#midsize reader

—

Simon hates this time of year.

Ever since he was a kid. Christmas, winter. Hates it.

Not because of the cold. Or the rain. Or the ice underfoot. Or the blistering wind that cracks and freezes the skin of his broken knuckles.

He hates it because, for as long as he's been conscious on this bastard planet, he's been jealous. Winter rolls around and, without fail, Simon is filled with a seething, gut-rotting envy. It corrodes his insides, this bubbling cess pit of thick, unbridled jealousy.

Remembering the bright, red-cheeked faces of his classmates running across the playground, wrapped tightly in hand-knitted scarves and hats, squealing with delight for the joy of Christmas. The presents they'd scrawl haphazardly on makeshift Christmas lists. The wide, toothy smiles of parents come to pick them up for Christmas break.

Simon remembers the threadbare hat that'd once belonged to Tommy that barely covered his ears. Remembers asking Santa for his dad to leave his mam alone for good, and a Christmas dinner if he promised to be an extra good boy. Remembers trekking the 25 minute walk home on his own in the cold and dark. The bare tree in the front room, pathetic lights that barely covered the poor thing, every other bulb popped or flickering.

So yeah, he fucking hates Christmas. And for good fucking reason.

Now, as an adult, he barely acknowledges it. Sends a card with a wad of cash in to his mam, same to Tommy and Beth along with a couple toys he'd picked up from big Tesco for little Joseph. Sometimes he'll force himself to sulk down to the pub on Christmas Eve if only for human company. Most times, it's too busy and too loud so he ends up going home after his glass empties; his head's too busy and too loud as it is.

So, really, he's not all too put out by the idea of having to 'work' on Christmas Eve. Means he's not stuck in his flat just him and Johnny all day. Also means it might not be as busy tonight, the arseholes that normally show up to drink and bet forcing themselves to stay at home for one night and pretend they aren't dickheads to their missus and kids. Might even mean a bit more cash in his pocket, if people are feeling particularly merry and good-spirited. Or just full of drink. Same thing.

He's not actually had chance to meet his new boss yet, was just greeted at the back entrance by some fella who tried to throw his weight around but ended up coming off a massive prick and told to clean and prep himself in the cubby turned dressing room he's currently in.

He doesn't expect a knock so soon.

He definitely doesn't expect you to be stood there, looking like something from the dreams he forced himself to bury a long time ago. Resigned himself to being alone forever.

A crammed tote bag slouches from one shoulder, a thick zip-up hoodie around your middle, and sweatpants pooling around your bottom half. Hair messy and face bare except a spattering of acne scars and freckles across your reddening cheeks.

Simon swallows thickly, well aware he probably looks like a proper weirdo, "H-hi. Hey. M'Simon."

Not sure whether he's meant to shake your hand or not, he resigns himself to awkwardly patting his hip. If he's looking at himself through your eyes, he's seeing a big fucking brute of a man stood shirtless in what looks like a showgirl's dressing room. Which he's beginning to guess might belong to you if the crystals and sequins spilling from your bag are anything to go by.

He's half expecting you to scream and throw something at him, call him a perv and shove him out. Only, you offer him a slightly confused smile and your name, "I-uh, I'm the…ring girl. I guess? If that's what you wanna call it."

Simon hates the self-depricating laugh you offer with that, as if you can't fathom the idea of someone who looks like you being seen as attractive. Especially when he thinks you might just have the prettiest face he's ever seen.

"D'ya need me out of 'ere or? Sorry, was just kinda shoved in 'ere, 's my first day."

He sees the way your face fills with confusion, wondering how a man covered in so many battle scars can have possiby never fought before,"Oh, to fighting?"

He can't help the scoff that escapes him, "God, no. 'A wish."

The small, pitying smile you reward him with is filled with far too much understanding for his liking. Then again, he supposes if you're here, working for anyone even remotely affiliated with Makarov, you must be in a similar position to him.

"I can walk with you to Price's office? He's the trainer or whatever round here, him and Gaz, they might be of more use than I am?"

"Yeah, thanks, love. That'd be grand."

—

One shirt change later, you and Simon are walking down the dimly lit corridor to Price's office. From your nervous rambling, he's gleaned that he's one of the good ones, somewhat of a father figure to everyone in the gym.

"He kinda took me under his wing when I was fo- uh, when I started. Better than Graves, anyway."

His eyebrow raises as you stumble over your words, but he figures pressing his fingers into that obvious wound would do more harm than good. He's trying so desperately not to frighten you off, knows he's a big gruff scary fucker covered in tattoos and piercings and scars. Can't even fathom forgiving himself if he ever scared you.

Coming to a stop outside of a peeling door, he can see your brain running overtime to find something to say.

"Cheers, would never've come down here mu'self." He so desperately wants to keep talking to you, to just stay in your orbit for a while longer.

You're already starting to back away to wards where you'd come from,"Y-yeah, course. No problem. Y'know where my room is so just come knock whenever. Or, not whenever, cause I only work weekends but y'kno-"

His gravelly chuckle cuts you off softly, "Yeah. I know."

—

You don't see Simon for a while after that fight.

He'd knocked his opponent out after two rounds, so it'd been a relatively short night for the both of you.

You remember how he'd barely broken a sweat, chest heaving and a small cut above his eyebrow being tthe only sign of a fight at all. He'd brushed past you without so much as a glance afterward and you'd desperately tried to tell yourself not to take it to heart. You weren't going. to let that nagging voice in your brain telling you you were always going to be unlovable and unworthy and ugly win. He was probably just exhausted and wanted to get out of there as soon as possible. That's all.

It wasn't often you tripped over yourself thinking about men, and you weren't going to let him be an exception.

Only, when you did next see him over a fortnight later, that nagging voice became a ringing in your ear.

You'd stumbled over your own feet when you walked past the gym next to Price's office and heard music and the rythmic beat of fists against a punching bag.

1-2-1-1-2

Poking your head in, you saw Simon's unmistakeable frame hitting the bag in the very corner of the gym. His eyes, sharp and cutting, met your through his reflection on the mirrored wall he faced, fists immediately pausing.

Instead of making conversation like you'd expected, he simply swiped his forearm across his forehead to swipe away the sweat from his eyes, and grabbed the water bottle sat at his feet.

Swallowing, you gave him a timid smile and pushed your way further into the doorway, "Hey, haven't seen you in a bit- you okay?"

"'M'fine." He bit out, seeming irritated at the very thought of entertaining a conversation with you.

