prepped for launch at 0800. No mistakes. Questions?”

Silence.

“Good. Dismissed.”

———

The wind roars in your ears.

From your perch high above the vessel, you float just outside radar range, a shimmering red shield cloaking your energy signature. Your fingers twitch, ready. Watching. Waiting.

“Red, you copy?” Joaquin’s voice cuts through your earpiece.

“Copy.”

“You sure you’re okay up there?”

“You’re the one flapping around in open air like a glowstick, Torres. Maybe Ishould be checking on you.”

You hear him laugh through the comms. It softens the anxiety in your chest—but only slightly.

Then Sam’s voice comes in, sharp:

“Vessel identified. We’re breaching from the port side.”

“On your mark,” you respond.

Joaquin zips lower, wings slicing through the sky, and just as he banks left to take position—

A flash of light.

A missile screams from the hull of the ship.

You feel it before you see it.

“Joaquin—”

But it’s too late.

The blast hits him midair. His body spirals out like a comet, wings ripped, suit malfunctioning. You scream his name into the comms as he plummets toward the ocean.

“SAM, HE’S HIT—!”

Your body surges forward on instinct, red magic roaring from your palms as you dive. You feel your heart pounding in your throat. You won’t make it in time. You won’t—

Then you do.

You catch him mid-fall, slowing his velocity with a shockwave of pure energy. His body slams into your arms hard, but not fatally.

His breathing is shallow. He’s bleeding.

“Stay with me, Joaquin. Come on—look at me, look at me—”

You don’t know if he hears you.

Sam is shouting orders. Enemies are still firing. But you’re already rising with Joaquin in your arms, flying him toward the evac route. Every pulse of magic you burn hurts now, but you don’t care.

You’re not losing him.

Not today.

———

The med bay is quiet.

Too quiet.

Machines beep in steady rhythms. IV bags hang in still air. The scent of antiseptic clings to your skin like smoke.

Joaquin’s lying motionless in the hospital bed, chest bandaged, one arm splinted, a shallow gash across his cheek. The doctors said he’d live.

But they didn’t say when he’d wake up.

You haven’t moved in hours. Just sat there, unmoving, staring at him like if you blinked, he might disappear.

Your hand is wrapped around his.

Your magic hums under your skin, wild and aching, searching for something to do—something to fix. But it can’t fix this. Not really.

And that’s what breaks you.

You finally speak, voice raw, barely above a whisper:

“When I was sixteen, my brother died.”

The words come like glass in your throat.

“I thought it was the end of my world. And it was—for a while. He was the only one who really knew me. I trusted him with everything. And then one day… he just didn’t come back.”

Your hand tightens around Joaquin’s.

“After that, I stopped letting people in. I thought… maybe if I didn’t love anyone else, it wouldn’t hurt like that again.”

You breathe out shakily. Blink away tears that sting and blur.

“And then you showed up. Loud. Relentless. So damn bright. Always sending memes at 3am. Always making me laugh when I didn’t want to. Always showing up.”

Your voice cracks.

“You made me feel again. You made me want. And it scared the hell out of me.”

You swallow hard.

“I’ve been keeping you at arm’s length because I didn’t want to lose you. Because I thought if I never let myself have you, I wouldn’t have to feel this again. But when I saw you falling out of the sky today—when I felt you slipping through my hands—”

You stop, breath hitching. The tears spill now. You don’t stop them.

“It made me realize… I don’t just want to be close to you.”

You lean forward in the chair, clutching his hand to your chest like a lifeline.

“I long to be close to you. I need it. I want everything with you, Joaquin. The stupid 3am TikToks. The rooftop mornings. The flirting. The falling asleep in each other’s beds. All of it. I want you.”

You press a trembling kiss to his knuckles.

Your forehead drops gently against his forearm. You stay there, eyes squeezed shut, letting the weight of it all sink in.

And then—

A low, hoarse voice breaks the silence:

“I knew you loved me.”

Your head snaps up.

His eyes are barely open—just enough to flash that smug little grin he always gets when he’s won something.

“You’re the worst,” you whisper through a half-sob, half-laugh.

“Nah,” he croaks, thumb brushing weakly across your hand. “You love me.”

“You were unconscious. That doesn’t count.”

“Didn’t stop you from confessing,” he murmurs, eyes falling shut again. “Gonna hold that over you forever.”

“Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

You shift carefully onto the edge of the bed, your fingers still laced with his, your free hand brushing his hair from his forehead. Your voice softens.

“Just… rest. Okay? I’ll be right here.”

And for the first time in a long, long time, you mean it.

———

The lights are dimmed now.

The machines are quieter.

And for the first time since the mission, he’s awake.

Really awake.

You walk in with a tray—nothing fancy, just soup, toast, and a drink. But it’s real food, and the way his face lights up when he sees it makes something in your chest ache.

“God, you’re perfect,” he mutters, trying to sit up.

“No,” you say, pushing his shoulder gently. “You are injured. Don’t be dramatic.”

“Me? Dramatic? Never.”

But he winces anyway, clutching his ribs, and you give him a pointed look. Still, he smiles as you help settle the tray over his lap and lower the bed slightly so he can eat.

You sit in the chair beside him, watching quietly as he takes the first few bites.

“Tastes like cardboard,” he says through a mouthful.

“You’re welcome.”

For a while, the silence is companionable. He eats slowly. You sip from a bottle of water. You think maybe this is enough.

But then he pauses.

Spoon halfway to his mouth, he looks at you—soft, serious, his voice quiet.

“I didn’t know about your brother.”

You blink.

“Yeah,” you say, looking down. “Most people don’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

You just nod, a small motion. Your eyes sting again, but you won’t cry this time.

Then he does it.

With a quiet grunt, Joaquin shifts over in the bed, wincing but determined. He pats the space beside him—his palm gently tapping the blanket just once.

“Come here,” he says softly. “Please.”

You hesitate only a second before you move. Gently, carefully, you slide onto the bed beside him, sitting up straight but close enough to feel his warmth.

Your shoulder brushes his.

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for days.

“I’ve always known I’m a hopeless romantic,” he says after a moment, staring at the ceiling like the words are carved up there.

“Ever since I was a kid. I wanted all the cheesy stuff. Dancing in the rain. Fighting over who makes the coffee. Falling asleep on someone’s shoulder. All of it.”

He turns his head to look at you.

“But with you? It’s more. It’s so much more. I want everything, Y/N.”

His voice breaks just slightly.

“I want to hold your hand when you can’t sleep. I want to hear you rant about your day. I want to spar with you even though you’ll win. I want to protect you—even if I know you could obliterate the multiverse with a blink. I want to show up. Be there. All of it.”

His fingers brush yours.

“And I want it all with you.”

You stare at him—barely breathing, barely moving.

Then, quietly, like the world is finally giving you permission to want this too, you lean in.

And so does he.

Your lips meet like a whisper.

No fire, no chaos—just warmth. Softness. The promise of something real.

He exhales into the kiss like he’s waited his whole life for it.

When you pull back, he’s still smiling.

“You’re gonna be hell on my ribs, huh?”

You laugh, forehead pressed to his.

“You’re the one who scooted over.”

“Worth it.”

You rest your hand on his chest—right over his heart—and whisper:

“You’re worth it.”