{The House You Draw - Angel Reyes x F!Reader}
Summary - You've always drawn the same little house without thinking. Angel noticed long before you did and made sure it would stay with him forever.
Word Count - 3000ish
You had always been a doodler.
Not an artist. You would never have called yourself that. You could not sit in front of a blank page and produce anything worth framing, but give you a receipt, the corner of a shopping list or a napkin beneath your drink and it would be covered before you realised you had picked up a pen.
Flowers when you were listening.
Stars when you were tired.
Tiny faces when you were bored.
And houses when you were waiting.
They were nearly always the same. A small, narrow house with a sloping roof, two windows and a front door beneath a porch light. Sometimes you added steps. Sometimes a crooked little path. Once, when Angel had been particularly late getting home, you had drawn so many tiny lines around the porch light that it looked more like a sun.
You had never thought much about it.
Your hand simply knew the shape.
That Sunday morning, the house appeared beside coffee and washing powder on the shopping list.
Angel sat beside you at the kitchen table, close enough that his knee rested against yours. He was supposed to be helping, but he had contributed exactly one item before becoming more interested in the toast cooling on your plate.
“You eating that?”
You glanced at the untouched piece. “I was planning to.”
“You’ve been planning to for ten minutes.”
“I’m writing the list.”
“You’re drawing.”
You looked down.
The pen had wandered away from the actual shopping and started forming the slope of a roof in the margin.
“I can do two things at once.”
“Yeah?” Angel reached for the toast. “Then you can make another piece while you draw.”
You caught his wrist before he could take it.
“That’s mine.”
“You don’t even want it.”
“I might.”
Angel looked at you, then at the toast. “You want half?”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re bargaining with me over my own breakfast.”
“Trying to keep things fair.”
“You already ate yours.”
“Wasn’t enough.”
You tore the toast in half and placed one piece on his plate.
Angel smiled, leaned over and kissed your temple. “Love you.”
“You’re saying that because I fed you.”
“Still counts.”
His arm settled across the table while he ate, the inside of his forearm turned towards you. You returned to the little house, adding the two windows beneath the roof.
Angel watched the pen move for a moment.
“You always draw that one.”
You glanced at him. “What one?”
“The little house.”
“I draw other things.”
“Yeah, but you draw that one a lot.”
You looked back down at it. “I suppose I do.”
There was no room left beside the path, so you turned the sheet slightly and tried to squeeze the final line into the margin.
Angel’s arm was in the way.
Without thinking, you continued the line over the edge of the paper and onto his skin.
He looked down.
You stopped with the pen still touching his forearm.
“Sorry.”
Angel lifted an eyebrow. “You just draw on me?”
“You were in the way.”
“I’ve been sitting here the whole time.”
“And you still didn’t move.”
His mouth curved as you added another small line to his skin, extending the path a little farther.
Angel rested his chin in his hand. “You better not draw a dick.”
You laughed. “I wasn’t going to.”
“Sound disappointed.”
“You’ve given me the idea now.”
“I mean it.”
“It would only be small.”
Angel stared at you.
You smiled sweetly.
“House,” he said. “Finish the house.”
“You’re very demanding for someone stealing my breakfast.”
“I said I loved you.”
“That bought you half a piece of toast. It didn’t buy you artwork.”
He turned his arm and offered you the empty stretch of skin properly. “What else you want?”
The teasing was there, but so was the softness beneath it. The quiet invitation. Angel could have moved his arm at any point. Instead, he left it in your hands.
You shifted closer.
“Stay still.”
“Wasn’t moving.”
“You move constantly.”
“Not true.”
You looked at him.
Angel settled deeper into his chair and placed his other hand on your thigh beneath the table. “I’ll be good.”
“That’ll be a first.”
He squeezed your leg gently.
You lowered the pen to his skin.
