Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You stack all your weight into pulling the lever to raise Damson’s bike. It's still warm from the race, a contrast from the cool air in the workshop. It's only you and two other mechanics in the room, the place made scarce now that the event is over. The empty space allows the white light to really get under your eyelids. It raises glossy reflections off of the body of the bike, its blue breast and white wings. 

You and Damson have gotten closer in the run-up to the GP. You're his first pick to deal with his bike whenever it needs some TLC, or just scheduled checks. That trust came first, the rest came right after.

The man of the hour walks into the room, in the Stark suit that fits him like he was born in it, walking with even more confidence than his usual and a dazzling smile. 

“Hey winner.” 

He chuckles, greeting you with a tight hug. “Feels great.” 

“All good with her?” You point behind you at the bike. 

“Yeah, she’s well taken care of. Give her a good check though, she worked hard for this one.” He squeezes your shoulder, then tugs his glove off and reaches into a side pocket of his suit. “I couldn't really celebrate without you.” He presents you a card, with the name of his hotel on it. It's the nicest one in the city, glass and towering, all kitted with pools and spas. “I'll text when I'm done at the party tonight, come see me.” 

Gabri's bet won. You and Damson ended up talking alone at a team dinner two weeks ago. As soon as you mentioned you were unattached he pulled out all those smooth moves he had to tuck away before and talked you right into spending the night with him. 

You'd thought of Miguel the morning after, what he said. You haven't found it to be a problem that you work together, from that night you'd clearly defined it was casual, not feelings involved. 

It felt that way too, when you fucked. You gave each other a good time, he said the expected things, and one of you got dressed to bail by the end. Well, it's been 4 times so far, maybe too early to know the pattern is set in stone.

You didn't only think of Miguel the first time, and not only about his warning. You both knew at the lake house that no one would be like him. Damson knows what he's doing, he's worth your time, but there's this gap that fills with a longing for what you had.

You haven't come to regret anything that happened three months ago, but sometimes you wonder if you're better for it or if you'll always… want. 

“See you then. Go celebrate.” You pluck the key card from his hold to store in your pocket and pat him on the shoulder, sending him on his way. You're proud as hell. 

“Si señora.” He leaves you with another show stopping grin, walking out with a pep in his step. If you look at his ass as he goes, that's just your business.

You smile to yourself as you get your tools ready to dive into a full inspection. Just as you start though, hells click against the hard floor, into the workshop.

You turn to watch the team coordinator walk in, her shirt so white it’s a beacon under the light of the room. She's equipped with the clipboard and earpiece you never see her apart from, looking right at you. “Can I grab you for twenty minutes?” 

“I'm free after I'm done here.”

“We have a VIP asking for you. I can't really make them wait.” 

“What VIP?” VIP's are either really rich or really important. Usually both. You don't know any of them past a hello if you're walking by the booths. They see you in your white, blue and orange Stark suit and feel that they should greet you.

“He says he knows you personally. Let's go.” She's already strutting away. You have to abandon your workspace and almost jog to catch up. 

The control room in the Stark pit buzzes, people in suits like yours or crisp clothes heading here and there. Many smiling, some laughing. The spirit in the room after a win is always something special. 

It's as you exit the team wing that you realise.

No. 

It can't be him. 

But you only know one rich and important person personally.

Something like fear creeps up your nape as you wait for the elevator. It feels wrong. You weren't supposed to see him for at least a year. He isn't supposed to be real outside of the walls of that house. 

You decided a week after the trip, as you wondered what Miguel might be doing, that you couldn't ask Gabri about him. You've stuck to that, never being the one to bring him up. Sometimes he mentions him, something about a phone conversation or an old story he can tell now that you're in on it, and you listen. 

But you don't ask. You don't act like he's part of your life now that you're in the city. Outwardly, he's forgotten. 

Inwardly, you can't forget. 

Every VIP booth is sponsored by a company. You both pass banks, car manufacturers, giant retailers, and stop at the Stark Industries door. 

Fuck. You need more time. 

It isn't right that he's on the other side, that you're at work zipped into a uniform you know as well as skin up to your neck. This isn't how you're supposed to know each other. 

Your inner turmoil doesn't matter, the coordinator pushes the door open for you to enter and doesn't follow. 

Booth isn't the best word, like the other rooms this one is huge. It has a bar, round tables for those who don't care to watch the race or who now sit and drink, discussing nothing you have the capacity to care about. You pass them, walking cautiously, glancing at the long screen on the wall replaying a video of Damson celebrating his win. 

The back wall is lined with glass, a view down to the track with seats facing it. You can't force yourself to keep walking when you set eyes on him. 

Mythically tall, strong in the way he stands, unmistakably Miguel. 

The woman next to him notices a presence as he speaks to her, words too murmured for you to hear. She turns around and your stomach leaps because it's Pepper Potts. 

She calls your name. Your name. You've never spoken before, you've only seen her from a distance, and she knows your name. 

Miguel turns too. You don't know how to look at him as you slowly walk closer. 

He actually smiles a little, the corner of his mouth turning up. 

Oh, he's real. He's real and he's still unrealistically beautiful. The rediscovery of him hits heavy despite the relatively short amount of time you've spent apart. 

And between him and the CEO of Stark Industries you don't know how to breathe. 

“Hey. Good to see you.” He offers you his hand. 

You stare down at it, then up at his face. This is what dreams feel like. Otherworldly, incomprehensible, strange and impossible. 

Realising you must look insane, you quickly tear the velcro on your glove and tug it off to shake his hand, managing not to wince when you realise it's probably sweaty. He has a firm grip, but it's warm and comforting too. Maybe that's the way he's looking at you, like someone personal to him. 

Pepper shakes your hand next, just as firm but more curt than Miguel. “It's good to meet you. Great work to you and the team, we wouldn't have won without you all.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Miguel told me you fixed his bike.” 

“It was a vintage model too, not an easy fix. She got it done in two days.” 

Your face tingles at the praise, at who's saying it to who.

Pepper nods, impressed. “So we're lucky to have you.” She checks her phone and looks at you both with a pretty smile. She's pretty in general, she glows from within. “I have to run. I’d love if you could give Miguel a tour of the place, it's his first time at a GP.” She rests a hand on his arm. They must be friendly since he doesn't react to it. “I'll see you tomorrow.” 

That fast, she leaves you with him, her ponytail swaying behind her as she goes. 

When you turn back he's just looking at you, like he's refamiliarizing. It allows you to do the same. 

He's still honey glaze, still warm sunshine through an ornate window. He's clean, solid edges - a face that isn't young but isn't old either. It's perfect, still, just rough enough despite the clean shave, fine lines and defined cheeks. He has sunglasses perched on his head and he's dressed in a navy polo and black linen pants. There's a relaxed air to him too, like he's on vacation, though you doubt that. 

You're reminded, seeing his warm eyes, of all the ways he looked at you that said more than words. The insistence, the intensity, the intimacy and unrestrained desire. 

Suddenly, it all exists again. 

“Do you… want a tour?” You ask, your tongue too big for your mouth. You have to say something to distract you from the memories. 

“Please.” 

Jesus, his voice is the worst part. It's what's stuck to you the hardest. You still can't stop it from worming between your ears when you're trying to get some relief alone. It gets you there, it always does, but part of you wishes it could defeat him. 

You clear your throat, for no reason, and lead the way. He follows close behind quietly, which is entirely like him but you wish he wouldn't do. You're too aware of him in silence. 

“First GP.” You say. He hums confirmation. “What inspired you to come?” You slow your step to end up next to him, looking up at his expression. It doesn't change. 

“I'm in Valencia for a scientific innovation conference. When I realised this was happening in the same week, I thought I should finally come.” 

“And you're having a good time?” You push the down button at the elevator and lean on the wall. He's looking at you like there's nothing else worth it. Attempts to hold back a smile are unsuccessful.

“I am. How have you been?” 

“Good. I'm happy we're having such a great start to the season. You?” 

He thinks about his answer for a second. “Glad for the change of pace.” 

You stand next to each other in the elevator, almost shoulder to shoulder. You tug the zip at your neck down to get some air into it. You're hot all of a sudden.

When a real question that doesn't involve a heavy summary comes to you, it's so relieving you almost grin. An end to the new bout of silence. “Did you finish the bird house?” 

He smiles, again just the curl of one corner of his lips. You're staring, but he's just so good looking. “I did. It was a hit, when I wasn't nearby.” 

You chuckle. “You scare humans, imagine how the birds felt.” 

His brows draw down. “Is that spoken from experience?” 

“You haven't scared me, no.” 

“So why are you nervous?” 

You flinch this time, caught and unhappy about it. “I'm not nervous.” 

You are nervous. Because this isn't the lake house. This is your actual life and he's suddenly in it, barged through a brick wall. What are you supposed to do? How are you supposed to act? 

Thank god the elevator arrives and you can launch into an explanation of operations at the Stark pit. That's simple, the words flow naturally as you point out different things in the control room. 

You get looks, some from people you work closely with and others not. You bet half recognise him. They're probably wondering why the hell you're giving him a tour.

Something is strange about it, he seems genuinely interested as you show him what your team does in the workshop, listening closely, but it's not why he asked for you. You don't know why he asked for you. Does he really just want to know how you're doing? 

You both agreed that what you had ended when you left. What does this mean?

Maybe you're over thinking it. Maybe he just wanted to say hi. 

But that's not who he is. 

“You look… official.” He says after you've shown him everything, on the way back to the elevator. 

“You look like you're on vacation.” 

He huffs. You smile automatically, not forgetting what that means. “That would be nice.” 

“Not too late to start using PTO.” 

You expect him to say something about work that needs him or responsibility, but his eyes tick like he's considering the possibility for the first time. 

You don't know why you get into the elevator with him. He knows the rest of the way. 

You'll just walk him all the way back and say goodbye. 

“Are you seeing anyone?” 

The question shatters through the small space, brutally direct and so heavy. 

He did ask to see you for more than a hello.

You don't look at him. You don't dare. The tension in the space smells like that first time in his room when he made you cum four times. You crack each of your knuckles methodically, one after the other. “No. Are you?” 

“No.” 

The elevator ride is years longer than it should be. He doesn't get to his point for a beat, but you figure you know. He's bringing the thing that was supposed to be ended kicking and screaming back to life. 

“Do you have dinner plans?” He finally asks. 

You're so relieved he said something to fill the silence that it takes you a second to realise the words. 

Surely he's not asking you on a date. 

Either he is and it's the worst idea he's had, or he isn't and his small talk is terrible. You choose non response, staring at the elevator panel as the floors count up.

Turns out to be the right call. He continues forward with clarification. “I have a dinner with the Spanish division.” He reaches into his pocket and holds a card between you, the white and gold design fresh in your mind because it matches the one Damson just gave you. “If you want, go to my room. Order whatever you want from service. I should be back there around nine.” 

Okay. He's bringing it back.

An ill advised resurrection is better than a dinner date, at least. 

You could reject the card. You stare at it and tell yourself you could politely decline, let him go, spend the night with Damson and try not to think about him. Fail not to think about him.

But fuck, the opportunity is so good. Your gaze falls to his fingers, those fingers that have touched you in ways you can't and don't want to forget. 

You don't have regrets about the lake house. But this, if you pass it up, it could become regret. 

So, although it feels like smashing a dam to pieces, you take the card. 

You try. He doesn't let it go, looking at you sternly. “Order whatever you want. Understand? I know what you're like.” 

You nod, face warm at his tone. “Understood.” 

He releases the card. Yours now. Opportunity taken. 

The elevator arrives, the doors gliding open like they're presenting a new day. “209. I'll see you later angel.” 

With the hint of a smile, he walks out and leaves you where you're stuck. 

You stare down at the card in your hands until the doors shut, your heart beating loud enough for you to hear. 

You're afraid of what this could do to you. Now that you know that, you repeat a mantra. 

After this, it doesn't exist anymore. It doesn't exist anymore. 

You walk into the lobby of the nicest hotel in Valencia like you've done it a million times, stepping in strides, dressed in a matching black top and shorts set that looks something like the wealthy women you see walking around with designer sunglasses and bags. Classy. 

A lot was going through your head after Miguel. You put both key cards you have in the same pocket. They fell onto the bed when you pulled them out. It didn't remotely surprise you how easily you chose one man over the other. You told Damson over text that you started your period early. 

Miguel ruined you. You knew he would and you let him. 

The room numbers run opposite, you learn as you study the guide in the elevator. The 200 numbers are the second floor from the top. You fidget with the key cards in your hands as the numbers tick up and up, aware of your feet, of the weight of the bag on your shoulder, of the decision you've made. 

There's a dynamic now that there wasn't at the lake house. As untrue as it is, you were more equal. You were just two people in a house. 

This, the expensive hotel, the waiting in his room, it's an aggressive reminder of the reality of things. 

You don't know what to do with reality. You don't know if it's better or worse. The way you've made each other feel has always been the realest thing in the world, but it's everything around it that had a haze built by the quiet of the lake. 

And Gabri's not here. Is this more or less behind his back? 

He's been texting you about paint, asking you if he should go for a warm pale yellow or a slightly warmer pale yellow for an accent wall. You told him to go for the warmer one, it's more him. 

Now you're going to his brother's hotel room. 

How big will the lie get? You could have said it was a blip in time before. This isn't a blip in time anymore, this is a timeline. 

At the door, 209, you get the right card on the first try. The door beeps and unlocks, letting you into a room that's smaller than you expected but so nice. The dark wood reminds you of him, clean and crisp under a TV and around a queen mattress. There's a desk on the other side of the bed, then glass doors to a balcony. 

You haven't forgotten. His voice as he spoke on the phone, what you did, the t-shirt you still have and wear floating down. 

When you close the door behind you, you're flooded by silence. 

The inevitable decision. 

You kick off your sandals and study the room for your first move. It's nearly seven, you should probably eat soon, but you need to settle. Soundless steps take you across the cold floor to the balcony doors. It's better outside, you're accompanied by distant sounds of cars and birds. His room overlooks the three pools the hotel boasts. Your hotel has one, modest, and all the GP staff are staying there so it's as busy as a train station now that you all have time off before the next location. You brought your bikini with you, hoping to take advantage of these pools tomorrow morning. 

You settle on a chair for a few minutes, your arms around your folded legs as you stare at the endless blue sky. Valencia is having a last wave of heat before it's officially gone, before summer can't be held onto any longer. Maybe it's a sign that you are where you're supposed to be.

Maybe this thing belongs between the sheets of heat and sun. 

Fall will come, there's no stopping it. Then this is over, like the life of a leaf on a tree. 

That helps to quiet your body. You sigh and walk back into the cooler room, stopping at the counter to grab the menu next to a fancy black kettle. 

As Miguel insisted, you squash your natural urge to find the cheapest sounding thing and flop onto the bed to take in the menu for all its offerings. As you decide, you giggle a little at the worm of a thought that Miguel would make a good sugar daddy. A girl would be lucky, getting anything they want from him and sex that feels more like a reward for her. 

You know it's not about spending money for him, it's about being able to take care of you and doing it. But, you still feel like a small time girl with a big opportunity as you order over the phone, kicking your legs and asking for a bottle of wine - whichever is best. 

That one might be too far, but he did say whatever you want. That's on him. 

Now you wait, and you get nosy. Of course his suitcase is inside the wardrobe. Neat. He has two suits and what he was wearing earlier hung up perfectly, too perfect to touch more than the brush of your fingers.

It's fucking creepy, but you have to know - You lean in. The suits smell like professional pressing and detergent. His clothes from today smell a little like that too, but more like him. 

That smell. It opens up this weeping longing in your chest, more than any memories, because it's physical. It's him for real, not an afterimage. 

The food doesn't take long to arrive, delivered by a man in a spotless suit with a gold name tag. José. He wheels it in and removes the large metal cover to reveal your spread of octopus, potato gratin and cheesecake. It's stunning. 

He opens the wine for you, professionally pouring a glass and leaving the other empty when you tell him there's no need to fill it now. 

Once he leaves, you take a picture. It's pretty and it's novel. You can expense food during the tour so you could get room service if you want, but you always just go out to eat. Room service would be too much of an indulgence. 

Now, you indulge. You pull up the table to the end of the bed and switch on the TV. You're not sure exactly when it happened, but your nerves have gone down. Everything feels kind of fun now, exciting and different. 

Who would have thought you'd find Miguel again so soon? 

It was all weirdly easy. He was so smooth about it, sure like he's thought it all carefully through. 

Maybe he has. Maybe he's been thinking about you since he landed here. 

Maybe he could just do with a reliable fuck and you're getting carried away. 

It doesn't matter, in the end. You just have tonight. 

The Spanish soap on the TV is just accompanying noise as you eat and drink, approving of it all. You kind of want to know what Miguel would think of it, but it'd only get cold if you saved any. 

What you do save is the wine, finishing your glass in small sips as you try to pick up on what's happening in the show. It's good, the wine, warm and rich. It reminds you of someone you know. 

With your minor Spanish knowledge and visual queues, you figure out that the show is about a bunch of neighbours in the same apartment building. They're arguing about some new person that's moved in.

It's funny, even without the comprehension. You smile at certain tones and expressions the actors make as you sit back and digest dinner.

Your mother would tell you you'd choke, but you feel untouchable tonight, so you move the table aside and flop back on the bed with the cheesecake plate resting on your stomach, taking small forkfuls and savouring the flavour on your tongue. This is how you imagine bears feel after raiding a hive, pleased and lazy, gorging on the last honey on their paws before a celebratory nap. 

You're not quite in napping territory when the door beeps. You look away from the show you're way too engrossed in considering you barely know what's happening, to the bedside clock. Still twenty-one minutes until nine.

No matter, it opens and Miguel takes up the frame, walking in looking like a long workday with his jacket neatly over his arm, white shirt unbuttoned down three holes and neatly tucked into black slacks. 

He takes in the room, the empty plates stacked on the table, wine glasses, and you - thrown on the bed like an old rag with a half eaten cheesecake slice and surrounding fruit balanced on your belly. 

He smiles, less restrained than at the track. Gorgeous. “Full?” 

“I'm good. I was saving some until you came.” You stretch out your arm with the desert fork in it, an offering. 

He stops to tug off his shoes and takes the fork from you before the cake can fall off. His fingers touch yours just for a second, but an intensity comes with them, memories of touch, hard and soft. 

He nods when he tastes it. When you get the fork back you stick a raspberry and hand it back out. 

