Thought of your body
Miguel Diaz x fem!reader / ib: Break Free - Ariana Grande
The air inside the dojo was thick with more than the familiar scent of sweat, rubber mats, and floor polish. It was heavy with everything left unsaid; a silent tension that seemed to linger between you and Miguel, crackling with every punch, every sidestep, every perfectly timed kick.
You both knew.
You could feel it in every lingering glance, every smile that lasted a second too long, every excuse to pair up during training. Yet neither of you had found the courage to acknowledge the feelings that had quietly taken root, growing stronger with every passing day until they occupied every corner of your thoughts.
It wasn't exactly difficult for everyone else to notice. In fact, according to your friends, it had become painfully obvious long before either of you admitted it to yourselves.
"You know," Hawk had said to Miguel a few days earlier, shaking his head with an amused grin, "I honestly don't know how you do it."
Miguel frowned. "Do what?"
"Not tell Y/N how you feel. Or, at the very least, not completely lose your mind over her."
Miguel blinked, caught off guard. "What are you talking about?"
Hawk let out a laugh, throwing an arm around his friend's shoulders. "Dude, she looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars." He smirked knowingly. "And don't even get me started on the way she watches you every time you show up in your gi."
Miguel's eyebrows drew together. "What way?"
"Oh, come on." Hawk rolled his eyes dramatically. "That completely lovestruck stare? Like she's trying to memorize every little detail about you? Like she is... starving." He laughed again, unable to believe his friend's obliviousness. "Seriously, Diaz... she's got it bad."
Miguel opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
Because, deep down... He'd caught himself looking at you the very same way.
Something similar had happened to you not long before that. Only this time, it wasn't Hawk; it was his best friend, Demetri, who had decided to plant an undeniably dangerous idea in your head.
The two of you were sprawled across your living room couch, halfway through Back to the Future. A bowl of popcorn rested between you, along with far too many snacks for just two people. The movie had your full attention...
Until Demetri, unfortunately, decided to speak.
"You know," he said casually, eyes still fixed on the television, "you're looking at Marty McFly like you're about to crawl through the screen and kiss him."
You let out a laugh, rolling your eyes. "Well, who wouldn't? It's Michael J. Fox."
"Fair point," he admitted with a shrug. A beat of silence passed before he added, almost absentmindedly, "Still... I don't think even that compares to the way Miguel looks at you."
Your head snapped toward him so quickly you nearly inhaled a piece of popcorn. "What?"
Demetri finally turned away from the television to face you, wearing the smug smile of someone who knew he'd just dropped a bomb.
"I'm serious." He reached into the popcorn bowl, completely unfazed. "I've seen the guy looking at you when you're not paying attention." He tossed a piece of popcorn into his mouth. "It's honestly embarrassing."
You stared at him. "...Embarrassing?"
"For him," Demetri clarified with a laugh. "The dude looks completely gone."
You scoffed, shaking your head. "You're making that up."
"Oh, please." He pointed a finger at you. "You really haven't noticed?"
"Noticed what?"
"The fact that Miguel watches you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him."
Your heartbeat stumbled. You laughed it off because that was easier than entertaining the possibility. "You're insane."
Demetri simply smiled, turning his attention back to the movie. "Maybe." He grabbed another handful of popcorn. "But I'm not wrong."
And somehow, that was how you ended up standing across from Miguel in the middle of the dojo, hair up, feet planted against the worn blue mats as if this were just another ordinary training session.
It was supposed to be simple. Just a sparring match. Just another opportunity to sharpen your technique and burn off the nervous energy that had been coiling in your stomach ever since Hawk and Demetri had so casually dismantled the illusion that your feelings had gone unnoticed.
Except now, every time you looked at Miguel, and he looked at you, their words echoed in the back of your minds.
She looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars.
He watches you like you're the best thing that's ever happened to him.
You both wished they had never said a thing. Because before, you could pretend.
Pretend that the flutter in Miguel's chest was nothing more than excitement after a good match.
Pretend that your pulse didn't quicken whenever he smiled at you.
