#falcon x reader

[geminiwritten]

friends don't ; joaquín torres

summary: it was only ever supposed to be casual. convenient. roommates with benefits—two rules: no kissing, no falling in love. but when joaquín returns from a week-long mission and his mother comes to stay, tensions rise, jealousy snaps, boundaries blur, and breaking those rules becomes inevitable.

notes: surprise joaquín fic?! my goodness, i've been working on this for months (so i'm sorry if it feels disjointed). i abandoned it back in july and have been slowly adding to it but just recently got the urge to fully finish it, so here ya go! i hope it's good? i hope it's enjoyable? it was really fun, more angsty than i originally planned, and a little more lyrical than i ever intended? i also did a lot of random research for this fic... so please (as always) let me know what you think!!! (and i made a playlist)

warnings: so many metaphors and similies (like seriously, i'm sorry), nevada slander (i'm sorry, again! i just chose a desert state, i promise there's no meaning behind it), jealousy, tension, a bit of angst, italics, likely incorrect spanish, denial (duh), and SMUT (dirty talk-ish, f oral receiving, making out, unprotected p in v, and sorry if it sucks i feel like i struggled with the last spicy scene) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 18779

It started on a random Tuesday night.

You’d been living with Joaquín for almost six months at that point—after years of friendship forged through comms static and high-stakes calls working for the United States Air Force.

You were his handler back in the day. You worked for a joint taskforce—half independent intelligence, half Air Force—coordinating tactical comms and field support. Joaquín was one of your primary field assets, and you were the voice in his ear. You watched his vitals, fed him real-time intel, and talked him out of some seriously bad situations.

After a while, he stopped feeling like an asset and more like a friend—a good friend. You trusted each other more than anyone else in the field. And even after he got pulled into Captain America's world and rotated out of your roster, you stayed close.

You left the handler life not long after—burned out from too many ops gone wrong, long hours, and the creeping sense that your whole life was passing you by. Now you’re a threat analyst contractor—still intelligence, just less intense. More sane. You pick your own hours, turn down jobs that feel like lost causes, and best of all, you get to do most of it from home.

When Joaquín officially inherited the Falcon wings, he started looping you in again—running contracts through Sam’s office, bringing you back into the fold, piece by piece. The work felt familiar. So did he. And when he brought up the idea of sharing an apartment in D.C., it made perfect sense.

Rent was brutal. Joaquín was gone on missions half the time anyway. And you already knew each other well enough to live in sync—how to read each other’s moods, how to exist in tight spaces without getting on each other’s nerves.

You trust him—always have—and the first six months were easier than you imagined.

Then… that Tuesday night happened.

You were sitting on the couch sharing a bowl of popcorn, half-watching some action movie Joaquín had put on while you complained about the lack of fuckable men in your life. Joaquín, of course, acted all offended and joked about how incredibly fuckable he was—at which you snorted, but silently agreed.

There was one long, charged second where neither of you knew what to say.

Then Joaquín said it. He offered. Asked if you wanted to have sex—no strings, just good old-fashioned stress relief between friends.

You hesitated, of course. Torn between tearing off your—admittedly sexy—best friend’s clothes, or telling him that in no way was this kind of arrangement a good idea. You didn’t want to ruin what you had. Living with him was great, and the thought of messing all that up made you nauseous.

But then he licked his lips. Raised a brow.

And something deep inside you snapped.

You agreed. With two conditions: no kissing, and no falling in love.

Simple, right?

Well, you thought so. Until you found yourself under him—or on top of him, or beside him, or in some other twisted position—every second night. Panting, whimpering, crying out his name while he made you come with his mouth, his fingers, his very impressive cock. Once you started, you couldn’t get enough.

And slowly—somehow—you started feeling different. About him. About everything. Different in a way that made your heart race, your cheeks flush, and your stomach do weird somersaults every time he flashed that boyish grin.

You haven’t quite admitted it yet, but you’re pretty sure you’ve gone and broken one of those rules.

And not even the one that should have been the easiest to break—because even after almost three months of being roommates with benefits, you still haven’t kissed him. Not once. Not even almost.

The click of the front door lock startles you. You blink hard at the TV screen you’ve been pretending to watch for the past few hours, then crane your neck to peer over the back of the couch. And sure enough, there he is.

His curls are damp from the rain, clothes a little soaked too, and there are deep purple circles beneath his eyes. He looks exhausted—but somehow, still gorgeous. Still infuriatingly hot, even though you’re pretty sure he hasn’t slept the entire week he’s been gone.

“Hey,” you call, pushing up from the couch.

He drops his duffel and kicks off his shoes. “Hey,” he says, eyes lighting up the second they land on you. “I missed you.”

And God, it doesn’t help when he says things like that.

You roll your eyes and walk around the couch, leaning a hip against the back of it while he shrugs out of his wet jacket and hangs it on the rack by the door. The apartment isn’t huge—just an open-plan living and dining space, with the kitchen off to the side—which means there are only a few strides left between you and him.

“Don’t roll your eyes when I say that,” he adds. “I’m allowed to miss my best friend after being forced to spend a week in hell—or Nevada, as the locals like to call it.”

You laugh quietly, folding your arms just to stop yourself from reaching out. Because holy shit, you've missed him—but you’re not about to admit it out loud.

He misses his best friend.

You miss the boy you’re in love with.

It’s not the same. Not even close.

“I almost cried when it started raining on the cab ride home,” he says with a soft chuckle. “The desert sucked. I’m never going back there. I told Sam he can find a new Falcon if he wants to do more recon in a state that’s more red dirt than grass.”

“Wow,” you mutter. “Maybe Sam should find a new Falcon, then. One that complains less.”

He narrows his eyes as he steps forward, slowly closing the distance between you.

“You know,” he says, stopping barely a foot away, “this isn’t the kind of welcome I was hoping for.”

You lift a brow. “And what exactly were you hoping for?”

He shrugs, lips twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Candles. Rose petals. Romantic music.” He steps in again, eyes dragging up your body—slow and deliberate. “You. On my bed. Naked.”

Your heart thuds in your throat, and heat blooms across your skin, but you refuse to let it show. You won’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction. You’re used to this—to him. He was flirty even before you started sleeping together, but now? Now it’s like making you blush is his full-time job.

“Really?” you ask, keeping your voice level. “Didn’t think you’d be up for it tonight. Aren’t you tired?”

“Never too tired for you, baby,” he mutters—low and dangerous—as he closes the space between you entirely.

His hands find your waist and his lips drop to your neck, just above the collar of your shirt—his shirt—where he knows exactly how to make you sigh.

And you do.

Like you’ve been holding your breath all week, just waiting for his touch. And now, with his soft lips and wet tongue drawing a slow bruise into your skin, just above your shoulder—you can finally breathe again.

“Joaquín,” you whisper, “I’m your roommate, not your—”

He shoves his body against yours, the unmistakable, rock-hard length beneath his jeans pressing into your hip.

“Cariño,” he murmurs against your neck, “I’ve been living in a one-bedroom safe house with Sam for seven days. I haven’t come since you made me before I left. If I don’t come inside you tonight, it’ll be into my own hand while thinking about you. And I know which I’d prefer.” He presses a wet kiss just beneath your jaw. “What do you prefer?”