Miguel concedes to sitting down next to you and accepts it. “What did you eat?” 

“Octopus and potato and tomato gratin. It was good, I wish you could have tried it. What did you eat?” 

“A few different things. The highlight was the cachopo, and the muscle salad.” 

You nod, then remember the glasses on the table. “Have some wine.” 

He hesitates for a second, but still scoots closer to the table to refill your glass, then his. 

“How was the dinner in general?” 

“Good. This team doesn't usually need much help, they know what they're doing. It's more comfortable not needing a translator too.” He holds out your glass. “Congratulations.” 

You slide the plate onto your lap to sit up and accept the glass that looks so much smaller in his hand. He smiles warmly as you clink the glasses together, like he really is proud. 

He's the only person who makes you blush.

“Thank you. And thanks for dinner.” 

“I'm happy you liked it.” His eyes stay on you as he sips the wine. “You listened.” 

Something flutters inside you. You dampen it with a breath. “You know, you'd think you'd prefer people who don't listen. Don't you spend all day being listened to?” 

He thinks on that, picking up the fork to cut a piece out of the cake and stick it. It's oddly intimate, the feeling of the plate on your lap as he helps himself to the contents. How close he's sitting. You can see one grey lash in the row of brown ones over his left eye.

He offers the cake to you, the fork waiting in front of your mouth. You open it and close your lips on the metal when he guides it in. Your body can't decide if it's a cute gesture or foreplay. 

“I like it sometimes.” He says quietly, looking from your mouth to your eyes. “I like it more when people that don't have to listen to me for a pay check do.” 

You can hear your blood in the stillness of the room, rushing to all the places that need to be warm and ready for him. You've never stood a chance. 

He takes a piece of cake for himself. You consider licking it off of his tongue before he can swallow, but you don't. You stay exactly where you are. Breathe. 

“You're more like yourself now.” He comments, looking at the cake in thought, then up at you again. It's like he doesn't know how not to be intense. “Why were you nervous earlier?” 

“You caught me off guard.” You respond, drinking down some more wine. It feels good, settling. 

“Meaning?” 

Being so thorough isn't always a good trait. Wins come with losses. “I didn't think I'd see you again, for a year at least. I thought of it as a fact.” 

He straightens, a little. You wouldn't notice if you weren't so close. “Did you not want to see me?” 

“No. No, it's not that… just… This thing feels like a runaway train now that it's happening away from the lake house.” 

He seems to understand that, thank God. If you're together now what's to stop you from being together in another three months? What's to stop you from fucking every weekend? What would that do to you both? 

“This doesn't have to be anything. It's just nice to see you.” 

“You didn't come to the race and ask me to come here because you wanted to hang out, Miguel.” You tell him, looking him in the eye so he can see that you know where this is going, where it has been since you walked into the Stark booth.

“I didn't plan to ask you to come here. I just saw you and… I didn't forget your face, but seeing it again… in that uniform too. I stopped thinking.” 

You remember that, he mentioned it twice at the lake house, that he can't think when it comes to you. 

Something else makes you smirk though, amusement cutting through the weight of the moment. “You like a girl in uniform?” 

He huffs, smiling. “I like you in your uniform.” His smile mellows into something sure. “You're impressive, I hope you know that.” 

So much for not being nervous anymore. His praise and attention makes you want to hide and jump with joy at once. Wherever this warmth came from, it’s going to bring you to life or kill you, nothing in between. 

“That means a lot coming from you.” You manage to tell him, your voice small but mostly unshaken.

He smiles softly. You feel like you've seen more from him today than you might have during the whole lake house trip. The three months that have passed have felt so long, yet here you are close as you were, closer still. 

His fingers smooth over your hair, followed by a reverent gaze. They brush the curve of your ear and trace the gold hoop hanging from it. “How are you? Are you tired?” 

Sure, it's been a long day, longer than the day before. You've been tired since you woke up at 6am. With him touching you like he is though, looking at you like he is, exhaustion isn't at the forefront of your mind. 

So you shrug a shoulder. 

His hand falls heavy to your knee, instantly heating the skin there. “I meant what I said, if you want to sleep here that's all this needs to be.” 

You look back into his eyes and see that he means it. He doesn't want you to think that the key card or dinner are some kind of transaction. He wants you to make the choice. 

The choice was already made when you texted Damson. It's undeniable now, with the way his touch is making your heart thump in a call for him. “If we’re talking about needs, that's not what I need.” 

His gaze sharpens at your quiet words, clawing the air out of the room. The television just becomes light and colour against the side of his face. The sound of him placing down his glass is numb, almost unnoticeable since his gaze doesn't waver. “Tell me what you do need.” 

You take a last gulp of wine before the plunge, stretch over to set it on the table next to his, and take his hand in both of yours. It's so gentle, despite its size and weight. You bring it up to your lips, drawing his eyes there as his fingers touch your bottom lip. “I miss the way you kiss me. Here,” They drag at your lip when you guide them down, over your chest, down your stomach, making you shiver before they even reach between your legs. When they do, you don't have to guide him further. He tucks them between the mattress and your crotch, a good pressure that makes you bite your lip before you finish your sentence. “And here.” 

He looks back at your lips, then your eyes. You've seen him unsure and asking for permission, this isn't either of those things. You can't tell what he's thinking. 

It doesn't matter when he dives close to kiss you breathless. His other hand tightens around your nape and keeps your mouth locked to his. They move desperate and rushed, gliding lips, quick breath, cake sweet tongue. 

Your fingers tug at his buttons, prying them open unceremoniously until they stutter. You whimper at the feel of him curling his fingers into your centre. He takes advantage. His breath falls warm over your cheek before lips latch under your jaw, tongue tasting and teeth grazing. 

“What do you need?” You ask him, slipping your hands under the looser collar of his shirt, scraping nails at his back and feeling his body groan beneath it. 

“Just you.” He says, heavy and breathless like he's running free. 

You're mercy to his force, descended into the mattress as he kisses his way to the collar of your vest. 

He kneels up, making space to quickly work on the wooden buttons keeping your top closed. He's a vision above you, with swollen pupils, lips turned a little poppy red from your tint, his hair almost out of its place and shirt unbuttoned half way down, showing the thick hills and deep valleys of his chest. 

“Jesus Christ.” You sigh, just stunned at the sight of him. It distracts him, his eyes flicking up to yours in question after he opens the last button of your vest. “You're fucking beautiful.” 

That straight up throws him. He blinks at you like he isn't the man that was just eating you alive, like it's his first time being complemented in his life. 

“Don't look surprised. You know you are.” You yank at his shirt, bringing him close to you again so you can continue your work on the buttons. The second they're all undone he evades your hands, throwing your top open instead and nipping at the swell of your breast not covered by your bra. His hands tunnel under you to find the clasp and pinch it open so he can manhandle you out of the clothes. 

You moan beneath closed lips when he bites into your bared breast like he's hungered for it every day since he last had it, gripping onto your waist turned smaller by his hands. 

He sits up all of a sudden, looking at you like you offended him. Before you can ask he settles, sinking down to his elbow to kiss a trail across your cheek toward your mouth. “You were right.” He whispers against your lips. “I don't regret anything we did.” 

You're glad he feels the same, rewarding the shared information with a kiss and spreading your hands across his shoulders to edge his shirt open until it falls over one of them. 

“Except one thing.” 

You stop moving, looking at his eyes wondering what it is, if the guilt was too much for him. 

“I didn't get to hear you. So I don't want you to hold anything back tonight. You don't have to.” He returns your kiss before he's shifting back down your body to circle your nipple with his tongue. 

You weren't conscious that you were holding anything in, you're just so used to it being like that with him. 

But he's right, there's no one to hear. If they do, they're strangers. It doesn't matter. 

So when he sucks on your nipple with just the right pressure and pinches the other between fingers, you let yourself moan without biting your lip or swallowing it down. 

Your body stands alert like it expects somebody to burst through the door and catch you. 

No one comes. It's just the two of you. 

It's not that you happen to be in the same house or room, not that you're stealing time. It's just the two of you because you both want to be together. 

Wrong to think, but it's kind of romantic.

You're finally insistent enough for him to get off your boobs and get out of his shirt. The white fabric makes way for the tanned brown of his arms, as perplexingly thick as you remember them. 

Before he can move again you bring your hands to his stomach, following the outer line of his abs up to the rounds of his chest. He frowns and you laugh when you squeeze them. So worth it. They're the right place between soft and firm. “I've wanted to do that since the first time I saw these.” You confess, grinning as you trail your hands further up and cross fingers behind his neck.

He reaches out and squeezes your boobs in return. You laugh so hard your back arches off of the bed, his face just makes it worse, half way between confused and amused. 

While you're winding down he unbuttons your shorts to reveal panties that match your bra, black with lace trim. His arms shift and flex as he lowers to the spot, kissing under your belly button and tugging at the fabric when it gets a little stuck at your hips.

Once he slides your shorts down and you kick them off your feet, he settles between your legs again and bites at your waist. Sensitive there, you jolt and gasp. 

The look he gives you is evil up and down. He bites into your flesh harder. 

You're half way laughing and suffering, trying to kick at him to wipe the smile off his lips as he sucks hard on the spot. It tickles and it turns you on. 

Worse still, his fingers press at your clit, like he's doing some cruel experiment to see what will break you. You tug on his hair and try to close your legs at no avail, his body lies between them. “Miguel! Stop. My skin's gonna turn black.” You try to sound stern but the laughter between the words ruins it all. 

It takes a while for him to listen, releasing the hard pressure and rising again until he can kiss you deep, slipping his tongue against yours. “I hope so.” He says, rough like gravel but amused. 

Any response becomes a needy little whimper when he pushes your panties between your folds, playing his fingers there like there aren't consequences, like you won't climb on him and take what you need if he messes with you for too long. 

Who are you kidding? You're his.

A hand on your arm and waist, he easily flips you on to your front. He folds your arms behind your back and keeps the wrists together with one hand. You squirm when he exhales a breath behind your ear, when his lap slowly presses your ass into the bed. A trail of kisses start at the side of your neck, descending your shoulder and migrating to the centre of your back, all appreciative, like he's thanking you. “It's not normal to be this perfect angel.” He speaks into your skin, making you gasp when he sucks on one of your fingers. 

You want him to bite you again just to take the edge off, you're so wound up. 

You could tell him that, there's nothing stopping you. 

“Bite me.” 

It was that easy, his teeth dig into your side, just where your back curves into ass, just above your panties. You moan in a sigh, focusing on the pain to ride the pleasure, letting him work your panties down until they're bunched under the curve of your cheeks. 

He bites into the soft round of one of them next, making a satisfied sound and massaging the other in his paw. His thumb’s so close to where you want it. When you wriggle your hips it slips closer. 

“Settle.” He warns, before finding a place for his teeth at the top of your thigh. 

You moan at the sharp feeling so close to your cunt. “Please. Please.” You repeat like a prayer, hoping to god he'll listen. 

He doesn't. He keeps running his thumb next to where you need it, up and down in low agonising strokes. He doesn't even have a response, leaving you ignored. 

“Miguel.” You whine, sounding more desperate than you thought you had the capacity for. 

“You're just so quiet, I can't hear you.” He mutters, licking at the skin of your thigh and tugging your panties with his teeth. 

“Please.” You say, firm, loud, but still whiny. 

His mouth withdraws completely and his hands reposition on your hips to tug your ass against his lap. You gasp at the feeling of the hard curve of his cock between your cheeks, teasing friction where you need it.

Your back warms as he lays over it, his mouth brushing the skin behind your ear. You can't stop squirming, it's instinct now, pure need for your sobbing folds to be spread open. 

“Try again.” He orders, in a tone so rough you moan at it. Now that your wrists aren't held you find purchase on the sheets, stretching out for him. 

He withdraws, and as soon as you start to say please again a sharp pain makes the rest of the word come out in a yelp.

Miguel massages the point where he smacked you, big hand gripping the round flesh. Your pussy's cold and wet, needing him so bad your stomach is in three knots. 

“One more time.” 

You bite back a curse and rock on your knees, preparing to say the word knowing what'll come. 

It's exhilarating. 

“Pl-” He spanks you harder. Hard. You scream please loud enough it could be heard in the hallway, fisting the sheets and trying to breathe through an emerging sob. 

“Please.” You whisper, broken and wet, overwhelmed with the urge to cry. 

“Okay. Alright. Good girl.” 

You whimper as a kiss soothes the sting on your skin. His hands spread over your ass. You arch forward eagerly when you feel his breath over your dripping entrance. It tightens for him, pure anticipation. 

His tongue presses broad and firm between your folds, taking from your entrance and spreading your slick with his spit as he descends toward your clit. You moan when just the tip of his tongue touches it, jolting and clawing at the sheets. 

“You sound prettier than I could’ve imagined.” He tells you, the words making you shiver before he's pressing into you again, breathing heavy as he eats you from deep between your legs to your pulsing hole. His hand runs up your spine as his mouth makes graphic sounds within you, hungry and practiced. You whine as he pushes his tongue inside you, petting within your walls. The pressure closing in on your throat still hasn't gone away, the tinge at the corners of your eyes. 

When his tongue curves around you and flicks at your clit, the sob comes free like it was stolen. You bury your face into the sheets and push back onto his face for more, to let go all the way. He doesn't relent on your clit, playing it like an instrument he knows too well, giving your tears all the reason to pool between your lashes and drip onto the fabric under you. 

Like your ears weren't tuned to the moment until now, the sounds from your own mouth crackle to life. Sobbing and moaning, something a little twisted but a lot good. 

Like everything with him. 

He grips at you like you could disappear, fingers biting flesh, tongue drinking slick. Moans come from you in cries as you grow closer, closer, close to an orgasm at an intensity only he can bring from you.

Then he stops. “Is this what you missed?” 

“Yes! Fuck. I'm almost there. Please.” You shove yourself against his face, shivering at the slip of hot skin on skin. You're soaked.

“Has anyone been down on this pretty thing since I was?” He asks, caressing with his fingers. You jolt like he electrocuted you. 

To not answer, you give him the sweetest moan you can muster, drawn out and begging for him. He can't leave you like this, tight and grasping onto a cliff edge. 

“Have they?” 

“Does t-that matter right now?” You whine, still pushing. 

He holds your hips still, so easy for him with how much stronger he is. “They have.” He realises, voice low enough to vibrate through you. “And she still missed me?” 

“Yeah.” You admit in a pathetic whimper, just waiting for his will to be enacted, at his mercy.

“He didn't take care of you like I did.” It sounds like he feels sorry for you. He should, honestly. 

“You ruined me.” 

He flips you around, as easily as he got you on your front. He looks like a deity, towering and muscled, his hair mussed, just wearing slacks, strained at his crotch. “I ruined you?” 

The precipice of your orgasm turns a different kind of hot. You blink up at him, incredulous at the question. Of course he ruined you, he should know that, you knew that deep down from the moment you saw him. “Yes you ruined me. He isn't the same, no one is.” 

Your foot moves to push his thigh but he catches it, a tight grip on your ankle keeping it still.

 It's nothing to him, just a small swell of his bicep. “And what do you think you did to me?” 

“Sounds like we're even. Can I cum now?”

The intensity of his eyes explodes across his face, a raging fire as his jaw tightens and mouth twitches. You may have pissed him off. 

Why does that make your clit ache?

You yelp when he roughly drags you toward him. His hand snatches your neck, gripping it and tugging you until you're sat up, face to face with his gritted teeth and burning eyes. “That's how you ask? After you tell me you let another man have my pussy?” 

Like a response it pulses and warms, making new slick for him as he holds you captive by your neck. You should be focused on the air and blood he's taking from you, or the grunt that comes with every one of his breaths, you should be afraid. 

You aren't. You just want him more, because he's right. Your pussy does belong to him. Hearing him say it is like a call to arms. You need to be ambushed, won, overrun. You need his cock to spear you where you are, on your knees struggling for breath as he chokes you. 

“I didn't ‘ruin’ you. I made you mine.” He growls against your lips. “You can mess around with as many idiots as you want, they won't be me.” 

“I know.” Your voice breaks around the two words, tears blurring your vision. Nobody else makes you feel like this, exposed, insane, alive. 

Miguel doesn't say anything back. You blink quickly for the tears to wet your cheeks and see that the hard edge to his expression has softened into concern.

When his hand starts to loosen on your neck you desperately grab for it, keeping it where it is. “I remember the word.” You gasp, not wanting him to withdraw now, not when you're both clashing and entwining at once. 

His grip steadies, no longer afraid. “Yeah?” He looks into your eyes with a weight that could sink you to the bottom of the ocean. 

You nod, swallowing down another little sob. You think you needed to cry, it's been so long since you have. This is the best reason to, because he takes you apart like you're made of something only he knows.  

“Okay.” He exhales, lowering you down to the bed once more. You drink in air when he releases your neck and let your legs fall open. This is what you need. 

Miguel works open his pants and slides off the bed to pull them from his legs, revealing hard thighs you couldn't forget if you tried. His underwear goes next, the black fabric tugged down with no teasing or performance. The hair over his hard shaft is cut shorter, neat. It makes him look even bigger, you don't know how it ever fit.

It fit because it was always meant to, you think as he excuses himself to the bathroom. If soulmates for sex are real, he's yours. It'll fit because you're his. 

He returns with a fist around his cock, rolling on protection you almost want to tell him not to use. 

But no, you both may have said and done things that aren't smart but if there's anything to be smart about it's this.

Your heart speeds up as he climbs over you, completely naked and completely stunning. His arm braces next to your shoulder, his other one keeping his cock down. “Let me give you what you need.” He assures, so gently you feel calmer, tapping the head of him just above your clit. 

A sigh falls from his lips as he teases his cock between your folds, slipping through them easily. Your legs hook behind his, drawing yourself closer, close enough he has no choice but to push it in - just the head. He curses while you sigh a moan. Finally.

“Could never get my fist tight enough to be like you.” He mutters, a passing comment as he works himself in further. 

Your mouth falls open at the feeling and the image of him jerking himself off trying to recreate what you gave him and failing every time. 

It's been the same for you. No amount of fingers or accessing memories or fucking another guy have felt like this, like the way he splits you open and makes it feel like a gift. 

You both groan when he's in to the hilt, bound to your heat. His forehead drops to your shoulder, bracing on it for an anchor as he centres, or restrains himself.

You strongly suspect he hasn't been with anyone since you, by the way the raised vein in his arm strains like he's already holding off of exploding. And what he said, by the lake. He doesn't do this. 