Pretend that the warmth spreading through him every time you called his name meant absolutely nothing.
Now every glance felt loaded, every smile lingered a little longer, and every second spent standing this close to each other made your hearts beat just a little faster.
Miguel bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth, trying his best to look as normal as possible.
"Alright," he said, his voice calm, warm, and frustratingly familiar. "Show me that front kick we practiced."
His eyes met yours. "Don't hold back."
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. You weren't holding back anymore.
Every movement carried the weight of months spent biting back words you had never found the courage to say. You lunged forward, feinting to the left before pivoting into a sharp front kick aimed at his midsection.
Miguel blocked it with practiced ease. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. "Good," he said, his breathing steady. "But you're telegraphing."
He stepped closer, just enough to demonstrate without breaking his stance. "You're looking at where you're about to strike."
You frowned. "I am not."
"You are."
Determined to prove him wrong, you surged forward again, throwing a quick combination of punches. Left. Right. Hook.
Every strike was met with the same effortless precision. Miguel slipped around each one as though he'd memorized your rhythm, his movements fluid and controlled, never wasting an ounce of energy.
It was infuriating.
Before you could reset your footing, he closed the distance. One of his hands caught your wrist with a firm but careful grip, and with a smooth shift of his weight, he swept a leg behind yours.
The world tipped sideways.
A surprised gasp escaped your lips as you landed on the mat with a muted thud, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs for only a second.
Miguel instinctively followed your momentum to keep the takedown controlled. One hand braced against the mat beside your shoulder while the other held your wrist lightly, making sure you landed safely.
He was on top of you, so close you could feel his warm, unsteady breath ghosting across your face like a summer breeze. His legs were caging you in, not with conscious intent but pure instinct, like keeping you as close as physically possible was a primal need his body refused to deny.
His weight pressed down on you, solid and grounding, yet you had never felt lighter in your entire existence. The world outside the dojo had dissolved into nothingness. There was only Miguel. There had only ever been Miguel.
Immediately, you fell into a trance, your soul surrendering to the intoxicating reality of the man hovering above you.
The man whose wrist was still wrapped around yours, whose body was a shield between you and everything else, the one you had loved in silence for what felt like an eternity.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, and you let your gaze begin its slow, worshipful pilgrimage across his form.
You started with his hands. God, his hands. The ones you had fantasized about for months, wondering what they would feel like tangled in your hair or cradling your face like you were something precious.
They were firm against your wrist, strong enough to shatter bone, yet his grip was impossibly gentle, as if he was terrified of breaking you, or perhaps terrified of how badly he wanted to hold on.
Then your eyes traveled upward, worshipping the corded strength of his biceps. You had never been particularly drawn to muscles before; they were just... there.
But Miguel's were different. They were sculpted perfection, every sinew and tendon defined with the kind of care that spoke of discipline and passion. They rippled with restrained power as he held himself above you, and you could see the slight tremor in them, as if maintaining control was costing him everything.
The heat radiating from his skin was intoxicating, carrying that distinct Miguel aroma: a blend of clean sweat, subtle cologne, and something uniquely, devastatingly him. You wanted to bury your face in the crook of his neck and inhale until your lungs burned. You wanted to press your lips to every inch of skin your eyes could devour.
When you finally lifted your gaze to his face, your breath caught in your throat, lodging somewhere between your heart and your soul. This face. This beautiful, achingly familiar face that had haunted your dreams every single night for months.
You had memorized every curve and angle in your mind, but nothing compared to seeing it right here, right now, inches away from your own.
You loved every single part of him with a ferocity that scared you. The proud slope of his nose and the subtle curve of his lips that you had imagined kissing a thousand times.
His dark brows were furrowed in concentration, and you noticed a single errant curl falling across his forehead; it took every ounce of willpower not to reach up and brush it away.
But if you were being honest, and you had never been more honest with yourself than in this moment, there was one feature that had always been your favorite. One feature that had captured your heart long before you even realized you were falling.
His eyes.
Those devastatingly beautiful brown eyes that held galaxies within them. They were the kind of eyes that made you forget how to breathe, that made you feel seen in a way no one else had ever made you feel.
