#pacoxreader

•It took weeks for Paco to open up when you first met him. He didn’t trust easily—too many betrayals, too much pain, but once he did, he was all in.

•Paco was dangerous, but with you, he was a shield. Walking through the barrio with his arm slung over your shoulder, no one dared look your way unless they wanted trouble.

•You and him always found peace within each others presence

You found Paco splayed across the couch, staring out the window, lost in his thoughts. You sat beside him. Slowly, he shifted, making room for you to lean against him. Without a word, his arm wrapped around your shoulder, pulling you close.

The silence was peaceful. His thumb brushed over your arm, a silent acknowledgment of how much he cared without needing to say it.

•Paco always made made sure everyone knew you were his, the way his arm would slide around your waist when someone stared too long. He didn’t have to say much. Just one look, and everyone knew not to mess with you. He wasn’t just guarding you, he was claiming you. Loyalty wasn’t just a word to him; it was the foundation of how he loved.

•The second you and Paco had made it official, he started to bring you around his friends. And you were quickly integrated in, they saw you as one of them, the sister they never had.

Look who decided to show up!” Chuy called out with a laugh, elbowing Danny. “I thought you had her locked up at home, man!”

Paco rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a grin. “Nah, she can take care of herself, trust me.”

You slid into the booth next to Paco, and immediately, Danny, ever the joker, threw an arm around you like you were one of the guys. “Man, Paco’s whipped!” he teased, earning a laugh from the whole table. “You know he’s been like a damn puppy since she came around.”

Paco shot him a warning glare, but it was all in good fun. “Shut up, Danny. You’re just jealous ‘cause you don’t have someone to boss you around,” he shot back, laughing with his friends, intertwining your hand with his, bringing it up to kiss the back of your hand.

•When Paco left to the military you were relieved, but nonetheless devastated.

You remembered the way Paco looked the day he left. Rigid posture, buzzed hair, jaw locked. He barely said a word when he hugged you—just pulled you in so tight it hurt, his fingers trembling slightly at the base of your spine.

“I’ll write,” he murmured against your temple as he kissed you. “Please wait for me” he pleaded looking into your eyes with fear and devotion.

You nodded, fighting the lump in your throat. “I’m yours.” You promised

He pulled back, eyes meeting yours, fierce and vulnerable all at once. “I love you.”

And then he was gone.

•Letter would arrive in bunches, sometimes weeks late. Writing about his anger, his longing, his dreams for the future. Always signing each one with “Forever yours.”

You’d sleep in the clothes that he’d left behind, the scent of him slowly fading as time passed. Still, you waited.Because love like Paco’s didn’t die in the desert—it burned hotter than ever.

•Whenever Paco came back home, you would make the most of the little time you had together before he had to leave you again.

Making his favorite meals, spending time with his family. Sneaking away to quiet secluded spots, sharing a beer talking about your plans for your future, together.

You would take Polaroids together, and of each other, hoping that time would stand still. Staying up all night talking or dancing, (and more ;P) not wanting to waste any moment together. And when sleep finally caught up to you two, you would be wrapped in each other’s arms, at peace.

•You’d think it would get easier every time he left, but it never did.

You stood, wrapping your arms around him, holding on trying to keep him there with the strength of your grip alone. He held you even tighter, fierce, desperate.

When he finally pulled back, he kissed your forehead, your nose, your lips, like he was engraving it in his memory.

“I’ll come back to you,” he said. “Always.”

And then he was gone, boots echoing down the steps, leaving your heart half full and half breaking.

•By the time he had finished his time in the military. He made it his mission to marry you. You two had gone through thick and thin with each other. He wanted to grow old with you. He wanted forever.

• He had joined the LAPD, wanting to put a stop to the violence that he once lived by. Some nights, you’d find him sitting on the couch, quiet and thoughtful.

Paco didn’t say much when he came through the door—just tossed his keys on the table with more force than necessary and sat heavily on the couch, still in his uniform. His shoulders were stiff, arm wresting on the back of the couch, jaw clenched tight, like he was holding something in, like if he spoke it would all fall apart. You didn’t ask what happened. You didn’t need to. You could see it in the way he sat on the edge of the cushion.

You eased down beside him, sliding your hand on his leg until your hand settled over his chest. He didn’t move, but the hitch in his breath gave him away. You rested your cheek against the warm fabric of his sleeve, feeling the tension under his skin, the slow thud of his heartbeat beneath your palms. Giving him space to wrap his head around whatever he was thinking.

He finally let out a breath, shaky and uneven. “It’s like I’m always two steps away from becoming that same bastard I used to be, every step i take, im haunted by the past” he said, barely above a whisper. “… I don’t know if I’ve really changed, or if I’m just pretending.”

You gently turned his face toward you. “You’re not pretending,” you said, brushing your thumb over the scar on his brow. The one you knew he got long before he ever wore a badge. “You’re fighting every day. That’s more than most ever do.”

He leaned forward until his forehead rested against your shoulder. You wrapped your arms around him fully this time, fingers sliding up into his hair. He let himself go quiet in your arms, body slowly relaxing, piece by piece, like he could finally fall apart knowing you’d be there to hold what was left.

“I still see you,” he murmured after a while, voice low, raw. “Back at that busted-up party on Whittier... Remember? That night Smokey got jumped and I was bleeding from my eyebrow, talking shit like I wasn’t scared.”

You smiled faintly, your fingers brushing the nape of his neck, grounding him. “You were furious. Bleeding all over your shirt, swinging at anyone who looked at you wrong. But when you saw me, you just... stopped.”

He let out a quiet laugh, almost disbelieving. “You grabbed my face, told me to ‘shut the hell up’ and ‘let you clean me up before the cops came’.” His eyes lifted to meet yours now, softer than they had been all night. “You’ve always pulled me back. Even then.”

You leaned in, your lips brushing his temple, slow and warm. “you’ve always let me. Even when you didn’t know how.”

His hands came up to your waist, grounding himself in your touch. It was love aged like scars, layered with years of grief, loyalty, survival. “You’ve seen every version of me,” he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours. “The broken kid who thought dying young was the only way out. And now this...”

Your hands cupping his face like they had so many times before. “And I still choose you. Every time. Not because you’ve changed, but because you keep changing. And you let me change, too.”