He didn't. Then you walked into his house. 

You whimper when he draws back, gasp his name when he pushes back in. He remembers how to angle immediately, playing on that spot that sends sharp waves of pleasure up your spine. You moan every time he thrusts in, because it feels good and you can. 

Things like guilt and logic don't exist when your body is arranged around his cock. Just him. Just him and his rough breaths and his hand gripping your thigh. 

He collapses onto his elbow with such a force you expect to hear the bed snap. Nose to nose, mouth to mouth, you take every strangled breath he has to give you as he fucks into you fast and firm.

Your breasts rise and fall, nipples dragging on his chest, like his cock and the brush of your clit on its short hair isn't enough. 

It's all enough, more than enough. You know that well now that you know what after him is, a pursuit for a little more, a little more Miguel. 

You realise you're chanting his name into his mouth, between incoherent words. He adjusts his grip on your thigh and slams harder. 

It's all loud, the clap of his hips against yours, the squelch when you join together, the creak of the bed, his grunts, your calls for him. 

“Love the way you say my name.” He grunts. “Perfect.” 

He pushes up until he's just on his knees, grips your hips in both hands, and pounds. He slams into you so hard you scream. Sparks explode within you, shocked and excited. 

“Scream my name.” He orders, voice dark as he looks down at you with eyes almost red they're so possessed by lust.  

He pulls your hips into him as he slams again, making you vibrate from your innermost organs. You scream his name, but it's not enough. He wants- “More.”. “Again.” 

Your legs ache. Your body trembles and leaks, from your eyes and cunt. He doesn't get tired or slow down, he keeps punishing, darkly satisfied at the sound of your loud high pitched chants of his name. 

His thumb nests between your folds, right on your clit, and those sparks do explode. They light you up with euphoria, bursting from your seams as you bend and snap, gushing warm around his shaft. 

That's the time you don't manage to say his name. It's just a scream loud enough someone might think you're being killed

You are, in a way. You don't think you're alive once the climax sinks into a dull buzz.

Thankfully Miguel has slowed to a rolling pace. You don't think you'd physically be able to handle more of that thundering power. Not yet. 

His hand soothes up your stomach, dampening the tremble. He's satisfied in a soft, tired way. Proud. 

You're not unfamiliar with that, your family are generous with their pride when it comes to you, but this feels different. It is different.

“Do you need a break?” 

You shake your head. “Just… go easy.” 

He huffs affectionately. “I can do that. I got you angel.” 

He closes the miles of space between you, laying over you so you're flush to each other, skin stuck to skin. He's warm and comfortable, something to wrap your arms around and nuzzle into. You inhale him, deep and slow, dig your fingers into his skin and remind yourself that he's real. 

“You can ask me for whatever you want.” He whispers against your cheek, making you mewl with the graceful way he rolls into you and eases out. “You deserve it.” 

No one makes you feel as small and delicate as he does. No one could make you like it like him. You want to hold onto him and never let go, let him carry you through the world. 

“Would you wait for me? Even though I didn't wait for you?” You ask him, tiny and broken, holding on to the sides of his head as he kisses your neck. 

“You don't have to ask for that.” He reaches up to kiss your lips gently. “I was always going to wait for you.” 

None of it should mean anything. It should just be words within the heat of the moment. 

You don't know why a new tear streaks out of the corner of your eye. 

Miguel kisses the drop away, then withdraws just enough to look at you. “Let's get you to cum again so I can do it with you.” 

It doesn't take him long, he knows how to play you. He knows to suck in your breast hard and circle your clit soft. He knows how to angle your hips. He knows which praise to brand into your skin, how to make you feel worthy of him.

When it crests it hits hard and soft. Your nails claw at his arms, hips twitch and snap. You say his name gently, the warmth floods and rises. It's easy. It's perfect. 

It puts you to sleep, curled into his side with his arm as a pillow. Small, but his. 

You come around to light streaming onto your face, to a tightness in your stomach and a hot mouth at your shoulder, tasting your skin. 

Miguel has you caged to him like a kid with a stuffed toy as a lifeline. You stretch your legs, feel your hair stand on end, sink into the almost excessive heat. “Hungry?” You mumble, smiling at your joke. 

He chuckles, rough and rich like delectable chocolate. “Very.” He pinches flesh between his teeth, making you twitch. 

You can feel the presence of him inside, the space remade just for him. And his hands, the ghost of them gripping your waist and thighs.

And the very current press of his cock against your ass. 

“Rest a little more.” He says, kissing your shoulder with finality before he peels away.

You turn onto your back, growing cold as you watch him stand there typing something on his phone, his expression neutral like he isn't naked with his cock almost at full mast, the big thing pointing menacingly at you. Attractively. 

“You got somewhere to be?” 

“Unfortunately. I have a meeting downstairs.” He puts his phone down and combs his hair back. It doesn't quite sit right, disturbed by sleep. 

“Look at you.” You struggle onto your knees and navigate to the edge of the bed. He's curious until your hand rests on his hip, trying to pull him toward you but meeting resistance. 

“It's okay. I got it. We'll be here for hours otherwise.” He pries your hand away and squeezes the fingers affectionately. 

Then he turns his back, on the way to the bathroom. 

This time is limited. It's almost up.

“Can I shower with you?” 

He stops at the door, thinking for a second, then he looks over his shoulder and nods. You bound over like an over excited dog, sliding past him in the bathroom before he can change his mind. 

“I would have cancelled.” He says before he turns on the water, keeping his hand under it to check the temperature. 

Like at the lake house. 

“But?” 

He smiles at you like you're the only person in the world. He always does. “I need something to get me away from you or I'll spend the whole day here.” 

“You say that like it's a bad thing.” You smirk over your shoulder at him as you step in first, given the green light that the water’s good. 

It is good. The right amount of warm. Of course. 

He steps in close to you, towering, a vision as water darkens his hair and rolls down his shoulders. “Greed is a sin isn't it?” 

“You're not above sins.”

He seems to like that you got him there, his smile pleased. You take the opportunity to step close, to be pressed against him and throw your arms over his shoulders. He doesn't lean down, so you kiss where you can reach, the line of his collar bone, the round of his shoulder. 

He accepts the attention, his hand caressing your hip with appreciation but no intention. 

You turn to squint beyond the glass, examining the shapes of items on the counter. Two orange packets. 

He's already warning you with a look when you turn back to him. It goes ignored, you opt to draw circles next to his nape instead. “If you fuck me one more time… I might not need someone else to tide me over until I see you again.” 

That does something. His expression hardens. His hand stills on your hip. “You don't need anyone else regardless.” 

“Even if it's a year?” You blink up at him, trying to leverage all assets, hoping the visual of water running down and between your breasts tempts him. 

“If it is, you can wait.” He responds, stern. He does also look down at your chest for a beat.

It's silly, but you pull out a pout, make your eyes all big needy. “Please?” 

He groans, runs a hand down his face. The second he starts to nod you slide the shower door open and stretch for a condom.

You're a fucking magician.

“A quick one.” He says as you courteously roll the condom on for him, blocking the water with your body. You smile at the little twitch of his shaft at the contact. “You familiar with that?”

You raise a brow at him. “Are you?”

He scoffs like you're being outlandish, when he's the one that turns sex into a six part special event. 

But then he presses you to the wall and hoists your legs around his waist, smashing his lips to yours with no preamble. You're trapped, breath stolen from you, body shaking when his cock catches between your folds. 

He rearranges his hold so he can guide himself into you, made easy by the night before and new slick and your wide legs. 

“Getting me addicted to this.” He groans, settling all the way inside you. 

When you're well positioned, curled between him and the wall, he starts to saw in and out of you. 

“So good.” You respond in a moan. How can either of you not be addicted to the feeling? 

His hands grip you to bruise as he fucks you, the sounds drowned by shower water. You're wet and wailing, nails digging into his shoulders as he thrusts in relentlessly, fast now.

It should be impossible but he's deeper, held by the hand with gravity. He's nudging your spot and cervix, making something overwhelming build up like lightning. 

“Close already?” He rasps, smirking against your neck. “I think I know this little body too well.” 

Something about him calling you little makes your eyes fly open and a moan get caught in a gasp. You almost cum, your walls choking him for a moment. It's a false alarm, but the real thing isn't far.

“Wait for me pretty girl. Wait for me.” He whispers against your lips, his thrusts turning shallower, wetter. 

The nickname burns at your core. You try to keep it together, stay focused, wait.

You know you don't have much longer. You need to think outside the box. 

“You're so big - fuck. Miguel.” You save your moan for his name, making it sweet and desperate. 

He moans in response, rough and low as he fucks into you fast, barely bottoming out before he's drawing back. 

Talking is more his strength than yours. He's more easily broken in other ways. You need something sure, because your head is clouding over and that sweet pressure has already been making a home inside you.

You grip his hair in a fist and pull it back to bare his neck, then bite it. You clamp your teeth hard at the curve of it, harder than you've ever braved to. 

It's all chaos from there, his hands slip their hold on you and barely recover in time, he slams into you and locks up, cumming with a shout, and as he pulses within your walls, yours pulse around him, your orgasm set alight by victory and relief to finally let go. 

Neither of you make a move for a while, you just catch your breaths, heads resting against the wall. You doubt you could even stand up to shower after that. It feels like the earth isn't on straight. 

Eventually he manages to draw back, sucking in a breath. 

“Oh shit.” 

He follows your gaze, trying to see where you're looking. Two of your teeth broke skin, there's blood beading at the marks. 

He can't see there, so he touches his fingers to the area and actually smiles when he sees blood on them. “You're welcome.” 

Right, a reward. A trophy. A job well done. 

The job was well fucking done, to be fair. 

“It doesn't hurt?” 

“It's just fine.” He assures, kissing you on the lips before he carefully draws out. 

While he's throwing out the condom you lean heavily on the wall and study his back, the red marks at the top of it, short and tracking different paths. 

You're kind of violent in the way you fuck, you realise. You haven't been like that with other people. You wonder as the blood washes away from the mark of your teeth on him why you're both like this, what makes it feel so good. 

You suppose what matters is that you found each other. 

Without you needing to tell him he's turned you soft and useless, he helps you soap up and rinse off, hands that gripped and choked turned gentle. 

You know the ache in your chest as he drapes a towel over your shoulders in the quiet bathroom is that you'll miss him. You missed him. 

He taps your chin with his thumb, a small gesture that weighs, and leaves you in the bathroom to get changed. 

When you're done he's on his phone again, texting dressed in an open white shirt and black boxers. You imagine his mornings are typically like this, already working before he's even dressed for it. 

“Do you think I can use the pool?” You squat at your bag to pull out a blue bikini and easy white dress. 

“Of course. Have breakfast too. Hold on to that key card.” 

“Will you have time to eat?” 

“At some point.” 

You toss your things on the bed and take off your towel. He's buttoning his shirt with the skill of someone who does it every day, more interested in looking at you. 

“Grab an apple or something at least.”

You step into your bikini bottoms, then notice yourself in the mirror across the room. 

Your fingers fly to the purple blotch at your side, then you look down at yourself, examining everything, finding faint teeth marks inside your thigh.  

Closer to the mirror you can see the littering of red marks too, fingers, teeth, light suction. You look attacked. 

“I can't go outside like this.” 

“You can. I think you should, actually.” He says, nodding to himself once like he's signing you off before he turns away to get socks. 

“You’d like that wouldn't you?” You mutter under your breath, putting on your top. You'll just keep the dress on. 

“Speak up.” 

“Nothing.” You tell him too sweetly, tying your top tight around your chest. 

He hums, tucking his shirt into his pants. It looks like something’s on his mind, otherwise he’d probably make you repeat yourself. 

He steps around you to use the mirror, neatening the tuck around his waist. “I said some things last night.” 

You step behind him to help even the puckers of his shirt he can't see, waiting to find out where he's going. The silence isn't so comfortable anymore.

“Just… don't let me, or anything I say, stop you from doing anything you want to do. Do you get what I'm saying?” 

You look past his arm at his face in the mirror, not that you need that confirmation to know what he means. What you do in your own lives is yours. You have no real claim over each other. 

As empty as that feels. 

“Yeah. Same to you.” 

He nods to you. Understanding. “Alright.” 

“Alright.” You step aside when his shirt looks as perfect as he is. 

You appreciate that he doesn't check your work, that he trusts you. When he turns it's to take hold of the back of your head and kiss you quickly on the forehead. “Thank you.” 

While you button your dress he flips his collar and runs a forest green tie under it. There's such a beauty to him getting ready, more than the final result. This is the side of him you feel like you know, that you get to know. Once he's suited he belongs to everyone else. 

He makes his tie easily, achieving a professional knot in what seems like two movements while you fix your hair. 

With that done, there's little left. You fold your other clothes and pack them away, make sure you have the key card, and take a final sip of last night's abandoned wine before you have to face a second goodbye. 

Miguel's already waiting for it, stood with a hand on his hip watching you with a ghost of a smile. “You look nice.” 

You think you do, the colour of the bikini suits you and the white dress is pretty without trying hard. Easy, natural. 

He's a different category completely, looking so crisp and cut. His slacks are a dark grey that looks way better on him than the hanger. His tie just teases his waistline too, centred between the expanse of white fabric over those broad shoulders. “You too.” 

He closes the distance between you, looking you up and down like he wants to be sure he remembers once you're gone. “Thank you for seeing me angel. You have no idea how grateful I am.” His fingers trace your hairline where it curves behind your ear. You shiver a little at the feeling, you can't help it. 

Rather than parrot the same thing back to him, you stretch up and press a kiss on his lips that spells that gratitude. 

You're not sure if he even notices it, but his mouth chases yours for a second when you draw back, not wanting to be apart. 

You get that. You really do.

“I'll see you.” You tell him, remembering his last words at the lake house. 

He remembers too, smiling. “I'll see you.” 

With that, you adjust your bag on your shoulder and step away from his heat.

Gone with summer. 

You open the door still looking at him, still taking him in during this private slice you've cut for yourselves. 

Then you have to turn, but you get to keep the warmth of his expression with you as you leave down the hall, hearing the door click closed. 

You know your head will be a mess for days, weeks maybe, but eventually you'll be able to see him as he is, something for you in the times away from real life, in the quiet houses and European cities. 

You head to the pool first, preferring not to be bloated from endless breakfast in front of all the rich people on their deck chairs reading finance magazines and self help books. None of them even glance as you pass. Must mean you don't stand out much. 

It isn't busy, so you pick a chair and flop down. You should have brought a towel, but it'll get hot enough to fry an egg on the street when the morning passes, you'll dry soon enough. 

Before you get too relaxed, you squint at your phone for anything of note. You got some messages last night.

Damson: :( 

Damson: Some other time yeah? 

Damson: Hope you're doing ok x 

And some just ten minutes ago. 

Gabriella: You were right 

Gabriella: [photo]

You load Gabri's picture, him standing in an empty room painted the warm warm pale yellow, grinning with paint streaked on his cheek and all over his jeans. 

You: Suits you perfect princess 

You'd be there with him inhaling paint fumes if you were in the city.

Gabriella: Sniffing paint ain't the same without you 

He texts back like he's inside your head. 

God, you hope he never is, the things he’d find out about his brother would scar him. 

It's too nice to spend more time on your phone. You slip it into your bag and just relax, lying back, getting kind of sleepy. 

You can't wait for the first opportunity to sleep for 15 hours. 

The morning breeze gets burned away by the sun eventually, prime time to take a dip. The plan is, throw off the dress and immediately get into the pool before anyone can see Miguel's attempt to eat you alive.

You can't really hold that against him, you bit him so hard he bled. 

The absurdity of that makes you smile. 

Once enough people seem like they're minding their own business, you push yourself up and manoeuvre out of your dress. No time to waste, you head to the edge of the pool and test the water. Cold. 

Probably what you need to wake you up to a life without the best sex in the world. 

You're about to take a dive, then something changes in the air. Not a smell or a different wind direction. Something else. 

You turn around to look for it, whatever it is, and find your answer.

A gaze directly on you, unwavering, warm even under the shadows of the building. 

Miguel, staring as he walks a step ahead of a woman half his height, the poor girl taking three steps for one of his but like she's used to it, like it's all she's ever done. She looks good, her pink glasses suit her short hair, she's wearing a cream dress with short sleeves that's corporate but fashionable. 

Whatever she's saying to Miguel doesn't seem like it's being heard. You watch him watch you, watch everything behind that look, all the moans and confessions and soft moments. 

I'll see you.

He raises a red apple to his lips, and his jaw locks around another bite.

Chapter Text

“Big things coming.” 

“Big things coming Hobie. I'll see you next week.” You leave him with a wave to reunite with your bike, tired after hours of dancing and standing in heels. 

A bunch of the guys; Hobie, Gwen and other musicians, opened a club before the new year.  Live music and community, that's what it was set out to be and what it has been. You promised to come every Friday, get the numbers up and support your friends, and you don't regret that months later. It's fun. 

You go with Gabri a lot, and times like today on your own. He's wiped from on-site visits all week. You've met so many cool people with layered stories, and great dancers. You were okay before, could keep a rhythm, but now you actually get props from the pros on bachata night. All thanks to them. 

Gabri says the new hobby means you're both old. You don't think that matters. You are old and it is fun. 

And it isn't over yet, you get to tear through the streets, quiet as far as Brooklyn goes. Your engine hums, glad to not be stuck in traffic as you shoot down the wide street.

Well, until you get stuck at a light half way through your journey, in a busier part of town too. You wait up front with three or four cars, still thinking about the jazz band today, until you hear something acutely familiar. 

Another bike pulls up next to yours. Your bike. The same make, same model, even same colourway. It’s less common than the solid colours, rarer. You only have it because you’re well connected. 

The driver nods, a dip of his helmet as is customary, especially in a circumstance like this. 

You nod back. If you were parked you'd ask him what his story is, how he came to choose that particular V4, other than good taste. 

There's something about him. You look down at his thigh against the body, thick and clothed in black slacks like he's coming from a work thing, then the weight of his arm. 

He looks back at you, either because you're staring or because he's realising the same thing you are. 

You flick your visor up.

His hands loosen their grip as he sits straighter. He recognises you.

“Miguel?” 

He flicks his visor up. Not that he needed to. 

“I thought that was you.” You're shouting, but who knows if he can hear over the engine sounds and helmet. 

People start to lay on their horns. The light is green. 

But he keeps staring, like he needs the moment to last. 

It has been… more than six months since Valencia. 