They were soft, impossibly gentle, holding a tenderness that contrasted so beautifully with the fierce fighter he was. And right now, those eyes were locked onto yours with an intensity that made you tremble.
You had spent countless nights lying awake, wishing those eyes would only ever look at you. Dreaming that one day, when you turned to meet his gaze, there would be something more in them, something that mirrored the desperate, consuming love that had taken root in your chest and refused to let go. Something that said "you are mine" instead of just "you are my friend."
And now, as you stared up at him, drowning in the depths of his chocolate-brown irises, you could have sworn you saw it. A flicker. A crack in the carefully constructed wall he had built. Something raw and hungry and wanting that made your heart stutter and your skin prickle with heat.
"Perhaps Demetri was right..."
Miguel's voice pulled you out of your thoughts before they could carry you any further. "Hey, Y/N..."
The concern in his tone was enough to snap you back to reality.
His brows were slightly furrowed as he looked down at you, his grip on your wrist loosening the moment he realized you hadn't moved.
"Are you okay?" he asked quietly. "Did I hurt you?"
For a second, all you could do was blink, your mind struggling to catch up with the moment after wandering somewhere else entirely.
You realized you'd been staring far longer than you should have.
Heat rushed to your face as embarrassment settled in. "No," you said quickly, shaking your head. "I'm fine."
Miguel's shoulders relaxed, though the hint of concern lingered in his expression as he offered you a small, reassuring smile.
"But I'm not done yet," you said, a faint grin tugging at the corners of your lips.
Before Miguel had a chance to react, you shifted your weight and used the momentum of the position to reverse it, rolling the two of you across the mat until he landed flat on his back. You settled into a balanced stance above him, unable to hide the small, triumphant smile that spread across your face.
"Your turn," you teased.
And it was, in fact, his turn. His turn to take action, to finally shatter the suffocating silence that had been building between you for months.
His turn to express what his eyes had been screaming every single time they landed on you. He had to.
Your gaze lingered on the wall for a moment, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of your heart, trying to remember how to breathe when all the oxygen in the room seemed to have been stolen by the boy lying beneath you.
When you finally gathered the courage to look back at him, you didn't miss the way his brows furrowed slightly, a barely perceptible crease forming between them, as if he were wrestling with something deep within himself. Like he was trying to convince himself of something. Perhaps cheering himself up. Gathering his courage.
His jaw tightened, and you watched a muscle feather in his cheek as he clenched his teeth. His grip on your wrist loosened once again, and for a terrifying moment, you thought he was going to pull away... but then his hand moved.
Slowly, almost reverently, his fingers uncurled from your wrist and traveled upward. The pads of his fingertips brushed against your skin like a question, as if he were asking permission with every hesitant inch.
They traced the inside of your forearm, featherlight, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Your breath hitched, your entire body going still as his hand continued its pilgrimage.
When his palm finally cupped your cheek, you felt like the world had tilted off its axis.
His hand was warm against your flushed skin, trembling ever so slightly, and the contrast of his rough calluses against the softness of your cheek made your eyes flutter closed for a moment.
This was it. This was everything you had ever dreamed of and more. His thumb brushed across your cheekbone with such tenderness that it made your heart ache, tracing a path that seemed to say, "I've wanted this for so long."
You opened your eyes, and the sight that greeted you stole whatever air remained in your lungs.
His gaze had softened completely, something raw and vulnerable and breathtakingly beautiful. His brown eyes, those beautiful, soulful eyes you had fallen in love with a thousand times over, were glistening with emotion.
"Miguel..." His name escaped your lips like a whispered prayer, barely audible, but he heard it. His eyes searched yours, looking for something: confirmation, permission, a sign that he wasn't about to make a mistake.
"Tell me I'm not imagining this," he said, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. The sound of it sent a shiver cascading down your spine, pooling in the depths of your stomach.
"Tell me you feel it too. Because I can't—" He broke off, swallowing hard, his Adam's apple bobbing with the effort of containing everything he wanted to say. "I can't keep pretending, Y/N. I've tried. God, I've tried so hard. But every time I see you, every time you smile at me, every time you're close enough to touch—I lose my mind."