Your eyes almost roll back as he slides one hand beneath your shirt, fingers digging into the flesh at your waist. His lips continue their assault on your neck—sucking, licking, biting, soothing—while you choke back moans and grip the front of his shirt for dear life.

“Come on, baby,” he sighs, breath hot on your skin. “Don’t make me beg.”

You bite back a grin as you tip your head back, breath stuttering. “Maybe I want you to beg.”

He pulls back—lips puffy, eyes glazed, that familiar smirk still very much in place. “Want me to beg?” he echoes, brows lifting. “I’ll do it. I’m not ashamed.”

Then, slowly, he drops to his knees in front of you. His hands slide down your body, igniting fires in their wake and making your pulse stumble.

“I want to fuck you so bad, baby,” he mutters, tongue darting across his lower lip. “Please let me.”

The sight of him makes your knees weak—curls tousled, lips damp, eyes dark with lust and something darker, hungrier. God, if you said no to a man like this, you’d have to be insane.

Your breath hitches as he lifts the hem of your shirt and presses a kiss just above the waistband of your sweatpants.

“Please, cariño,” he whispers. “Please let me fuck you.”

He slowly pulls the grey fabric down, sliding it over your hips until it drops in a pool at your feet—leaving only a lacy pair of pink panties between him and what he wants.

You lean harder against the back of the couch, gripping it like a lifeline as he leans in again, lips brushing the tops of your thighs.

“Gonna need you to say something, baby,” he murmurs.

You swallow hard and let out a shaky breath. “Yes,” you manage. “Yes, Joaquín, you can f-fuck me.”

He grins up at you—boyish charm and deadly intention—as his fingers hook beneath your panties and slide them down. You gasp at the sudden exposure, and before you can say or do anything else, his hands grip the insides of your thighs and part them. Your grip tightens on the couch before your knees can give out, and you hear him chuckle as your legs shake with anticipation.

“So wet already,” he breathes, face barely an inch away. “Mierda, cariño… ¿todo esto para mí?” (Shit, baby… all this for me?)

You nod, once, because you know you can’t speak. Not with him on his knees. Not with his mouth so close to your cunt. Not after a whole week of that useless vibrator, waiting for him to get back.

“Been thinkin’ about this pussy all week,” he mutters, eyes locked on the apex of your thighs like he’s praying.

Then he hitches one of your legs over his shoulder—and his mouth is on you.

Warm, wet, and worshipful, he licks a slow stripe through your folds, lips and tongue coaxing every nerve alive. You gasp, fingers flying into his curls, and your back arches as a strangled moan slips free.

He works you open like he’s savouring every second, tongue deliberate and unhurried, lapping up every drop like it means something. A low moan rumbles in his throat—part pleasure, part hunger—and the vibration shoots straight through you.

Your hips twitch. Your grip tightens in his hair. He doesn’t flinch.

One hand steadies the back of your thigh. The other slides between your legs, fingers teasing your soaked entrance while his mouth keeps working, determined and relentless.

“Fuck,” he groans. “She missed me, huh?”

Two fingers push inside you—slow, careful, deep—and your whole body jolts. You cry out before you can stop yourself, head tipped back as he curls them just right, dragging along that spongey spot that makes your knees buckle.

His mouth stays pressed against you, tongue flicking over your clit in perfect rhythm with every thrust of his hand.

Your breath stutters. Your legs shake.

He’s so good at this. Too good. It’s almost unfair—the way he pulls you apart with his mouth and fingers like it’s nothing. Like he was made for it.

“Joaquín,” you whisper, barely able to speak. “I—fuck—”

He hums again, lips sealed to you like he can’t stand to let go. His fingers move faster, deeper, knuckles brushing as he works you open. Your whole body tightens, strung up and ready to snap.

“Come on,” he murmurs, voice ruined and reverent. “Come for me, baby.”

It builds fast—hot and sharp and blinding. His hand slides from your thigh to your ass, pulling you tighter against his face, guiding you against his tongue until you can’t think, can’t breathe.

He sucks hard on your clit, and it hits. You let out a broken cry, hips jerking, grinding against his mouth as your eyes squeeze shut and—

You shatter.

The wave crashes over you, tearing through every nerve, and you collapse forward with a moan caught in your throat. Your thighs tremble. Your lungs burn. Your hands are still tangled in his hair, holding on like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

And he doesn’t stop. Not until your body finally goes slack, and the only sound you can make is a soft, helpless little whimper you don’t even recognise.

He lingers for a beat, lips pressing soft, soothing kisses to your thigh, breath warm against your skin, his hands sliding gently up your sides to steady you. Then he finally pulls back and looks up—curls messy, lips swollen, face glistening. And fuck, he’s never looked hotter.

“That was—”

“Quick,” you mutter, a little breathless, cheeks burning.

He blinks, then grins—slow and wicked. “I was going to say hot. But sure, quick works too.”

“Thanks,” you mutter dryly, eyes locked on the slick shine around his mouth. “You want to clean yourself up, or—”

“Oh, no. I’m not done with you yet,” he murmurs, voice rough and low, his brows drawing together just slightly. “I’m gonna fuck you properly now.”

Before you can reply, he straightens up and grabs the backs of your thighs, lifting you easily. You let out a startled yelp, but your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, your arms locking behind his neck.

“It’s my turn, baby,” he says, eyes sparkling. “And then probably your turn again, and again if you’re up for it.” He pauses, ducking his head to brush his lips against your collarbone. “Your vibrator dead yet?”

You frown as he starts walking down the hall. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He chuckles. “I figured with me gone all week, you’d be handling things the old-fashioned way. Thinkin’ about me while you—”

You smack the back of his head, which only makes him laugh harder.

“Just because you can’t stop thinking about me doesn’t mean I’ve been thinking about you,” you say, even though it’s a total lie.

He leans back a little, eyes narrowing as he kicks open his bedroom door and steps inside, stopping at the edge of the bed.

“Okay then,” he says, voice dark with challenge. “Guess I’ll just have to fuck you ‘til you can’t think about anything but me.”

Then he drops you.

You hit the bed with a squeal, bounce once, and barely have time to register the ceiling before his weight presses you down. He slots perfectly between your thighs, dragging the hard line of his denim-clad cock along your soaked cunt.

And God, does he fuck you.

He fucks you until you can’t think about anything but him. Until you forget your own name. Until your muscles shake and your lungs burn and your voice is hoarse from moaning his.

And then—after all of it—you fall asleep in his bed. In his arms.

And it’s the best sleep you’ve had since he left.

-

You wake before Joaquín, your nose pressed to his bare chest and his arms wrapped tight around you. One is tucked beneath your neck, the other curled over your shoulders, his hand cradling the back of your head like he’s holding something precious. His chin is resting at the crown of your head, and he’s softly snoring—a sure sign that he’s still deep asleep.

You wriggle a little, testing. He hums and tightens his hold, but doesn’t wake. He’s hard against your lower belly, and for a second you consider waking him with your mouth—but your bladder protests.

And so does your heart.

