Aries + Aries: This can be one of the most challenging partnerships in the zodiac. The dominate/masculine nature of both signs and their inherent sexuality draw them to one another. They will have heated arguments, but even hotter sex. If both can be mindful of their over-sized egos, and learn to work together rather than competing with one another, then this love could last a lifetime.
Aries + Taurus: Not likely to be a calm pairing. Aries is full of energy and loves to provoke, while Taurus is contemplative and slow to action. Aries prefers mad, passionate sex, while Taurus enjoys a night of long, sensual lovemaking. But Taurus is the most patient of all the signs, and can entertain Aries’ fiery nature and demands for attention. It’ll take some work, but there’s potential here.
Aries + Gemini: An exciting, adventurous pairing. Aries’ physical stamina combines with Gemini’s mental energies to produce hot sex, fun times, and a magnetic rapport. However, be wary of the dangers: while both possess tremendous endurance, they risk overextending the relationship and burning out early. Aries, who is jealous by nature, must not attempt to restrain freedom-loving Gemini.
Aries + Cancer: A pair that can surely bring the heat in the bedroom. So long as Aries shows affection, Cancer will oblige all his carnal desires. But Cancer is not comfortable with extremes, and Aries’ fiery and unpredictable emotions unsettle him. The sex may be hot, but in the longrun Aries is likely to find Cancer too worrisome, rambling, and evasive.
Aries + Leo: A union that approaches perfection. Leo will be enticed by Aries’ aggression and charm, and Aries will show Leo his vulnerable side. In the bedroom, a rare occurrence: Aries surrenders his dominance to Leo. And so long as Aries remembers to flatter and stoke the legendary Leonine pride, Leo will take him to the heights of sexual ecstasy. But remember: both of these signs demand attention, and should one feel neglected or overlooked by the other, heads will roll. However, if both can manage their egos, then King Leo will make Aries his prince, and together they’ll rule the galaxy.
Aries + Virgo: A volatile combination. Virgo’s critical nature will often incite Aries’ temper. Sexually, their personalities are very different. For Aries, sex is mad passion and reckless abandon. Virgo cannot lose himself in sex the same way as Aries, and will not respond well to sexual demands. Virgo might allow Aries to take the lead, but that doesn’t mean he’ll follow. This pairing will work best if Aries can help Virgo to free his sexuality.
Aries + Libra: Aries will be attracted to Libra’s good style, friendliness, and compassion. Still, Libra can frustrate Aries with his inability to make decisions. Ruled by Mars and Venus respectively, these two were destined to be lovers. Libra likes his sex just the same as Aries: hot, sweaty, yet playful. However, Aries must keep in mind that he possesses much more energy than Libra, who tires easily. So long as Aries can avoid losing patience with his idle mate, this is a beautiful match.
Aries + Scorpio: Youthful Aries must be on guard in this pairing, as he is entering dark Water sign territory. Aries’ sexuality, while intense, is naive compared to what Scorpio is capable of. Aries might not understand why he so willingly surrenders control to Scorpio, feeling as though he were hypnotized or bewitched. Aries’ ego is brash, but he is the babe of the zodiac, newborn and fresh. Scorpio is the Dark Prince, and he’ll not tolerate Arian tantrums. Proceed with caution.
Aries + Sagittarius: These two share a very common sex drive. Both enjoy spontaneity, and prefer a carefree type of love. But Sagittarius is known to roam, and Aries is prone to fits of jealousy, which complicates their union. If Sagittarius can teach Aries to become a less selfish lover, then this could develop into a promising relationship.
Aries + Capricorn: A quirky pairing. Capricorn is driven by ambition and success, and Aries can teach him to appreciate the lighter moments in life. Likewise, Capricorn can help Aries to mature and become less impulsive. Their sex might not set off fireworks, but if each can learn lessons from his lover’s more desirable traits, then this could develop into a union with some promise.
