🌷Rhiann🌷

Rain gently splatters against your window when your phone buzzes. A message from Esteban is short and sweet.

Estie Bestie: Marvel Movie Marathon. Your place or mine?

You smile already knowing this text would come. He's punctual about two things: race weekends and movie marathons.

You: My place. You still owe me popcorn for talking during Winter Soldier last year.

Estie Bestie: Rude. I was analyzing the fight choreography.

You: You were yelling “he’s so dramatic” every time Bucky flipped his hair.

Estie Bestie: Still counts. And don’t get me started on the motorcycle scene. How did he pull that off anyway???

You: because he’s Bucky he gets his magical powers from his hair.

Estie Bestie: still doesn’t explain how he did that

You: whatever dork. Just get here I’ll set everything up. Are you bringing the snacks?

Estie Bestie: lol see you soon. And yes I’ll bring the snacks.

You: You’re the best!

An hour later Esteban arrives with snacks somehow both healthy and absurdly specific on themed ones because he’s that person.

“Behold,” he says, presenting his haul like a magician. “Captain America shield cookies. Hulk guac. And,” he holds up a small bowl dramatically, “Mjolnir M&Ms.”

“You ordered customized M&M’s” you ask, already laughing.

“I take traditions seriously.”

He’s dressed in joggers and a soft grey hoodie that’s been washed too many times. It smells faintly like his cologne and somehow like your home, comforting and oddly soothing. You try not to notice the way he flops onto the couch like he’s done it a hundred times before like this is his spot. Like he belongs there.

Maybe it is.

And maybe he does.

The thought of him belonging in your life in any way other than friendship makes you feel a certain way, almost warm and fuzzy inside. He was Esteban, your best friend, someone who knew you better than you knew yourself, and yet you couldn’t stop yourself from wishing for more.

You weren’t sure how long you were zoned out until Esteban threw a throw pillow at you – hitting you in the face and snapping you out of your thoughts.

“Hey, are you coming or what?” He’s asked, patting the spot on the couch next to him.

Smiling, you walked over to the couch, grabbed a cookie, sat down, and turned on Disney Plus. He's half buried under a blanket, one hand absentmindedly reaching into the popcorn bowl that sits between you. You go to the Marvel section where you were about to throw on a movie – before you had the chance Esteban cuts in with a gentle hand on your wrist.

“Mon Dieu, qu'est-ce que tu crois faire?” He asks with wide eyes, clearly offended.

“Uhh playing a movie,” you respond with confusion laced in your voice.

Esteban gives you a look. “Excuse me? Skipping timeline order is cinematic blasphemy.”

“Oh, so we’re religious about Timeline order now?”

“You don’t mess with the sacred Timeline, everyone knows that,” he deadpans. “Also, I printed out the full list.”

“You what—?”

He hands you a neatly folded paper from his hoodie pocket.

“You’re insane,” you say fondly.

He grins. “And yet you keep inviting me over. Now put on Captain America the First Avenger.”

You pretend not to blush. He pretends not to notice.

Halfway through the movie, the snacks are almost gone and you’re yelling at the TV as if Steve, Bucky, and the Howling Commandos can hear you. It was the train scene where Bucky and Steve get separated from each other and you’re gripping a pillow like it might soften the blow.

“Don’t go near the edge, Bucky!” You shout sitting up straighter. “Come on Steve, you can get to him. Come on grab him.” You shout out in distress.

Next to you, Esteban just laughs, clearly enjoying your distress. “You’ve seen this, like, five times.”

“Which makes it worse!” you fire back. “I know what’s coming and I still think I can stop it if I yell loud enough.”

He grins, tossing a piece of popcorn at you. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re heartless.”

“I’m realistic,” he says, smirking as he shifts on the couch to stretch out. His thigh brushes yours under the blanket. You both freeze for the tiniest beat.

Neither of you moves.

The movie continues, but suddenly, you’re hyper-aware of the heat radiating off his leg, the way his arm is just barely pressed against yours. The blanket has started to slip again, and this time he doesn’t hesitate—he reaches over and pulls it up over your shoulders without saying a word.