God, you should’ve made more rules. You should’ve protected yourself. You’ve always known you were soft for Joaquín—already halfway gone long before this whole thing started. And now? Now you’re all the way gone. Completely fucked. Up the creek without a paddle and regretting that you didn’t make a rule about cuddling, because waking up like this feels a lot heavier than just roommates.

You ease your way down the bed, slipping gently from his grip, being careful not to rouse him. He stirs a little, but doesn’t wake, and you realise just how tired he must be after that mission—yet somehow, not too tired to fuck your brains out last night.

You pick up the nearest item of clothing—his shirt, obviously—and slip it over your head as you pad across the hall to the bathroom. The only bathroom in the apartment, which hadn’t seemed like a problem when you first moved in—at least, not until Joaquín got very comfortable walking in on you mid-shower. Not that it matters much now. But still.

You go to the toilet, brush your teeth, wash your face, and count four new bruises along your collarbone—one a little higher than you’d normally let him get away with. Then you head into the living area to find your sweatpants—still crumpled on the floor behind the couch—and slip them on before starting a fresh pot of coffee.

You’ve got your head in the fridge, looking for the packet of bacon you know you bought the other day, when a knock at the door startles you. You stand up so quickly you bump your head on the way, cursing under your breath as you rub the sore spot and glance at the microwave clock—10:27AM.

It’s Sunday, which means no work, no plans. And you know Joaquín has this week off after the mission—so it definitely isn’t Sam here to collect his baby bird.

Another knock echoes through the apartment.

You shut the fridge, still frowning, and walk across the kitchen toward the front door. Every now and then, it does cross your mind that a dangerous criminal could show up looking for Joaquín—he is a superhero now—but today you decide that even criminals probably take Sundays off.

So you open the door.

“Hola… tú no eres Joaquín.” (Hi... you’re not Joaquín.)

It’s a woman, late fifties—you’re guessing—a little on the shorter side, with dark hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head. Her eyes are dark and sharp, dragging up and down your body not with judgment, just curiosity. Her dark brows are drawn slightly, forming two small creases in the middle of her otherwise perfectly tan skin.

She looks familiar. But you know you’ve never met her before.

Oh no.

“¿Tú quién eres y por qué estás usando la ropa de mi hijo?” (Who are you and why are you wearing my son’s clothes?)

You step back, eyes wide. “Uh, I—I’m sorry, Joaquín is just—”

“¡Mamá! Ay, por favor—¿por qué no me avisaste que estabas en camino?” (Mom! Oh, please—why didn’t you tell me you were on your way?)

You whip around to see Joaquín—curls messy, shirt only half on—appearing from his bedroom.

“No me dijiste que tenías novia,” the woman—Joaquín’s mother—says. (You didn’t tell me you had a girlfriend.)

Joaquín sighs. “No es mi novia, mamá. Es mi roomie.” (She’s not my girlfriend, Mom. She’s my roommate.)

She lifts one perfectly manicured brow. “¿Entonces por qué está usando tu camisa ella?” (So why is she wearing your shirt?)

“Porque ella solo—” He hesitates, clearly frustrated. “¡Ugh! No importa. Somos amigos. Don’t make it weird.” (Because she just— Ugh! It doesn’t matter. We’re friends. Don’t make it weird.)

“Lo raro es dormir con una amiga, mijo,” she says with a little smirk. (What’s weird is sleeping with a friend, my son.)

“¡Mamá!”

She shrugs. “Solo digo. Estas cosas nunca terminan bien. Además, es muy bonita—deberías salir con ella de verdad.” (Just saying. These things never end well. Besides, she’s very pretty—you should actually date her.)

Joaquín’s brow furrows, not in anger but something like defeat. “No es así.” (It’s not like that.)

“¡Podría serlo! Quiero nietos.” (It could be! I want grandbabies.)

“Mamá… ella entiende casi todo lo que dices.” (Mom... she understands almost everything you’re saying.)

His mother laughs again. “¡Qué bueno! Así sabe que necesito nietos antes de morirme.” (How good! That way she knows I need grandchildren before I die.)

Joaquín sighs, shaking his head. “Ay, Dios mío. Just speak English. If you're gonna embarrass me, just do it in English.” Then he turns to you with a sheepish smile. “This is my mom.”

You give him a wide-eyed look before turning back to his mother, who’s now grinning at you like you’ve just told her you’re expecting.

“Hi.” You give her a tight smile. “I’m the roommate.”

She grabs your hand and holds it in both of hers. “I’m Lucía, but you can call me—”

“She is not call you mamá,” Joaquín cuts in, exasperated. “We’re just friends, ¿sí?”

Lucía rolls her eyes, dropping your hand. “Okay, okay. Just friends.”

“Give me those,” Joaquín mutters, stepping up beside you to take her bags.

You move aside as he takes her things and ushers her into the apartment. Your feet feel heavy, your pulse is pounding in your ears, and your cheeks are burning so hot you wouldn’t be surprised if you spontaneously combusted.

“This place is nice, Joaquín,” Lucía says, her English carrying just the slightest accent. “Though I suppose it has a woman’s touch.”

She glances at you with a knowing twinkle in her dark eyes, like she’s already two steps ahead.

“Mamá,” Joaquín says, dropping her bags at his bedroom door, “are you going to be weird the whole time you’re here?”

She gives him a sharp smile. “And are you going to be oblivious your whole life?”

He frowns. “Oblivious?”

She looks back at you and nods. And God, you wish the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“Joaquín,” you murmur, voice tight. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

His cheeks flush pink. “Yeah—uh, Mamá, we’re just going to—”

“It’s okay, mijo,” Lucía says, drifting toward the kitchen. “I’m going to pour myself a coffee.”

Joaquín smiles and nods, his eyes flicking back to you. “Come help me strip my bed?”

His mother chuckles softly but doesn’t say anything else.

You bite back the urge to whack Joaquín square in the chest as you walk past him, slipping into his room with him a step behind and shutting the door a little harder than necessary.

“Why the fuck didn’t you tell me your mother was coming to visit?” you snap, eyes narrowing.

He shrugs. “I was going to. I just didn’t get a chance.”

“Oh, so you decided eating me out and fucking me four times was more important?”

His eyes go wide. “Shh! That woman hears everything—she has ears like a bat.”

You step forward, brow furrowed. “Joaquín Torres, I swear to God—”

“I’m sorry, okay?” he cuts in, lips twitching as he tries not to laugh. “I honestly forgot. I didn’t think she’d be here until later tonight. She called last week, said she missed me, and got all upset that I hadn’t invited her to visit since moving.”

“You could have texted me,” you mutter.

“I said sorry. I just—” He pauses, eyes dropping to your lips before meeting your gaze again. “I got distracted. But she’s here now, and she seems to like you. So, that’s a good start.”

You blink. “You didn’t think she’d like me?”

His eyes go wide. “No, no! I knew she’d like you... eventually. She’s just not always warm the first time she meets someone.”

“Joaquín,” you deadpan. “She was talking about me having your babies before you even introduced us. Doesn’t get much warmer than that.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, she did say that.”

You raise your brows. “Do you really think this is funny?”

He shrugs. “A little.”

You sigh out a heavy breath and drop your head into your hands, wishing you could close your eyes and start the day all over again.

“She’s not going to be here long,” Joaquín says. “Two nights, that’s it. Then she’s going to Tía Carla’s in Baltimore.”