Aries + Aquarius: Both of these signs love to buck society’s traditions and mores. Aries is possessive by nature, but somehow tolerates Aquarius’ free spirit. Aquarius’ independence intrigues Aries, who loves the challenge of a sexual conquest. Aries is a passionate lover, but with Aquarius he must remember to experiment, lest his lover lose interest. Perhaps not a perfect pairing as sex and love are concerned, but these two do make ideal candidates for BFFs.
Aries + Pisces: These two are neighbors on the Wheel, and something in each fascinates the other. As the most passive sign, Pisces is intrigued by Aries’ aggressive nature. This translates into the bedroom, where Pisces will gladly submit to all of Aries’ fantasies. Pisces’ admiration of Aries’ supposed strength will entice the latter. But Aries must not allow Pisces’ passivity to bring out his bullying and selfish nature. If they can avoid falling into master-slave roles, then this can become a majestic union.
Part 1 of a 3 part fic for Cassian Andor x reader.
Warnings: Angst, Andor spoilers, brief mentions of suicide, cannon typical violence, mentions of death, cannon character death
Words: 4,554
Notes: This is the longest single chapter I’ve ever written and I poured everything I had into it. I really hope you all enjoy it.
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“On program!” Kino yells and you quickly place yourself into position. You lost track of the amount of times you’d done this. The days spent toiling away, each passing by in an endless blur just like the day before. Hope was a nonexistent entity. Your only hope on any day was not being the team in last place.
You’d heard the whispers of an uprising. You’d seen the others communicating between floors, trying desperately to find a way out. But you knew it was a hopeless endeavour. There were only two ways of getting out of Narkina 5. By finishing your sentence and being freed, or in a body bag.
The officer on the level above shoved forward the latest poor soul to enter the compound and rode the small elevator down. You studied the new man, his brown eyes blown wide as he took everything in. You knew what he must be feeling, for you’d stood in his place once. And realising that this is what your fate was, was a crushing feeling indeed.
After the guard was gone and Kino gave his speech, the new guy moved in towards his table, the one next to yours as work started back up once more. You kept your eyes glued to the task before you, unwilling to let your group fall behind, to be the last team. Even as you focused on your task you could hear the murmurings of the group next to yours, curiosity driving you to pay some attention to what they were saying.
“What’s your name?” Melshi asked, probably already guiding the new guy into his work.
“Keef Girgo.” The man replied curtly, and that was the last you heard from the group as Kino snapped at them to get to work.
Hey girl!!! I was just wondering if I could get a Joaquin x Reader fic where Joaquin gets caught in an explosion and gets temporary amnesia?
I absolutely adored writing this fic. Thank you so much for you request, Rowan!
The Heart Always Remembers
You met Joaquin Torres on the first day of basic training. The moment the squad assignments were read out, your names were called back-to-back—Torres, then yours. A nod passed between you—brief, professional, curious. No handshake. No words. Just a shared look that said, All right. Let’s do this. From the very first drill—the first scramble through knee-deep mud, boots sloshing, voices cracking with effort as the drill sergeant barked—something locked into place. You didn’t need a learning curve. No awkward trial runs, no figuring each other out.
While others stumbled over timing or left gaps in formation, you and Joaquin moved like twin currents in the same stream. You covered each other’s blind spots without hesitation. Backed each other in hand-to-hand combat, even when paired with opponents twice your size. You pivoted in sync during live-fire exercises like you’d choreographed the whole thing in advance. You didn’t speak. You didn’t have to. It didn’t take long for people to notice.
“Instructors kept watching us,” Joaquin once murmured to you, after lights-out, both of you wide awake and staring at the ceiling of the barracks. “Like they were trying to figure out the cheat code.”
Your squad noticed too. At first, it was side-eyes and whispers. Nothing direct, nothing hostile—just the kind of wary curiosity people get when they can’t explain what they’re seeing. One guy, Powers, tried to break the tension during downtime.
“So… you two like psychic or something?” he joked, trying to keep it light. You just shrugged, and Joaquin didn’t even look up from cleaning his rifle.