The horns keep blaring, some people drive around you. You don't even think to hit the gas though, you watch him back, waiting to see what he'll do. 

This moment was given. You wouldn't waste it. 

He looks ahead and points to an empty parking space between two cars further down the street. You nod and flick your visor back down, shooting off before the light turns red again. 

When you tuck into the space, leaving room for him, you brace a foot on the road and pull your helmet off. God hoping your makeup isn't smudged and your hair disastrous. 

He does the same when he's stationary. He's still him; bronze, sharp, beautiful. 

“How long have you had this bike?” 

He sets the helmet on his leg. “A few years.” 

“All this time. This is why we get along.” 

He chuckles at that. What a good sound, you forgot how good it was. “How are you?” 

“Good. I'm just coming from my friends club, always a good time.”

He studies the length of you where it straddles the bike, your leather jacket, your best jeans, black leather heeled boot.

“What about you? What are you doing out past your bedtime?”

He cuts his eyes with no real heat. “Friends birthday.” 

“Ooh.” 

“Jess.” He retorts, like that name is supposed to mean something to you. “She's my right hand.” 

“I bet she is.” 

The teasing is so worth the flustered look he's wrestling to hide. “Are you drunk?” 

“No, just happy to see you.” You really are. You never had hope for something like this, running into him in the big apple. It’s called that for a reason, endless space, millions of people. 

All that, and he pulls up next to you at a red light. 

His expression mellows during the passing of a car, it’s headlights washing his face in light that’s too stark for his warmth. You missed that look, like you're the only person in the world. “It's good to see you too.” 

An encounter like this can't slip between your fingers. You won't let him say ‘I'll see you’ and leave again. “I'm five minutes from here if you want a drink or something. I have wine and spirits.” You show him your prettiest smile, hoping to seal the deal. 

You may not have needed it. He nods without even thinking about it first. 

“Excellent. Don't lose me.” Your helmet snuffs the smirk on your lips. 

Let's see if he's worthy of the bike. 

You're still in New York City, you're not about to get a ticket for popping a wheelie or shattering the speed limit, but you set off fast, giving him an exhilarating pace to keep. 

To his credit, he doesn't struggle with it. You can see him in your mirrors, swerving between cars when you do, gaining speed to drive next to you when the road is clear. 

The bike is sexy as it is, but with him on it, all broad and leaning in and out of its movements… you'd fuck him on it. 

You haven't been with anyone since Valencia. Damson was busy and frankly you weren't bothered to find the time, you and Miguel can say you didn't mean your words all you want, but they were true. It's just not enough, not quite what he is. 

And it turned out great, you learned the version of you that doesn't need a man in her life for companionship or entertainment. She might be the best one, she's fun and free. She has time for her friends and hobbies. She's making money and may soon become a property owner. 

Your landlord is looking into selling your apartment, apparently 4 of them are too hard to manage. You got a promotion a few months ago, you're deputy chief of your team and you can actually afford to buy your place, make it yours.  

It's your home, you've put a lot of attention and care into it, and with pride you invite Miguel inside. 

He looks around the open space, the blue couch, your cabinet of little glass sculptures you collect when you travel, the eggshell walls and ornate glass coffee table you thrifted at the edge of the city by some miracle. 

“You like glass.” He observes. He sounds approving. 

“Sure do.” As if it's a punchline you slide open the glass door to the kitchen. It isn't so glassy, more your standard light marble counters, white walls and grey tiles.

“Gabri finds this all boring.” 

“Every room at his place is a different colour.” Miguel says, wondering in after you. By his tone you know what he's saying, different people, different tastes. 

“Difference between him and I is that he's alive inside.” You tap your chest then gesture to the shelf with a neat row of alcohol options. “What can I get you?” 

“Bailey's with ice, if that's not too much trouble.” 

You shake your head, taking the bottle down and shaking it before cracking the seal. “What's your décor like?” 

“More boring than yours. It's not my strong suit.” 

“The lake house is beautiful, don't be humble.” Ice cracks loud out of the tray you're bending. You throw a generous amount into two glasses.

He smiles coyly. “It came with the furniture." 

“And the bike?” 

“You'll laugh if I tell you.” 

“Perfect.” You gesture for him to go on. 

He sighs, but lets it out. “I hired a professional in Italy to find me ten motorbikes that were nice, but not ridiculous, with the best engineering, that could carry my weight. I picked the Ducati out of the line-up the second I heard the engine.” 

“Stunning isn't it? Sounds like it's oiled with butter.” You hand him his glass. “Also yeah, that's the most ‘I have too much money’ thing you've ever said.” 

He nods, forced to agree because it is. “Thank you.” 

You invite him to sit on the couch and turn on your speaker to play some music in the background, to pad inevitable silences. 

“So your friend has a club?” 

“Yeah, live music and dancing. I'm there every week.” 

He peers at you over his glass. “You must be good at dancing then.” 

“You could say that.” 

“My mama put me in classes when she realised I had no rhythm at fifteen. Apparently I couldn't be the family’s shame.” 

You laugh at that, you can just hear her telling him off and sending him to class with his tail between his legs. “Smart. Does it come naturally to you now?” 

“You could say that.” He has the same expression you did, like he's being humble but exposing something he's proud of. 

“Time to find out.” You decide, grabbing your phone. You put on Sway and set down both your drinks to stand up to offer him a hand. 

He laughs a little, like he can't believe this is happening, and accepts your offering. Before you start you pull your arms out of your jacket and toss it on the couch. It draws his eyes to your tube top, to the line it cuts at the top of your boobs. 

As good as he looks in his brown leather jacket, when he shrugs it off you start to forget what you're doing and where you are. Like a taunt, the first two buttons of his navy Henley lie open, teasing a strip of skin you need to taste before the sun comes up. It isn't tight or loose, it fits like it was made for him, curving around his chest and arms. Something inside you flutters at the way the sleeves are pushed half way up his forearms, straining around thick muscle, revealing caramel skin and long brown hairs all traveling in one neat direction. 

His watch catches the light when he offers you his hand. Was it always so large? How are you already forgetting? 

Time may have passed, but he holds you against him like it's been none at all, close and comfortable, a hand resting easily on the small of your back. 

It takes you a minute to remember how to move, faced with the familiar warmth of his body. All instincts tell you to just melt into it, to open wide and accept him. 

But then you do, and he guides your steps, in and out, side to side. He doesn't allow you space to roll your hips, you can only do it right against his leg. It's not the kind of dancing you could do in public, not without everyone and their mom thinking you either have fucked or are about to. 

Dancing can be fun, uniting, bonding, and it can also be this - suggestive, connecting, once body accepting another. 

He spins you out and you strike a pose, something you try to make fierce but can't help laughing at the end of. 

When you gesture to him he strikes a pose too, an impressive turn of his hips and follow through of shoulders. He starts laughing with you, eyes creasing at the corners and pretty teeth on show. 

You've seen him laugh at things he finds funny, or unbelievable. You've never seen him laugh because he's having a good time. It throws you, in a good way. You haven't forgotten much, the things Gabri said about how Miguel grew up stick with you. Laughing out of fun or happiness can't be common for him. 

You're the lucky witness.

He closes the space between you, taking your hand and back as he dips into a deep chuckle. 

That breaks the ice you didn't even know was frosting in the corners of the room, you're one with him as you both step and roll, keeping pace with the tempo. 

The song winds down, so you both slow, swaying in a square of steps. He keeps you so close you can feel every one of his breaths. Your neck aches looking up at him. 

It's worth it, for the intimate attention of those warm brown eyes. Nothing feels like them, like the emotions they've shown you and things they've seen. 

He ends things off with a graceful dip, sending you back and catching you to come back up. 

Your leg brushes against something. You’re fairly sure it’s not his phone in his pocket. His smile freezes on his face. 

He doesn't let go of you, but he straightens up and clears his throat. “Sorry.” 

Still, he wants you. It turns your blood from a simmer to a boil how much he wants you. 

You may not be drunk, but you’re something - happy, buzzed, carefree, careless. Rules, consequences, they aren’t real. They can’t stop you.

An impulsive climbing job, you hook one leg around him and pull yourself up, arms anchored behind his neck. He grunts when you kiss him, between clashing of teeth. A perfect sound. 

“So you're not seeing anyone.” You state more than ask, tapping your fingers against his back, smiling at the answer you know you'll get. 

His response comes not with words but the crushing pressure of his arms around your waist. He hoists you up and kisses you back just as fiercely as you did him, maybe more. You can't breathe or move or think. 

The Baileys on both your tongues becomes sweeter when they mix. Miguel's hand grabs at your latent leg and pulls it up so they both hug his waist.

“Missed this.” He says in a breath when your mouths separate, rasping and focused entirely on every inch of you he can see.

You just nod and kiss him again, plunging your fingers into his hair. You missed him too, or, what you have.

The first month after Valencia was bad. Everyday you thought of him in some way. At first it was whenever you saw the marks he left on your body, the ones you grew so dear to that you have pictures of them. 

With time, the bitch, those fade. What you had next was birds, then apples, then his brother. They have the same smile, he and Gabri.

After that first month, a second of random triggers making you wonder how he was doing or check his name on Google news came and went. 

Now it's just about Spring, and you've been kept busy with the new title, new hobby and getting your finances in order. He became something quiet in the background, something you could still see if you looked in the right direction but didn't pull you away.  

You know why he hasn't offered you his number, it's the same reason you haven't offered yours. Do you really miss each other that much if you don't cross that line though? 

But he didn't say he missed you, he said he missed this. This, the drag of his teeth on your earlobe, the clink of your earring, the sink of his fingers under your thighs, your fingers gripping too hard onto him, shared breaths, push and pull, arousal. 

You're melting, you don't know where he starts and the way he makes you feel ends. It's scary how much his touch is the only one that's worth it. What if you meet someone? What would you do faced with Miguel in a room alone? Could they be enough for you to release your grip on his back? Could anyone ever be enough? 

A sharp tug of his teeth on your bottom lip brings you out of your head. “There she is.” He whispers, taking your mouth in a long, deep kiss. 

You're jostled in his hold as he walks back to the couch and sits with you in his lap. He kisses your jaw, your neck, keeps dotting a trail to your shoulder. His hand warms your arm in a stroke, raising it to rest on his shoulder so he can keep marking you with his lips down the length of your bicep. He looks so passionate about it, his brows drawn in, attention nowhere else, teeth nipping and tongue tasting like he can't help himself. 

You don't know what's going on with you, why now of all times, now that you've been most detached from him, you're thinking things you shouldn't be thinking. You're wondering how he treats a woman he loves, if this is how he treats you. 

“You smell great.” He mutters into your skin, before licking a stripe over your inner wrist. 

It's so good, good enough to shiver. You cup his cheek in your palm and just stare for a second. What would he do for you? 

What wouldn't he do? 

He traps the meat of your thumb in his teeth, flashing one of those canines you've thought about entirely too much. 

“It's the sweat from dancing, you freak.” It’s the opposite of accusatory, coming out more like an affectionate whisper.

He chuckles, releases your hand and runs his up your sides, disturbing the folds of your top where it's stretched around you.

Like a slow dance, you play your fingers over his bottom lip, and he dips his under the elastic of your top, stretching it open and exposing you until it's a band around your middle. 

Like a parallel to earlier, his hands splay on your back and tip you back until he can reach your breasts with his mouth, planting a chaste kiss between them. 

It surprises you still, how gentle and attentive he is by nature. Anything hard has been a response to what he's seen that you need. 

This, his nature, isn't what you need. You can feel it in your chest, too heavy, too warm, too close. 

Before he can latch on to your nipple you shuffle out of his lap and settle on your knees on the floor between his legs. He’s caught off guard but doesn't say anything as you work open his slacks and slide the zip down. 

He's a lot to manoeuvre, but very much worth the tugging and careful handling. Inexplicably his cock is so pretty yet incredibly masculine. You run your fingers up the thick length, remembering the skin and vein that runs raised on the underside. His lap shifts as your light touch climbs further up. You test pressure in different areas, your middle fingers on the side, pinkie along the top, thumb under the shining head. His response has you smiling, the way he's not too proud to grunt and choke the back of your couch with his fingers. 

Your tongue darts out to catch the drip of precum about to fall, salty and him. Just from the small lick his head starts to tip back, exposing the corded column of his neck. So pretty, yet so masculine.  

Watching him all the way, you open your mouth and lean in to take the head between your lips, sucking it out of your mouth slowly. 

He manages to watch you for about a second before he has to drop his head back on the couch. 

This reminds you of your mood before you started asking too-big questions. It's fun. This is a night of fun. No need for that to change. 

So you make it fun, you relax onto your knees and tease with your tongue, running circles and lining stripes, tasting the parts you haven't had a chance to before. He makes an incredible strangled sound when you wet the delicate skin between his balls and shaft. 

You try not to smile too much at how worked up he is, after letting you treat him like a popsicle enjoyed under the shade of a tree on a hot summer's day. His legs won't decide how wide they want to sit, coming closer to you and shifting further. If you weren't so into it you'd worry he's going to tear a chunk out of your couch.

Finally you decide to be gracious, waiting for the moment he's not watching you to open wide and take him down until he sits in the tightness of your throat. 

Maybe not the best idea. He moans, which sounds fucking incredible, but his hips buck and your throat gags around the sudden intrusion. Your back digs into the coffee table when you draw back, curled toward the floor just in case. 

Thankfully you don't puke, just cough your way out of it. 

“Fuck, I'm sorry.” 

You're shaking your head, shrugging off the hand on your shoulder. “Don't worry.” You rasp, “I did that to myself.” That's the thing about catching someone by surprise, they act. 

For some reason that's funny, it makes you giggle when you recover. 

“Do you want to stop?” 

“No. Sit back.” You shove at his stomach to get him where he was instead of half way off the couch with his spear of a dick out, all concerned. 

You reach blindly behind you for a glass and drink down some Bailey's, made thinner by the ice. 

“You're going to turn my cock into a confectionary.” 

You almost want to tell him off, because now is not the time for him to say the funniest thing he's ever said. Instead, you're laughing again.

The way his face has broken out in a big smile doesn't help. “Miguel. We need to focus.” You gesture with both hands, they bracket his damp shaft. That just makes you burst with new laughter.  

“Stop laughing then and get me a condom woman.” His command comes out rickety on a bed of his own repressed laughter. 

Yours is turning silent, tears squeezing out of your eyes at the way he said that.

“Okay.” You manage to control yourself enough to speak a sentence. “Okay. I got this, I'm gonna keep going.” 

Sceptically, he sits back. You shuffle closer between his legs, take the warmth of him in your hand, then break the second you open your mouth. Your shoulder does little to muffle your laughter. 

“Sorry.” God, at least you're getting a good ab workout. “I just- You paid a guy to choose a motorbike for you.” Saying it out loud makes you laugh harder. It's so fucking rediculous you can't handle it. “Did you pay someone to get you your clothes too?” 

The look on his face makes you freeze. 

He did pay someone to get him his clothes. 

You realise your laugh is slowly morphing closer to sounding like a hyena. You can't bring yourself to be self conscious, you're high on the endorphins from all the funny shit happening.

“Listen, I'm a busy man.” 

Whatever he tries to say next is buried under yet another outburst. Your stomach hurts. You'd be on the floor if it weren't for his leg keeping you up. 

“Alright.” Miguel sighs. You can't tell if he's exasperated for real or just playing it up. His hands grip under your arms and he lifts you like a cat as he stands, folding you over his shoulder as if you’re some loot he's sneaking off of a ship. 

The first room he finds is the bathroom.  As he walks to the next logical place, you feel something hitting your foot. “Miguel, is that your dick wagging against my foot?” 

Silence, then; “Yes. Don't kick it.” 

You give it a nudge just for fun.

Chapter Text

Weddings seem lame until you go to one. Your first was four years ago. It was on a boat, you were just a guest, and despite thinking you wouldn't, you cried listening to the couple's vows. 

Today, Gabri's cousin Jenny is marrying Simon. That's what the card in your hand with the looping pink embossed letters says. 

You don't know Jenny or Simon. You actually weren't supposed to even attend. Gabri was going to bring his girlfriend November, who may potentially be his Megan but it's early days, then she pulled out, three days ago. Apparently her mom just found out her dad was cheating on her and it's all blown up back in Nebraska. 

So she's there, and you're here, in a beautiful botanical garden wearing the dress you wore to the boat wedding because you weren't going to rush out to get a new one. It's pretty perfect anyway, a light blue colour that stands out but doesn't scream, simple with spaghetti straps in a satin fabric and a well fitting body. It stops at your ankles, keeping silver strapped heels on show. They have an elegant matte finish to them, also not screaming for attention.

You've gotten some looks from weird uncles and younger guys alike, so everyone is in agreement that it's a good outfit. 

The bride's little sister sneezes just after Gabri introduces you to her. It's the middle of spring, flowers in full bloom, pollen at full blast. You took two pills for it before you left to be safe, just means you may fall asleep at any moment. 

The ceremony starts in half an hour, so people mill around with champagne, greet each other, walk between nearly trimmed bushes of roses or hide away from the sun where they can. 

It isn't hot, but Jenny has been blessed with a beautiful clear blue sky and a bright sun. Apparently photographers don't love that. This one certainly doesn't, he's frowning into his viewport and adjusting endlessly. 

It's past him, on the other side of the garden, that you see Miguel. 

He's shaking hands with a woman wearing an elaborate hat, steps away from the entry arch. He must have just arrived. 

His hands retreat to his pockets as she talks to him, pushing back the sides of his open suit jacket. 

He looks hot and rich, more so than usual. There's no way he won't upstage the groom in that navy suit and waistcoat, a black tie tucked into the V. It's all so sharp and polished. 

You realise your mouth is hanging open and quickly seal it shut before his brother catches on. 

But it's not Gabri that looks at you, it's Miguel. Despite still being spoken to, his eyes dart like they're answering a call. They dart and they land on you. 

He doesn't flash a smile and look away, his expression is more profound as he continues to stare, like you've unearthed a thousand memories. 

You smile, remembering the last time you were with him, how much you both laughed. Even when he had you under him on your bed you couldn't stop finding things to laugh about. 

That was the most open you were to each other, feeling safe enough not to perform being sexy or dominant or submissive. You hold that close, as much as you shouldn't.

He's still watching you, so absorbed the woman has to tap his arm to get his attention back. You bite back a grin as he realises himself and leans down to apologise and presumably listen closely.