Oh.

"Good. Good. Are you fighting tonight?"

"Yup."

You don't think you've ever experienced embarassment quite like this. Maybe you'd completely imagined him being friendly, sweet even. The man you'd met on his first day was not the same man stood in front of you. Everything about him screamed closed off. His hunched shoulders, pursed lips, balled hands.

That nagging voice was right, after all.

"Well, good luck. Guess I'll see you later, then."

Not even deeming you with a response, he began to re-wrap his knuckles, turning his back to you completely.

—

2 weeks earlier

"See, Simon, I've been told you're a good boy. Do as you're told. Obeying orders. Like a good little dog, huh?"

He felt like he'd entered the viper's den. Graves' smug face on the opposite side of the desk made his stomach churn the same way it did when he heard his dad's footsteps on the stairs.

Dread. Sour and curdling in his belly.

"Only, I know how dogs can be. Throw 'em a bone and they're off. Horny fuckin' mutts."

Pushing off the desk, Graves strolls around to stand behind him, planting both hands on Simon's shoulders and leaning in so his mouth hovers next to Simon's ear.

"You've met our lovely showgirl I take it? Smokeshow she is. Incredible ass." A whistle punctuates the end of his sentence.

Simon feels his teeth grind. Graves blatantly objectifying you causes a tumour of blind rage to build, putting pressure on his skull. His jaw tightens so hard he thinks it might snap.

"I'm sure you'd love to fuck her, huh? God, wouldn't we all? Know some boys who'd pay a pretty penny to have a turn on that ride. But, Simon, if you so much as touch her, I'll have you and her buried so far underground no one will ever find you. No one will remember your names. You'll just disappear."

The hot breath on the side of his face makes Simon's nose wrinkle with disgust. He can feel bile beginning to build in the back of his throat.

Slapping his shoulders good-naturedly, like a father would a son, Graves rounds the desk once again. Saccharine smile back in place as he sinks back into his chair.

"Capeesh?"

"Yes, boss."

Warnings: insecurity, self-comparison, kissing. Only she/her pronouns are used, so trans girls and anyone who uses these pronouns, this is for you.

A/N: I read @tenpintsof-sundrop 's post about how SO many Spencer writers love the "girlfriend wearing their boyfriend's clothes" trope, and honestly as they should, but as a mid-size girl, it's not that realistic. So I took it upon myself to write a short blurb where Spencer wears one of your sweaters. Enjoy 😙

Autumn was undoubtedly your favourite season: the crisp air biting at your skin, the crunch of browned leaves on the pavement, the feeling of a freshly-made mug of tea warming your hands, and of course, wearing sweaters. Sweater weather, is what you called it.

What made it better was the fact you enjoyed experiencing all of this with your lovely boyfriend, Spencer. You could only describe it as luck that you both shared a deep love for autumn, and Halloween naturally. You and Spencer enjoyed taking walks in the afternoon dusk of October, watching obscure foreign films that only he could translate while you were wrapped up in a blanket, and baking cinnamon goods when sleep was long forgotten on the nights he was off work.

Nothing could disrupt your joy during this time - well, except maybe one thing. Both avid sweater collectors, they were all you wore during the colder months. And as usual boyfriend-girlfriend relationships go, you often thought about borrowing a sweater or two from his wardrobe. He had a red striped one which you adored, a memory of his younger self when you had met each other at a flea market and both grabbed the same vintage book. His brown argyle one was definitely your favourite though. And you would ask him to wear it if it wasn’t for one thing.

You wore a larger size than Spencer. It was always blaringly obvious to you how different your bodily proportions were. Although the taller one, your boyfriend wore trousers that you could hardly fit a thigh through and his shirts would only reach past your neck, or at least you assumed - you had never attempted to try.

It shouldn’t have bothered you as much as it did. There were plenty of girls who were taller or chubbier than their romantic counterpart, but it still stung. There was nothing you wanted more during colder evenings than to steal one of his sweaters and bury yourself beneath the warm wool, enveloping yourself in his smell. So you opted for cuddling up as close to him as possible, letting him wrap his arms around you - it was as good as it could get.

However, one day during November, when you were alone at your shared apartment, a very wonderful thing occurred.

The kitchen had just been cleaned after another one of your baking fiascos. Amongst many things, you knocked the bag of flour while putting the tray of odd-looking cookies in the oven, and thus made a mess of the entire floor and counter. It took a while to clean up and it was not rewarding to open the oven door to deformed, sad-looking cookies. Whatever, you thought. It clearly wasn’t your day.

You found a place in your favourite armchair, your current read in your hands. It was the ideal way to pass the time since Spencer had texted you about his mountainous pile of reports he had to finish getting through. He could surely read faster than everyone else, but it didn’t mean they would be finished in a short period of time.

As you delved deeper and deeper into the story, you were startled when you heard the front door click open. You glanced at the clock up on the wall. Almost midnight, poor boy.

“Angel?”

“I’m in the living room!” you called out.

The shuffle of shoes and a gentle thump echoed through the corridor as Spencer took off his converse and dropped his messenger bag. The sound of soft footsteps neared you until the tall man rounded the corner and appeared in all his nerdy glory.

“Hey, finally home,” he sighed.

But you didn’t listen to what he was saying because you were too focused on something else: resting on his lanky frame was your sweater. One of your warmer ones. It was obviously a little too big on him, the material slipping off his right shoulder to reveal his white button-up underneath. The dark green sleeves were always a tad too long for your arms, and you’d assume they wouldn’t even reach Spencer’s wrists, but there they were covering his knuckles, only his fingertips poking out.

“Is everything alright? You seem distracted.” Spencer’s voice pierced your bubble of awe.

“Is that my sweater?”

He looked down and pulled on the hem of the sweater, a faint blush tainting his cheeks. “Uh yeah, it seems to be so. Does it bother you?”

Bother you was the last thing the image of your boyfriend in your clothing would do.

You cleared your throat as you tried to gather your thoughts into an intelligible sentence.

“N-Not at all! You just never asked me to wear anything of mine before … did you not have any sweaters left?”

“Oh no, I did! I um- well yesterday you wore it and left it on my desk chair, and it looked so warm and it … smelt of you.” His voice went up an octave at this last part. “And I thought I could wear it. Is that okay? Did I do something wrong?”

Wrong wasn’t the word you would use. Cute, adorable, heart-warming were adjectives that fit to describe the situation.

“Far from that, Spence. You look … you look adorable,” you said warmly.