Drawing on him was different from drawing on paper. The muscle beneath your palm shifted whenever his fingers moved against your thigh, and the ballpoint dragged slightly over the fine hair on his arm.
You began with the roof, keeping the lines small enough to fit the clear patch between his tattoos. The walls followed, then two narrow windows and a front door with a tiny round handle.
Angel remained still.
It was unusual enough that you glanced at him once to make sure he had not fallen asleep.
He was watching you.
Not the drawing.
You.
“What?” you asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“Can’t look at my arm. Your head’s in the way.”
“You could look somewhere else.”
“I am.”
The warmth in his expression made your hand pause.
Angel’s thumb moved slowly over your thigh, and he gave you a small smile.
You lowered your attention to his arm before he could see how easily he had flustered you.
The house was good.
Not perfect. The roof leaned slightly to one side, and the windows were not quite the same size, but it looked intentional rather than messy. You shaded one side of the walls with a few thin strokes and added two steps beneath the door.
The porch light came last.
A tiny dark circle beside the door, surrounded by delicate lines that made it glow.
You lifted the pen.
“Done.”
Angel turned his wrist to examine it.
The little house looked almost delicate among the darker, heavier tattoos around it.
“What do you think?” you asked.
He studied it for a few seconds. “Looks good.”
“Just good?”
“Really good.”
“That sounded forced.”
Angel looked at you. “You want me to clap?”
“A little enthusiasm would be nice.”
He brought your hand to his mouth and kissed the side of your index finger, just beneath the faint smudge of ink.
“I like it,” he said.
The simple sincerity of it warmed you more than enthusiastic praise would have.
You smiled. “Thank you.”
Angel looked back at the drawing. “What’s the light for?”
“The porch light?”
“Yeah.”
You shrugged, picking up your coffee. “So whoever lives there can find their way home.”
He continued looking at it.
You took a sip, then added, “Or so they know someone’s waiting for them.”
Angel’s eyes lifted to yours.
The mood shifted so gently that you might have missed it if you had not been watching him. His hand remained around yours, his thumb brushing across your knuckles.
“Is that why you draw it?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“You draw them when you’re waiting for me.”
It was not really a question.
You thought of the electricity bill on your lap the night he came home after midnight. The napkin you had filled while waiting at the clubhouse. The little house on the back of an envelope after he called to say he was running late.
“Sometimes,” you admitted.
Angel’s gaze dropped to the house on his arm.
You felt suddenly exposed by something you had never meant to reveal.
“It isn’t supposed to be sad,” you said. “I just like knowing you’re coming back.”
His fingers tightened around yours.
“I’m coming back.”
“I know.”
“You always leave the lamp on.”
You smiled. “You noticed?”
“I notice everything you do.”
“That is absolutely not true. You didn’t notice I changed the curtains for three days.”
Angel leaned closer. “I notice the important shit.”
You looked at him for a moment, at the familiar warmth in his brown eyes and the tenderness he so often tried to hide behind an easy grin.
Then you kissed him.
Angel’s hand slid to the back of your neck, holding you there as he kissed you slowly. There was no hurry in it. No need to turn it into anything more. Just his mouth warm against yours and his thumb resting beneath your ear.
When you drew back, his eyes stayed closed for another second.
“You smudged your house,” you whispered.
Angel opened one eye.
A faint black mark had transferred onto your wrist where it had brushed against his arm.
He glanced between the smudge and the drawing.
“Worth it.”
You smiled and kissed him again.
The house faded over the following few days.
Angel made no effort to scrub it away, but he did not perform any ridiculous one-armed showers either. He simply let it remain, faintening naturally as he went about his life.
On Monday, the path disappeared.
By Tuesday, one of the windows had blurred.
On Wednesday evening, you caught him studying what remained of the porch light while the two of you lay in bed.
“You want me to draw it again?” you asked.
Angel lowered his arm and wrapped it around your waist.
“Nah.”
“You don’t like it anymore?”
“I didn’t say that.”