You glance at him, catching the way his eyes are still focused on the screen, but his jaw is clenched just slightly—like he’s concentrating a little too hard.

“Are you okay?” You asked, placing a hand on his shoulder and gently rubbing your thumb against his shoulder in a soothing manner.

“Hmm yeah, I’m okay. This part of the movie always gets me,” Esteban says, giving you a small smile, his eyes twinkling in the dim lighting of your living room.

Your heart flutters.

Looking back at the tv you realize that it’s at the part where Steve is sitting in the destroyed bar looking at a picture of him and Bucky. He’d been crying which was understandable because he just lost his best friend for good.

“Yeah I know what you mean losing your best friend is never easy,” you say leaning into him just a little bit. The warmth of his body seeped into yours driving the butterflies in your stomach crazy.

Esteban doesn’t reply right away but you feel the way his body shifts, just slightly like he’s adjusting to your weight leaning into him and welcoming it.

You keep your gaze on the screen but you can feel his eyes flicker to you.

“Have you ever lost anyone like that?” He asks softly, his voice barely louder than the rain tapping against the window.

You pause. Your fingers are still resting lightly on his shoulder, and you realize you’ve been tracing slow, absentminded circles. You don’t stop.

“I have,” you answer after a moment, your voice just as quiet. “Different circumstances…we just kinda drifted apart. We outgrew each other. It happens.”

Esteban nods, and for a second, the movie is just background noise—just soft colors and broken heroes on a screen. What matters is the quiet, shared ache in your living room.

He exhales, almost like he’s been holding his breath. “It’s weird, right? How do these movies hit harder when you’re not expecting it?”

You look back at him with a faint smell on your face “No I don’t think it’s weird. I think it just means that you care.”

His mouth curves into something gentler and you see it in his profile how that tiny smile reaches his eyes. “Guess I do.”

The blanket slips again and this time you both move at the same to fix it. Your hands brush, fingers catching briefly before pulling back. He chuckles, a little awkward and a little shy.

“You're bad at blanket control,” he teases.

“You’re really warm,” you counter by bumping your shoulder against his. “It’s your fault I keep gravitating this way.”

“Oh.” He says mock-serious “So I’m the blanket hazard.”

“Yes,” you laugh. “Exactly that.”

But then neither of you says anything for a long moment. The laughter fades into a silence that isn’t uncomfortable—just charged. He’s looking at you now, really looking. And you… you don’t look away.

The flicker of light from the TV dances over his face highlighting the softness in his eyes, the way they search yours like he wants to say something and isn’t sure if he should.

“I like this,” he says finally. Quiet. Honest.

You swallow. “The movie?”

“No,” he says. His gaze drops to where your hand is still near his. “This. You. Here.”

Your heart feels like it might burst through your chest.

“I like it too,” you whisper.

And when you lean back into him again—this time resting your head on his shoulder—he doesn’t hesitate. He lets his arm fall naturally around you, pulling you just a little closer.

You both sit like that for the rest of the movie, wrapped in blanket warmth and unsaid feelings, hearts beating a little too loud beneath the quiet.

Shortly afterward the credits begin to roll. The music was that of the familiar Marvel hum but neither of you moves to stop it or play another movie. The remote is somewhere on the floor, forgotten. The popcorn bowl is empty, long forgotten so are the other snacks. All that’s left is the hum of the TV, the rain pattering outside, and the slow steady rhythm of Esteban’s breathing beside you.

You haven’t moved from the couch, curled slightly into his side beneath the blanket, your head resting lightly against his shoulder. His arm is still draped along the back of the couch, but at some point—maybe during the scene where Steve is talking to Peggy about that dance just before he crashed the plane, sacrificing himself for the lives of everyone else, or right after—his fingers started to play absentmindedly with the ends of your hair. You’re pretending not to notice.

He’s pretending not to be nervous about it.

“You okay?” He asks after a while, voice soft. The kind of soft that only comes after hours of comfort and laughter and shared silence.

