#mar asks

There were many things Carlos hated about company-mandated functions – but this one took the cake – having to sit through pre-dinner drinks, in a suit that was choking him half to death, next to some big shot Shell executive that was loudly and obnoxiously discussing something that he didn’t quite care about or understand.

He didn’t want to appear rude, but there was only so many times a man could get up to use the bathroom as an escape before people started worrying about his digestive health.

He texted Charles a bunch of times, but as with most of their interactions, Charles was taking his own sweet time to reply, and he’d had to distract himself with other things until Charles arrived and could put him out of his misery. He’d stuffed his mouth with so many appetisers to avoid socialising, that he was sure he wouldn’t be able to touch any of the other food served.

Just as he was about to be dragged into another boring conversation, he’d heard his name called when he looked up, there they were - his saviours.

Charles in a well-fitted suit like his own, and his gorgeous girlfriend on his arm, in a dress that fits her like a second skin. 

He had to compose himself for a second – because he couldn’t handle the sight of both of them together – sexy, confident, and, by the looks of a tiny bruise on her neck, had been late because they’d been very preoccupied with each other right before this. He doesn’t allow his mind to swirl with the possibilities – but they pop up without any warning: Charles and her, pressed to the hotel room’s sleek wall, his hands everywhere – touching and exploring as she squirms and whimpers – maybe, Carlos thinks, Charles even gets on his knees for a pre-dinner appetiser…

He knows he would, given the chance.

But as tempting as the image of his teammate and his girlfriend is, Carlos endeavours to be a gentleman. He will not intrude on something that isn’t his to take or share…

Unless, well – if they invite him; in which case, he’s pretty sure he’d be stupid to say no.

He shoves the thought away and gets up to greet them - a friendly kiss on her cheek, a handshake with Charles. Throughout dinner, he is on his best behaviour - but they’re not making it easy on him, with their flirting that he definitely does not feel jealous about. It’s just that it’s so… in his face. They’re usual more subtle than this.

He leans back to casually observe - paying no heed to the long, arduous speech going on in the backdrop. He notices Charles on his phone, his fingers tracing patterns - but he’s not looking at his screen. He’s looking at her: his eyes hungrier than usual - and Carlos sees her tremble - gripping the table until her knuckles turn white and her breathing goes shallow, laboured.

Is she… okay?

He’s about to ask, but then his eyes snag on the app that Charles is playing with -  and he can’t shake the feeling that they’re definitely up to something.

Before he can stop himself, he asks, “What’s on your phone, mate?”

She freezes, and Carlos almost wants to take it back. It’s rude, interrupting this - whatever this is.

Charles, however, grins. “Just a new game, Carlos.” The wink he sends to her isn’t lost on Carlos.

He gathers up the courage he doesn’t know he has. “Can I try?”

He does not think they’d say yes - but the ensuing consent is issued so enthusiastically, he almost feels afraid that he’s bitten off more than he can chew. The phone is handed over, and their eager faces, staring up at him, are all but pleading with him to play this little game with them.

It can’t be what he thinks it is, surely. They don’t make apps like that which connect to toys. He reminds himself that this isn’t a James Bond film - this is real life.

But the look in Charles’ eyes is one he recognises with great interest – mischievous, calculating, with just enough intrigue to hook Carlos in. And when Charles nods at him, Carlos knows what it means – just trust me mate. You’ll love it.

Trust. Carlos wants to laugh. He’s had four years of trust with Charles, but it’s never gone this far before. It’s never involved another person - least of all his precious girlfriend.

Carlos dares to look at her now - her pretty, perfect self all dolled up tonight. Beneath the facade of propriety, he sees the dilation in her eyes, her bated breath - the words please practically spilling out of her lips. He cannot help but give in to the curiosity, the irresistible pull of the both of them, egging him on.

Under the guise of this game, Carlos let himself indulge in this one perfect fantasy that he knows he cannot have for real.

A game, they’d called it.

And thank god – he’s a competitive motherfucker.