You settled closer, your cheek against his chest. “I could make the roof straighter next time.”
“Then it wouldn’t be the same house.”
You looked up at him.
Angel kissed your forehead before you could answer, then tucked your head back beneath his chin.
By Friday, the drawing was gone.
Life carried on.
The shopping was bought. The washing powder was forgotten despite being at the top of the list, which meant Angel had to make another trip to the shop. He insisted this was your fault for distracting him with the drawing.
You spent an evening at the clubhouse, another half asleep on the couch, and most of Sunday trying to convince Angel that leaving his boots directly in front of the door was going to kill one of you.
There was nothing unusual about the days that followed.
No secretive phone calls.
No suspicious sleeves.
No questions about the house.
The drawing became another little moment tucked among hundreds of others. Sweet enough to remember, ordinary enough not to hold too tightly.
Almost two weeks later, you were in the kitchen putting away the last of the dishes when Angel came home.
You heard his motorcycle first, the familiar rumble cutting off outside. A minute later, his key turned in the lock.
You left the mug in the cupboard and stepped into the hall.
Angel had barely closed the door before you wrapped your arms around him.
He laughed softly, one hand settling at your waist.
“Miss me?”
“You were gone all day.”
“Didn’t answer the question.”
You leaned back enough to look at him. “Maybe.”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t get too excited.”
Angel kissed you anyway.
He tasted faintly of coffee, and his beard scratched lightly against your chin as the kiss deepened. His hands moved to your hips, pulling you closer until your body fitted against his.
When you parted, you stayed there, your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.
“How was your day?” you asked.
“Long.”
“You hungry?”
“Always.”
“I left food in the oven.”
Angel kissed your forehead. “You’re perfect.”
“I know.”
He smiled and followed you into the kitchen.
You turned towards the cupboard for a plate while Angel reached past you for the glass on the draining board.
The light caught something on his forearm.
At first, your mind did not understand what you were looking at.
A clear square of protective film covered the inside of his arm. Beneath it, the skin was slightly pink, and in the centre of that pinkness sat a small black house.
Your house.
You stopped moving.
Angel brought the glass down and glanced at you.
Your eyes stayed fixed on his arm.
The sloping roof.
The uneven windows.
The narrow door and two little steps.
The tiny porch light glowing beside it.
Every line had been copied exactly.
Even the roof that leaned slightly too far to the left.
“Angel.”
He placed the glass on the counter.
You took hold of his wrist carefully, drawing his arm closer.
The house sat in the same place you had drawn it at the kitchen table. Small and neat among his other tattoos, as though the empty space had been saved for it.
“You got it tattooed.”
Angel watched your face.
“Yeah.”
The word was so calm, so simple, that for a moment you could only stare at him.
“When?”
“Today.”
“That’s where you were?”
“For some of it.”
You looked back at the tattoo.
There had been no clue.
No strange behaviour for you to pick apart. No attempt to draw your attention to his arm. Angel had left that morning as usual and come home carrying a permanent version of something you had thought would wash away.
“You didn’t tell me.”
“Wouldn’t be much of a surprise if I told you.”
The emotion rose all at once.
Not enough to make you cry immediately, but enough to tighten your throat and make the little house blur at the edges.
“You kept it exactly the same.”
“Told him to.”
“The windows aren’t even.”
“I know.”
“And the roof is crooked.”
“I know that too.”
“The artist could have made it better.”
Angel’s expression softened.
“Didn’t want better.”
You lifted your eyes to his.
“I wanted yours,” he said.
That did it.
Your eyes filled before you could stop them.
Angel’s face changed immediately. “Hey.”
“I’m okay.”
“You’re crying.”
“I know.”
“I thought you’d like it.”
“I love it.”
Relief flickered across his face, followed by a small smile.
You laughed shakily and wiped beneath one eye without releasing his wrist.