He smiled in embarrassment and lifted his hand to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He truly was the spitting image of domesticity in this moment.

“C’mere.” You urged him to walk towards you, tucking your legs underneath your body. He shuffled closer while he picked at the stray ends of wool fraying at the sleeves.

Once he was close enough, you held his face in your hands and left a tender kiss on his plump, pink lips. He whined quietly at the sudden action, but let you do as you pleased - he couldn’t really say no, he was putty in your grasp.

After stopping the sweet kiss, your eyes traced over his outfit again - God, he was such a darling.

“Please wear my clothes more often, you look cute in them,” you said while looking into his hazel eyes.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he grinned.

“What can I get for you?” The woman, Caroline, offered.

“Can I get one of the chocolate chip brownies and a java chip frappe, please?” You asked with a smile.

“You sure about that?” She started, and you could hear a bit of judgment in her voice. “With that appetite, that extra weight isn’t going anywhere. Never gonna get that gorgeous model body back.” She states, and you could feel the tears build up. Before you got pregnant, you had the perfect body and you were a very well-known model. But, then, you had your daughter and your body never went back to the way it used to be. No matter how grateful you were for your daughter, nothing could change your insecurities.

“Um… well,” You hesitated. “Never mind, then.” And with that, you left back to your table. Bucky’s head snapped up, sensing you were close. It was kinda like a sixth sense for him. Which meant you couldn’t sneak up on him like you could with your other friends.

“Hey, baby. I thought you were gonna get something to eat.” Bucky wondered as you slid back into the booth across from him. You made eye contact with him and you could feel the sadness build up more and more.

“I, uh, changed my mind. But, um… could we actually go home?” You questioned. You saw Bucky’s expression change from adoration to concern.

“Yeah, sure.” He began as he followed your movements out of the booth. You started walking out of the cafe, and you could swear you saw the barista glare at you as you walked by. You sped out of the cafe and were almost 3 buildings down the street already when Bucky caught up to you, took your hand, and stopped you.

“Baby, what’s wrong? Are you okay?” Bucky asked, more worry laced in his voice. A tear escaped your eye and you tried to turn away, but Bucky pulled you closer to him, his hand on your cheek. He turned your head to look at him and wiped the tears away.

"Y/N, talk to me. What’s going on?” Bucky questioned, his eyes glued to yours.

“That new girl at the counter... she told me that I was...” You sniffled as you said the word ‘fat’ under your breath. You didn’t want to say it, but that is what she was implying. You knew Bucky could hear you, his super serum allowing him to hear miles away probably.

Bucky didn’t know what to say. He just pulled you into his arms as you let a few more tears slip.

“Baby, it’s okay. Don’t cry. Let’s not make a big deal of this.” But, Bucky knew that, once she pulled away and looked up at him with that shocked look on her face, he had said the wrong thing.

“You don’t think this is a big deal?” You said, anger building up. You were speechless. Bucky opened his mouth to say something but you didn’t let him. You didn’t say anything else as you turned around and made your way back to your car. You got into the passenger’s seat, Bucky in the driver’s seat and you traveled back to the compound.

“Doll, I’m sorry. I just...”

“Don’t,” You said louder than intended. “Just don’t.” They didn’t speak for the rest of the drive to the compound.

Everyone knew you were insecure about your body. Ever since your pregnancy, you had to give up your modeling career and your body changed drastically.

You weren’t the skinny, beautiful girl Bucky had first fallen in love with. You didn’t think he’d want you anymore. But, he told you differently. He told you he had made a promise to always love you no matter what when he proposed to you. He promised that he’d always think you were as beautiful as he thought you to be when you first met. And you believed him, deep down.

But, other times, you would go through phases of depression and you would hate yourself. No one really understood, clearly. Everyone thought you were overreacting, as always. You hated your body now, there was extra weight everywhere. And no matter what Bucky told you, how beautiful you always were and always will be, you couldn’t help but hate yourself more.

You hated being mad at Bucky, but the person you loved more than anyone or anything, the one person you’d think would understand more than anyone thought it wasn’t a big deal. And, though he thinks whatever you’re going on about is complete nonsense, Bucky hates the distance between you two.

Later, in the afternoon, Steve decided to bring you and Bucky with him to meet a friend to pick up some stuff, weapons and such. As part of your job, you’re forced to talk to Bucky, as well as all the others. You’re not surprised Steve chose to bring Bucky, his best friend. Though it was quite obvious, Steve didn’t know you weren’t talking to each other, so he brought you too. You sat in the front seat of Steve’s Buggy, Bucky in the back, and Steve driving, of course. You pull up under a bridge behind a black car, belonging to Sharon Carter.

“I’ll be right back...” Steve says, getting out of the car, leaving you and Bucky alone. Everything is silent as you watch Steve converse with Sharon. You watch as she opens her trunk and you see several guns and Steve’s shield on the top of the pile.

Suddenly, “Can you move your seat up?” Bucky breaks the silence.

“No.” You answer without any emotion, just annoyance, keeping your eyes on the two blondes in front of you.

You can feel Bucky’s eyes on you, and you just barely feel the car move seconds later as he shifts over to the middle seat. You watch a smile form on Steve’s face as he leans into Sharon, and they share a passionate kiss. You didn’t know they were a thing. You were quite surprised, to be honest, considering Peggy’s funeral was just two days ago. But you thought it was sweet. Steve’s known Sharon for a while, it seems. You smile at the romance.

“Ya know, that could be us,” Bucky states and your smile falters, remembering your fight from just hours before. You stay silent. “I’m sorry, Y/N...”

But there was something in you that just wasn’t yet forgiving. You focus back on Steve and Sharon. She gets back in her car just as Steve made eye contact with you. You and Bucky smile at him as a light blush lit up Steve’s cheeks.

About 20 minutes later, you three make it back to the compound. You get out of the car and make your way inside. A smile lights up your face as you see your daughter running towards you, a huge smile on her face.

“Mommy!” She exclaims, running into your arms. You’ve only been gone about 2 hours, but she’s always excited when you get home.

“Hey, sweetheart. Did you have fun with Aunt Nat?” You asked her, kneeling down in front of her.

“Yeah! We colored and then she taught me how to load a gun.” Sophie answered. You chuckled nervously, not really knowing how to feel about that, considering she was 6 and wasn’t ready to be around guns.

“Oh, did she?” You met Nat’s eyes from across the room and she just shrugged with a smug smile. You looked back at your daughter.