You return to your little group, catching up with the conversation and feeling the pull of his presence regardless. 

“I thought it would be total overkill to add flowers in the rows.” Jenny's sister gestures at the arrangements of white roses half way between every row of chairs. “But they're cute. Don't tell her I said that, she already thinks she's always right.” 

You all chuckle, then a large hand descends on Gabri's nape. He isn't surprised, already knows who it is by the smile on his lips before he turns to Miguel. They hug in greeting, he hugs Jenny's sister too, and makes a space for himself next to you. It takes strength not to react to the warmth of his hand on your shoulder. “I didn't expect to see you here.” 

“I'm an emergency stand-in for the girlfriend.” You manage to say under the pinpoint of his attention. It's a physical feeling, like thread snagging toward him. 

His eyes sweep down your body and back up quickly enough that no one should have noticed it. “Pretty dress.” 

“Th-” 

Gabri's scoff interrupts you. “At your big age you still don't know how to talk to women. You're supposed to say ‘You look really pretty in that dress’.” 

“That's what I meant.” He mutters. 

Gabri shakes his head like he's the disappointed older brother. You give Miguel a smile though, because you know that's what he meant.

Your eyes follow the strands of his nearly combed back hair, the almond brown and stone grey congregating at his temples. It's a lot more noticeable than it was when you met him, almost a year ago now. 

The thought of the amount of time that has passed zones you out until Gabriel's voice next to you makes you jump back to attention. “So the piano doesn't need polishing or anything?” 

“No. I'll look it over in a minute.”

“Thanks again for this.” Jenny's sister says to him, really looking grateful. 

“Happy to do it.” 

“Sorry, are you gonna play?” It seems you're the only one not in the loop, and it really sounds like they're saying he's going to play the shiny white piano next to the deck. 

He nods causally, like he's mentioned to you before that he plays piano, then checks his watch. “Let me go now, I'll see you after the ceremony.” 

His hand brushes your elbow as he passes, too subtle to be seen. 

You'd blush if you weren't stuck on the piano thing. “You never thought to mention he plays piano?” 

“Is that a necessary fact? He's the whole fancy nerd package. He's won two chess tournaments, he's annoyingly good at golf and he knows how to ride a horse.”

“That is cool as fuck.” Skills are skills, high brow or not. You thought he couldn't be more impressive. 

The piano definitely intrigues you the most. You watch him over your shoulder as he gently opens the lid and takes a seat on the corner of the stool. It makes sense for him actually, he has the sharp elegance you'd associate with a piano. It explains how much control he has over such large hands. 

You would also love to see him ride a horse in nothing but jeans but that's for another time. 

He plays a scale, slowly, like he's listening for the right tune. He plays it on either end of the keys too. 

You don't know how everyone isn't staring. All you notice are some curious glances. Are they not seeing what you are? 

You keep glancing back periodically as a conversation you aren't following marches on, until you catch him check his watch and open the white book in front of him to a sheet of notes. He centres himself on the bench, relaxes his shoulders, and starts to play a pretty melody that sounds like flowers opening to the sun as it rises. 

That's the signal for people to take their seats. Jenny's sister has to disappear, so you and Gabri strategize on just how forward or back you should sit. 

Then his mama swoops in out of nowhere, linking arms with both of you and leading to wherever she's planning to sit. 

“You both look beautiful. Don't they papa?” 

His dad smiles and nods, following behind. 

She chooses a row three from the front on the left side, the best view to her eldest son as we works the keys like he was born with them. Works for you. 

“You know, I asked you how the lake house was, but I didn't ask you what you thought of my Miguel.” She smiles all sweet. You note her nice turquoise eye shadow when she blinks. 

“He's great.” 

Her smile beams brighter. She's still holding on to your wrist. “He's a nice boy isn't he? Smart too.” 

Gabri looks over. You shoot the same look in return. Is she doing what you think she's doing? 

“He has a beautiful piano in his apartment, it's mahogany and it stands open.” She gestures with her arms. “But you know, the rest is…” She makes a displeased face. “Very ‘single man’. He needs a woman's taste for the design.” 

A set-up is happening, and it's not subtle. 

You're kind of surprised. You figured she'd see you as too young or not good enough. You wouldn't blame her for either viewpoint, but this one… you don't know what to do with it. 

Gabriel has a fist to his mouth trying not to laugh, which you suppose is better than him being horrified at the idea. 

The officiator takes her spot on the deck, dead centre with a beige gown on and a similarly coloured bound book in her hands. She nods subtly to Miguel, and he winds down the song, playing with one hand and flipping a page of his sheet music with the other. 

His fingers press to the keys, the iconic start of the timeless wedding tune. You all watch the wedding party begin their walk down the aisle, bridesmaids in pastel green dresses that suit the shrubbery around them, some holding hands with who you assume are their kids. Adorable. Best men, then the groom. Simon's a good looking guy, tall with smooth brown skin and a killer smile. He looks too happy to be nervous as he takes his spot.

A teenager comes down next, tossing petals on the white carpet. 

Then, the bride and her father. You hear quiet gasps and exclamations at the sight of her. She looks amazing, her hair in a neat bun framed by perfect curls, a dress with a cinched waist and long skirt flowing from her body. 

Does everyone look beautiful on their wedding day? Would you? 

Who knows if it'll ever happen. You don't have the best track record with men. 

Simon's eyes shine at the sight of her, moments away from tears. If your husband didn't cry or at least well up you'd do a U turn on the aisle, truly. 

The piano makes it all more magical. You see Miguel focused on the sheet in front of him and wonder if he really needs it, it sounds so natural, like he's played it a hundred times. 

As you watch his shoulders move, his foot tap on the pedal periodically, you wonder what it would have been like if it happened differently. If you had met him at some high society dinner, if you were a little older and a lot more elegant, if you were someone like Pepper Potts, you could have already known all the things about him you don't. He could have picked you up and opened his car door for you. You could have seen his mahogany piano, watched him play it in the privacy of his apartment. Just you and him. 

The music winds down, his gestures growing softer, and with it the thought winds away. 

It's not meant to be like that, with him. It's meant to be secret, without obligations. It's meant to only exist in pockets. 

It's not real.

The ceremony is beautiful, the love between them undeniable, and you do tear up even though you don't know them. 

Everyone cheers, they pose for pictures, and off they go down the aisle to have a moment to themselves, played away by Miguel. 

The second you get up someone steals your chair to move it away, a process that leaves the main square clear for everyone to chat and pick at a variety of hors d'oeuvres that waiters bus around. The carpaccio is delicious. 

Music bubbles up from speakers as the piano winds down, some upbeat pop song. You stick with the O'Hara's and try to look elegant next to Gabri while he inhales three mini burgers at once.

It's a shame his girl couldn't come, he looks good in his navy suit, a darker shade than Miguel's. 

“Let me take a picture of you guys.” You corral the three of them to stand side by side and glare at Gabri to hide his food collection. You still have to brush a crumb off the corner of his mouth. 

They look great, the two tall men on either side with their little mother and wife in the middle. God knows how she birthed Gabri and especially Miguel. She's a hero. 

“Wait! I want Miguel in this.” She perks up and looks around until she spots him somewhere behind you. “Miguel! Vente aqui!” She yells, beckoning with a hand. 

You straighten up and wait patiently with your phone, watching him walk over, slipping between clusters of people. He has a toothpick perched between his lips. It shouldn't be as hot as it is. 

He doesn't say anything as he walks past you, but his gaze lingers. He wouldn't do that if he knew what his mama was up to. 

And she definitely noticed, looking between the two of you like some giddy child as he rests a hand on his dad's shoulder. 

He plucks the toothpick out of his son's mouth. You fail to bite back a smile as you get them all in frame again. You have to take an extra step back to fit Miguel. 

“Okay now papa you take the picture. I want one with my babies.” She gestures for you to come over now. 

It's not that you feel out of place, they've been so welcoming for so many years, but you're a little shy as your phone is taken from you and you're urged to join the line-up. 

Neither Miguel nor his mama close the gap left between them, so that's where you end up. She wraps an arm around your waist and you rest your hand on her shoulder.

Then Miguel's hand settles on your skin. You're not sure you can even say it's your shoulder, more like the curve of your neck. His fingers brush the inner corner of your collar bone, like they want to take the place of your necklace. 

Your whole face tingles. The base of your spine tingles. It's like he wants everyone to know that he's intimate with the body he’s touching, the one he has touched in so many places, so many ways… so well. 

Not the time. 

At least you remember to smile for the pictures.   

His dad is a quiet guy, minds his own business unless someone mentions one of his niche interests, and even he's looking at his son a little suspiciously. 

You shove a finger into his side before you all separate and he really looks at you in complete confusion, like he has no idea what's going on. You give him a pointed look, then one toward his dad, reminding him where you are. He just gives you some half assed don't sweat it Iook. 

Don't complain to me when your mama talks your ear off about asking me out. 

You don't know if he gets all that from the responding look you give him. 

Anyway, you all gather around your phone to look at your pictures. 

“We look so nice together. Don't we?” It's Miguel she looks at for confirmation. He nods, still a little confused. 

So much for chess, he's not that smart. 

In your distraction, you don't stop mama from scrolling past those pictures. As you all stare at the one you took of Gabri laying on the couch like a Vogue model in his suit, a picture intended for November, the silence is palpable. Miguel and his mama have the same unblinking expression on their faces. 

Then, because fate is cruel, she swipes again. It's a picture you took before Gabri arrived, you posing in your full length mirror once you were dressed. It's a hot picture; low light, the blue fabric bunched just a little in your hold, your hips tilted so you look extra curvy. 

Mama makes an impressed oooh sound. Gabri grins wickedly. Miguel peers sideways at you, intense and knowing. Knowing what, you don't know. 

Everything, you suppose.

You snatch your phone back before any more damage can be done. 

“Don't be shy, chica. Not everyone gets to be so attractive.” She pinches your arm lightly and winks. 

Miguel's phone buzzes. He takes it out and whatever he sees on the screen makes him scowl. “Excuse me.” 

You all watch him walk away, toward the benches, a tense line to his shoulders. 

“Trouble in paradise?” You ask Gabri. 

He shrugs. 

“Miguel isn't always good at disconnecting from his work. He's a very passionate man.” Mama nods to herself solemnly, and proudly. You can understand that mix. 

“I don't know if passionate is the word.” Gabri mutters. His mama shakes her head and scolds him about something in Spanish, probably not talking badly about his brother. 

Eventually you're all herded to the nearby restaurant for dinner. They've lined tables under their sunshade, set with wine glasses and stacked plates. The lavender sprigs dotting the centre of the table smell great. 

Gabri pulls out your chair for you, ever the gracious date, and rounds the table to sit opposite you, where his name card is. 

On your left you'll have someone called Pat that hasn't sat down yet, and on your right Victor settles in and greets you. He’s a lecturer on architecture, he and Jenny are friends. 

By the time you look away from him, the card that said Pat now says Miguel. Gabri raises his hands to say it is what it is when you look to him for explanation. “Nothing's gonna stop her now.” 

“Does she really think we'd make a good pair?” 

“Clearly. Plus, she's on Miguel to get married before he's geriatric.” 

And she thinks you could be his wife? You can't imagine facing him in a white dress without it looking like an image you photoshopped yourself into. Poorly.  

“She won't have to wait that long.” He's the best catch in the world. He could ask any of the single women at this thing to marry him tomorrow and they would. 

“Really? He couldn't even compliment you right.” 

“He was just trying not to make me uncomfortable.” 

“He's not a stranger. He can say you look hot.”  

“This about me?” His rich voice runs up your spine, turning it straight.

“Yes. Respect a hot woman when you're in her presence.” 

“I do.” He braces a hand on the back of your chair as he sits, and waits for you to look at him to speak. “I'm sorry about my lacklustre compliment.” 

You wave him off, smiling at how straight faced he delivered that. You know he's doing it on purpose to be funny.

Gabri folds his arms on the table surface. “What's got you so pissed at your phone?” 

Miguel sighs the weight of a tonne. “We're having a supply issue in Australia. Customs has gotten involved now and made it worse, of course.” 

“And who's emailing you about that while you're at a wedding on a Saturday? I say fire them.” 

Miguel ignores that to thank the server that pours him wine. You agree with Gabri, frankly. It also sounds like the kind of thing he should have a dedicated team for. 

“You didn't want to bring Lyla?” Gabri asks him as he sniffs his wine. 

Lyla? 

“I think she's sleeping. She spent all night dealing with Australia. I haven't heard from her yet.” He checks his phone. You're so taken aback by the amount of notifications he has you don't have the time to be outraged that his screensaver is just black. Nothing. No personality. Tragedy. 

And there's the Lyla question, rudely unanswered. “Who's Lyla?” 

“My PA.” 

So he isn't seeing her. You'd assume. “So what does Jess do?” 

“She's deputy chief executive.” 

“That sounds like your new job title.” Gabri comments. 

Miguel looks at you curiously. “Did you get promoted?” 

You smile, all big and proud, you can’t help it. “Yeah, I'm deputy chief mechanic now.” 

He smiles back, happy for you. It’s a warming smile, one that feels like it’s only for you. “Well done. You'll be chief soon, I'm sure.” 

“There you go.” Gabri says, glad his brother figured out how to compliment a woman, you imagine. 

Truly brothers, Gabri and Miguel inhale the artichoke and pomegranate starter in one bite seemingly. It's an odd mix but it's arranged all floral and pretty so you see the vision.   

“Miguel.” You lace your fingers on the table after they take your plate. “Tell me why you don't have a lock screen picture.” 

“Why should I?” 

“Why- it's part of a person's identity. Give me your phone.” You extend a hand. 

He’s sceptical, but he hands it over unlocked. 

You open the camera and choose your subject easily, zooming into Gabri’s face until it's just his nose, top lip and half of his eyes in the viewport, and take the picture. It's a masterpiece. 

You set it as lock screen and show him your work.

He takes it back, stares for a drawn out moment, and lands on a feeling. “It's awful.” 

“I beg you pardon? Let me see.” 

He shows it to Gabri. He nods proudly. “Masterpiece.” He has always seen your genius. 

Miguel isn't convinced, but he pockets his phone without making any edits. You wonder how long it'll last before he decides to be boring again. 

There were three options for the main. You and Miguel have the seafood pasta placed in front of you, Gabri got the steak and mashed potato. 

Miguel's arm brushes yours as you both reach for cutlery. That shouldn't have an effect on you, but it does. Sometimes he feels like the first man you’ve ever experienced - that rush, the fear, the instinct at the littelest things… It’s like you’re new. 

“I haven't heard from Gabri about which dates you're coming to the house.” He says as you're all well into your food. 

“My fault. I've requested the first two weeks of July but with the new role vacation takes longer to clear.” 

Honestly you weren't sure how much what he said the first time was really meant. Sometimes people just say things, or they mean them at the time and change their mind. 

You should know he isn't like that. He followed through.

“I can speak to them.” He says, spearing a prawn gently. 

By them you assume he means Pepper. It sits too weird with you, so you shake your head. “I think it'll clear, don't worry.” 

You have no clue. 

“Does mama know Boo's coming again?” Gabri says as he saws his stake. 

“I haven't mentioned it to her. Why?” 

He smirks at you. “No reason.” 

Maybe you should tell him what his mama is up to. That little confused frown is funny though, no harm in waiting. 

“You're soulmates.” Gabri jokes when the desert comes out. You and Miguel both got the crème caramel. It has little pink flowers on it.

You lean closer to Miguel and face away from the table so only he can hear you. “Did you pay someone to choose your food? Be honest.” 

He huffs. Amused. “No.” 

The cake they place in front of the lady opposite Miguel has a giant walnut on it. You lean in again. “Should I launch it off the table?” You look pointedly at the enemy on the plate. 

He looks from it to you, surprised you remember that he said he couldn't eat walnuts a year ago. He clears his throat and responds under his breath. “I'll be okay. It's not severe. Thanks.” 

You nod and straighten, ignoring Gabri's eyes on you as you spoon a perfect crescent out of your creme caramel. 

As plates are cleared away, you're all left to chat amongst yourselves. Between learning more about the strangers around you, you and Gabri quip about this and that back and forth. Then you catch wind of the lady opposite Miguel telling him about her daughter, a doctor with the most perfect skin, apparently. 

“You got competition.” Gabri whispers. You roll your eyes. “What? Not gonna fight for your man?” 

You laugh at your lap to not be noticed as the lady tells him about her daughter's long distance running. You figure he gets that all the time, the way he's nodding at all the right times but looks vacant behind the eyes. 

Jenny saves him, coming over to squeeze him in a hug and kiss his temple. “You were beautiful. Thank you.” 

“Congratulations.” He says, happy to be shown her stacked rings and hear about how little she could breathe in her dress. 

“Your date is stunning. What's your name?” She asks you. 

Miguel doesn't comment on the mistake but seems thrown by it. You take the compliment, thanking and congratulating her. 

You don't know what's happening at this wedding, but it's like everything is pointing at the two of you, arrows shoving you together. 

Then there's Gabri, smiling behind a napkin. 

As the sun sets, you're all evicted from the tables to the square. Miguel doesn't stay with you, he gets ahead of the crowd to return to the piano. Smells like a first dance. 

Same poise, new sheet, and he starts to play a familiar song. You can't quite place it. 

You all watch the married couple take centre stage and dance with nothing to look into except each other's eyes. It's slow and romantic, a dream. You hope they feel like they've had a perfect day, because it looks perfect from where you're standing. 

You all applaud for them when it ends. Another sheet turn. A new tune plays in, a little punchier but still soft. People glide into the middle of the square in pairs. Your date offers you his hand. 

Gabri’s hands hold you with the years they've known you, comfortable and familiar. He's always easy to dance with, keeps in step and leads quietly. 

It's nothing like how you danced with Miguel in your apartment though. You glance at him over Gabri's shoulder and know he's not thinking about that. He's too into the music. His body leans and moves with it. It's fascinating to watch. He's so good it looks easy, despite you knowing it isn't. 

You rest your head on Gabri’s shoulder so you aren't tempted to look and just let him lead. The wedding wants you to think things you shouldn't. 

Don't think. 

It works for the rest of the dance, you just fold into the spaces between the keys of the piano and the gentle tide of Gabri's lead. 

“You okay?” He asks as the song plays out to make space for another. 

“Yeah. This is nice, all of it.” 

“Don't tell Ember, but I think I was meant to bring you. It's a family thing, you know?” 

You know what he means, especially when the next person to ask you to dance is his dad. 