His thumb continued its gentle exploration, mapping the contours of your face like he was memorizing every detail. His eyes dropped to your lips, lingering there for a moment too long, and when they met yours again, there was a hunger in them that made your pulse race.
"Tell me this is real," he breathed, his forehead resting against yours, closing the distance until there was barely any space left between you. "Tell me I'm not going to wake up from this dream."
You raised your free hand, your fingers trembling as they reached up to mirror his gesture, cupping his jaw with a tenderness that matched his own. His skin was warm beneath your touch. You could feel the slight tension in his muscles, the way he held himself so still, as if he were terrified that even the smallest movement would break this fragile, perfect moment.
"It's real," you whispered, your voice shaking with the weight of the truth you had held inside for so long. "It's always been real, Miguel. I—" You paused, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it. "I love you. I've loved you for so long I don't remember what it felt like not to."
His eyes widened, and for a moment, you saw something break open inside him, a dam of emotion that had been holding back a flood for far too long. A shuddering breath escaped his lips, and the most beautiful smile you had ever seen spread across his face, soft, disbelieving, and full of wonder.
"Say that again," he breathed, his voice cracking with emotion. "Please, corazón. Say it again."
"I love you," you repeated, this time with more confidence, letting the words fill the space between you like a promise. "I'm completely, utterly, hopelessly in love with you, Miguel Diaz."
He let out a sound, and then his lips were on yours, and everything else ceased to exist.
The kiss was soft at first, almost tentative, as if he were still afraid you might disappear. His lips were warm and gentle against yours, moving with a tenderness that made your heart soar.
But then something shifted, and suddenly the kiss deepened, all the months of longing and frustration and desperate, aching want pouring into it. His hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair and tilting your head to deepen the angle. You felt his tongue trace your bottom lip, and you parted for him instantly, a soft moan escaping your throat as he explored your mouth with a hunger that matched your own.
His body pressed closer to yours, no longer holding himself back, and you could feel the rapid beat of his heart against your chest, could taste the faint salt of sweat on his lips, could smell that intoxicating Miguel scent that had haunted your dreams for months.
When he finally pulled back, both of you were breathless, your foreheads resting together, your shared breaths mingling in the small space between you. His eyes were dark with emotion, his pupils blown wide, and a lazy, adoring smile curved his lips.
"I love you too," he whispered, his thumb tracing lazy circles on the nape of your neck. "God, (Y/N), I love you so much it scares me. I've wanted to do that for so long... wanted to tell you... but I was so afraid you didn't feel the same way. I thought I was just imagining things, hoping for something that wasn't there."
"Neither of us was imagining," you said softly, a smile spreading across your own face. "We're both idiots."
He laughed, a low, beautiful sound that vibrated through his chest and into yours. "Yeah," he agreed, pressing another soft kiss to the corner of your mouth. "But we're idiots in love."
You laughed too, the sound bubbling up from somewhere deep inside you, releasing months of tension and uncertainty in one joyful exhale. You were still lying on the dojo mat, still pinning the boy you loved beneath you, but nothing had ever felt more right.
"So," you said, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, "what now?"
His smile turned soft, almost shy, and he leaned up to press his forehead against yours once more. "Now," he murmured, his breath warm against your lips, "We stop pretending. And we figure out together."
"Together," you repeated, liking the way the word felt on your tongue. "I like the sound of that."
He smiled; that signature Miguel smile that made your heart flutter, and stole another kiss, quick and sweet, a promise of all the kisses yet to come.
"I like the sound of everything with you," he admitted, his eyes shining with adoration. "But right now, I really like the sound of taking you on a real date. A proper one."
"That sounds perfect," you said, your heart soaring.
The dojo lights hummed softly above you, the familiar scent of polish and sweat surrounding you both, but everything had changed. The tension that had been suffocating you for months had transformed into something beautiful, something electric, alive, and full of possibility.
Miguel Diaz had finally taken action. And neither of you would ever look back.