Another time, after a particularly brutal obstacle course that ended with the two of you dragging half the squad to the finish line, someone muttered, “They’ve gotta be cheating.” No one replied, but the air got tight for a moment. You were still catching your breath, mud streaked up your arms, lungs burning. You heard it—felt it, more than anything. The weight of accusation dressed up as sarcasm. The kind of comment that didn’t need to be serious to sting.
Your eyes flicked up. Joaquin’s jaw flexed, subtle but sharp. He didn’t say anything either. Just stood there beside you, breathing hard, fists still half-clenched. His gaze didn’t even shift toward the guy who said it—but you knew him well enough by now to read the shift in his stance. He was pissed, but he wouldn’t rise to it.
That was the thing about the two of you: you didn’t waste your breath on people who couldn’t keep up. You didn’t need to defend what you’d already proven in sweat, bruises, and hours. Still, your pinky twitched by instinct nudging his pinky, like a quiet prod. Let it go, it said. We’ve got bigger things to prove.
Without looking down, Joaquin hooked his pinky with yours, just for a second, just enough. Then he let go, exhaled slowly, and took a step forward. You followed without a word, side by side as always, leaving the tension behind in your wake. Because the truth was, it didn’t matter what they said. You weren’t here to impress anybody. You were here to survive—and do it together.
There were bets, theories. Rumors that maybe you’d trained together before enlisting. That maybe you’d grown up in the same town. Shared a childhood. Shared more. But every time someone asked, you both gave the same answer: Nope. Met on day one.
Still, it didn’t make sense to anyone how you always seemed to anticipate each other’s moves, how you never needed to speak. Even in chaos, even under pressure, your rhythm stayed intact. And that confused people. Sometimes confusion looks like admiration. Sometimes, it looks like resentment.
There was a stretch where a few squad-mates tried to break the pattern. They tried to insert themselves into the formation during drills, edge their way between you two during tactical exercises. It didn’t work. It never worked and not because you pushed them out, but because it was like your bodies and instincts rejected the interference. The timing collapsed; the symmetry vanished.
You weren’t cold about it, just focused—and focus earned results. You passed every exam, every simulation, with scores that made even the instructors squint. If there was a partner exercise, your names were locked in before the sergeant even called them.
During group tasks, everyone started looking at you two first waiting to see how you’d move, what call you’d make, how you’d fall into formation. Respect didn’t come overnight. It came slowly, quietly. The jokes thinned out. The jabs stopped. One by one, your squad-mates stopped trying to figure you out and started trusting you instead—started following your lead.
By the end of month two, no one asked anymore why it worked. They just made room for it. Because whatever this was—whatever you and Joaquin had—it got results. And in basic, that was the only thing that really mattered. No one knew how to counter it.
In combat sims, you swept through rooms like a storm, without a word spoken. You traded weapons mid-fight without looking. Communicated in eye contact and shoulder nudges. When one of you went down during training, the other made it their mission to carry both of you across the finish line.
It didn’t take long for instructors to start using you as examples.
“Move like The Ghost.”
“Cover your six like they do.”
“Train until you’re even half as coordinated as The Ghost.”
One of them, Staff Sergeant Morales, said it loud enough for the entire class to hear after a brutal room-clearing exercise: “If I had ten more just like them, I could win a war with my damn eyes closed.” He didn’t say it like a compliment. He said it like a warning. Some recruits hated it. Others watched in awe. Instructors admired it. Leaders feared it. Regardless, no one stayed indifferent for long.
The bond followed you into active duty. By the time you deployed, people knew to look for you two together. You sat next to each other on transport flights. Shared gear. Shared rations. Picked up each other’s slack without being asked. He knew how you took your coffee; you knew how to spot when he was hiding an injury. Your squad placed bets—first on who’d screw up and break formation (neither of you ever did), and later, on when you’d finally cave and admit you were in love.
You pretended to be annoyed by it, but the truth was … they weren’t wrong. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was a quiet understanding that grew over late-night fire watches and adrenaline-soaked post-mission come-downs. You looked at him and felt steady. Looked at you and saw home. Joaquin never said it outright, not at first. He didn’t have to because you just knew.