“Well, I’m gonna go freshen up. Go say hi to Daddy.” You say just as Bucky walked through the door with Steve.

She looked over at her dad and Uncle Steve, a bigger smile growing on her lips.

“Daddy!” She squealed as she ran to him. You stood up and walked away through the halls and to your room.

“Hey, baby girl! How was your morning?” Buck smiles as he holds Sophie in his arms, her perched on his hip.

“It was good. Did you know that you always keep your gun on the safety until you are ready to use it?” Sophie states with a giggly smile.

Bucky chuckles at his daughter. “Yes, I did know that. But, I didn’t think you were ready to know that yet.” He glared at Natasha from the corner of his eye.

“Daddy, can you teach me something?” Sophie asks him as he sets her on her feet and kneels down in front of her.

“Of course, doll.” He says. She was always into reading and spelling, you think she got that from you. She likes to learn with Bucky, the daddy’s girl side of her. You would always find them around the apartment, reading easy-to-read books or him teaching her to spell or write or doing whatever she wanted to do.

After changing into a pair of jean shorts and one of Bucky’s sweatshirts that went past your shorts, just as you were walking out of your bathroom, you ran into Bucky. You looked up at him as he looked down at you with a pleading, sincere look in his eyes. You wanted to forgive him, you just couldn’t yet. You walked past him into your bedroom as he walked into the bathroom and closed the door. You grabbed your book and settled on the couch in your room by the window.

Bucky walked back out, shirtless and in gray sweatpants. You just had to look at your favorite outfit on him. You could never help yourself when he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He did it all the time too, knowing you loved it. He did it whenever there was no one in your apartment except you, him, and Sophie. That was almost all day, every day, always a nice sight to see.

He walked out of the room and you went back to reading, trying to focus. It was hard to focus back on something as simple as reading after seeing Bucky shirtless.

A little while later, you heard a loud squeaky laugh from the kitchen. You close your book, standing from your spot on the couch, you make your way quietly to the kitchen. You stood in the doorway, arms crossed over your chest, watching the sweet sight of your husband and daughter sitting on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge. Sophie sat in Bucky’s lap as they played around with the spelling letter magnets on the fridge. You couldn’t help but smile.

Bucky just finished teaching Sophie how to spell the word ‘perfect’. He told her to sound it out, first asking her what sound a cat makes.

Just then, Bucky looks up at you, and as your eyes meet, your face fell as fast as your smile came when you saw Bucky and Sophie together. You turn around and make your way back to your room.

“Hey, Soph, how about you go and wash up for dinner?” Bucky tells her, helping her up from his lap. “Okay, daddy.” She smiles, giggling as she runs off. He could never hold back a smile whenever she called him daddy. It would never get old for him.

Bucky made his way to his room, longing for his wife that he hasn’t talked to since that morning. He walks in quietly, careful not to scare her like he does more than he would like. He always found it cute how jumpy she was.

He finds his wife sitting on their bed, back facing him. He knew what she was doing. She didn’t have her phone or a book in her hands. She just sat there thinking like he found her doing a lot. Bucky climbs up behind her, pulling her hair back and placing a soft kiss on her neck.

“Bucky…” She starts.

“Y/N, I’m so sorry. I know how you are and how you feel about yourself and I just didn’t know what I was thinking.” Bucky interrupted her. He moved to sit beside her, taking her hand in his. “I’m sorry about what that woman said. If I had known, I would’ve done something about it.”

“I just thought… I thought you understood.” You told him, your voice quiet as you looked down at your hands, a tear slipping down your cheek.

“Y/N, baby, I do understand. I really do. The only reason I don’t think it’s a big deal is that I always see you the same in my eyes.” Bucky paused as he lifted your chin to look into his eyes. “You will always be and I will always see you as beautiful as you were when I first met you, no matter what. And I will always love you, baby.” He finished as he brushed his thumb against your cheek. He rid away some of the stray tears, though more kept coming. But, instead of the sad tears, they were happy tears.

“Besides, all of this,” he slid his hand up my shirt and set his hand on my belly. “It came from the birth of our baby girl. So, there’s no reason to feel insecure about it, baby. It’s a good thing.” He told you, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your belly.

“I love you so much, Buck.” You said as he came back up. You leaned in, your hand on the back of his neck. Your lips met in a sweet, loving kiss.

“Forever, Y/N. I love you.” He said, your foreheads pressed against each other.

Just then, you heard pots and pans banging against each other from the kitchen.

“I think our daughter is getting hungry.” You giggled, bringing a smile to Bucky’s lips. He couldn’t get enough of your smile or your laugh or your anything.

You stood up, ready to make whatever your daughter wanted.

“Y/N, can I just say one thing?” Bucky asked just before you turned the corner to your bedroom door. You turned towards him with a questionable expression.

“That cute ass of yours is not helping the way I feel right now. Especially since I haven’t touched you much today.” He states as he stood up and walked to you. His hands ran up your - his - sweatshirt and planted themselves on your bare waist. He felt you tense in his grasp. You still felt a little sensitive and insecure when he touched the places that held that extra bit of weight.

“Don’t worry, baby. Don’t feel insecure.” He whispered into your ear. “You’re so beautiful. Every inch, every bit of you, I can’t get enough.” Bucky finished. You looked up at him, a somewhat seductive smile on your lips. He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours. You felt his hand travel further down towards your ass and into your back pocket.

You leaned back a bit. “Dinner first, my love. Then, maybe we can do some of that later.” You told your husband. You loved watching him the way he was. You loved that he longed for you. You slid your hand into his and led him out to the kitchen where you find your daughter starting to put ingredients together for dinner. You knew she was going to take after Bucky in the cooking department. You and Bucky watched her, a smile on both your faces. You leaned into Bucky, one hand on his chest along with your head and his arm around your waist. He leaned down and placed a soft kiss on your head.

Frankie had figured Santi out pretty quickly after he announced he was staying. Showed up on his doorstep with a case of beers and let him gripe about life while they watched a baseball game. He’d told Santi to consider exploring things between you, give it a chance and see if you might be interested. He’d thanked his friend for the advice, but declined—you could never know how he felt.

But you’re staying because of her, man.

Yeah, doesn’t matter, Fish. Doesn’t fucking matter.

And fuck, if you weren’t the sweetest person he’d ever known; bright and bubbly where Santi was darkness and frown lines and hidden rage. You held a lot of passion for life, and sometimes it annoyed him, for no good reason. Maybe he was jealous he couldn’t bring himself to be as happy as you. Probably it was because he wished he were the one who made you feel that way, rather than putting up the damn wall and refusing to let you in. You were always kind to Santi, friendly and inclusive, but he sensed the distance, the hesitation.