He dares to let his fingers play on the interface, and feels heat creep up his spine when he sees her stiffen at that first stroke. Her reactions are all falling into line, and pretty soon he knows exactly what this app is - what his fingers are doing to her. Her mouth parts as his fingers grow determined, stroking up and down in teasing little zig-zags, playing with her and building her up towards the inevitable. He bites his lip as he watches her control start to fray, her body growing tight with need, and allows himself to imagine that it’s not an app he’s touching, but her. From the wild look of pleading in her eyes, and how erratic her hips are moving now - he knows she likes it,  and wants more.

Fuck. And who is he to deny her anything when she looks this good, on the edge?

She’s gripping Charles now - his thigh, squirming in her seat. Close. Carlos can barely see her hands on Charles from his seat, but he’s enjoying the effect this entire situation has on Charles who is watching her so closely, colour high in his cheeks. He’s not breathing steady at all. And when she calls Carlos’s name, instead of her boyfriend’s, Carlos can’t help the thrill of victory that courses through him. He watches the jealousy and pride and need flicker through Charles’ eyes without restraint. God - hearing the low rasp of her voice is making him hot all over. He’s so hard, his dick pressed painfully into his zipper, and yet there’s nothing he wants to do more than watching her edge into feral territory - especially with all these people around who just might see.

She turns to Charles, and beg him to let her come, to let Carlos let her come – please; and Carlos swallows as he feels a hot shiver pass through him. Really, he should have some shame, some sense of decency, or restraint, but when there’s a beautiful girl on the brink of orgasm in front of him – he can’t help himself. He wants to see her come - needs it.

But Charles reaches over and puts a hand on his wrist to gently ease him off - and he’s grateful that at least between the three of them, Charles is still thinking with the head on his shoulders. Carlos feels breathless as he gazes at the two of them, so clearly turned on for something that he’s not going to get to give them tonight. 

He doesn’t allow the disappointment to fester – because he’s long learned, he can’t harbour longings for things he cannot have. He has to be realistic and not romantic – to preserve himself so that he does not get his hopes up. So that he does not get hurt.

And so, despite every molecule inside him screaming at him to carry on – he respects their wishes and hands back the phone. Inside him, he’s teetering on the brink of something he can’t quite name.

He composes himself, his racing heart, his body that’s turned on beyond belief. He keeps his eyes on them, the whole dinner, the way Charles continues to play with her, attentive and sweet, but also attuned to exactly what his girl needs – edging her throughout the rest of the meal. And even though he’s not the one strapped to a vibrator, Carlos feels like he’s being toyed with – and he almost cannot bear it – watching her get teased, knowing he can do nothing about it as much as he’s dying to.

Later, when they leave, Carlos watches Charles’s hand curl possessively over her waist, easing her out of the chair. Her legs are jelly, and he cannot mistake the slight wobble in the way that she walks. He thinks, with some measure of pride – I did that to her, I got her all hot and bothered.

But as they wave goodbye to him, he plasters on a smile that he doesn’t quite feel inside, his own heart sinking with loneliness and a pressing desire to be wanted and needed. He sees them walk away towards the hotel lobby and resigns himself to this – to being the one that’s always left behind, somehow.

He stares at his empty plate for long seconds, his brain threatening to dissociate. But then he notices a tiny little card peeking out from under the folded napkin containing his silverware that had gone untouched for their last course.

His fingers seek out the little paper card and when he opens it, he finds a hotel room number scrawled messily at the top, with one keycard slotted on the inside.

He swallows, and pushes aside the very tempting invitation to dash upstairs. Instead - he does what’s right (he is a gentleman, after all). 

He sends a message to Charles, a photo of the card in hand. This yours?

The reply comes a little later - perhaps after five, ten minutes - and Carlos almost spits out his drink when he reads it.

It’s yours - if you want to come join us.

-

channeling all my sadness post-baku into very fulfilling writing for this fic (which was one of my favourites to write). thank you mar, my beloved, for giving me a chance to breathe a second life back into a fic I’ve loved since day 1. please pardon any errors - would love to know what you thought!

She’s a princess, promised to be wed to the prince of Monaco, and Carlos is the son of the royal tailor who comes to make her wedding dress. Straight up when she first meets him, she thinks he’s unbearably handsome - dark lashes and that thick hair and eyes that don’t miss a thing. And because he has to measure her, he has to put his hands on her in delicate places - around the back of her shoulders, her neck, her waist, the length of her legs. He is so respectful - she wishes he could take a few more liberties. His father is ever-watchful, and instructs him in Spanish, which she does not speak. Their common tongue is English, so he translates for his father.