So when the explosion hit—when the world erupted in fire and dust and you watched Joaquin vanish under a collapsing roof top—it felt like someone had ripped the oxygen from your lungs. You didn’t think. You ran. You ran through fire, through shouts, through people trying to hold you back. You found him crumpled under half a collapsed wall, suit blackened and wings mangled, blood streaming from a gash across his forehead. You dropped to your knees, shaking hands pressed to his pulse point.
Joaquin’s heart was still beating but barely. You whispered his name over and over. When they carried him off in the evac chopper, your hands were still stained red from holding him together. You were too stunned to move, and your two best friends had to quite literally drag you after Joaquin towards safety.
Joaquin spent three days in a medically induced coma. You sat by his bedside the entire time. You didn’t leave except to wash off the ash in the ensuite bathroom. You didn’t sleep except in 30-minute intervals. Every beep of the monitor, every shift of his fingers, every flicker of breath—you memorized it all.
Until finally, on the third morning, his eyes fluttered open. You surged forward in the chair beside his bed, your heart catching in your throat. But the second he looked at you—truly looked at you—you knew something was wrong. Joaquin didn’t smile. He didn’t reach for you. He blinked slowly and said, in a hoarse, confused voice:
“¿Dónde estoy…?” Joaquin croaked, his eyes panning the room. Your breath caught. And then—barely audible, like it cost him everything to say—“Who… who are you?”
The words hit harder than the blast had. Harder than the moment you saw him fall. Three words. Who are you? They split something open in your chest.
You’d prepared for wounds, for rehab, for months of physical therapy. You’d braced yourself for the nightmares, for the scars, for helping him heal. But not this. Not him waking up and looking at you like a stranger. Not the emptiness in his voice where your name should’ve been. You gripped the edge of the bed, knuckles white, willing yourself not to cry—not yet. Not when he was alive. He was here. He was here with you, even if he didn’t remember you, even if he didn’t remember The Ghost Formation.
Before you could speak—before you could shape the reassurance that had been burning in your chest for three endless days—Joaquin’s face crumpled. His breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, chest rising too fast.
“I don’t—” he rasped, eyes darting around the room like he didn’t recognize any of it. “I don’t know where I am. I don’t—why can’t I remember—”
His hands trembled. His voice cracked.
“I’m—I’m scared,” he gasped, the words tearing out of him between labored breaths. “Why can’t I remember anything?”
You were crawling into his bed in seconds, legs hanging off the side, torso hovering over his, hands hovering just above his arms—close enough to comfort, not close enough to overwhelm.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay,” you said, voice low and steady, the way you used to talk to him in the field when the adrenaline got too loud. “You’re safe. Breathe with me, okay?”
Joaquin’s eyes found yours again—wide and wet now, tears slipping down his cheeks. A fresh ache bloomed in your chest, but you pushed it down. Swallowed it. Because this wasn’t about you.
“I don’t know you,” he whispered, voice cracking like it hurt to admit it. “Why don’t I know you?”
“You do, Quino,” you said gently. “It’s okay if you don’t yet. I’m not going anywhere until you remember me.”
His hands clenched weakly into the blanket. The monitor beeped faster as his breaths became shorter, more panicked. You reached out—slowly, carefully—and set your hand over his. The touch was electric for both of you. It was warm, solid, and real.
“Just breathe with me,” you whispered. “In and out. That’s all you have to do right now.”
Joaquin listened and followed you. His breaths were ragged at first but became steadier. Then, barely audible but certain enough to break the tension, he repeated, “You’re here … and I’m okay … I’m because you’re here.”
As he said it, his fingers twitched—almost unconsciously—and slowly, he intertwined your fingers. Your thumb instantly traced over his knuckles. His grip was tentative at first, then with growing strength. Joaquin squeezed your hand hard, not letting go. The words trembled out of him again, shaky and unsure, but they were yours. His words were a lifeline thrown across the darkness. You smiled through the tears you’d been holding back. You heard a nurse jog into the room, their steps rushed to a halt when they realized what was happening.