“I really love it,” you said. “I’m just trying to understand why you’d let someone permanently put my little doodle on you.”
Angel looked down at the house.
For once, he did not answer with a joke.
“You said it meant somebody was waiting.”
You swallowed.
His thumb brushed gently across the back of your hand.
“I know I got the clubhouse,” he said. “Got my family. Always had somewhere I could show up.”
He paused, searching for words that did not come easily to him.
“But that ain’t the same thing as coming home.”
Your fingers tightened around his wrist.
Angel looked at you.
“You leave the light on for me,” he continued. “Don’t matter how late I am. Don’t matter what kind of day I’ve had. I know when I open that door, you’re gonna be here.”
“Angel…”
“You made that mean something good.”
He glanced at the little tattoo.
“Wanted to keep it.”
You touched the edge of the protective film with your thumb, careful not to press on the fresh ink.
“That’s why you got it?”
Angel shrugged faintly, but there was nothing casual in his eyes.
“It means home.”
The tears slipped free then.
You leaned forward and pressed a careful kiss to the skin beneath the tattoo.
Angel exhaled softly, his free hand coming up to cradle the back of your head.
You kissed the little porch light through the clear film before straightening.
“You know it doesn’t mean the apartment,” you said.
His hand slid down to the side of your neck. “I know.”
“It means us.”
“I know that too.”
There was no teasing in the words. No effort to make the moment smaller because it frightened him.
Only certainty.
You stepped into him, wrapping your arms around his waist and resting your cheek against his chest.
Angel held you tightly, one hand moving slowly over your back.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
You listened to his heartbeat beneath your ear and breathed in the familiar scent of leather, soap and the outside air that still clung to him.
The oven hummed behind you.
His abandoned glass sat empty on the counter.
Everything around you was painfully ordinary, which somehow made it mean even more.
This was what home had become.
Not a place untouched by fear or difficulty. Not something perfect.
It was Angel coming through the door at the end of the day.
It was his boots beside yours and his hand finding the small of your back whenever he passed.
It was making enough food for two without having to think about it.
It was knowing he would come back and making sure he knew you were waiting.
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
“I can’t believe you did this.”
Angel’s mouth curved. “Good surprise?”
“The best.”
He leaned down and kissed you softly.
“I love you,” he murmured against your mouth.
“I love you too.”
You kissed him again, your fingers slipping into his hair as his arm tightened around your waist.
When you finally drew apart, you looked down at the tattoo once more.
“It really is crooked.”
Angel gave you a warning look.
“I love that it’s crooked,” you assured him.
“Better.”
“And you kept the tiny smudge beside the step.”
“Said I wanted it exact.”
“You’re secretly very sentimental.”
“No, I ain’t.”
“You permanently tattooed my drawing on your body.”
Angel opened his mouth.
You raised a finger. “There is no argument you can make that will win this.”
He considered it, then nodded. “Fair.”
You smiled and pressed one last careful kiss to his forearm.
Angel watched you, affection softening every part of his face.
“You hungry?” you asked.
“Yeah.”
“I made enough for you.”
His fingers threaded through yours.
“Knew you would.”
You started towards the oven, but Angel kept hold of your hand and pulled you back for another kiss.
This one was deeper, though still unhurried, his palm warm against your waist.
When he released you, you were both smiling.
“You know,” you said, “I draw other things too.”
Angel’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Don’t get carried away.”
“I’m just saying there’s plenty of room left.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You haven’t even seen my flowers.”
“One tattoo.”
“My stars are pretty good.”
“One.”
“I could draw something on your shoulder.”
Angel pointed towards you with his newly tattooed arm. “You better not draw a dick.”
You laughed, and his expression softened into a grin.
“No promises.”
He pulled you against him again, pressing a kiss to your temple as you tucked yourself beneath his chin.
On his forearm, the little porch light remained.
A quiet promise in black ink.
Someone was waiting.
He was expected home.
The light would be on.