He hadn’t known you before, when he and the guys served together—you had been away at school as you were much younger than your brothers, who were nearly out of the house by the time you hit grade school. You came back the year before he got the job offer for Columbia, fresh out of college, secured a comfortable job for the stiffs downtown, working nine-to-five at City Hall; a job that came with vacation time and team socials and benefits.

You were all softness and kindness where your brothers were sharp-edged and rough, and they fucking adored you. Despite the age gap, you were close with them, still lived with them in the house you’d all grown up in. Santi started to see you all the time, and fuck if he didn’t fall for you fast and hard.

And then he’d stayed, and he hates how much he loves you. It didn’t seem healthy to feel this strongly, to be equally torn when you’d appear with your brothers between joy and fear, longing and anger. Four years now of watching you casually date, getting drunk a few times from the misery of seeing you with a guy who lasted a little longer, long enough to come out to their usual bar with the group. Knowing he would put his hands on you, kiss you, do all of the things Santi refused to allow himself to imagine because what good did that do.

You hadn’t had a serious relationship in the time since he’d met you, and he wondered if it was because of your brothers—they weren’t overbearing or controlling in any sense, but they freely gave their opinions, and maybe you wouldn’t settle down with someone unless they were up to scruff. Maybe Benny scared them off with his big mouth, or Will intimidated them with his quiet, protective nature.

Santi wanted you to be happy, but it didn’t stop the thrill every time you were single again.

He was an asshole, that much he could admit. The thing was, he had a bond with his friends—Benny and Will, Tom and Frankie, they were his brothers, they served in the Special Forces together and that relationship had long been established, before he ever met you. He couldn’t pull away from them any more than he could move past his feelings for you.

So instead, he tried to ignore how hard he’d fallen and let himself suffer because just a little of you went a long way for Santi. He could survive on the polite laughs and the half-hearted hugs and the friendly enough greetings because that was what he allowed himself, ever the soldier—he could persevere. And if it became too much, he’d take out his frustrations on a woman who looked nothing like you, making her see stars—see God, as they joked—during a casual one-night stand. Lose himself in the moment, in the arms of a stranger.

That was life, now; he’d made his bed and this was him laying in it. He could at least credit himself for being unselfish, his forced distance between him and you there for your protection. Protection from Santi and his darkness. The trauma and pain and bad thoughts. Damaged goods, as his last ex had so directly said to him. Too fucked up in the head for love and domesticity.

Too fucked up.

Maybe he should have gone to Columbia.

—

The Birthday

It was your birthday. Santi always felt especially old on your birthday, the fifteen-year age gap never more blatant, a reminder that his choice to hold his feelings back was always the right one. He wished he could just send you a text, a card in the mail, but you wanted him at your party.

It was a little thing, him and the guys gathering at the Miller house. Santi questioned it when Benny invited him. He said the same as he was now, as they stood in the kitchen unloading their haul from the liquor store. “Told you, Pope, she did a chick-brunch thing this morning with her friends. She’s at the spa now, getting a massage. Then she just wants a low-key night, bonfire, beers, barbecue.” Benny shrugged, unbothered—you never wanted a big event on your birthdays.

“I just don’t get it,” Santi replied, shaking his head, “What’s she want to spend time with us old fucks for?” He crushed the beer box for recycling, eyes raising to watch Will walk inside from the backyard. He was wearing an apron that had his nickname stitched to the front in a frilly pattern; a gag gift from you.

“Who you calling an old fuck?” He grunted, rinsing his hands at the sink. The kitchen was nice, all white marble and warm barn wood flooring. When your parents retired, they moved to Florida and left the house to the three of you. Santi had been impressed with how well you’d renovated it, Will and Benny doing most of the work themselves while you had picked out the colours, tiles, everything. When they’d been given the grand tour two years ago, Santi had to bite back his praise for your taste. He’d instead simply agreed with Frankie when he’d said it looked incredible.

“All of us, man,” Santi sawed a hand over the stubble on his jaw, “I don’t get why Little wants to spend her birthday with us, every year it’s the same.”

Will rolled his eyes, “You don’t try to understand her, Pope, that’s your problem. If you paid attention you’d see she adores you, and Fish.”

Benny chuckled, “Not so much Tom, that’s more like a love-hate friendship.”

Santi frowned between them as they laughed together. Of course, you were sweet with Frankie, you even babysit for him sometimes, labelling yourself as baby Rosie’s favourite Auntie. Things didn’t work out with him and Elena, the baby’s mother, but they were still friends and shared custody. You’d stayed on his couch a few times, at first, when he was learning how to be alone with Rosie, to support him. He’d told Santi you’d been his rock, that you were wiser than your age should allow.

Frankie had told him he was an idiot for choosing not to tell you how he felt. Santi had only agreed, even if it didn’t sway him in the least.

But with him, you weren’t quite like that—not as close, thanks to his efforts, but still kind. Still sweet. When he’d had the surgery on his neck last year, you’d shown up with Benny to drop off food, checked over his post-operation notes to ensure he was following the instructions, taking the painkillers. He knew you brought Benny as the buffer, the safety net because you sensed that distance he’d established, even if neither of you spoke of it.

For Will to claim you adored him, though, was a stretch. Probably he just didn’t pay enough attention to how you interacted with Santi, who shrugged in response as Will glanced toward his phone. “Frankie’s just picked her up from the spa, they’ll be here in ten.”

The kitchen had been sparsely decorated for your birthday on purpose. He glanced around now, smiling to himself over the Office theme—brown, silver and black balloons only partially inflated, with a banner hanging off the kitchen island that said ‘It is your birthday'. He hoped you liked it.

He told the other’s not to mention it was his idea.

“Where the fuck is Redfly?” Benny asked before taking out his phone to check his messages, “He was supposed to be here by now with the cake.”

Santi snorted, “He’s definitely flirting with the owner-he can’t help himself, since Molly left.”

“No shit,” Benny agreed, sending Tom a text to hurry up. “He’s such a dick, not sure how he’s getting so lucky all the time.”

Will slapped Benny on the shoulder, laughing, “He’s just handsome enough to get away with it, like Pope here.” His friend's blue eyes, two identical pairs, landed on Santi as they smirked and he rolled his eyes.