You drop your hands. “Two nights?”

He nods.

“Where’s she going to sleep?”

He glances at the bed. “My bed.” Then he looks back at you, smirking. “After I change the sheets.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay. Where are you sleeping?”

“Well,” he says slowly, “I was thinking—”

“No,” you snap. “Absolutely not. You are not sleeping with me.”

He frowns. “Why not? We slept together last night.”

“Because your mother is going to be on the other side of the wall!”

He grins—slow and wicked. “I’ve got ways I could keep you quiet.”

Your eyes go wide. “Joaquín!”

“Okay,” he chuckles, “okay. I’ll sleep on the couch. It’ll be fine. It’s only two nights.”

You nod. “Good. Couch is good.”

“Besides,” he sighs, turning toward the bed, “I think you’re the one who won’t be able to keep your hands to yourself.”

You step around to the foot of the bed and start helping him pull the sheets up. “Excuse me?”

He flashes you another grin. “You heard me.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, pretty boy. Let’s not forget who practically mauled me the minute he got home last night.”

He bundles up the sheets and dumps them in a pile on the floor. “And let’s not forget who couldn’t stand on her own in the shower.”

You narrow your eyes, tongue running along your top teeth, watching him dismantle the bed with a shit-eating grin. You want to walk over there and slap it off his face. Or better yet, you want to shove him on the bed and let him fuck you so full of grandbabies you won’t be able to stand again.

Because like it or not, you’re hopelessly in love with Joaquín Torres—and you’re starting to worry that he might just know it.

After helping him make his bed with clean sheets and picking up all the evidence from last night, you reemerge from his room and head straight into your own. You can hear him and his mother chatting away as you gather fresh clothes and pad quietly into the bathroom.

You take a little extra time showering and getting ready, inexplicably wanting to impress his mother—as if you have something to prove.

Please, Mrs. Torres. Tell your son to fall in love with me!

You roll your eyes at your reflection as you apply a generous layer of lip gloss, then you quickly tidy the bathroom—making extra room on the vanity for Lucía—and step out.

“We could go to La Ventana Roja,” Joaquín says, his voice carrying down the hall.

Lucía sighs. “If I wanted to eat Mexican food, I’d cook dinner myself, chico estúpido.”

You press your lips together to keep from giggling as you drop your dirty clothes in the hamper just inside your bedroom door.

“Why do you come here just to insult me?” Joaquín asks, the pout audible in his voice.

“I come here to make sure you’re alive so you can give me grandbabies one day,” Lucía replies.

You step around the corner and spot them in the kitchen, each standing on opposite sides of the breakfast bar with a cup of coffee in front of them.

“Speaking of grandbabies,” she adds with a grin, “you look lovely, linda.”

You give her a soft smile. “Thanks, Lucía.”

Joaquín clears his throat, eyes flicking up and down your body as you come to stand at the end of the counter. “We’re trying to figure out where to go for dinner,” he says. “Sam’s coming too.”

“What about Oil and Salt?” you offer.

He nods. “Italian. I could do Italian.” Then he looks at his mother. “Mamá?”

She smiles. “Yes. Good boy, listening to your novia.”

Your cheeks flush, eyes going wide as you quickly turn toward the fridge, deciding to distract yourself with food.

“Ay, Mamá,” Joaquín sighs. “Stop saying that. She’s not my girlfriend.”

Lucía just shakes her head and takes a long sip of coffee while you keep your attention firmly fixed on the inside of the fridge—though you can feel Joaquín’s gaze burning into the side of your face.

Eventually he gives up on trying to get your attention and dials the Italian restaurant to make a reservation for tonight. You busy yourself making toast while he and his mom continue to catch up, muttering half in Spanish and half in English.

After two cups of coffee, they decide to head to the mall—Miami doesn’t have a Crate & Barrel like D.C., and apparently Lucía loves that place. They ask you to go with them, but your cheeks are still burning and there’s a strange tightness in your chest—because watching Joaquín with his mom, soft and attentive and effortlessly sweet, is making your heart do stupid things. So you decline.

Instead, you spend the day cleaning the apartment and doing laundry, taking extra care in Joaquín’s room to ensure Lucía won’t stumble upon any more evidence of your very not-so-friendly relationship with her son. You also take some time to plan an outfit for dinner—you haven’t gone out in a while, and you wouldn’t mind making it a little harder for Joaquín to keep his hands to himself.

By the time you hear them get home, you’re already halfway through getting ready. You’re in your room, sitting at the small mirror in the corner by the window, wondering what colour blush to use—or if you should use any at all. You’re wearing nothing but your underwear, with the silky, dark green dress you picked for tonight laid across the bed.

“We’re home!” Joaquín calls.

“I’m in my room!” you call back.

You can hear shuffling—paper bags, muffled voices—and then footsteps, getting louder down the hall.

You jump up quickly and dart across your room, planting both hands against the door just as the handle turns, stopping it from opening fully.

Joaquín gives it a shove. “What the—”

“Dude,” you hiss. “I’m not dressed.”

He peers at you through the gap, brows raised, lips twitching. “And?”

You stare. “And we’re roommates. Remember?”

“Right.” He chuckles. “Well then, roommate, are you going to be ready in half an hour? Sam said he’ll meet us there.”

“Yes,” you mutter. “If you leave me alone, I’ll be ready.”

He leans in a little, trying to see more through the narrow gap—like he thinks he’s subtle. “And if I don’t leave you alone?”

You brace yourself harder against the door. “Then you’ll be limping for the next week.”

He grins, challenging. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

He snorts. “You barely survived the week I was away. You wouldn’t add another—”

“Mijo, leave the poor girl alone!” Lucía calls from the kitchen. “Come help me unpack, and then you can get in the shower so you don’t smell at dinner.”

You can’t help but smile, laughter catching somewhere in your chest as you watch him roll his eyes and trudge back down the hall. Then you shove your bedroom door shut again and return to getting ready.

You finish your makeup, do your hair, and slip into the dress that slides against your skin like butter. It falls just above the knee—silky and forest green—draped in all the right places with a neckline that isn’t too low, but low enough to tease the smallest sliver of black lace if you lean forward just right. You finish the outfit with a pair of knee-high boots and an oversized leather jacket—for modesty, of course. Nothing to do with wanting to shed the jacket at dinner and make Joaquín choke on his own breath.

Half an hour later, you step out of your room into the bright, pungent cloud of Chanel No. 5 saturating the apartment. The bathroom door is shut, but you can hear Joaquín humming behind it, and at the end of the hall you spot Lucía waiting at the dining table.

“Just waiting on Joaquín?” you ask as you step into the kitchen.

Lucía hums. “Like always. He takes so long with the hair, I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”

You bite back a laugh. “Neither do I.”

Just as you unzip your purse to look for your lip gloss, you hear the bathroom door squeak open. The fan clicks off, footsteps echo up the hall—and then Joaquín steps into the kitchen like some kind of smug, fully-formed thirst trap the universe handcrafted to ruin your night.

His curls are damp and pushed back off his forehead, dark ringlets dripping slightly onto the collar of a clean, fitted black button-up. The sleeves are rolled to his forearms. His jeans are dark and well-worn in ways that should be illegal. And of course—of course—his shirt is unbuttoned one extra button more than necessary, exposing just a hint of warm, tanned chest.