“Yes,” you assured him quietly, your fingers tightening gently around his. “I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere.”
You stayed right there, never breaking eye contact, never letting go of his hand.
“I’ve got you,” you told him softly, anchoring both of you with those three words.
You weren’t leaving. Even if he didn’t remember. Even if he was scared. Even if your name didn’t mean anything to him—yet. Somewhere beneath the panic, the confusion, the fear you saw something in his eyes: a flicker. Not quite recognition but undisputed trust. It was instinctive, unexplainable—like something in him still knew. You held onto that. You held him through the shaking, the tears, the jagged breaths. You would keep holding on until he remembered everything you were. Until he remembered everything you still are.
For the rest of the day, nurses came in and out, checking vitals, adjusting equipment, but they never tried to pry you away. Their hearts were breaking for you. And even if they wanted to, they couldn’t bring themselves to ask you to step aside. Joaquin didn’t let go of your hand for at least an hour—not until one nurse carefully said she needed to place a pulse oximeter on his index finger. He hesitated, fingers curling tighter for a moment as if he was afraid.
Then, reluctantly, he let go, but his gaze never left yours. Was he worried you’d be angry? Worried you’d vanish if he loosened his grip?
“It’s okay,” you whispered. You gently placed your hand on his knee, just above the blanket.
That small gesture seemed to settle him as he slowly let the nurse take his hand. You settled onto the bed for the rest of the day; stretched your legs out toward the headboard so you could watch him from near the foot of the bed. Your knees bumped lightly against his in quiet solidarity, an unspoken connection.
As visiting hours approached late that evening, the attending doctor stepped in. None of the nurses had the heart to ask you to leave—they all knew you didn’t want to leave.
“It’s time to leave now that he’s awake,” the doctor said softly.
Your mouth twitched, ready to protest, but deep down, you knew. You should leave. You should give Joaquin the space he needed… After all, he didn’t remember you. Then, quietly, low and sure, Joaquin spoke:
“She stays.”
You and the doctor both whipped your heads toward him, mouths open in stunned surprise.
“It’s okay, Quino,” you stammered, your voice shaky. “I—I can leave—you need to rest—”
But he was firm now: “You stay.”
Joaquin’s hand reached for yours, but he hesitated. His fingers hovered, confused, unsure if he should bridge the gap again. And then, softly, almost shyly, he said, “You said we’d watch that movie about the lion fighting his uncle.”
A lump caught in your throat. That memory—the movie you both loved, the one you’d promised to watch together as soon as he woke from the coma—was buried deep beneath the fog. Somehow, it was still there. It was a beacon, a thread back to you. You squeezed his hand, voice thick with emotion.
“I’m here,” you whispered, “and I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time since the explosion, you saw something more than confusion in his eyes. You saw hope. At that moment, the cracked door swung wide as two nurses filed in quickly. One held the TV remote, fingers already tapping to pull up The Lion King online. The other came bearing sheets and pillows, her arms full, setting about making the room more comfortable.
You glanced at Joaquin, who was watching them with wide, curious eyes. Before you could say anything, two more nurses appeared, wheeling in a cot. They placed it carefully between Joaquin’s bed and the window, creating a small, cozy space for you to rest. The room, once sterile and tense, softened instantly. It felt less like a hospital room and more like a place where you could start reclaiming your life together.
You settled in next to Joaquin, the familiar opening chords filling the air. As the movie began, you held his hand tightly, ready to rebuild every memory, every promise—one scene, one smile, one heartbeat at a time.
The doctors called it traumatic retrograde amnesia. They explained it carefully, their voices clinical but tinged with gentle caution. It was likely temporary, they said, but no one could say for sure. The explosion, the crushing force, the head trauma—all mixed with prolonged oxygen deprivation—had scrambled his memories like a shattered puzzle. The pieces were blurred, missing, scattered beyond recognition.