“I’m clearly the romantic of our group,” He snarked, and they all laughed before the sound of a truck pulling in the driveway caught their attention. Santi went to the front door and peeked out; it was Tom, who had now jumped out of the truck and was grabbing the cake from the front passenger seat.

Santi opened the door, “Cutting it close, Red.”

Tom hurried toward him, “Sorry, I know. The baker, Sasha? She’s cute. I got her number.” He grinned at Santi, who stepped aside to let him in the door, biting back his amusement.

—

At its inception, your nickname came from your brothers in a teasing attempt at cruelty when you were kids. Over the years, though, it became more of a term of endearment that was warm and affectionate, used by anyone lucky enough to call you a friend. The youngest Miller, you both did and did not look like your brothers in that funny way siblings could.

The nickname did not accurately describe you physically, nor was it ever the intention of it. If Santi could call you anything, it would be divine. He thinks you’d be considered mid-sized, as you were short but curvy in the best sort of way. You had wide hips and a full chest, your ample cleavage always accentuated, never hidden. You knew how to dress to flaunt your curves, and he admires you for, as you’d once said to him, ‘saying fuck you to typical beauty standards’ and accepting yourself for what you were.

Curvy, plus-sized, mid-sized, whatever. Fuck if every inch of you didn’t turn Santi on, if your confidence didn’t shatter him when you laughed over someone calling you fat. Like fat was a bad word, as if being anything other than skinny as a woman was a crime. You were beautiful, just as you were, whether you were dressed fashionably or more casual like tonight.

He would never understand how anyone could look at you and think that you were anything short of divine.

You were wearing high-waisted, light wash jeans tonight with one of Benny’s old shirts that you’d cropped shorter so that when you stood he could see a sliver of skin, your round ass perfectly highlighted. Santi was actively working not to stare, as you bent over across from him, passing Frankie an ice pack with a sad little frown.

Benny had wanted to yell ‘surprise!’ When you arrived home with Frankie twenty minutes before, despite the fact you knew they were all there for your birthday. He’d successfully managed to scare the ever-loving shit out of you, and they’d all laughed pretty hard when you jumped backwards, the top of your head colliding with Frankie’s chin in the process.

The thing about you was you had this big heart that always came first, over your own needs. So Frankie being mildly injured was now your main focus, even as Fish waved you away with a smile.

“Jesus Christ, Little, you know I’ve been in live combat, right?” He chuckled, pressing the ice pack to his chin carefully.

You plopped down on the couch next to Frankie, eyes wide with worry, “I know, all of you are very tough men—still, I’m so sorry—”

“Little, stop babying Frankie,” Benny called as he walked in from the backyard, where he, Tom and Will had been setting up the patio table with food. “Come on, foods ready honey.”

While the others thought your worrying was sweet, Santi sometimes found himself wondering why you got so worked up over such little things. He didn’t necessarily think there was a sinister reason for it, but he was curious what had occurred in your life to turn you into such a people pleaser.

You sat next to Benny at dinner, the six of you all crowded around the table. It was packed with all the best parts of a barbecue, right down to the potato salad. The conversation flowed, your brothers taking turns to talk about some of the highlight birthday parties growing up while you giggled. Eventually, Benny, Tom and Will started to talk about the upcoming fight Benny was training for, and you leaned toward Santi and Frankie to chat with them.

Santi knew you hated that your brother was a fighter. You supported him without question, but it took its toll on you. So even though you went to every fight, you otherwise tried to ignore the existence of the sport in your life.

“Santi,” You smiled warmly at him from across the table, then gestured around, “Thank you for this, the theme. I know it was your idea, you’re the only one who appreciates The Office as much as me!”

Frankie chuckled as Santi gazed at you in surprise, momentarily caught off guard as you revealed you knew he’d suggested the theme. “Oh,” He cleared his throat, took a swig of his beer, “No problem, Little. Turns out it’s a pretty inexpensive way to decorate.”

You giggled, loudly, and Santi couldn’t help but smile. He shouldn’t smile so wide, but as he does yours grows too, and his heart stutters in his chest.

Your phone dings, then, and you glance down to check your texts. Frankie arches an eyebrow at Santi, eyes sparking knowingly. He tries to shoot him a look back that says, shut the fuck up. It surprises them both when you give a small grunt of dismay, and Frankie leans closer to you from his spot next to you at the end of the table, brows furrowed.

“What’s up, Little?”

When you look up from your phone, your head turns sharply to the left, your expression fiery as you look directly to where Tom sat. “You son of a bitch,” You hissed, effectively cutting off their conversation. Santi shifts in his seat, eyes locked on you in concern, and you hold your phone up, “What the fuck is wrong with you, Tom?”

When Santi glanced toward his friend, he was surprised to see a flash of understanding and regret cross over his face. Tom cleared his throat awkwardly, “I-sorry, Little, what—”

“You slept with my friend Chloe and pre-booked an Uber to pick her up, Tom, really?” You seethed, tucking your phone back into your pocket, “She said you were a total dick—what gives you the right? Huh?”

From across the table, Santi could see your brothers exchange annoyed looks, he could sense Frankie’s irritation and he could just tell Tom was about to open his mouth and fuck things up even worse. Without thinking, Santi launched into action to make sure things didn’t devolve into chaos. “Tom, with me, now.” He barked, standing abruptly from the table.

Tom complied, quickly setting down his drink before standing, making his way towards the house. The idiot stopped, though, when he reached your end of the table, “I’m sorry, Little. It’s not a reflection of how I feel about you—she was just...”

You glared up at him harshly, “Sure feels like it, Tom. Fuck off.”

Santi grabbed his arm and dragged Tom into the house, eyes flicking back to where you sat at the table, your face scrunched in anger. Will and Frankie were already surrounding you, while Benny was hot on his tail.

When he came through the back door, Santi already had Tom halfway to the front door. “Fuck, I didn’t think Chloe would say anything.” He grumbled bitterly.

Benny bristled, “Dude, the fuck were you thinking?” He shoved Tom’s arm, his eyes wide and angry. Santi let go of Tom to instead move to Benny, a hand landing on his shoulder to keep him from hitting their idiot friend.

“He wasn’t thinking,” Santi gave Tom a pointed look, “Go home. Give her a few days to cool off. And do fucking better, Tom.”

With a frown, Tom nodded before briskly walking out the door. Santi watched him get into his truck, turning away once he’d pulled out of the driveway. Benny was glaring out the window, his arms crossed over his chest, displaying all the anger Santi felt but refused to show—it would give him away.