Then he sees you.

And he stops.

His gaze drops, slow and deliberate, landing squarely on your boots.

“Well,” he says, voice lower than it needs to be, “look at you.”

You fold your arms to hide the way your hands start to shake. “Look at you.”

He hums—soft, appreciative—as his gaze drags up your legs again. “New boots?”

You shrug like your heart isn’t sprinting laps. “Maybe.”

He steps closer, leaning his weight onto one hip and folding his arms to mirror you. “Buy those just for me?"

You scoff. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

Lucía clears her throat from the dining table, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Ay, por favor. The both of you—stop looking at each other like that. We are going to eat.”

You cough, straighten your jacket, and grab your bag. “Ready to go, then?”

Joaquín just grins—slow, wicked, knowing—and gestures for you to go ahead of him. Lucía sighs, muttering something in Spanish under her breath as the three of you head out the door.

The Uber ride to the restaurant isn’t long—but it feels like hours. With Joaquín’s dark eyes fixed on you through the rear-view mirror, you can barely follow whatever Lucía is saying as she points out the window. The driver tries to make small talk with Joaquín too, but it’s useless. The two of you are somewhere else entirely—a different universe, thick with tension and eye contact, and you’re about ten seconds away from spontaneously combusting and leveling half of D.C.

“Oh, we’re here,” Lucía announces at last—and only then do you realise the car has stopped. “Joaquín, ven a ayudar a tu mamá a bajar del auto.” (Joaquín, come help your mom get out of the car.)

Joaquín shakes his head and fumbles with his seatbelt, mumbling a quick thanks to the driver before stepping out. You blink hard, forcing yourself back to reality, and follow—circling around the rear of the car to find him helping his mother onto the sidewalk.

It’s almost annoying how sweet he is with her. Sure, he’s always polite—you’ve always known he was well raised—but seeing it is something else entirely. And seeing it while trying to ignore the fact that you’re already stupidly, painfully in love with him makes the thorns tighten around your heart. Clawing up your chest. Flower buds blooming in your throat.

“There she is!” Sam throws an arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “How long has it been?”

You roll your eyes even though your lips twitch. “It’s been, like, two weeks, Sam. No need to be dramatic.”

“Dramatic?” he echoes. “Try spending a week in the desert with Fly Boy over there.” He jerks a thumb toward Joaquín, whose eyes are slowly widening. “Man would not shut up about you.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “About me?”

Sam nods with the weight of someone bearing deep emotional trauma. “Every day. Every night. ‘I wonder what she’s doing.’ ‘Do you think she’s sleeping?’ ‘Should I text her?’ ‘What if she—’”

“Sam,” Joaquín warns.

“No, no, don’t ‘Sam’ me,” he fires back. “You were a pain in my ass all week.”

You bite back a smile, heat blooming under your skin. “Wow. I know you missed me, but… that much?”

He shrugs a little too casually. “Sam exaggerates.”

Sam scoffs. “I wish I was exaggerating.”

Joaquín shoots him a glare that peel paint—but Sam just pats your arm.

“Anyway,” he adds with a grin, “good to see you again. Next time, don’t make me suffer through another mission with Lover Boy pining the whole time. You can tag along.”

Lover Boy?

Your heart starts to beat a little faster, heat crawling up your neck as you turn toward the restaurant’s front door. He doesn’t really mean that, right? Lover Boy. Sam’s just joking. Being dramatic. Trying to get a rise out of Joaquín.

Right?

You glance at Joaquín, but he refuses to meet your eyes. He just shoves his hands deep into his pockets, his cheeks a little redder than they were a few seconds ago. And when you look back at Sam, he’s already moved on—Lucía has her arm looped through his as they chat like old friends.

You follow them into the restaurant, pausing at the podium while the host checks the reservation under Joaquín’s name. Then you weave through tables until you reach a low booth, bathed in soft gold lighting and tucked away from the rest of the crowd.

Sam slides in first before Joaquín helps his mom onto the end.

“Can I take your coat, ma’am?” the host asks, almost startling you.

You glance at him, nodding. “Uh—yes. Please. That’d be great.”

You slip the leather jacket off your shoulders, and the reaction is instant.

Joaquín freezes.

His jaw drops, eyes dragging down the line of your dress, slow and hungry and stunned. He looks like he’s genuinely forgotten how to function.

“Holy fu—”

“¡Joaquín!” Lucía snaps, swatting the air. “Lenguaje.”

He swallows hard, jaw working as if he’s trying to form a second sentence and failing miserably.

Sam doesn’t even try to hide his amused snort. “Yeah,” he murmurs into his glass of water, “now I see why he wouldn’t shut up about you.”

Joaquín shoots him a murderous glare—but then his eyes flick straight back to you. The humour fades from his expression, leaving something quieter, darker, like gravity pulling between the two of you.

“You look…” His voice comes out rough, quieter than before. “Dios mío.”

Lucía clasps her hands together like this is the most romantic thing she’s ever seen, but Joaquín doesn’t seem to notice. His attention is pinned to you, every muscle in his body tense like he’s holding himself back.

Sam leans back in the booth, smirking. “Just pretend we're not here.”

And that’s when you finally look away—because if you don’t, you’re going to forget how to breathe.

Lucía clears her throat, clearly delighted. “Come, querida. Sit, sit—antes de que alguien se desmaye.” (Come, dear. Sit, sit—before someone faints.)

You keep your eyes down as you slide into the booth beside Joaquín—not across from him. His thigh presses against yours under the table, warm and solid and definitely intentional. Lucía is already telling Sam about today's trip to Crate & Barrel, but it all washes over you like white noise with Joaquín’s arm brushing yours.

Then the waiter appears.

He’s tall, all clean lines and easy confidence, a white towel draped over one arm. “Good evening,” he says, flashing a very professional—and very appreciative—smile in your direction. “Can I start you all with drinks?”

“We’ll start with a bottle of the house red,” Sam says.

The waiter nods—but his eyes stay on you. “And for you?” he asks.

“Oh—same is fine,” you say quickly, because it’s hard to think when Joaquín is sitting so close.

The waiter offers you another smile—warmer now. “Great choice.”

“Thanks,” you reply, trying to ignore the way Joaquín shifts just slightly beside you, his shoulder brushing yours like he’s reclaiming space.

“I’ll grab that bottle for you now,” the waiter says, barely even glancing at the rest of the table.

The second he’s gone, Sam looks pointedly at Joaquín, brows raised like he’s waiting for something. But Joaquín doesn’t say a word—he just clears his throat and busies himself with arranging his napkin on one knee like it’s a tactical operation.

“So, Lucía,” you say, desperate for distraction. “How long are you staying with your sister?”

She sets her glass down with a soft thunk, dark eyes meeting yours across the table. “However long it takes for me to convince Carla to break up with that criminal boyfriend of hers.”

Your brows shoot up, an amused smile tugging at your lips. “Oh?”

Joaquín sighs. “Mamá, he’s not a criminal.”

“Yes, he is,” she argues. “He has that awful little—uh, ¿cómo se dice perilla?”