His long-term memory had been fractured. They warned you not to push him. They warned you to take it slow, to let his brain find its way back on its own terms. You nodded, smiled politely at their advice, but inside—inside you broke. Because when Joaquin looked at you for the first time since waking—when his eyes settled on your face—you were a stranger. Not the partner who had moved with him in perfect sync through every mission. Not the friend who had shared every secret, every laughter-filled night beneath endless stars. Not the soulmate who had bled and fought by his side.
None of it was there. Not the spark in his eyes when he looked at you. Not the private grin he reserved just for you after a mission went sideways and you both limped back in one piece. Not the playful bickering or the quiet moments that once said home better than any place ever had. Now, there was only a blank canvas where your history should have been; a raw, untouched surface that stared back at you with no recognition, no anchor.
But still—you stayed. You never actually left, not once. You didn’t ask to stay. Joaquin never begged the doctor, never pleaded with the nurses. Neither of you had to bring it up at all. It became a quiet, unspoken agreement among everyone involved—medical staff, command, even Sam—that you would be there. You’d stay at least for a few days. No one challenged it. No one wanted to challenge it. Sam showed up the second night with your go-bag slung over one shoulder.
He had stuffed your bag with changes of clothes, travel-sized toiletries, your phone charger, and a battered paperback Joaquin had tried to convince you to read a hundred times before. Sam didn’t say much. He set the bag on the empty chair beside you, gave your shoulder a squeeze, and left without making you speak.
The nurses began folding extra blankets at the foot of the cot without asking. One of them quietly replaced your coffee with fresh mugs when yours had gone cold. Another started bringing you a second tray at mealtimes, no matter what the hospital’s policy was.
You slept in half-hour bursts with your head on the edge of Joaquin’s bed, your hand tucked in his. You learned the rhythms of the monitors like lullabies. The quiet hum of the machines, the occasional beep, the steady whoosh of the oxygen line—all of it became the soundtrack of your new reality. You filled the silence with the pieces of your life he’d forgotten.
You turned on the music you used to dance to in your kitchen. You started with the playlist he made for you after your first joint deployment. It was the one with soft Latin ballads and throwback pop and that ridiculous ‘80s synth song you used to mock but secretly loved. Joaquin didn’t recognize the songs at first; he didn’t respond immediately, at least not with words, but his fingers twitched against the sheets now and then, like his body remembered what his mind couldn’t.
You wore his favorite hoodie—the soft one that hit you mid-thigh, sleeves too long. The one he used to say made you look like you'd “stolen his wings and weren’t planning on giving them back.” Joaquin didn’t say anything about it the first few days, but by day four, his gaze lingered a little longer when he looked at you in it. You told him stories. You recounted all kinds of stories.
Funny stories like the time you accidentally wandered into a drill formation and almost got tackled by a training dummy before Joaquin swooped in with a ridiculous cover story about a “classified base scavenger hunt.”
Sad stories about family. About missing home. About that one guy in your unit who used to sing lullabies in Tagalog on night watch, just to keep everyone grounded.
And the quiet ones—the stories you only ever told him. The ones about your childhood. Your fear of heights. Your dreams of opening a tiny bookstore in a coastal town once this life—the military life–was done.
You called him mi amor—not out of habit, but because it still felt true. At first, he didn’t even blink, didn’t flinch when you said it. In fact, he didn’t respond at all. You thought he didn’t react out of pity, afraid of offending you if he showed any negative reaction to the affectionate term. But you kept saying it. You whispered it like a thread tying you back together … and by the end of the first week, it landed.
You said it softly—“Buenas noches, mi amor”—and turned to gather your bag. Then you heard it. A breath. A shift. You looked back and found him watching you, eyes softer than you’d seen them since the blast. And then came that slow, crooked smile—the one that never reached his face unless it was real.
“I… think I like when you say that,” he mumbled, voice raspy but honest.
Your heart nearly stopped. Your knees almost caved. It wasn’t everything, but it was something. And in this quiet, in-between place where love held steady and memory had gone wandering, something was more than enough. You smiled back, tears in your eyes, and said it again—stronger this time.
“Good,” you murmured, setting on the side of his bed to brush his bangs off his forehead, “because I’m not going anywhere.”