He had wanted to follow Tom outside and punch him right in the jaw, for making you angry.

“He’s always thinking about himself,” Benny growled, shaking his head, “Little gave him Chloe’s number because she’s a good hairstylist, for fucks sakes.”

“Let’s just go back out and try and relax,” Santi started toward the back door, his internal battle waging hard enough that his chest felt tight, “We’ll deal with him later.”

When they emerged from the house, they saw the table had been abandoned and Will had started on the bonfire as you watched from your spot on the outdoor couch, where you had curled up. Frankie was handing you a beer and smiled tentatively at Santi and Benny as they approached.

“You okay, honey?” Benny drawled, brushing his hand over your face gently as he walked past you to take a seat on a lounge chair. You nodded, your lips curling up though you made no reply.

Santi couldn’t stand the storm he had swirling within, so he relented on his need to keep you at a distance, just slightly, by sitting down next to you on the couch. He kept a polite space between you and him, and if you were surprised by his action you said nothing.

“I’m going to beat his ass, Little,” Benny announced, before launching into a rant about Tom and his selfishness. Will and Frankie ended up joining in, swapping stories that Santi thinks were meant to make you laugh, to show you that he’d always been a complete asshole, but you still seemed lost in thought.

He leaned slightly closer to you, “What do you need, Princesa?”

It rolled off of his tongue like honey, coming out without thought. Santi watched as your gaze snapped up from the fire to meet his, eyes wide and a small smile appearing. You shrugged, “Why do men—?”

Santi interjected softly, “That’s all you have to say,” You tilted your head, confused, “Why do men? That’s the question. In this case, Tom is newly divorced, broke and acting like a goddamn teenager. We’ll all make sure he regrets disrespecting you and your friend.”

“I know,” You sighed, twisting so that you faced Santi more directly, “I guess I forget, sometimes, having brothers like Will and Benny, that men can be awful. Especially since I haven’t been dating for a while.”

Santi chose to ignore this new information, not wishing to overthink why you were taking a break from dating.

He grinned instead, “Come on, five guy friends, a few of us are bound to be bad eggs.”

You pushed at his arm playfully, “Just one bad egg, in this group, Santi.” Your smile now was broader, genuine, and Santi could feel his rage all but diminish. You were happy again, which was all the mattered to him—it was, after all, your birthday.

“Ah, Little, it’s alright. I can admit I’m a bad egg.”

“No,” You reached out and squeezed his arm, your eyes locked on his, “No Santi, you’re one of the best.” You stated it like a fact, genuine and warm enough his heartbeat harder in response.

You were such a sweetheart.

God, he knew he’d just ruin you.

Not in a sexual way, either. In that sense, he’s sure you’d actually ruin him—he’d never be satisfied by anything or anyone again if he was ever with you. No, Santi would ruin you differently; he’d strip away those layers of joy and sweetness if he showed you his darkness; if he allowed his shadows to block out your light. That you could smile and laugh so freely was a gift none of the rest of them had any longer, not after everything they’d been through, everything they had done.

Arm's length, because then you were safe. Burden free. Even if he spent every miserable day of his life loving you from that distance.

—

Fight Night

He saw you again a few days later, at fight night. You’d all carpooled together to the fight, sans Tom, who had the good grace to stay away for a bit longer. Will was driving and Frankie sat in the passenger seat because he got vertigo sitting in the back. You had to sit between Benny and Santi, your thighs pressed to theirs in the back of the truck cab. You were quiet the whole way, though this wasn’t unexpected.

It wasn’t unexpected because you’d always been quiet and worried on fight nights. But also, it didn’t come as a surprise to Santi because you had told him. After your birthday, you started to text him. You had each other’s numbers, of course, had exchanged a few in the past, but this was the first time it was for something outside of directions or advising that one of you was on their way. It started with a thank you text, which Santi shot back that there was really no need to thank him, and it spiralled from there.

It was a steady conversation for nearly three days, all of it light and casual but still—he had a chat with you now. You were sending each other memes. You told Santi you were nervous about the fight, and he’d told you everything would be fine and he’d be right there with you the whole time.

He told himself it was alright since it was just texts. Just innocent messages. Really though, what was he thinking? One minute he was congratulating himself for hiding his feelings from you, the next he was taking the smallest bit of connection to you and fucking running with it. All because you told him you thought he was one of the best.

After tonight, he resolved as he passed Frankie his beer and scooted along the bench to sit next to you, he would slow down the messages. You’d be calmer once the fight was over, and wouldn’t need him as much anyway, so it would be easy enough. Santi had relented somewhat these past few days, now he needed to tighten things back up, get himself under control.

“You sure you don’t want anything, Little?” He asked you, drawing you from your thoughts as you gazed down at the ring, your brothers talking in one corner during a timeout. The fight had been pretty even so far, unfortunately, so Benny had taken a few hits.

“I don’t have an appetite, not after seeing the opponent.”

You were biting at your lower lip, leaning slightly forward so that when Santi glanced down at you, he could see the delicate line of your ample cleavage pressed up. You wore your hair down, had on a simple white tank top tucked into loose-fitting linen pants, and looked utterly perfect, even despite the pinch between your brows. A fleeting desire to smooth his thumb over the lines there made him look away.

Frankie dropped an arm around your shoulders, “Benny’s got this, right Pope?

“Without a doubt,” Santi agreed, smiling when you dropped your head into your hands with a sigh. “Head up, they’re starting again.”

It was close, but Benny won. You were a mess between Frankie and Santi, jumping to your feet when the final hold came on, hands pressed to your mouth until Benny was declared. When you launched yourself into Santi, you caught him so off guard he could only catch you, keeping you steady before you just as quickly pulled away and hurried past Frankie to run down to the ring.

Frankie smirked, “You’re blushing, man.”

“Fuck off,” Santi murmured, eyes following you as you wove through the crowd to your brothers. Will hugged you, but Benny was covered in blood and opted to squeeze your hand, grinning at you widely in his cocky way. “I’ll go meet her, you coming?”

“Nah, need the can. See you at the truck.” He waved, walking off with the crowd as it ebbed out of the arena. Santi walked down the stairs you had, but he had to stop near the bottom to wait for a gap.

He glanced up, searching for you in the crowd and finding you walking away from your brothers, hand raised in farewell. They were swallowed up by the fight officials. Santi kept his eyes on you, waiting for you to reach him. You were halfway toward him when a man walked by you, another fighter by the looks of him, and spoke something to you that Santi couldn’t hear over the noise of the crowd and the music pumping through the arena.