“Goatee,” Joaquín mutters.

“Oh!” You giggle, turning to face him. “Weren’t you trying to grow a goatee last month?”

Lucía gasps. “¡Ay no, mijo!”

“That’s right,” Sam laughs. “Looked like he glued pubes to his chin.”

You laugh harder, pressing your lips together to keep from grinning like a maniac.

Joaquín scowls at him. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It wasn’t good,” you mutter.

He whips around to you. “You said you didn’t mind it.”

You shrug. “I didn’t hate it, but it—”

“Tickled, I know,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes.

Your eyes go wide.

“Tickled?” Sam echoes, nearly choking on his water.

“¿Cosquillas?” Lucía repeats, looking mildly horrified.

You drop your face into your hands. “That’s not what I was going to say.”

Joaquín turns bright red. “Oh—no, I— that’s not—”

Before Joaquín can finish digging himself into a deeper grave, the waiter returns—wine bottle in hand.

“House red,” he says smoothly, presenting the bottle to you first. “Should I start you off?”

You look up, blinking. “Oh—sure.”

He uncorks it with practiced ease, and the whole table goes quiet. Even Sam stops smirking. The waiter pours a small amount into your glass and tilts it toward you with a gentle smile meant only for you.

“Tell me what you think.”

You pick it up and take a small sip. “It’s great.”

“Good,” he says—voice low and a little too warm. “I’ll pour for everyone else.”

He fills the other glasses—Lucía first, Sam second—and when he reaches Joaquín, he finally breaks eye contact with you. Just barely.

Joaquín meets his gaze, unwavering. His fingers tap once against the table. Sharp. Controlled.

The waiter doesn’t notice—or maybe he does, but his eyes slide right back to you anyway. “Have you had a chance to look at the menu, or should I give you a few more minutes?”

“Um.” You glance down at the menu, unopened on the table. “Maybe five more minutes.”

He nods once, still smiling. “Of course.”

Then he turns and walks away, hands clasped behind his back.

Sam chuckles. “Well, he’s friendly.”

“Too friendly,” Joaquín mutters.

You slide the menu off the table and finally flip it open. “He’s just doing his job."

Joaquín shifts beside you—his knee knocking yours, elbow brushing your arm—as he flips open his own menu. You glance at his other side, where he clearly has enough room to move over. But no. He’s going to stay right beside you, practically pressed against you, for some ridiculous reason.

Lucía and Sam start muttering about the menu, pointing at dishes and debating what to order. You can barely focus on any of it though—not with the heat still crawling under your skin thanks to Joaquín’s earlier slip-up. Your brain is fried, your whole body too warm, and by the time the waiter returns—not a second more than five minutes later—you haven’t even made it past the appetisers.

“Are we ready to order?” he asks, looking straight at you.

“Oh, um—” You glance at the menu, then back at him. “If you could just give me a couple more seconds, I—”

“Of course. I’ll start with the other side of the table.” He turns to Lucía. “What can I get you, ma’am?”

You drop your gaze again and start skimming the list. You’re not even that hungry—or at least, not for food—but this place has a great reputation, so you can’t not order one of the main dishes.

“You’ll like this one,” Joaquín says, pointing at a pasta dish. “Or that one.” He points to another.

You look at him from the corner of your eye. “Are you just saying that because you want to try those ones?”

His lips twitch. “Can’t both be true?”

You shake your head, eyes sliding back to the menu. “God, I know you too well, Torres.”

“And for you?” the waiter asks, turning to Joaquín with raised brows, no smile. “Sir?”

“I’ll have the chicken piccata,” Joaquín says, handing back his menu without breaking eye contact.

The waiter hums, scribbles something down, then looks at you. He’s smiling again—too warm—and his gaze flicks up to your face just a beat too late as you lift your head.

“Which would you recommend between the pappardelle and the ravioli?” you ask.

“I always recommend the pappardelle,” he says, leaning in slightly. “It’s rich. Creamy. Really indulgent.”

Joaquín’s arm tenses beside you.

“Great.” You close the menu and hand it to him. “I’ll get that.”

“Good choice.” His fingers brush yours—lingering just a second too long. “And if you need anything else, just let me know.”

You blink, the small frown between your brows slowly softening as realisation finally hits—he's flirting with you.

With one last smile, aimed only at you, he turns and walks away.

“I think—” you tilt your head, lowering your voice, “I think he was flirting with me.”

Sam snorts, and even Lucía gives a soft little laugh.

“No shit,” Joaquín mutters into his wine glass.

Your pulse trips, your heart stumbling out of rhythm.

Was that... jealousy?

No. It couldn’t be. Joaquín doesn’t get jealous. Not over you. Not when this whole arrangement is supposed to be casual and uncomplicated. Just two roommates who occasionally—and far too easily—find themselves tangled in each other’s sheets.

But there’s a tightness in his jaw now, and a stubborn set to his shoulders like he’s holding something back. Like that little brush of the waiter’s fingers just punched straight through something he’s trying very hard not to acknowledge.

And maybe you’re just imagining it.

Maybe it’s nothing.

But the warmth in your chest says otherwise, and suddenly the room feels smaller. His arm is still against yours, warm and steady, like he’s holding you there—or staking a claim.

You shouldn’t like it. You shouldn’t want the weight of it.

But you do.

You want him to be jealous.

“So,” Sam says, looking at you, “how’s work?”

You clear your throat, setting your wine down with an unsteady hand. “Good. Busy. But good.”

He nods, smirking. “Any interesting contracts lately?”

“None you’re cleared to know about.”

His brows shoot up. “Excuse me? I’m Captain America.”

You shrug, leaning back in the booth. “A spandex suit and an oversized frisbee doesn’t give you security clearance.”

Joaquín snorts beside you. “Ouch.”

You turn to him, one brow arched. “And what are you laughing about, fly boy? You think a mechanical bird costume is any better?”

“Wow.” Sam chuckles. “You actually managed to insult me twice.”

You laugh softly, fingers curling around your wine glass again. “I’m good, aren’t I?”

Sam rolls his eyes, Joaquín shakes his head, and Lucía just smiles into her sip of wine—like she knows something you don’t.

It doesn’t take long before Sam starts talking about their week in Nevada—joking about how much fun it was while Joaquín launches into a dramatic recount of why he’s never, ever going back. Lucía just laughs, muttering in Spanish about how much of a drama queen he can be.

You stay quiet, keeping your wine glass close to your chin and taking a sip every few seconds just to distract yourself from the warmth of sitting so close to him. From the way his thigh presses against yours, the way his arm keeps brushing yours every time he talks with his hands.

You’re so lost in the heat and the burn of wine at the back of your throat that you almost jump when the waiter steps up beside the table again.

“We’ve got the chicken marsala,” he says, placing a dish in front of Lucía. “And the lasagne.” He sets Sam’s plate down next.

Then he turns to your side of the booth.

He doesn’t announce Joaquín’s dish—he just sets it down without looking at him, then shifts the last plate into both hands and lowers it gently in front of you.

“The pappardelle,” he says, smiling now.

You sit up a little straighter, creating the smallest sliver of space between you and Joaquín. “Thank you. This looks amazing.”

The waiter leans in—subtle, but noticeable. “It tastes even better.”