He doesn't make conversation but it isn't awkward, you dance together easily, enjoying the song. This is a gift, time to spend with them all together.

“Conchita really approves of you, but that doesn't mean you should feel obligated.” He says toward the end, undeniably clued into his wife’s plans. “Do what you think will make you happy.” 

You figured that. She seems like she wouldn't push just anyone toward her first son. It still means a lot to hear it from someone who knows though. 

You have a feeling moving to a planet without men is the only thing that'll really help you. 

Not that it would make you happy. 

You don't catch a sheet flip this time. Miguel starts on the high keys, playing a slow rhythm. 

You realise what it is. Sway. 

You feel suddenly emotional, forced to swallow it when Gabri excitedly steals you back to dance to it. 

It sounds like a love letter, over piano. 

He picks up tempo, adding more depth to the song. Gabri sways his hips with you, making you laugh. 

You wish Miguel would turn to you so you could see his face, see if it's really for you, see that regardless, you're happy for it, for the memory of that night that you danced to it. 

After the song, the speakers relieve him of his duties, playing a Britney Spears song to get everyone moving regardless of if they have a pair. 

He doesn't get up, but he does turn in the stool to face the crowd. His eyes meet yours like he knew where to find them. You grin, he smiles back. 

It was for you. 

People dancing block your view of him. Sunset paints the garden orange. There’s a shot of something hot between your ribs. 

The bridesmaids adopt you, letting loose after a long day, dancing their asses off. Then you grab another glass of wine and spend some time dancing with Gabri. 

That is until you're stolen by his mama. She dances like a lifetime of music, effortlessly to the rhythm. 

When the song ends, she leans on you to catch her breath. “Darling, ask Miguel to dance would you? It's making me sad seeing him alone in the corner. Please.” 

Like you’re gonna tell her no. How could you? 

She's beaming when you nod, urging you on. You weave carefully between guests, keeping your wine steady, until you see him. 

He's still at the piano, speaking into his phone mic. It's a sternly worded voice note about shipment paperwork. You don't wait for him to finish, sitting next to him in the little space on the side. 

He loses his train of speech until he just stops mid sentence. He doesn't delete it either, whoever he sent it to is in for a cliff hanger of a lifetime. 

You offer him wine. He accepts it. 

“The song sounds better when you play it.”

He smiles, now watching the crowd. “I prefer it on piano too.” 

“Shame we didn't get to dance to it.” 

“Who did you dance with?”  

“Gabri.” 

You count the crows feet arching out of the corner of his eye when he smiles wider. “You were in good hands then.” 

You stand up, done with the preamble. “Want to dance to something else?” 

He stares at your outstretched hand, then looks beyond you at all the guests. 

“Your mama is sad that you're sitting here alone being grumpy. She asked me to please get you to dance with me.”   

Ever the good son, he takes your hand right away. 

“I don't exactly want to be grumpy.” He says, finding a space for you both, still holding your hand. “This isn't the kind of music I know what to do with, so do your thing.” He lets go of your hand and gives you the floor to dance to the party song playing.

You don't move much, matching his sway just to not look like you're both standing stock still. “Do Jess and Lyla ever just tell you to leave it all to them?” 

“All the time.” 

“And?” 

He reflects over a sip of wine. “Running the business is the most important thing I have to do usually. It doesn't make sense to me to switch off to do anything else.” 

“Not even your cousin's wedding? The biggest day of her life?” 

He concedes, handing back the wine so you can have the last of it. “When you say it like that.” 

A waiter comes by just at the right time to load your empty glass onto their tray. You're about to goad when the music suddenly fades, then a slow song builds. It's so random and shoed in, you just know a scheme took place. 

Miguel doesn't seem to question it, offering his hand for the taking. You settle to form easily, sure to leave a little space between you for appearances.

Miguel though, poor thing, you don't think even he realises how low his hand in your back is. He's severely testing ass territory, any lower and he's in the red. “Watch your hand. Don't encourage her.” You murmur, scanning the crowd for his mama when he turns you both. She must have stationed herself in a tactical location, or with the DJ.  

“What?” 

“Tu mama.” 

“¿Que?”

You huff. Frustrated. “She's trying to matchmake. Have you really not noticed?” 

“Oh.” He's quiet for an age. “I see.” 

That was a pile of nothing reaction. It doesn't help that you're next to his face, it isn't in view. 

“You need to find yourself a woman before she puts you in an arranged marriage.” 

“Don't exactly have time for either of those things.” 

That sounds like an excuse. You've seen first hand he can make time for things if he wants to. “As long as you won't regret it in twenty years, do your thing.”

He thinks about that for a while, leading you quietly. “Is sixty too old to find love?” It sounds a little like he's making humour of it, a little like he's really asking. 

“Probably not for you.” 

“Well, thank you.” 

You smile at his shoulder, realising how easy open conversations are now. When you first met him he would have changed the subject, given you a scathing look maybe.

“Are you sure?” He says after a minute of just dancing. “I would have thought she'd find you too young for me.” 

So it wasn't just you. “She said your apartment needs a woman's touch because it looks like a single man lives in it.” 

You're about to mention the name cards and the dance you're engaged in right now, when he interjects. “I think that's just an observation.” 

You lean back to look up at him, wondering what the clipped tone to his voice is for. Is it so hard to believe? Are you actually that hard of a sell to him?

“It's you that thinks I'm too young isn't it?” 

He doesn't respond, figuring staring at your joined hands is a better thing to do. 

You stop, resisting his left step, forcing him to look at you. “But I'm not too young to fuck?” 

You see shame behind his eyes. Shame he had all the time in the world to feel. It didn't matter then, he still touched you, still indulged, still told you that you were his and treated you that way. “I didn't want to do that, originally.” 

You tug your hand out of his. It feels like a needle to your heart, poking a slow and painful hole. He sounds like he thinks everything you've done has been a burden. He sounds like he sees you as nothing. 

It's not nothing to you. It exists. It doesn't matter how much you tell yourself it doesn't. You've never asked for love or commitment but you can't watch him fold you small until you're some mistake he's made.

“Right, well, I'm sorry I coerced you into it.” 

His hand stops you when you turn to walk away, gripping your elbow. 

You can tell he doesn't even know what to say, you can see his eyes dart across your face as he scrambles to fix something he probably doesn't even want to keep. 

Apparently he didn't want any of this. 

You yank your arm out of his hold. “Leave it alone Miguel. I'm going to pee, maybe find a fourty-something to lay it on me against his will too.” You spit before slipping into the crowd, away from him. 

You're out of step with slow dancers, actual couples that hold each other and speak in hushed words. You move fast, cutting through until you're climbing the steps to the restaurant. 

You're fucking angry, that's what you are. You're even angrier that he has the power to make your blood boil and mouth turn bitterly. 

Gabri was right, he's hopeless. Could he not just tell you something nice? 

Mama does know what's best for me. 

That means she likes you. 

I couldn't get a girl like you myself. 

I didn't want to do that, originally. 

You're just some succubus to him. You're the villain. 

And you defended him. 

You eat everything he gives you up. You're not the ‘independent queen’ you’d like to think you are, you just swore off men to keep the spot of one, the one that doesn't even want you in the one way you thought he did. 

You actually do need to pee. You sit on the toilet letting it out angrily, not even able to enjoy the vintage floral wallpaper and gold framed mirror. 

When you go back out there, you're going to have to be civil. You're not going to glare and snap around his family. They don't deserve that. As you wash your hands you practice deep breaths, then study yourself. 

You look nice. You're at a lovely wedding and you respect yourself too much to let him forget who you are. 

You don't need him. You never have. 

Feeling more centred, you flip the lock and slide the heavy door open. 

Then stumble back, forced inside again by Miguel's body as he barges into the bathroom. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

He locks the door behind him. 

You picture a headline: ‘CEO of Alchemax in harassment lawsuit for barging into a woman's bathroom to say some bullshit to a woman he could care less about.’ 

“I did that wrong.” He says, combing a hand through his hair. 

The bathroom is big enough for you to have space away from him, thankfully. “I think you're still doing it wrong.” 

“I was deflecting.” He takes a step forward. You're already against the hand dryer, nowhere further to go. “I didn't know what to say about mama and… whatever she's doing.” 

“Next time, just make a joke about how I'm out of your league and move on. You can try that with the next woman you pretend you don't want to stick your dick into.” You have the space to dart around him, hoping he can sit with that and wake up to the fact that he made decisions too, he chose to acknowledge your interest in him, he decided to cross lines, he bought condoms, he held his own cock and lined it up to your cunt. 

He showed up to your work and invited you to his hotel room. 

Before you can touch the lock his hand cages your waist and pulls you back. You're trapped between him and the sink as quickly as you can blink. 

“If you want this to be about age,” You snap, glaring up at him, “You're fucking disgusting, being the older one, choosing to sleep with me, then making it sound like it was all me.”  

His face bleeds apology. “I didn't mean it like that, I was just being factual. I felt one way at first, then I changed my mind. That's what I meant.” 

He's annoyingly soft about it, no raised voice or edge of anger. You however choke the lip of the sink behind you with your hands. “Well what it sounded like is that you thought I was some whore you couldn't believe your mother would consider as a viable partner for you.” 

He shakes his head, then looks you in the eye. “You are out of my league.” 

“Nice.” He didn't even wait five seconds to use the line you fed him. Embarrassing. Embarrassing for both of you. 

“I told you there was nothing I could give you. I told you. That's not about me it's about you, there's nothing I can give you that's worthy of what you are.” 

Jesus. This is messy and lame. It’s not touching. It isn’t affecting you. 

“I don't want you to want to date me Miguel, save it.” You slip away, eager to get out of the space. It feels smaller by the second. 

He grabs you again, your arms in his hands, turning you to face him. “I care. I care about you.” 

He sounds so convincing. It hurts. 

“Okay.” 

He searches your eyes like a mine, digging desperately for precious metals. “Where are you?” He asks gently, seeing the anger you've let go of in favour of apathy. It feels better than pain. 

“You did ruin me.” You tell him, your voice small, “I think this is a wakeup call. I need to move on and… rebuild.”  

You turn from the hurt on his face. He lets you go, hands you know so intimately slipping away. 

“I'm sorry.” He says when you flip the lock. “You've been reprieve to me, I feel like a person with you. I'm sorry I haven't been the same to you.” 

Your fingers don't move to the handle. They can't. 

Under your hurt you feel wrong. You feel wrong that you've let him think ruin you is what he's done. 

You're choosing the worst word, the one that encompasses all the highs, all the moments of connection, all the right that you've felt with him. 

You flick the lock closed again, take a long breath. 

He touches more than your body. He touches something inside you that needs to be held. Something that no one else can. 

You turn on your heel and throw your arms around him, hugging him like he might slip away, as tight as you can. You don’t want this to be the end, even if it’s going nowhere. You don’t want to be away from him. 

It hurts to give into it, but it would hurt more to walk away. 

He hugs you back even tighter, until you can barely breathe, nesting his face in the curve of your neck.

What you have isn't about how you appear to others, or what your lives will look like in years and years. It isn't about what his mama wants. It's all about how it feels. 

And it feels good. Right. 

“I'm so sorry angel.” He whispers into your skin. “I won't forgive myself for hurting you. I shouldn't ever hurt you.” 

You don't respond or nod, just take it in and continue holding him. He's meant everything he's said between these walls. You know he has. 

His hands tuck around you, holding as if to never let go. “Whatever I can do, I will.”

Those words swim between you for a while, the question. What can he do? 

You're owed something. As much as you're admitting to yourself that you understand, that you hear his remorse and justification, he said the wrong thing. 

You settle on something, leaning back and looking into his endless eyes. 

It's your turn to take. 

“On your knees.” 

That's not what he saw coming, he frowns a little, like he's repeating your words in his head. 

Once he's got them, and he sees you're not peddling back, he tugs on his slacks and kneels, one knee down first, then the other. 

Just that settles low in your stomach, an interested dip. Now he's following your orders. Now you're the one staring down at him like he belongs to you. Now you can feel control. 

And he stares up, waiting for your next words. You couldn't have guessed he’d look so good obedient. 

He watches your fingers gather your skirt, pulling the fabric up and revealing your legs. 

“Show me how sorry you are.” 

His eyes snap back up. You can tell he hasn't been in a position like this before, at mercy. He doesn't blink up at you like he knows what he's in for. It's quieter, a commitment to do as you say. 

So he helps you raise your skirt until it's all gathered at your waist and your black thong is exposed. 

It's not comfortable. It's stuck up between your legs and cutting into your hip bones a little but it's necessary for the dress. 

And it's worth the look in his eyes. Enraptured. 

“Take them off.” You encourage, amused that he really is out of his depth. It's actually hot. 

He's a vision on his knees, you'd take a picture if you had your phone. You'd love to see him commanding a boardroom, just so you could think about this - how he looks when he has none of the power.

His fingers go under the straps at your hips, making space and stretching to slowly peel them off. You feel them detach from your damp core. He does too, the way his jaw flexes. 

He slides them down your legs like he wants to memorise every second, slow and precise, eyes glued to the black fabric. 

Once they come off your second heel, he pushes them into the breast pocket of his jacket like he knew he was going to the second he saw them.

Fuck. 

“Alright.” You press your back to the door and hook a leg over his shoulder, using it to nudge him forward. “Apologise.” 

He swallows, like he's just been asked to walk the plank. The hint of pain may be something to do with the bulge straining against his leg. 

Your hurt eases just a little more. 

Finally he remembers all those moves he has, running a hand up your thigh and pressing his lips to the soft inner skin. You sigh as he inhales you, smiling because it's not perfume or your cunt or some special cream, all he's smelling is you. It's what he likes best. 

You comb your fingers through his hair as he works his way up your thigh, planting kisses that feel like words, feel like sorry, I care about you, I made a mistake, you're my reprieve. 

You rest your head back on the door, focusing on the feeling of his hair, breath and hand. It takes the curve of your ass, holding the mass firmly as his lips get close to where you need them. 

He's fucking talented, because when he kisses your clit it viscerally feels apologetic. It's slow and reverent and soft in a way that makes you sigh and leak. 

Like he knows, his tongue nests between your folds and slurps it into his mouth. Your body runs hot, your hand stills at the back of his head, caging him between your legs because god forbid he go anywhere else. 

“You're good at this.” You gasp. What else is he hiding? You have to know. “Do you like taking orders?” 

He's so absorbed in your pussy he doesn't react or even look up, busy sucking on your clit. It makes your stomach bunch like it's closed in a fist. “Like being a good boy? Submitting? Do you like making me feel so good?” 

That last one does something, his fingers dig into your flesh reflexively. 

“Turns me on so- fuck- seeing you on your knees.” 

He groans into you, tongue prodding at your entrance like it needs to be let in. 

You tug in his hair a little, just enough for him to look up. You could cum at the sight of his mouth wide open, his lips glowing with you, his thick tongue between your puffy folds. “Only you could apologise this good Miguel. No one else.” 

He loves that, you think he moans into your insides before his hands grab for you and push you down until you're practically sitting on his face. 

You had to train yourself not to hold back your voice, now you're reminding yourself to struggle it down again. Anyone could be on the other side of the door waiting to use one of three stalls, in one of the three stalls. 

And here you are, getting perfectly tongue fucked.

If there's any bathroom to ride a man like Miguel's face it's this one, it's like the designer planned it, with the mood lighting and marble sink counter. 

You can see pieces of it in the mirror, the fabric of your dress, the curve of your back, the top of his head.

He takes your weight eagerly when you give more of it to him, like you're still not close enough. 

You though, you're close. Your palms are sweating, whimper falling from your lips, your hips twitching for just that little bit more.

His tongue stops circling your clit to present itself, flat and steady, perfect to ground your hips into, to make the pace you want.

“Ah- that's perfect.” You praise, rolling, rolling, getting friction on your clit then returning to longer strokes. 

It's building. You're so close. You wish you could command your body to soak him, leave him no choice but to go back out there with the stains of your climax on his jacket. 

You look down. He's already looking up. 

That's what shatters you, the pools of want looking to you as their source of light. Reprieve. You almost bite through your lip trying to hold back the sound lurching from your throat.

Blunt nails pull at your skin, asking you to give him everything like you aren't already shaking all over him, moving your hips in broken pieces for the last of the stimulation that's your undoing. Your hands don't care what they do to his hair and hips don't consider the way you smother him, slippery with your slick.

As you cool down the sounds he's making filter into your ears, hungry as he continues to make out with your cunt, practicing restraint to make it gentle and comforting. His brows crease lines of focus and desperation and what must be painful arousal now. 

You watch him, combing his hair back into place where you tugged on it. The sight of him presses on your chest in a weird, insistent way.

Your clit throbs not just from the stimulation but the witnessing of his addiction, it's like he hasn't even thought to stop, like if he stops tasting you the world will stop turning. 

Oh you'd love to do this all day, to watch and feel, but your back hurts and he's earned something back for his earnest work. 

“Hey.” You urge softly, tugging gently on his hair to bring him back. His eyes flicker like he really was gone, and he kisses your clit the same way he did when he started, a tidy loop of worship. 

He sits back on his heels, licking you from his lips. Its a fucking porn thumbnail, you're struck by how good he looks, his face shining with you, his pupils giant and swallowing, his thick thighs straining his pants and only revealing the bulge of his cock more. 

When it's all memorized, you offer him your hand. It's a revelation all over again how tall he is, as he rises and keeps rising, your ego is filled knowing you had all this on his knees between your legs. 

“I don't deserve what you give me.” He says quietly, tracing the shape of your face with his eyes. He's so close you're both straining your necks to look at each other. 

“You give too. You proved it.” You spread your palm on his chest, fingers grazing his tie. You can feel his heartbeat, fast, but controlled. “What do you want now?”

He watches you, thinks, glances up and down your body. “Would you allow me?” He asks carefully, like too loud or too strong would break the walls down. 

He's really taken it hard, upsetting you. He looks shy in a way you didn't know he had the capacity to, restrained like he really thinks he doesn't deserve anything. 

You smile, fix the tuck of his tie into his waistcoat. “Course. Tell me.” When you look up of course he's watching, soft and open like a clams centre. Quietly grateful. 

You let him think for a moment, looking at the space around him, taking note of the sink. His hands bracket your waist, guiding you away from the door. 

You can see yourself in the mirror properly when he stops you at the sink. You're made little by his broad chest behind you, dress creased but looking good still. You haven't kissed him, so your lips are intact.