He didn’t need to hear, however, because your reaction told him everything. You flinched at first, your head turning to look for the source and then you were glaring up at the man, who kept talking—his eyes were on your chest. His brows wriggling suggestively.

Santi was moving toward you now, that rage that always seemed to simmer just below the surface quickly boiling up. In no time, he was at your side, grunting as he shoved past the man, locking an arm around your shoulders and urging you away. He heard himself say, “There you are, let’s get out of the crowd!” And you let him lead you up the stairs; he felt your gaze turn toward him a few times, but Santi didn’t look at you. He was afraid you would see the anger, the burning rage that was begging him to turn around and deck the fucker. Rip him limb from limb for even just looking at you the way he did, shoot him in the fucking head.

Santi was darkness and shadows. He couldn’t let you see.

He led you outside before releasing his hold, dropping his arm and slowing down. “You okay?”

You walked along with Santi, moving in the direction of the truck, “Fine,” You reached out then, took hold of Santi’s hand, “Thanks—he was just being gross.”

Santi shook his head, “Don’t thank me, whatever he said was out of line. Some two pump chump who gets a kick out of talking down to beautiful women.”

You paused, your hand still softly holding his, and glanced up at Santi with a small smile, “Beautiful women, eh?” Santi’s stomach dropped, realizing what he’d said. You shook your head after a moment, your smile no longer meeting your pretty eyes, “He was making comments about my tits, anyway. That’s usually what happens.”

Santi didn’t like the way you shrugged, the edge to your words. You dropped his hand, and he frowned down at you, “Hey if he wasn’t twice my size with working knees I’d have laid him out. What do you mean, it’s what usually happens?”

He’d noticed men check you out before, of course. Nights out at the bar, it happened often, their lingering gazes, though he couldn’t say where they specifically looked because he always had to calm himself down when he’d notice, force himself not to react.

You peered up at Santi, gestured towards your chest, “Men only see these, most of the time. And the moment I don’t show interest, they just move on by insulting me. I’m used to it.”

“Jesus, Little, that’s not right. You don’t deserve to be treated that way—”

You sighed heavily, drawing a hand across your face, “Don’t do that, Santi.”

Santi stared at you in surprise, “Do what, Little?”

“Pep talk me like I’m a teenager. I know I deserve a man who’ll worship every inch of me,” You crossed your arms, your wide eyes burning into Santi’s, “Turns out, a lot of men like to fuck bigger girls but the whole relationship thing isn’t on the table. I’m sick of everything in my life being about how I look.”

Santi stepped closer to you, confusion sweeping through him, “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to pep talk. I’m no good at being nice, so just tell me what I can do. Tell me what you mean,” He glanced around, grateful that your brothers nor Frankie appeared to be coming out of the arena yet. “What’s wrong, Princesa?”

Your eyes fluttered shut briefly at his words, your lower lip drawing between your teeth as you seemed to consider your reply. “I—I had a run-in, with one of my brother’s flings last week. Benny was out and Will was in the shower and she saw me and made a joke about how the ‘other Miller brother liked his girls bigger,’ and when I said I was their sister she laughed in my face and basically said, oh, of course, I was,” Your voice lowered, eyes cast down as you spoke, “It’s happened before, too. I don’t look like the kind of women you all pick up at the bar, and most of the time that doesn’t matter to me but I feel like I’m not even safe in my own home anymore.”

Santi breathed out your name softly, raised one hand to tentatively grasp your arm—though he wished he could tug you into his, he resisted. “Don’t compare yourself to some chick that gets picked up at the bar. There isn’t a single thing wrong with the way you look, Little, you’re fucking perfect,” Santi let his eyes drop over your figure briefly, before meeting yours again, “I know you know that. Your confidence is enviable, that’s why that fling said what she did—she can’t look at herself and think the way you do, so she puts you down.”

“I know, Santi, but it’s hard not to listen. It’s hard not to compare when I see...” You trailed off with a huff, and he rubbed his thumb across the skin of your arm gently, attempting to soothe you.

“You should tell Benny and Will to cut bringing their dates home.” He suggested, though you immediately shook your head in response.

“I can’t,” You sighed, “It’s not what I want if I’m being honest. Living with them was only supposed to be temporary, a year at the most.”

Santi nodded, grateful to be back into territory he could cope with. He’d already said too much, trying to comfort you. “You want to move out?” He could understand that, the need for space and freedom.

“Yeah,” You looked up at Santi again, and he could see how tired you were. “I don’t want to upset them, and I can’t really afford to get a place on my own anyway. But I’ve been thinking about it. I just feel like such a kid, living in my old bedroom, with my big brothers who constantly baby me...”

You trailed off, beginning to walk again and Santi followed you, silent as you approached the truck and leaned against the side of it. He stood next to you, let his arm brush against yours. He wished he could do more, take away your stress and make you smile again, but he didn’t know how.

Santi had never been the best at comforting words. His mind stirred with thoughts of soothing you by laying you down in the back of the truck, shucking off your pants and kissing your thighs. Licking you until you were a puddle for him, bringing you over the edge again and again. He’d make sure to hold up to his ridiculous nickname, make you see whatever the fuck you wanted, make you scream for more.

He had to shake his head, his voice low when he spoke next.

“What can I do, Princesa?”

Another soft sigh, “I don’t know Santi,” You smiled, glancing up at him with a teasing look, “Got an extra room?”

Santi stared back at you—he could see that you were joking. He could easily laugh it off, try to help you come up with another solution. He could have even changed the subject entirely. Instead, after a pause in which your brows furrowed curiously, he nodded his head.

“You know I do, Little. And it’s yours if you want it.”

He had finally lost all sense, a voice in the back of his mind screamed. But when you started to really smile, your entire face brightening, and your hands shot out to grip his arm, he found it all too easy to ignore the alarms sounding in his mind.

“Seriously? I can pay you rent, pitch in on cleaning and everything,” You were practically bouncing with excitement, and Santi couldn’t help but laugh as he nodded, “Santi, thank you!” You threw your arms around his neck then, drawing your body against his as you squeaked excitedly.

As Santi held you close, he found it hard to breathe, his heart thumping happily while his brain shouted at him to take it back, to keep you at arm's length. Instead, he pressed a soft kiss to the top of your head and soothed a hand down your back.

“Anything for you, Princesa.” He whispered, quiet enough that he hoped you didn’t hear.

Shit, he’d fucked up now.