You glance up at him. “I bet.”

There’s a beat of silence—a quiet pause where everything at the table seems to still, leaving you and the waiter holding eye contact longer than you meant to.

Then Sam clears his throat. Loudly.

“Right.” The waiter straightens, clasping his hands behind his back—but his eyes don't leave yours. “If you need anything else, just wave.”

You tilt your head, lips curving into a small smirk. “Or just read my mind?”

His smile widens. “I’ll try my best.”

When he finally walks away, the table doesn’t fall back into easy conversation—not right away. There’s a subtle shift in the air, the kind that buzzes under your skin before you even turn your head.

Sam is staring at you like you’ve just pulled off something mildly impressive and deeply inconvenient for him. Lucía hides another knowing smile behind her wine glass. And Joaquín… hasn’t moved.

You shift a little and reach for your fork. “So… this looks great, right?”

Sam lets out a quiet scoff. “Uh-huh. Sure does.”

You shoot him a look. “What?”

Lucía waves a hand. “Nada, querida. Absolutely nothing.”

But there’s definitely something glimmering behind her smile.

Beside you, Joaquín finally shifts—only just—but it’s enough to draw your attention. His fingers tighten around his napkin, smoothing the fabric with unnecessary precision. The muscle in his jaw ticks once, twice, and then he reaches for his fork.

“Eat,” he says softly, not quite meeting your eyes. “Before it gets cold.”

You watch him for a beat, unsure whether he’s annoyed, flustered, or trying very hard to pretend he’s neither. “Okay,” you murmur, twirling your pasta.

The moment you lean slightly forward, his thigh presses into yours again—firmer this time, unmistakable in its intent. And unlike earlier, you don’t move. You let him close that tiny distance between you—and his shoulders visibly relax.

But Sam notices, because of course he does, and he kicks Joaquín under the table.

Joaquín jolts. “Ow—what the hell?”

Sam just raises his brows, the universal expression for please, I am begging you, get a grip.

Joaquín glares at him, then grabs his wine and takes a long, steady drink—long enough for you to feel the heat gathering in your cheeks again, pooling low in your stomach.

You look back at your plate, stirring the pasta you haven’t even tasted yet, trying—and failing—not to smile.

Because dinner suddenly feels less like dinner… and more like Joaquín’s own personal brand of torture.

The rest of the meal settles into something surprisingly easy. A few minutes pass, then a few more, and the earlier heat simmering beneath the surface evens out into something warm and comfortable—tensions forgotten.

Conversation drifts from Nevada to work gossip to an argument about the best empanada filling, and somewhere between the second glass of wine and Joaquín stealing a forkful of your pasta, the sharp edges of the night soften.

Lucía tells a story about Tía Carla’s neighbour who owns seventeen cats and one very unhappy parrot. Sam nearly spits his wine laughing. And Joaquín mutters something ridiculous about government oversight for bird safety, which makes you roll your eyes so hard your head tips back against the booth.

And all the while, his thigh stays pressed to yours—not tense anymore, not deliberate, just there. Warm. Familiar. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

By the time everyone’s plates are scraped clean and the last drops of wine have been poured, the earlier tension feels like a distant echo. You’re a little flushed, a little full, and dangerously close to believing this moment could last forever.

Then Lucía sets down her glass—slowly, deliberately—and her eyes slide to you with the kind of gentle curiosity that should terrify anyone in a ten-mile radius.

“So, querida…” she begins, voice warm and sweet and laced with landmines, “how long have you and my son been so… close?”

The air stills.

Your pulse skips.

Joaquín goes rigid beside you, wine glass halfway to his lips.

Sam inhales sharply through his nose like he knows exactly how fast this is about to spiral.

And before any of you can even attempt to recover—

“How’s everything going?”

The waiter appears beside the table with a bright smile and absolutely disastrous timing, dessert menus fanned in one hand like this is the best moment in the world to ask about tiramisu.

“Ay.” Lucía’s eyes brighten. “Sí, algo dulce suena perfecto.” (Oh. Yes, something sweet sounds perfect.)

The waiter hands both Lucía and Sam a menu, then places one on the table in front of Joaquín before turning back to you with a soft smile.

“If you’re thinking about something sweet,” he says, handing you the menu slowly, “the torta al cioccolato is my favourite. Rich. Intense.” His eyes flick to your mouth—subtle, but unmistakable. “And very, very satisfying.”

You let out a soft hum as you take the menu. “Well… I do like to be satisfied.”

Joaquín goes completely still beside you.

The waiter smirks. “Then it’s perfect for you.”

You tilt your head, looking up at him through your lashes. “You sure?”

“Positive.” His voice drops. “And if you want, I can—”

“We’ll take the check,” Joaquín says—sharp, controlled, dangerous.

There’s a beat of stunned silence.

The waiter blinks. “Sir, I—”

“Check,” Joaquín repeats through his teeth. “Now.”

Lucía sighs, dropping the menu on the table. “Ay, Dios.”

The waiter hesitates—only for a second—before retreating in stiff silence, and the moment he’s out of earshot, Sam groans, dragging a palm down his face like he’s aging in real time.

“Este niño…” Lucía mutters under her breath, shaking her head.

You’ve stopped breathing. Completely. All you can do is stare at Joaquín—at his rigid shoulders, clenched jaw, the way his eyes refuse to meet yours.

“Are you—”

“Fine,” he snaps, grabbing his wine and finishing what’s left in one gulp before he sets the glass down harder than he means to. “Totally fine.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah. That’s definitely the vibe you’re giving off.”

Joaquín shoots him a warning glare just as the waiter returns with the check, placing it delicately in the middle as if worried someone might bite him. Understandable.

“Whenever you’re ready,” he offers gently.

Joaquín snatches it before anyone else can blink. “We’re ready.”

Lucía lifts a brow. “Mijo…”

“I’ll pay at the front,” he mutters.

Everyone shuffles out of the booth and gathers their things. Lucía slings her purse over her shoulder, a different waiter—female this time—brings you your coat, and Sam adjusts the waistband of his jeans like he’s eaten far more than he planned to.

You reach for your bag, but Joaquín grabs it before you can. “I’ve got it.”

Then he brushes past you and stalks toward the front of the restaurant, broad shoulders tense, every heavy step barely controlled. The host standing by the register sees him coming and visibly pales, his eyes growing wider the closer Joaquín gets.

Sam whistles under his breath. “Well. This was fun.”

Lucía pats your hand. “Don’t worry, querida. He’s just… feeling something.”

Your stomach flips. “What do you mean?”

She only smiles—too soft, too knowing. “You’ll see.”

The three of you weave through the tables until you meet Joaquín by the front door—receipt in hand, jaw still set, mouth a tense line.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s go.”

There’s no room for argument. No waiting for anyone to gather themselves. He shifts until he's walking behind you, his hand hovering at your lower back but never quite touching—like he wants to guide you out but refuses to let himself.

The walk out is quiet. Heavy. Charged. You can feel his frustration radiating off him like heat, the kind that sinks beneath your skin and twists deep in your stomach. And the moment you step outside into the cool night air, he exhales—sharp, shaky, like he’s been holding his breath the entire time.