She falls in love with the way he’s gentle - assuring her at every turn that everything’s going to be okay. That she’ll make the most beautiful bride. She’s so alone and scared because what if her husband is mean and cruel? And Carlos looks so sad at the prospect that he has to put down the lace he’s holding and he makes this vow that like, he won’t let that ever happen to her. the dress is so elaborate it takes months - so they become something like friends. Carlos is the only one she knows who’s been to Monaco (apparently they are *most* fashionable and have the best fabrics) and so he teaches her things about the city and its people, draws her maps and sketches of his favourite things there. She’s obsessed with the way his hands move across the paper, with wave-like fluidity and so much care. He’s so handsome, she can’t stop staring at him.

The first draft of the dress she wears… she can’t get the ties done up, so Carlos helps her, his fingers swift and elegant as he cinches her waist in. His warm breath is on her bare neck and she can’t breathe. When the dress is finally smoothed in place, and she gives him a little twirl, there’s this shift in his eyes that tells her he likes how she looks in his creation - more than he can let on. “How do I look?” and he’ll just clear his throat and look away and say, “fine” and mumble something about adjusting the hem because it’s too long.

The day before she’s shipped to Monaco, Carlos does one last fitting - laces her up so tight she struggles to breathe - or maybe it’s the proximity to Carlos that gets her breathless. He stands back to admire his handiwork - and the way the dress simply moulds to her makes him feel something horrific in his belly. His fingers itch to touch - not just the softness of the silk that glides along her curves, not just the way the lace and beading accentuate her beauty… he wants to touch her, without the troublesome covering of clothes, without any barriers of propriety between them.

But she’s getting married - promised to a prince. She’ll be queen someday, and he just cannot ruin that for her. Or for his father.

He doesn’t have to tell her she looks beautiful - she can see it for herself - in the crystal mirror, in the expression of awe and longing in his face. She gives him a last, slow twirl. “It’s beautiful, Carlos.”

“You make it beautiful,” he says, allowing himself this one silly transgressive compliment. “Prince Charles is very lucky.”

She looks sick at the mention of her betrothed - as if it were water to douse flames. “I don’t care what he thinks.”

Carlos scoffs at her naïveté. “You can’t say these things. It’s treason. Nothing is stopping your wedding.”

She gives him this defiant look. “You could, Carlos. We could run away and -”

He has to turn away, because he can’t look her in the face when he tells her that it’s a stupid notion - that Prince Charles will send a whole battalion after them, and they’ll be dead before they can cross any border. And even though it hurts him to do this, he must be the one who thinks logically, who thinks about what’s best for her future. For the peace in their region.

She could care less about their fucking countries. All she wants is a life with him. A quiet, simple life. To have their own little garden, kids running around. To not have to bend to the will and rules of ancient decrees. “You want it too,” she says, reaching for his hand, and he is too weak to pull it away. “I know this, Carlos. You’re going to let someone else have me. Can you bear it, Carlos? Knowing he’s going to be the first one to touch me?”

He stiffens, his fists tightening beneath her hand. “No,” is all he says. “But you make it harder than it has to be.”

“You can’t even look at me, Carlos. Please. Is this how you want our last night together to go?”

He closes his eyes. “How else can it go?”

So she’s mad - at his cowardice, and storms off to sulk in her room, to cry because she doesn’t know how to control anything about her own life - not even about the clothes she wears, or the man she can love. She skips supper and doesn’t let anyone in. She wonders if the window out of her room is high enough for a permanent sort of escape from this life. She lets the morbid possibility fester in her mind, and feels the grief for a life she could have had sinking in deep.

There’s a knock, at her door, seemingly hours later, waking her - she hadn’t realised she’d fallen asleep. It’s a knock that’s familiar - five taps, in rapid succession.

Carlos.

She gets up so fast her head spins, and she runs to the door and practically tears it open.

It’s him. It’s Carlos. He looks worse for wear, too. His eyes red. His lips cracked.