You nod your head and your voice is muffled against his hoodie, “Yeah. Just sad again.”

“You always get quiet after that one.”

“It’s not fair.” You say and you know you sound tired and maybe a little silly, but you keep going. “Steve loses him. And then he loses everything.”

Esteban hums in agreement. “But he finds him again later.”

You lift your head just enough to look at him. “Not really. Not the same version.”

His expression shifts. Something flickers in his eyes—like he understands exactly what you mean.

He exhales slowly. “Still. I think… even broken pieces are better than losing someone completely.”

You blink.

That was deeper than you expected.

He must realize it too because he clears his throat, the tips of his ears turning just a little pink. “Anyway,” he says, glancing away, “we don’t have to watch The Winter Soldier next if you don’t want to. We can skip around. Do something lighter.”

You’re quiet for a second. Then: “I like watching them with you. Even the sad ones.”

He looks back at you then—looks. “Yeah?”

You nod. “It’s kind of our thing now.”

A small smile pulls at his lips. “It is, isn’t it?”

Your head drifts back to his shoulder, slower this time. Intentional.

“Yeah,” you murmur. “Wouldn’t want to do it with anyone else.”

And Esteban—sweet, thoughtful Esteban—turns his face just slightly. You feel the soft brush of his cheek against your hair, and then the lightest kiss pressed to the top of your head.

“Me neither.”

You pretend your heart isn’t doing cartwheels.

You both fall asleep like that—warm, close, wrapped in the soft glow of the screen and each other’s quiet company.

It’s the soft light of the early morning that wakes you. The pale golden sun filtered through the curtains, the room still quiet except for the distant hum of the city waking up.

And…breathing.

Not yours.

Warm and steady and way too close.

You blink slowly still heavy with sleep and you realize you're not on your couch – well you are but you're not alone.

Esteban is there. Close. Closer than you thought was possible.

His arm is draped over your waist, one leg tangled with yours under the blanket. Your head is tucked beneath his chin, pressed to his chest, his hoodie bunched up where your arm is curled around him, your hand underneath his hoodie. That must have happened sometime during the night.

You freeze. Not because it’s bad but because it’s dangerously good. His body is warm, solid, and relaxed as he belongs there like he always has.

You shift slightly testing how trapped you are and that’s when he stirs.

A groggy hum escapes him as he pulls you tighter, his hand instinctively smoothing over your side like he thinks you’re a pillow trying to escape.

You forget how to breathe.

Then he murmurs, half asleep, “Don’t go yet …it’s early.”

Your heart flips. Fully flips.

You stay.

Just for a moment until sleep envelopes you once again.

Eventually, Esteban blinks awake, eyelashes fluttering against your hair. He makes a small sound of confusion when he realizes exactly how close you are. And he goes very still.

“…Morning,” he says cautiously.

“…Morning,” you echo, barely above a whisper.

Neither of you moves.

Neither of you wants to be the first to.

Then he clears his throat, his voice still rough with sleep. “So… I guess we fell asleep. Like this.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Guess we did.”

He finally lifts his head enough to look down at you, his hair is messy sticking up in all directions and his eyes are soft and unsure.

“I didn’t mean to uh I hope this wasn't weird,” he says quietly.

“It’s not.” You say too fast. Then slower, more honest, “It’s not weird it's nice.”

His mouth quirks into the faintest smile. “Yeah.”

You nod.

And that’s when it hits you – his hand is still resting on your waist. Thumb brushing over the hem of your shirt without even realizing it.

He follows your gaze then pulls it away fast, “Right sorry,” his cheeks flush as he sits up, pushing a hand through his hair.

You miss his warmth immediately.

Sitting up and rubbing your eyes trying to play it cool even as your whole body hums with something unspoken.

Esteban stands stretching. “I uh…I’ll make coffee.”

You nod watching him disappear into the kitchen – hoodie wrinkled, socks mismatched, hair a disaster, and still the most beautiful thing you’ve seen in your living room.

You pull the blanket tighter around yourself and smile softly.