He leans down to press a kiss to the turn of your cheek bone, then another to your jaw. His hands tell yours to let go of your dress, they take charge. He organises the fabric to pool on the counter in front of you, then drops a lingering kiss to your shoulder.  

You can't look away from your reflections. It's predictable yet amazing how good you look, like two people carved together into stone to be displayed. 

His hand splays between your shoulder blades and guides you down, over. You find a place for your arms on either side of the sink and move with him, bending over the counter. 

For a second he watches his own hand make a trail down your back, sliding on the fabric of your dress. “You look stunning in this.” 

That's what he really wanted to say when he complimented your dress. 

You're warm from the compliment and the feeling of his fingers landing on your thigh, following the curve until they're trailing up the inner skin. They stop when he finds the slick that's sticky on your thighs, familiarizing with it like a harp.  

You shift forward when they reach higher, stroking over your entrance. He's floated closer maybe without even realising, caging you where you are, pushing his bulge into your leg. 

You'd be surprised if he had a rubber, not having known you'd be here. Is he planning to forego it? Should that idea be making you whimper? 

But if he just undid his fly and slipped it in… Jesus. It's dangerous to picture. 

The new wave of wetness from that saturates his fingers, you can hear it. 

He smears it on your thigh, returns to your cunt. 

You moan quietly when he stretches you with two fingers, sliding them in with a turn of his wrist. When they reach as far as they can, you pick up your head and you’re faced with yourself. Your mouth lies open, stuck around a silent gasp at the fullness of just that. 

He doesn't see it, eyes cast down to where you're presented to him. He's lost to focus again as he withdraws completely, wiping his fingers on the inner of your other thigh. 

Again, inside you. This time they curl, knowing where to touch without searching. A gasp does break out of you, your wide eyes seeing themselves up close. 

It's the kind of scene you read about in books, laid out, picked apart, loomed over by a man too beautiful to be real, with remnants of you making his lips shine under the warm light. 

When you start to rock into his hand, meeting his slow movements, he withdraws again. He smears you on your thighs again. 

You'd whine if the next sound wasn't his belt sliding open. The buckle chimes when it hangs, a precursor to the sound of his fly. 

It clicks, why he's made a mess of your inner thighs. 

You've never been fucked, if that's what it can be called, like that. You'll get to find out how it feels. 

He groans behind you. Sadly you just about can't see his cock in the mirror, but his arm is moving, working a hand down the length. 

He nudges the outer side of your knee with his leg. “Close together, as close as you can.” A soft rumbling command. 

You chew on your lip to digest the heat going through you and press your legs together so they're touching from ankles to thighs. 

“Perfect.” He mutters, lining up so he's centred behind you. His hand lies on the small of your back, a support as he shifts and you feel his slick head rub on your skin. You shiver. 

Just below your cunt, where your thighs curve in, he finds room to slowly wedge his girth. It's still a tight fit, he curses under his breath as he works it further, struggling a little despite how slippery the area is.

He feels good there, warm against your pussy and filling the space completely. 

He sighs, his body melting with it. You're glad to give him some relief, after the taste of you got him so worked up. No one has been as turned on by going down on you as he is. A compliment that tastes so sweet. 

His large hands hold your waist where they have so many times now. They draw you back slowly, until your skin presses to the quality fabric of his slacks. 

The way it looks, as he slides your hips away and draws them flush again, does a lot more than the feeling. As far as the mirror is concerned he's fucking you from behind, a hiss escaping his teeth as he finds a rhythm. You watch every movement of his expression, the flex of his jaw, the cast of his eyes between his cock, your ass and your back. His breath comes out unsteady as he builds speed, sliding you on the length of his shaft. You mewl when you wriggle, getting the hard length of it more snug between your folds. 

“Wish I could be inside that cunt.” He confesses, pulling you back to his lap with a punch of force. 

The way he says things is entirely too good, too dirty and bone shaking.

“Put it in. Just pull out.” You tell him in a breath, letting the counter take more of your weight. 

“Can't.” He grits, not looking happy about it. 

You arch your back, stretching with the little space you have left. When he sinks forward his head rubs your clit. You can't stop the moan that sings from your throat when it does. He grips you harder, bruising.

“Before I come to the lake house.” You start, stopping to whine when he adjusts his angle to stimulate your clit with more purpose. “I'll go back on contraception, I'll- you can fuck me raw.” 

He makes a strangled sound, pulls at your hips faster. It sounds slick between your thighs, fingers in ripe fruit. 

“I wouldn't- Coño- wouldn't last.” He growls, snapping his hips to meet yours. The fabric of his pants was soft but it burns now. 

He's hitting your clit relentlessly, pleasure and pain, a fast build to a new orgasm. “You can cum inside.” You moan, shaking at the thought of it, his thick cum oozing out of you. 

He suddenly pulls out from between your thighs. You can see his cock when he stands next to you, flushed and shiny as his fist pumps it at a blurring speed. With rough breaths and a white knuckled grip on the edge of the counter, his cum shoots into the bowl of the sink, one thick rope after the other.

His groan rasps raw as his hand slows, working himself through the last of it. You rub your legs together, warm with tension that needs to break, exacerbated by the sight of him releasing, the spasm of his muscles and unlocked expression on his face. 

He holds his softening cock for a moment, catching up to the time and place, then he wipes the tip with his thumb and tucks it back into his underwear. 

When he flicks up the tap you flick it down before he can wash his thumb. “Lick it.” 

He blinks at you at first like he doesn't understand, then like you've lost your mind.

You don't back down or look away from him. You wait, challenging him with your gaze. 

He's not the only one that can do that 

He folds easily, slowly raising his thumb to his mouth. You can see he's asking himself what the hell he's doing as it hovers over his tongue. That makes you smile. 

He drags his thumb over his tongue, leaving a little smear of translucent cum. The second you see it you yank his tie and pounce tongue first, caging him into a messy kiss, salty cum and saliva and tongues licking lips. He moans into your mouth and it goes straight to your cunt, making your clit thrum like it's trying to knock down a door to let a flood in. 

You seize each other like you haven't been close, your hands grabbing at his nape and back while his cover your cheek and back.  

You shouldn't, it could leave a mark, but you need friction, grinding into his leg for something. 

As if responding to a call, his hands hitch up your skirt again so he can reach you, running fingers through your endlessly wet core. You cling to him harder when he rubs circles to your clit, not too fast or slow. Perfect. 

You stay intimately close, inhaling the scent of his neck as his strokes press a little more insistently to your bundle of nerves. 

“You like the idea of me cumming inside you?” He asks against your temple. His fingers trace the top of your spine. 

You whimper, your nose brushing his neck when you nod. 

“Want to fuck you all day.” His hand speeds up until you can't stay upright. Your stomach draws tight and knees melt beneath you. “See how much you can take.” His breath falls heavy. You claw on his back and moan into his collar relentlessly. You're so close. “Watch it leak out of your pretty little hole.” 

You muffle a shout into his skin, broken. Everything blanks as you orgasm, all you have left is the bliss and his warmth against you. 

His arm presses you closer, wrapped around your waist. He hums at the feeling of your shaking against his body, satisfied. 

When you're back in the moment, when it's too hot and too much, he pets your clit a final time and brings his hand up to his lips, licking you unashamedly from his fingers. God.

He keeps your limp body upright, kissing your brow as you catch your breath. 

When you have the energy you tilt your head up, invite him to kiss you. He does it deep and appreciative, tasting your mouth and sucking on your lip. 

It becomes smaller, slow gentle kisses, again and again, until you can't stop yourself from smiling against his mouth. 

“What?” He mumbles into yours, not stopping, until he can't resist a matching smile pulling at his lips. 

“You make me a different person.” You told him to lick his own cum. You're just not that smooth of a person, not usually. 

And he listened. 

You need to wind down, not up. Don't think about it now. 

“I think you killed me.” 

You laugh at that, dropping your forehead on his shoulder. 

He stretches over for toilet paper, using the coarse squares to clean up the excess between your legs, then helps you lay your skirt back down. 

You consider teasing about the whereabouts of your thong, but you honestly want him to keep it, so you say nothing. 

Then you look up at his face and find something new to laugh about. “You look like a glazed donut.” 

He looks in the mirror, studying the shine on and around his mouth from his stint between your legs and your lip oil. 

You grab some more toilet paper, making it a little damp before dragging it over his mouth and jaw. “Apology accepted, by the way.” 

His smile fades to something reflective. “You were always right, we've always been two adults doing this because we want to. There's no shame or victim. That was disgusting of me to imply.” 

You nod, tossing the paper. “It was, yeah. We're okay now, I don't think you'll do this again.” 

“I won't.” 

You trust his resolve and turn your focus to the mirror, cleaning up your own smudged lips. “And if your mama says anything to you about me, just be polite and say I'm way too hot for you. Got it?” 

His reflection smiles. “Got it.” 

You finish up while he fixes his tie. Once you both don't obviously look like what you've been doing, you unlock the door and peek through a crack. No one’s waiting, just two waiters in the distance cleaning up. “Coasts clear.” 

You step out with him not too close behind. Miraculously there aren't any suspicious stains on your dress. It does look more creased though. 

Stepping out of the restaurant, you almost smash right into Gabri. 

“I’ve been looking for you. Did you have a fight or something?” He looks between the two of you. “I saw you storm away all angry.” 

“It's fine, we talked it out.” 

“She was telling me about what mama is doing and I didn't respond well. My fault.” Miguel admits.

The concern on Gabri's face becomes disappointment at his brother. “You're hopeless. We need to talk.” He gestures for Miguel to follow him, not leaving room for argument with a glare. He looks just like his brother when he does that. 

Miguel follows after him, looking back at you before he catches up. 

You wink. He’s a big boy, he’ll be okay.

Chapter Text

Asleep on the couch again, a reminder of old age. You'll blink and turn thirty. 

Girls your age still go out on Saturday nights. You're watching Community wearing matching Hello Kitty pyjamas. Or you were, until you dozed off. It's almost 1am, you should go to bed. 

Your intercom has other plans, buzzing shrill as always. Surely your parcel isn't arriving now. 

Not the parcel. The camera shows the back of him, facing away from the door, but you'd recognise that silhouette anywhere. 

You push the mic. “Miguel?” 

He spins like you startled him, like he's not the one outside your building at night. You're surprised he even remembers where you live. 

Regardless, you buzz him in. He can explain when he comes up. 

You look down at your vest and shorts, briefly wondering if you should change or fix your hair. 

Whatever, he knows how you look when you wake up in the morning.

It feels like a long ass time before three knocks hit the door softly. You're on the fourth floor, the elevator isn't that slow.

You really hope as you reach for the door that nothing terrible happened. You texted Gabri maybe an hour ago. He better be okay. 

You pull the door open and see him properly, no darkness or steep angles or low res. 

He looks bad. 

He looks like he hasn't slept since you saw him two weeks ago. His under eyes are sunken, revealing green veins you shouldn't be able to see. He has a red scratch near his jaw like he cut himself shaving despite surely being more than an expert at it. His shoulders weigh heavy under a black dress shirt, stretched to contain them.

All at odds with the cute little lavender gift bag he's holding. 

“Are you okay?” 

He nods, unconvincing, and glances between you and the floor as if to ask for permission to enter. You step aside and invite him in. 

“Is… everything else okay?” 

He looks like he's going to nod but thinks better of it, decides to be honest. If silence is honesty.

“How are you?” He asks, clear deflection. He can't even look at you, it's so blatant. 

“Good.” You are, or were, before he showed up looking like he's had the worst day of his life. 

“Happy belated birthday.” He rasps, offering you the bag in his hold. 

You think he'd usually smile. Today you don't think he physically can. 

“Thank you. You didn't have to.” You accept the bag and peek in at a red box with rounded edges.

“Wanted to.” 

He doesn't make a move to sit down, he doesn't even look comfortable standing. It's like he's not sure if he should stay or leave. 

“Sit down, I'll get you a drink. I still have Bailey's?” You urge him there, backing him up until he has nowhere left to go but the couch cushion. 

He nods at least, so you head to the kitchen to make two.

If something happened to someone he would say it, so something happened to him.  

You come back out with the drinks quickly, not wanting to leave him alone. He's staring at the TV without watching it, it's just light to bounce off his eyes. 

The movement of you sitting next to him gets somewhat of a return to the moment, taking the glass from you and rocking it back and forth between his legs for something to do. 

You place yours on a coaster and put the gift bag in your lap. The box says Cartier on the front. “Tell me this is a paperclip.” 

That gets the corner of his mouth to turn up. It brings out the exhaustion in his eyes. 

The box feels good, expensive. You open it. A silver watch stares back at you, with a linked band and square face. It has blue hands and black Roman numerals printed inside it. It feels like you, just feminine enough with an industrial touch. You like the little exposed screws at the corners. “It's so elegant.” 

Miguel hums agreement. “It reminded me of you.” 

His fingers carefully collect the watch, sliding it off its white cushion. You watch how he unclasps the strap and let him take your wrist to his lap. It doesn't show when he clicks it shut, the illusion of continuous metal. 

You turn your wrist so you can both admire it. He really shouldn't have spent what's probably thousands of dollars on it but you can't bring yourself to be mad. It's so pretty. “I love it, thank you so much.” 

His eyes seem warm when they look at you. “Good.” 

“When's your birthday?” You close the box and return it to the bag, resting it next to the coffee table. The weight on your wrist feels different, something to be careful with. 

“October.” 

Not including the date is the exact kind of thing you'd expect from him. “Any plans yet?” 

“I don't usually do anything. Mama makes cake.” He takes a big drink of his Bailey's and stares at the thick liquid settling in the glass like it has something to tell him. 

“What's going on Miguel?” 

That glass has nothing to say, yet he waits a moment for its silence before he speaks. “I should go. I shouldn't have shown up so late.”

Yet, he doesn't move. 

“Is it work?” 

The corner of his mouth twitches with what he's holding back.

Your knee taps his when you try to face his slumped frame. “I'm sure you always have to look unscathed, like you always know what to do, but I'm not part of any of that. You can tell me anything.”

He sighs. You wait. You wait for what must be a whole minute for him to work through the tangle in his mind. “A lot of things… they…” The words are stuck, you watch him as he tries to get them past the woods in his throat. It's heart breaking. You don't think he knows how to lean on someone when things get real. 

You take the glass from his hand, leave it with yours on the table, and slide in close to hug his middle. With your head on his chest you can feel him fail to breathe in all the way. You're worried for a second he's about to have a panic attack. 

Thankfully it's not that, his shoulders relax, then his body, letting him take a deep breath in and a long one out. He leans back into the couch, deflating further. It lets you be more comfortable too, lifting your feet up and laying your legs over his lap. 

The questions, the answers, they were too much pressure for him. This seems better, a silent assurance that he can literally lean on you. 

His hand rests below your knee, sliding down the length of your leg and coming back up in a slow stroke. You close your eyes and listen to the blend of quiet voices from the TV and the beat of his heart.

This is something you miss sometimes, being single. It's just nice to have a warm body to cocoon yours. His is so big it's exactly how you feel, held small in his hold. 

You realise the warmth and quiet lulled you to sleep when something wakes you up suddenly, the most thundering snore you've heard in your life. You lean back to look at Miguel, his head on the back of the couch and mouth half open. He snores again. You can't not laugh, it's like a fucking earthquake.

His next snore wakes him up. He startles awake, eyes flying open and shoulders tensing. 

When he looks around, remembers where he is, he sighs. “I gotta go.” He drags a hand roughly down his face, any harder and it'll tear off. 

“Stay.” 

He looks down at you, wordless. You can't really tell what he's thinking but you do know he has an empty apartment and a sleepless night ahead of him.

“Come on.” You unfold yourself from his warmth and take his wrist to tug him out of the couch. Hesitance makes him a little heavy, but you manage to get him to your bedroom. He stands where you leave him to flick on your lamp, so you return, reaching for his first shirt button slowly, in case he wants to object. 

But no, he observes quietly as you open one after the other. 

It's an interesting thing to do without it being for sex. You're still revealing him, still attracted to what's underneath, but it's a quiet kindness not a blue flame. 

When his shirt hangs open, you slip your hands over his shoulders to take it off but he tenses, shifting away to stop you as you catch a flash of white around his bicep. Bandage. 

“What happened?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it to find other words. “Nothing.” He takes his shirt off himself anyway, facing away like it'll hide the white wrap.

You watch his back as he lays it over the chair you already have some of your own clothes on, then takes his pants off to do the same. 

“Who do you talk to? About these things.” 

“Depends.” He answers after a pause. 

“Well, if you want to talk in the morning, we can.” You throw back your bedsheet and invite him to lie down first. 

He settles down awkwardly, like he's testing the bed at a store. You don't dwell in it and climb over him to get comfortable at his side. Maybe if you're overly comfortable it'll rub off on him, so you settle your head on his shoulder and hike a leg up to rest folded over his middle, drop your hand on his chest. 

It thaws him out, he seems to settle, then lays his arm over your waist. The rough material of his bandage on your back has you wondering if it's something more than work. Health? Danger? Another accident from a lack of sleep? 

One could argue it isn't your business. What you have in this room is separate to what's outside of it. 

But if you're reprieve to him, someone he wants to confide in even though he can't yet, that's something. You know it’s something that you’re worried, worried like a pulse next to your heart, fast and just about painful. He may step in and out of your story but he means something to you, enough that you want him to be okay, that once he leaves in the morning you’ll wonder and wonder and wonder.  

His fingers touch your hand tentatively before they wrap around it, holding it against his chest. You hold them back, hoping at least you can help him sleep well, if nothing else.

It has to be a hot summer's morning, the way you're damp with sweat when the light wakes you. 

No, it's being skin to skin with the body you recognise by smell before you're fully aware. Somehow your head is on top of his, cheek to cheek. You feel him breathe against your shoulder, deep and steady.  Both his arms are holding you against him, one over your shoulders and the other your waist. Your legs are tangled too, yours over his hip then his wedged right between, then yours against a crotch you realise is stiff from the pressure. 

He shifts somehow further into you. The friction pulls a groan from him that sounds deeper than the earth's core, right in your ear. 

Even in his sleep he's torturing you. You're able to keep mostly still, despite the stir low in your gut. God permit, you want him to get all the sleep he can. 

So you keep still, shut your eyes again. This is how a Sunday morning should be, dropping in and out of sleep, slow roasting with a human heater. In one of your waking moments you think about the fruit bowls you'll make for breakfast, coffee too. He likes his strong, with milk and a little sugar, you remember. 