“I can’t marry you,” he says, voice unsteady.

“I don’t care,” she tells him, relief bursting like a dam inside her chest. “I just want you. Even if it’s just for a night. For an hour. A single brief second. I will always want you, Carlos.”

They don’t waste time with crying or tearful confessions - Carlos cups her face and kisses her and the world seems to spin in wild, brilliant colour. He doesn’t want to scare her - but she’s eager for it - begging for him to touch her, their bodies so close it feels so thrilling. She lets him take off the dress he’s made for her - each string slowly undone, a step closer to liberation. She lets the dress fall, reaches for him but he stops her - looks down ruefully at the dress (that will not do!) and he carries it gently to the chair and lays it down as careful as a new bride. She watches him - the pride he takes in his creation, and way his hands smooth over creases, and feels a prickle of anticipation, knowing that if he’s that gentle with a dress…

She feels her knees buckling when he turns back for her - his gaze somewhere caught in the crossroads of feral and tender. His mouth is swollen, he’s breathing heavy, hair mussed. She aches for him in ways she can’t even articulate - doesn’t have the language or experience for it. So he gathers her in his hands like a silk hem he’s tending to, collecting her in his arms and kissing her fully, backing her up against her bed and in the process, pulling off the rest of her clothes, her undergarments, the pins in her hair until it falls loosely, lovely for him. He guides her to lie down on the bed, her hair fanned out, and she’s naked, perfect. He tells her so. She giggles and reaches for his clothes, ordering him to take them off. He is clumsy - so eager that his fingers shake. But it’s charming, somehow.

She admires his body - the trail of hair from his chest to navel, and down south where he’s so hard for her. It’ll hurt, he tells her. But she doesn’t care - she needs him, or she’ll die.

He shakes his head, chuckling at her impatience. There’s so much he wants to show her before that. So he teases her - mouth on her breasts, sucking and nipping until she’s gasping, fingers tight in his hair. Begging him to do more. He likes that order, and moves down, cataloguing every square inch of her that he’s memorised by heart - her measurements, the shape of her - but now instead of just numbers, he knows her softness, her taste. He gets on his knees and licks between her legs and she makes sounds she’s never made with anyone else. Just him.

He doesn’t stop until she comes - until she’s writhing on the bed and wanting more of anything he can give her. His fingers and face are wet with her. He could drown in it. He finally crawls back up over her body when her thighs stop shaking and she’s utterly kissable and pliant and sweet for him. “If you don’t want this,” he says, a hand on her belly to steady her (and him), “you have to tell me.”

“It’s the only thing I want,” she tells him, and he looks so torn and relieved at the same time that she wants to giggle.

He goes slow - so, so slow. It feels strange - like an ache that builds to a sharp, stretch. At times she tells him to stop - and he does, because he’s patient - doesn’t want to hurt her. The start-stop motion absolutely kills him, because being inside her, so tight he feels like he’s not going to last, makes him greedy and stupid - some primal part of him wanting to keep going, and not stop until she’s full of him - and he’s got to turn his animalistic brain off immediately because he’ll end up chaining her to the bed and never letting her out of his sight.

But he knows it’s not possible. She’ll be married and a queen and all he can have is just this one night that they’d stolen for themselves.

Her face is a grimace when he’s all the way inside, and he’s cradling her face and whispering tender things to her, soothing over the ache, until she’s ready for more. He kisses her through the slow thrusts, until she gasps his name and tightens up around him and he knows he’s not going to last long. He’s has to pull out. If she’s pregnant - she’ll hang for it.

But she grasps him close, pleads for him not to stop - she doesn’t care. Let her have this from him. A reminder. A last goodbye.

Carlos doesn’t stop himself. He doesn’t have the will to pull away, to pull out. They’re being foolish. He doesn’t care to think about consequences when he loves her, and he’s basking in the afterglow of their shared intimacy.

There’ll be hell to pay, but he’ll pay it a million times over.

-

The wedding is a splendid, beautiful affair. Carlos and his father are invited, of course, and he’s sick - with grief, with jealousy. He can’t bear to see her in her dress - the one he’s made with his own hands. He tucks his hand in his pocket and feels for the little square of excess fabric he’s kept from her dress - his last little token before he has to let his obsession with her go.