The breakthrough came on a stormy night five weeks after he woke up. You hadn’t stayed the night for at least a week, and the nurses agreed to let you spend the night again tonight. Lightning flashed outside the hospital windows, and thunder shook the building. You were curled up on the couch in his room, half-dozing, when you heard him whimper loudly. You bolted up right in seconds. He was sitting up, drenched in sweat, chest heaving.
“Joaquin?” you gasped. You crossed the room in two steps, crawling into his bed.
“I saw you,” he whispered. “In a dream. We were dancing. You were laughing. We were—we were happy. And I think—” he swallowed, voice cracking, “I think I loved you.”
“You still do,” you said, voice breaking. “You just forgot for a little while.”
He stared at you like the sun had risen in the middle of the night.
“Your name, it’s…” he murmured. You nodded, tears falling freely now. “And I called you ‘vida mía,’ didn’t I?”
“You still do,” you whispered. “Whenever you’re ready.”
It all came back, little by little after that night. The smell of burnt coffee on your first night deployed. The time you patched up his arm with duct tape and a broken compass. The way your voice sounded in the dark, steady and calm, when everything else fell apart.
Eventually, he remembered your first kiss—after a mission gone sideways, covered in bruises and laughing in disbelief. He remembered whispering that he didn’t care if anyone else knew, that you were the only thing that mattered.
And on a quiet morning, months later, he turned to you in the apartment you’d shared long before the explosion, wrapped his arms around your waist, and murmured: “I remember everything.”
You pressed your forehead to his and whispered, “So do I.”
People still talk about The Ghost Formation. It’s in after-action reports, highlighted in red ink and circled twice. Instructors still cite it during training sessions, pointing to old footage and whispering to recruits, “This is what real trust looks like.” It’s even been immortalized in the rumors that echo through enemy channels—those who survived long enough to tell stories of the shadow-pair who moved as one. Who never spoke but always knew. Who cleared rooms like ghosts and left behind nothing but silence and stunned disbelief.
But for you, it’s never just been a nickname. It was never just tactics or coincidence. It was a promise. A vow forged in the dirt of the training field and tempered in the fire of every mission, every shared wound, every look that said I’ve got you without needing to speak. It held strong when everything else fell apart, when the blast hit, when the memories vanished… When the boy you loved looked at you with empty eyes and no trace of the thousand moments you’d built together.
Even then, The Ghost Formation held. Because it was never just in his memory. It lived deeper—in his instincts, his bones, the pull of his heart that still knew yours by feel. And now? Now, Joaquin is back and he’s not just breathing and not just surviving. But he’s here—with you—eyes clear, smile familiar, arms wrapping around you like they were made for that purpose alone.
You still fight side by side, still fall asleep tangled together on long flights, your heads bumping lightly as the engine hums. You still argue over whose kill count was higher on the last mission, and you still laugh so hard your ribs ache when he does that ridiculous impression of your old drill sergeant. But there’s a softness now, a stillness.
The kind that comes after weathering the storm and knowing you’ve earned every second of peace that follows. Sometimes, late at night, he’ll reach for your hand without a word and you’ll squeeze back—just once—like always.
The Ghost Formation didn’t end in that explosion or in the hospital or when the world tried to shake it loose. It survived because it was never about memory. It was about choice. You chose each other every day in every way that counted. And you still do.
Aries + Aries: This can be one of the most challenging partnerships in the zodiac. The dominate/masculine nature of both signs and their inherent sexuality draw them to one another. They will have heated arguments, but even hotter sex. If both can be mindful of their over-sized egos, and learn to work together rather than competing with one another, then this love could last a lifetime.
Aries + Taurus: Not likely to be a calm pairing. Aries is full of energy and loves to provoke, while Taurus is contemplative and slow to action. Aries prefers mad, passionate sex, while Taurus enjoys a night of long, sensual lovemaking. But Taurus is the most patient of all the signs, and can entertain Aries’ fiery nature and demands for attention. It’ll take some work, but there’s potential here.