The sound of him sniffing next to your ear wakes you again. His fingers play with the strap of your vest, re-familiarising. Sleeping beauty rises.

His hand climbs to your head to tilt it into the curve of his neck, closer still. He doesn't look for his phone or get up instantly, like he's finally decided to let the world turn without him ahead of it. 

Maybe it was as simple as letting go.

It doesn't seem like he falls back asleep. You don't either. You lie together in companionable silence for what could be an hour, could be two. Then you shift, and you have to snort. “You gonna be hard all day?” 

“It's you.” He mutters, turning onto his back to spare you from the feeling of his cock prodding your leg. The temperature instantly changes in the space he creates between you. “You make me twenty years younger.” 

You prop yourself up on an elbow, smooth your other hand over the hair on his chest. “You say that like it's a bad thing.” 

He half smiles. He looks much better, lighter. His under eyes are puffy but they're fuller, fed by a good night's sleep. “Certainly isn't.” 

You nod, drawing circles on his chest with a lazy finger. He's looking sideways at you like he knows what you're thinking, like it's the same thing he is. “If you're in the mood for it, I have a morning hand job on sale.” 

“Yeah? How much?” 

You run your palm up to his neck. It's so quiet you can hear your skin against his. “Stay for breakfast.” 

He studies your face with soft eyes, then nods. “Okay I'll pay, but I want to skip to the best part.” Before you can wonder his arms wrap around you and topple you onto your back, under him. You giggle as he pulls on your ear with his teeth, let him kiss the skin behind it. 

“Why? You got somewhere to be?” 

His hand maps the side of your body, ribs and curves, until it cups the heat between your legs. “Right here.” 

You swallow a whine and trap his hand there. “Before you get excited, check the bottom drawer.” You point to the bedside table. Last you remember you had like two condoms and you'll be lucky if they're not expired.

Attacking your lap with his bulge, he shifts and stretches to open the drawer and rifle in the contents. He stops, surely because he found one, but when you hear vibration you realise what he actually found. 

“Put that back.” You warn when he smirks at you. He doesn't, leaving it next to you after he turns it off. 

Back to searching, the next thing he retrieves is a black packet. He holds it further away from him, squinting at the back. 

Trying not to show how endearing you find his blindness, you snatch it and check the date. “Good news. We have a month.” 

He snorts, taking it from you and leaving it next to your vibrator. The items are quickly forgotten in favour of you, his hands groping your body like he wants to re-map it, going under your vest and shorts. “I like these, they're cute.” He mumbles next to your ear, his voice still impossibly deep, so deep it raises goose bumps all over your skin. 

He feels them, his hands running up your arms hoping to soothe them with warmth. “I know you're not cold, what's got you like this?” He's even closer to your ear, you can feel his smile against it, he knows. 

You moan when he grinds his bulge against your soft middle. It throbs for him. It always does, never enough, always more of him. 

“Hm?” He rubs against you again, his hand sliding up your stomach and taking hold of your breast. 

“You know why.” You whine, running your fingers into his hair, combing his scalp. 

His mouth trails down your warm skin, words soaking into your neck. “I want you to tell me.” 

“Your voice, it's so deep.” You whisper, arching into him. 

He grunts, from the admission and the push of his cock against your core. You're going to soak through your clothes if he keeps it up. 

He's back at your ear. “It makes you feel good?” 

“Yeah.” You wriggle in his hold, sinking to the force of fingers at the top of your thigh. You can feel your entrance, swelling with need.

Then you hear the vibrator again. You stop moving, trying to see it, but his hand is already beneath the sheet at his waist, between the two of you. “Wait. W-” 

A whining moan cuts you off when he presses the wand to your clit, your feet kick and your back arches into him, clinging on to adjust to the sudden stimulation. 

And him? He's watching you like an experiment, fascinated. 

Your leg hooks over his thigh, using it to raise your hips, chasing what you should be running away from. He keeps it pressed directly to your clit, no breaks or movement, your hole clenches around nothing and your mouth opens around words you don't have. 

His teeth pull lightly at your lip. You think you hear him chuckle, a thing so cruel. 

Then he travels down your body, settling between your legs so he can see all of you. He kisses your thigh too gently for someone torturing you with the firm press of a vibrator. 

If you hit him in the head with your knee it's the stimulation not the audacity of his actions. 

He just thinks it's all so amusing, watching you struggle to keep it together without having to do a thing. “Do you ever think about me when you use this?” 

You don't dignify him with an answer, despite it being yes. You think about him most times you please yourself, even when you watch porn in an effort not to. It's always that the man doesn't look as good as he does, isn't as broad, doesn't talk like him. 

“Miguel I'm gonna- fuck. Stop.” You try to twist away from it but he's faster, caging your hips to the bed with his arm. 

“Not going to until you do.” 

Jokes on him, you're right there. All it takes is one look at the steel determination in his eyes and the cunning smirk on his lips for you to break, whining high and thrashing hard, feeling it shake you through muscle and bone.

Your hands grab at his face as you tremble though it, begging him to move, to turn it off, to get it away. He won't stop. 

Fire burns from your hips to your head, eating and eating at you until you think you're weeping. You're livewire and he wants you to blow, electrocuting you both in the process. 

“Shhh.” His voice sounds like it's inside you. “Let me just see you soak these little shorts. I'll stop then. I'll stop.” He assures like he didn't lie the first time, keeping you held down by the waist. 

You can feel it again, clawing to the surface. You don't know how you haven't soaked your shorts already, you feel swollen and sticky and strung tight. 

“You know what I think about a lot?” He says, like he isn't tearing you in half. He's just propped down there like he's reading a book on the beach, having fun with the pink wand that's bringing your undoing. “That night in my room when you soaked my face. It's the best thing I ever did. I want to make you do it again.” 

Your legs clamp around his body as a second wave snatches you, pulsing between your legs. You don't think you squirt, it doesn't feel like it did that night, but it is wet and messy, feverishly hot. You're damp with sweat as you moan and cry, your nails tearing at his shoulders. You're overwhelmed by clothes, the feeling of them against your nipples, the tack of your shorts between your legs. 

“That's it.” He says, finally easing the vibrator from your clit. You can finish the ride of your orgasm with relief, sighing and melting into the mattress. Absently, you feel his fingers press against the lips of your pussy, like he's trying to see the outline better when he could just take off your clothes. 

Or he's watching the damp patch on the blue and white striped fabric grow. He stares for so long you have time to catch your breath, to study the dark awe in his swelled pupils. 

Once he has the sight memorized to the moon and back, he rises onto his knees. Those boxers couldn't keep him down, instead of a curved bulge he sports a tent that looks like it could tear the fabric. 

Then he almost tears your shorts off, yanking them down your legs along with your underwear.

His hands stroke your legs while he studies your bare pussy now, his lips parted like it's not something he's seen before. 

You always have felt worshipped by him. Devotion has no novelty period. 

Then he rids himself of his underwear, tossing it on the floor. It's visible just how much blood is at his dick, it's so hard and flushed, like it could blow with just a touch. 

Maybe that's why he's done stalling, tearing into the condom and tugging it on a little too hastily considering it may be your last one. 

He's so done stalling he grabs your thighs, tugs you down so they're over his, and pushes into you in one stroke.

Your eyes roll back when he fills you, so smoothly with how wet and ready you are. He makes a relieved sound, raising his hands to your hips and keeping you steady as he draws back. 

Once he's fucking you at a steady pace, you can find the composure to look at him. It's still hard to believe his body is real and not something you're seeing in a dream. His abdomen flexes to show off hard muscle and he indulges in you, his chest rises and falls, the vain through his neck bulges. 

One of his hands loses contact with you. The second you see a flash of pink you clench hard around him, afraid and inevitably turned on. He's going to kill you. 

He grunts and stalls but he isn't stopped, he recovers his pace and touches the wand in your mound, just above your clit. 

That's too much, it has you biting on your wrist and choking his cock. Something in you is gonna break. 

You think he knows that and wants to watch it shatter. The point of the wand rolls down onto your already raw clit. 

He has the gall to moan when you're the one in hell, being consumed by a fire that feels too good against your skin. 

Your nails claw at his forearm, trying to find an anchor though it all. You can hear him saying that's it, you can take it, but maybe you can't and it's delirium. You're faint as if you're dipping in and out of consciousness but you can't be, you're screaming his name.

Tears blur your eyes as it winds again, the clock. Tighter, tighter, so tight it's white hot. 

You feel it again, something not quite right. Something like a leak.

But no, last time it was subdued, a euphoria like sand pushed by a tide. 

This is a giant wave, rising high and quiet to crash hard and loud. 

And it does. Your voice pitches so high it cuts off as you crash. Not even his hold can keep you from thrashing and snapping on the bed like you've been taken over. Your vision is flickering, but you catch an image, a clear stream splashing the hair trailing beneath his belly button. 

A feeling of emptying so good you don't want it to end. 

But it does, and you're left with the after image of it, a perfect silence that puts a smile on your lips.

When you blink he isn't on top of you, he's by your side, arm to arm. You glance down at his cock, shiny and spent against his leg, no condom to be seen. 

You realise you must have blacked out for a second and decide not to reveal that, the last thing you want is to freak him out and make him ease up. 

You don't want him to change. The way you feel is perfect. He's perfect. 

You're cotton candy, weightless as a cloud, floating into water to dissolve into sweet nothing. 

“How are you feeling?” His thumb finds your hip bone, stroking it in slow arcs.

“Perfect.” 

In his silence you suspect there's a smile. You know one still sits on your lips. 

“What about you?” 

Your question sits unanswered for a while. You drop your head to the side to see his profile, staring up and thinking. A piece of the man he came to you as last night sits in the shape of his mouth and brows. You forgot, with how himself he’s been this morning. 

He tips his head to look back at you. You trace his crows feet with your eyes when he smiles. “You have no idea how good you make me feel.”

That sits heavy on your chest, like a confession so deeply true it came from his heart without consulting with his head. 

It sounds like it means so much.

A knock at your door interrupts the perfect silence in the room. Right, there are people in the world outside of the two of you. “Shouldn't have made that order.” 

Miguel is ready sitting up. He has a red scratch on his right shoulder. “What is it?” 

“Summer dresses.” 

“Oh. Will you model them for me?” He teases as he steps into his underwear. 

“When I can stand up.” You're sure to glare so he knows it's his fault you're unable to lift a finger. 

It only lifts his spirits higher. You watch him walk out the room without putting any more clothes on. Lucky delivery person. 

You lie dead listening to the door open, to the distant sound of a car, to nothing. 

You frown. He hasn't said hello to the person, you haven't heard the door close.

You wait a second, then two, then somehow have the energy to swing your legs over the bed and yank your shorts on. Something's definitely wrong.

When you rush into the living room you're stopped dead like you've hit a wall. 

The doors still open, Miguel's still on the right side of it. 

Gabriel is on the same side, staring at his brother, not breathing. 

Nobody moves or speaks or even blinks. 

Inside you're running circles, your heart beating a mile a minute as you realise he knows, and you don't know what to do to fix it. 

Gabri's clutching a pot like he wants to bend the metal. 

You spoke about this yesterday, he was going to return it to you before you went out for lunch. 

He's early. 

You remember the watch on your wrist. 

He's not early. It's almost 2pm. 

Fuck. 

“When… did this happen?” He doesn't sound like himself. 

His first words are already knocking you off balance. Are you honest? How will he react to the truth? 

Miguel looks back at you, equally unequipped to approach this. Gabri catches it. “Hey, don't look at her, answer the question.” He's oddly more confused than outraged. 

“We… got to know each other at the lake house.” 

His gaze on his brother turns hard. “And you didn't tell me, all this time.”

“It was supposed to be over after that.” You come closer to the two of them, tentatively. “Then it just… I don't know.” 

“Over?” 

You're not sure why he's asking that, but Miguel seems to understand. “We're not in a relationship.” 

Your eye twitches. You don't know why. 

“Oh.” Gabri's face falls further. “It's just sex?” 

You nod. Just sex. 

“Why?” 

Why.

That's so big, so unexpected. You don't think you could ever find the words to answer. 

Miguel doesn't answer either. 

Gabri’s looking at him intently, scanning. He sees something in Miguel's face you can't, maybe that you couldn't even if it was in view. There's something Gabri knows, or learns, about his brother. Something you might never know. 

“What happened to you?” His eyes flick down to be bandage around his arm, then back up, concerned despite the revelation he's being faced with. 

“Nothing.” So it's not just you. “Gabri, I don't want this to affect anything.” 

“It kind of does.” 

“I would never be in the way of your friendship-” 

“Can you put some clothes on?” 

Miguel hesitates for a moment, then nods, heading to your bedroom. He looks at you on the way, an assurance in his eyes like he'd do anything for this to come out the other end without hurting you. 

When he's gone Gabri paces past you, into the kitchen. You unstick your feet from the floor and follow. 

He's placed the pot down, now holding the counter with one hand and his hip with the other. 

You're pathetic, you can't even open your mouth to apologise for going behind his back with his brother. It's awful. It's awful that you didn't feel nearly guilty enough to not do it. 

“You know,” He starts, sighing. “I'm not that upset that you fucked my brother, but you fucked my brother and didn't talk to me about it?” He turns around. The hurt in his eyes makes your throat tie up further. “You didn't ask for a blessing or let me know after you did it. Not the first time or the… the…” He drags a hand down his face and shakes his head like he doesn't want to face just how many times you could have said something and didn't. 

A tear escapes down your cheek. He's right. You're a coward. You ignored the wrongness of how you did this. How you're doing it. 

“It was me.” Miguel steps in, working on his shirt buttons and looking heavy again. “I told her we couldn't tell anyone.” 

“Miguel.” 

He levels you a stern look. “I told you that. I know you remember." 

You do, but you agreed. You weren't forced to agree. “You tried to get me to think about Gabri.”

He looks at you, guilty because you both know that wasn't a conversation had over coffee, it was something he mentioned over touches and eyes full of want. 

Gabri pins Miguel with a look that ages him. “What are you going to say to mama tomorrow?” 

“What do you mean?” 

He looks at you. “She invited you for dinner.” 

Oh no. 

“I… can't make it. Tell her thank you.” Terrible lie, but you cannot go, not like this. 

“Call her and tell her yourself, or come. Your choice.”

You're in deep shit.

Gabri isn't so interested in your perils, he focuses on Miguel again. “She's going to bring her up. What are you going to say?” 

“You know I can't tell her the truth.” 

“You don't want to.” 

“No. I don't.” 

“Because you know how bad it looks that her perfect son is having casual sex with his little brother's best friend.” 

“Gabriel.” 

He tugs a hand through his hair, laughs but not because anything is funny. “I'm still shocked. This is so… not you.” 

“Let's keep this from her. It's for the best, you know it is. It'll just bother her, she'll want it to be more and I can't give her that.” He's almost pleading. He is pleading.

Gabri’s brows go up. “You do this to me and you want to pull me into this secret?” 

“What do you want? I'll give it to you.” 

He stares at his brother like he slapped him. “You can't buy your way out of every issue you face Miguel. That's the problem with you, you don't know how to be a person.” 

Miguel stops cold, like he's been slapped back harder. 

Gabri breezes past him, out of the kitchen, toward the door. 

You can't let him leave like this. “Gabri.” 

He turns to you. Up close you can see the conflict between the care he's always had for you and the betrayal he feels. Yet, his voice is steady. “Come to dinner tomorrow. Tell mama why she's wasting her time with you two, and I won't get involved. I'll keep my mouth shut.” 

He throws open the door the rest of the way and walks out. Gone. 

You're hit with a wave of shame and fear. This can't be the footnote of your friendship. It can't. He's the foundation of your life. He's supposed to be forever. 

You wipe the tears from your cheeks, can't look away from the door even when it's blurred by more. 

Your shoulders curl in at the feeling of Miguel's hand on your back. “I'll fix this.” 

“I- we knew this would happen.” You look up at him, at the worry in his brow, the unsettled tint of his eyes. “Why did we do this?” 

He doesn't answer. You have one of your own anyway. 

You were always going to, not because it was fate, because in different ways you're both weak. 

“You don't have to come tomorrow.”

“I'm going to. We did this together. I can't… I can’t be the coward Gabri knows I am, not again.”  

He nods. “Do you want me to stay?” 

He's really asking if you want him to leave. 

You're not sure. You don't know if you even want to be in your body. 

You study his face, the pain that makes him look older, the exhaustion he needs more than one night of sleep to get rid of. “Stay.” You say it for him, because he was in a bad way already and now he has another thing to break him down. You don't want to picture him in an empty apartment thinking his way back into a darker hole. 

You make him coffee, and a fruit bowl that looked so bright and happy when you pictured it in bed but is sad now under the cool kitchen light. Neither of you has anything to say, with so much to process. 

Maybe he's rubbed off on you or you've always been a little like him, but you can't stop thinking about price. You'd never touch Miguel again if that was the price to get Gabri back. 

But he was right, buying and selling isn't human nature, that's entirely too simple. The complexity of it is that it's all been done, nothing can purchase back the lying, the sneaking around, the betrayal. It's done. 

All you can do is find a way to make things right with the acknowledgement of the mistake that was made.

“I don't think he would have stopped us from doing this if we told him.” You say, mixing the last of your fruit. It's turned the yogurt brown. 

“Maybe not.” 

“You shouldn't have come to Valencia.” You knew it wasn't right then, you knew it was the beginning of the end. If that hadn't happened the secret would have become history. 

“I know.”

“Why did you?” 

“I had to.” 

“This isn't your fault.” You sigh, rejecting the weakness that is blame. It wouldn't have changed the prospect of a lifetime of not telling Gabri what happened at the lakehouse. It wouldn't have stopped you seeing Miguel on his bike or at the wedding. It wouldn't have stopped the second lakehouse trip. 

Shit. That's confirmed now. You have the holiday, Gabri told Miguel. It won't be like last time, it can't. 

“I'm going to fix it.” 

You study him, hunched over his bowl. He's eaten less than you. His undereyes look grey, shadowed by a heavy brow. 

“What about everything else?” 

“I'll deal with that.” 

“Miguel you'll snap. Just- if you don't want to talk to me you need to talk to a professional.” 

“I can handle it.” He states, final. 

That's always how one feels before they end up in pieces. It's the reason they do, because they tried to hold something together with only two hands. 

You don't know what to do. You want to help him, you want to be there, but everything feels like it's changing.