He darts a glance at the groom - Prince Charles, tall and so handsome, and hates him with a vicious anger that the prince does not deserve.

He ought to feel some measure of guilt, maybe. He’d taken what was owed to Charles, what had rightfully belonged to him. But he doesn’t care to feel shame over his actions.

On cue, she steps into the church, and he composes himself before he allows himself to look at her. She’s ethereal - like a vision he must have dreamt up. He doesn’t think the dress could have survived the sea journey, but it does, and she’s resplendent in it.

She gives him a look as she passes him in the pews - her smile masking the sadness in her eyes. He bites down on his lower lip and wills himself to stop. To hold back. There’s nothing more he can do. It’s her destiny. It’s for the peace treaty. For the greater good.

He does not think about her soft skin, or the taste of her mouth. He does not think about how freeing it feels to run his hand through her hair. Or to have her curl up on his chest and sleep through the night. To make her moan his name as she comes.

The rituals sicken him. He sits and stands and feels nausea building as he watches Charles take her hand and they light a single candle. She pledges vows of fidelity and love and he feels nauseous when Charles promises the same back.

They are married. He is doomed.

-

He stays away, for days, weeks, throwing himself into his work because he’s tasked to make more dresses, now that she has a new position in society as the prince’s wife, with all the social events lined up for her. He doesn’t want to visit her - having memorised her measurements by heart, and sends the dresses through messenger.

Each time, they’re returned with a letter she writes by her own hand - begging him to come to her, wanting to talk to him, at the very least.

He ignores all these, and does his job. He will not make an adulteress of her.

The next dress that comes back is ripped to shreds, and he sighs at the petulance, understanding her frustration, her anger. This little part of her life is the only thing she can control, and he does not blame her for finding ways to express herself when clearly she has no way of doing so in court, or with her own husband.

-

He runs into her at a ball, one that his father badgers him to attend, because it’s polite and he needs to rub shoulders with the elite of society. But Carlos hates the pomp and pageantry and wants only to go back to his sewing.

At least the ball has his second favourite activity - drinking. He downs more cups of wine that he can count, and so when he finally gets a glimpse of her arriving fashionably late - his wine-addled mind can only supply the thought - god, she’s so fucking beautiful.

She ignores him throughout the ball, and he watches her dance with man after man, seething each time their hands get too familiar with her. And then, she dances with her husband, and some sick part of him wishes she were miserable with him, or maybe that they hated each other. But when she sees her face light up as Charles takes her in his arms and twirls her through a waltz, he feels like it’s the final nail in the coffin.

He sets his cup down, and leaves the ball - his heart in tatters. He walks out to the gardens to brood - to walk off his anger, his grief.

He does not expect to her voice calling out for him - her hand reaching for his. He turns suddenly and yanks his hand away, his face dark. “Don’t,” he warns, voice low and soft. “Don’t touch me. Please.”

“Carlos.” Her voice is guilty, but there’s vulnerability there. He cannot fall for it again. “Just hear me out, please.”

“There’s nothing to say,” he insists. “You’re married.”

“It’s not what I wanted.” She’s bitter, full of tears. “It’s not what we could have had.”

Carlos shakes his head. “This is not making it easier. You need to leave.”

“No,” she says, stepping closer. Carlos can’t look at her. “Carlos. I still love you.”

He laughs - dry. “Didn’t look like it when you were dancing with your husband.”

“What do you want me to do?” She throws up her hands, the exasperation clear. “To sulk and be miserable my whole life, like you’re doing? I’m sorry I’m not you, and that I don’t hate Charles.”

Carlos flinches at his name. They fall into silence.

“He’s nice to me.” She says, after a beat. “He’s kind, and gentle. And yes, I don’t know anything about him. Not like I know you. But… I could love him. Just like I love you, too.” She takes a breath. “But it does not mean my love for you is gone, Carlos. It’s always there. It will always be there.”

He shakes his head. “It can’t be. That’s impossible.”

He sits on a stone bench he finds, dizzy from the alcohol and her confession. “Carlos,” she says, “it’s true. It can be true if you want it to be.”