Aries + Gemini: An exciting, adventurous pairing. Aries’ physical stamina combines with Gemini’s mental energies to produce hot sex, fun times, and a magnetic rapport. However, be wary of the dangers: while both possess tremendous endurance, they risk overextending the relationship and burning out early. Aries, who is jealous by nature, must not attempt to restrain freedom-loving Gemini.
Aries + Cancer: A pair that can surely bring the heat in the bedroom. So long as Aries shows affection, Cancer will oblige all his carnal desires. But Cancer is not comfortable with extremes, and Aries’ fiery and unpredictable emotions unsettle him. The sex may be hot, but in the longrun Aries is likely to find Cancer too worrisome, rambling, and evasive.
Aries + Leo: A union that approaches perfection. Leo will be enticed by Aries’ aggression and charm, and Aries will show Leo his vulnerable side. In the bedroom, a rare occurrence: Aries surrenders his dominance to Leo. And so long as Aries remembers to flatter and stoke the legendary Leonine pride, Leo will take him to the heights of sexual ecstasy. But remember: both of these signs demand attention, and should one feel neglected or overlooked by the other, heads will roll. However, if both can manage their egos, then King Leo will make Aries his prince, and together they’ll rule the galaxy.
Aries + Virgo: A volatile combination. Virgo’s critical nature will often incite Aries’ temper. Sexually, their personalities are very different. For Aries, sex is mad passion and reckless abandon. Virgo cannot lose himself in sex the same way as Aries, and will not respond well to sexual demands. Virgo might allow Aries to take the lead, but that doesn’t mean he’ll follow. This pairing will work best if Aries can help Virgo to free his sexuality.
Aries + Libra: Aries will be attracted to Libra’s good style, friendliness, and compassion. Still, Libra can frustrate Aries with his inability to make decisions. Ruled by Mars and Venus respectively, these two were destined to be lovers. Libra likes his sex just the same as Aries: hot, sweaty, yet playful. However, Aries must keep in mind that he possesses much more energy than Libra, who tires easily. So long as Aries can avoid losing patience with his idle mate, this is a beautiful match.
Aries + Scorpio: Youthful Aries must be on guard in this pairing, as he is entering dark Water sign territory. Aries’ sexuality, while intense, is naive compared to what Scorpio is capable of. Aries might not understand why he so willingly surrenders control to Scorpio, feeling as though he were hypnotized or bewitched. Aries’ ego is brash, but he is the babe of the zodiac, newborn and fresh. Scorpio is the Dark Prince, and he’ll not tolerate Arian tantrums. Proceed with caution.
Aries + Sagittarius: These two share a very common sex drive. Both enjoy spontaneity, and prefer a carefree type of love. But Sagittarius is known to roam, and Aries is prone to fits of jealousy, which complicates their union. If Sagittarius can teach Aries to become a less selfish lover, then this could develop into a promising relationship.
Aries + Capricorn: A quirky pairing. Capricorn is driven by ambition and success, and Aries can teach him to appreciate the lighter moments in life. Likewise, Capricorn can help Aries to mature and become less impulsive. Their sex might not set off fireworks, but if each can learn lessons from his lover’s more desirable traits, then this could develop into a union with some promise.
Aries + Aquarius: Both of these signs love to buck society’s traditions and mores. Aries is possessive by nature, but somehow tolerates Aquarius’ free spirit. Aquarius’ independence intrigues Aries, who loves the challenge of a sexual conquest. Aries is a passionate lover, but with Aquarius he must remember to experiment, lest his lover lose interest. Perhaps not a perfect pairing as sex and love are concerned, but these two do make ideal candidates for BFFs.
Aries + Pisces: These two are neighbors on the Wheel, and something in each fascinates the other. As the most passive sign, Pisces is intrigued by Aries’ aggressive nature. This translates into the bedroom, where Pisces will gladly submit to all of Aries’ fantasies. Pisces’ admiration of Aries’ supposed strength will entice the latter. But Aries must not allow Pisces’ passivity to bring out his bullying and selfish nature. If they can avoid falling into master-slave roles, then this can become a majestic union.
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