“And what about your husband, hm? You’ll make a fool of him. You’ll hurt him. That’s not love.” He gives her an appraising look. “Does he know?”

She hesitates, fiddles with her fingers. “No. But I will tell him-”

He stands up, sudden, swift. “No. You will do no such thing. You understand we will be put to death, right? This is not some fantasy you’re thinking of - it’s our lives, cariño. My dad will be disgraced. Your parents, exiled. You can’t throw all of that away just for…”

“Love.” She reaches up to wipe away unshed tears. “I know, Carlos. I know. I have a lot of time to think about it.”

She lets her eyes flutter shut, and a long, desperate sigh escapes her. “I miss you. All the time, I miss you. I think about you when I’m alone. When I’m eating your favourite meal or snack. When he’s kissing me.”

“This is making it worse.” He wipes a hand down his face, as if a headache is forming. “And so what do you want to hear, huh?” He faces her now, tall, imposing. “That I think of you too? I can’t sleep a single night without dreaming of you? That I haven’t touched another woman since you?”

Her eyes widen. “Carlos.” She steps forward - he does not retreat. She lets her hand brush his, and the spark between them ignites.

“It’s all your goddamn fault.” He whispers, defeated. He lets himself hold her hand - the illicit intimacy warming him more than anything else in the past weeks. “It can come to nothing, you know.”

She nods. He lets his free hand run up her arm, her shoulder, her neck, leaving goosebumps. He cups her face, and strokes her cheekbone with his thumb. “This is all we can have,” he whispers. “A kiss.”

She meets him halfway, mouths open and greedy. She can’t get enough of his body pressed to hers, feels hungry in a way she’s beginning to understand intimately. He swears when her fingers wrap around the back of his neck and pull him in closer, until they’re almost stumbling back into the bushes. He steadies her, but she lunges for him again - kissing until she’s backing him up against a pillar and grinding herself into him - eager, hot. He groans at the friction - too much, not enough. “Touch me, please.” She begs and he can’t help himself - hands already pulling aside the fabric of her goddamn dress - he curses himself for making it so heavy - and over her undergarments where he can feel the heat of her. He touches her and relives the memory of that night - feeling heat coil inside him as her face blooms with pleasure - and she crying out his name, her own hand teasing over the bulge in his pants, and he’s so shameless - can’t stop the thrust of his hips into her touch. She kisses him and he swallows her moans and the sound of his name and when they both come, he feels nothing except bliss - golden, sweet bliss that is unlike anything he’s ever felt.

-

She haunts him. At every social gathering, every ball, every dinner they have in common.

They find secret corners, little unattended rooms. Nobody cares that she disappears for brief periods of time.

They grow bolder. She lets him visit her when Charles is away on a month-long expedition - on the premise of tailoring her newest dress. He spreads her out on her marital bed and eats her out until she’s having to muffle her screams in case her ladies in waiting come. He fucks her into the pillow that her husband sleeps on - kisses her until he’s drunk on love and lust and everything in between. He hates himself but he hates this more - being away from her, being unable to touch her, to fill himself up on her.

It all goes to shit, though, when Charles returns - and she realises she hasn’t bled in months.

She’s pregnant. They haven’t been careful, not even a bit. She sends word to Carlos - it’s the worst and best news he’s heard.

Charles is ecstatic, of course. An heir. He’s always wanted many children.

She has to order new dresses. The ones she wears now don’t fit her. Carlos has to take her measurements. God - it’s torture. Seeing her grow big with a baby (his? They won’t know for sure, would they?). Seeing her put her hands on her little belly. His own heart aching to hear her describe her morning sickness, her backaches, her swollen feet.

He is careful not to touch her in a way that would tempt him (an absurd thing, really - she’s already pregnant, and he can’t fuck this up any more than he already has). But she’s delicate and he feels this protective instinct rising up whenever he’s in close proximity to her. He can’t hurt her. He can’t hurt her baby. Their baby.

He hears about her going into labour in the middle of the night - and he paces the floor, his nerves shot to pieces. He knows the facts - the dangers of birth. Mothers who die from blood loss, babies who never survive beyond their first cry. He wishes he were less useless of a man. He wants to do something - anything. He does not sleep and begs his servants for gossip, hoping for news.

Two days later, they finally put him out of his misery. It’s a girl - beautiful, healthy, sweet. Both mother and baby are safe. Carlos cries when he hears the news. He trembles when he receives her letter - come visit, please.

He brings his father, because he’s not sure if he can bear the trip alone. He’s nervous, anxious, wondering if there’s anything that will prepare him for the sight of the love of his life holding a baby that might very well be his.

She’s confined to her bed, and aside from the paleness and dark eye circles, she looks safe and healthy. He thinks she looks beautiful, and wishes he could kiss her. But then the midwife brings over the baby and his knees almost buckle.

There’s no mistaking it. That baby is all his - dark brown eyes, full hair. Soft cheeks that look like his nephew’s. He never thought his heart could love something so much - until now.

He gets to hold her, and his father leans in too, captivated by the little child that spells good news for their region. Carlos almost rolls his eyes when his father declares, “they’ll need a boy, next.”

But she’s perfect, in Carlos’ eyes. Soft and smelling like her mother. Carlos eventually has to let her go. He places her in her mother’s arms and mouths, “i love you” secretly, so no one can see.

He leaves the palace with a lightness in his chest, and wonders how he can feel so happy and so empty at the same time.

-

The chatter of voices that flit down the hallway betray the surprise that they’re trying to conceal, but you snuggle into the sheets, suppressing laughter as you can hear Carlos whisper, “shhh, girls… we’re going to wake mummy up before we can make this breakfast for her.”

A self-righteous whine emerges, “but Papa - these pancakes aren’t turning out right.”

“Yeah. Mummy does them better. And less messy, too.”

“There’s flour on your face, Papa.”

Ordinarily, your husband would never back down from a competitive challenge. But his daughters have got him eating right out of the palms of their hands, and he absolutely adored them - and adored teasing them right back.

A loud shriek of protest sounds, and Carlos triumphantly says, “and now you do, too.”

“Papa!”

“Okay, okay,” you can hear his teasing relent, “I’m sorry. Let’s focus.”

They eventually buckle down to make the breakfast - Carlos giving instructions with patient, encouraging words, marveling at each little action that you know he punctuates with little cuddles and forehead kisses.

“Too much flour, sweetie,” he says, cajoling. “Yes. Careful.”

“Papa, the milk is too heavy.”

“Come. We can hold it together.”

“Can I heat up the pan, Papa?’

“Of course, but use the gloves, ok?”

“Papa, is it ready to flip?”

“Did you see the bubbles? Ah, good. It is ready. Do you know how to flip it? Use the spatula, slowly… that’s it, love.”

“Oh but it got damaged, Papa.”

“It’s okay. The chefs get to eat the damaged ones.”

Peals of laughter float down the hallway. “Papa, if we eat them all, Mummy won’t have any left.”

“Come now. One or two won’t hurt. We need to test if it’s good too, no?”

“Oh it’s good, Papa!”

“That’s because you made it good, sweetie.”

“And me too, Papa?”

“Of course - you did such a good job too, my love. Now I need you to grab a plate - choose a pretty one for mummy.”

“This one?”

“Yes - she will love that. We can plate now. Can you put the pancakes in a neat stack? That’s it…. Five? So impressive!”

There are high-fives around. “We need to put the berries. And then powdered sugar, Papa.”

“Good. That looks perfect. Not too much. Are we forgetting anything?”

“What about honey?”

There is a commotion - Carlos groaning so loud in exaggeration. “No, no sweetheart - it will ruin the taste!”

Twin voices chorus - “Please, Papa? We like it sweet.”

He sighs fondly - and you can imagine him folding his arms across his chest (oh the lines of muscle, his biceps), pretending it’s such a sacrifice to give in. “Alright. If that’s what you want.”

-

By the time the pancakes come, they’re drowning in a pool of honey, and the berries have toppled over to the sides, but the looks on your girls’ faces melts your heart entirely. Carlos steps in behind them, his own beaming pride written all over his face, and immediately you feel a warm rush of happiness - recognising what a good dad he is, and how lucky you are to share in this life with him.

You accept this fluffy, sweet present with a hand, patting the side of the bed so that they can all climb in to eat together, with sticky fingers and full hearts.

-