After Sam bids everyone a good night—giving Lucía an extra warm hug and wishing her luck—the rest of you climb into an Uber. The ride home is almost completely silent, save for the soft crackle of the radio. Not even Lucía tries to make conversation. It feels like hours before the car finally pulls up in front of your apartment block, and when you climb out, Joaquín is already offering his mother an arm—just like he had outside the restaurant.

You make your way through the lobby in that same thick quiet, ride the elevator up without a single word, and by the time the doors slide open onto your floor, the silence has turned into something almost suffocating.

Lucía exhales loudly—dramatically. “Ay, por favor. I’m done. I need a shower and a prayer.” Her eyes flick to Joaquín, then to you. “And tomorrow? I expect better comportamiento from both of you.”

Once inside the apartment, Lucía beelines straight for the bathroom, muttering something indistinguishable under her breath as she shuts the door behind her.

The moment the lock clicks, silence settles over the living room. Heavy. Awkward. Ridiculous.

Joaquín stands in the middle of the room, jaw tight, eyes flicking everywhere but you. You stay by the door, arms crossed, not moving. Not blinking. Not giving him an inch.

You glare at him.

He pretends not to notice.

From the bathroom, you hear the shower turn on—pipes creaking, water running, Lucía humming softly to herself.

Neither of you move.

Neither of you speak.

You just... wait.

After what feels like the longest ten minutes of your life, Lucía finally steps out of the bathroom, calls her goodnights, and disappears into Joaquín’s room. You hear the light switch click, the faint rustle of sheets, and then—silence.

Real silence.

Nothing but the muted sounds of the city outside, and the two of you standing in the dimly lit apartment. Still. Tense. Frustrated.

You break the silence first.

“What’s your problem, Joaquín?”

He finally looks at you. “My problem?”

“Yes, your problem. Because you spent the entire dinner looking like you wanted to throw that waiter off a building.”

He steps forward, jaw tightening. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t flirt with someone who can’t read a room.”

“Oh, you mean you?”

“Me?” he snaps. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Keep your voice down,” you hiss. “Your mom doesn’t need to hear—”

“My mom just watched you shamelessly flirt with the waiter for two hours straight—I don’t think a little argument is going to shock her.”

“Shamelessly?” you echo, incredulous. “You really think I was the one in the wrong?”

He drags a hand over his face. “Can we not do this right now? I’m tired, I just—”

“No,” you fire back. “You've been acting like an asshole all night and you made a whole scene over dessert—so yeah, we’re doing this.”

“I didn’t make a scene.”

“You asked for the check like you were about to arrest him.”

“He was flirting with you,” Joaquín snaps. “Right in front of me.”

You frown. “So?”

He looks away, jaw flexing hard.

You take a step forward. “Answer me, Joaquín. Why is that a problem?”

“Because,” he starts, “we were—I mean, wasn’t it obvious that we’re—”

He stops.

Your breath catches.

“He was being unprofessional,” he mutters, too fast. “That’s all.”

“Oh?” You fold your arms, trying to hide the heat starting to crawl up your neck. “So I’m supposed to believe this is about restaurant etiquette?”

“Yes!” he snaps. “Friends don’t—” He cuts himself off too late, frustration spilling over. “Friends don’t do shit like that.”

The words hit you like a slap—and you go still. Very still.

“Right.” You try to laugh, but it comes out thin, broken. “Okay. You want to talk about what friends don’t do?”

His throat works once—visible, panicked—but he stays silent.

You step in, heat rising, heart beating too hard.

“Friends don’t sleep in each other’s beds,” you say, voice low and surprisingly steady. “They don’t shower together, or pin each other against walls, or—God, Joaquín—friends don’t fuck.”

His breath stutters, chest rising and falling too fast.

“And friends definitely don’t get jealous,” you finish, barely above a whisper. “So what exactly are we doing?”

Joaquín blinks. Once. Twice.

His mouth opens, then closes, then opens again.

“I… I don’t know,” he finally mutters. “I thought we were just... friends. I thought we could do this without it getting too complicated but maybe—maybe we should just stop.”

You feel the words hit like a punch to the ribs.

“Stop?” Your voice is soft—dangerous. “That’s what you want?”

“That’s not—” He drags both hands through his curls, taking a step back, panic rising fast. “Look, I’m just saying… maybe this whole thing was a mistake.”

Mistake.

The word hollows you out.

You let out a breathless, humourless laugh. “Wow. That’s great. Really, Torres—thank you so much for finally realising what a mistake I am.”

He winces. “I didn’t mean it like—”

“Save it,” you mutter. “Just... don’t bother.”

Then you turn on your heel, fury and humiliation burning hot beneath your skin as you march down the hall.

Behind you, he calls your name—once, soft, almost pleading—but you don’t look back.

You stop at your bedroom doorway, the last of your patience snapping clean in half.

“I hope the couch sucks,” you say.

Then you slam your door.

Hard.

-

You wake late and lie in bed until you can’t ignore your bladder any longer. The light leaking through your curtains is soft and grey—because of course it’s raining today. The universe would never miss a chance for dramatic ambiance.

When you finally drag yourself out of bed, you avoid the mirror, already knowing you look like heartbreak leftovers thanks to all the crying last night. You shuffle into the bathroom, hearing the faint sound of voices from the kitchen and hating the way your stomach twists with nausea. You wash your face, brush your teeth, and emerge hoping—praying—Joaquín might have left for the day.

But he hasn’t.

Of course he hasn’t.

You step into the kitchen and find him standing at the counter in sweats and a t-shirt, hair messy, eyes fixed on the mug in his hands like it personally offended him. He stiffens when he hears your footsteps, but he doesn’t look up.

You clear your throat. “Morning.”

His reply is barely a breath. “Morning.”

Lucía is sitting at the dining table watching with exasperation, her brows drawn, lips pressed, eyes flicking between the two of you—and the fourteen inches of stubborn silence between your bodies.

“Niños,” she mutters into her coffee mug. “You look like you’re in mourning."

You blink, but stay quiet. Joaquín just sips his coffee.

The silence stretches—too long, too heavy—until you finally sigh and step into the kitchen, moving around him like he’s a live wire. You keep your gaze fixed on the coffee machine, every nerve acutely aware of him standing close enough to feel the warmth of his body, but stubbornly refusing to look at you—or move away.

Lucía watches you silently, stirring her spoon with the slow, patient judgement of a woman who has already written both of your wedding vows in her head.

“So,” she says, far too innocently. “Did everyone sleep well?”

“Sí,” Joaquín lies immediately.

“Fine,” you lie right after.

Lucía hums. “Interesting. Because the couch,” she glances at her son pointedly, “is not comfortable.”

Joaquín’s jaw flexes. “It was fine.”

Lucía eyes the both of you one more time, clearly unimpressed with the silence thick enough to spread on toast.

“Voy a cambiarme,” she announces, rising from the table. “Then we go out. I didn’t fly all this way to watch you two stare at walls.”

Joaquín nods without looking up. You nod without looking at him. It’s pathetic. She knows it. You all know it.

When her bedroom door clicks shut behind her, the apartment slips into that same strained quiet as last night—all sharp edges and swallowed words. You scull your coffee while Joaquín rinses his mug. Twice. Maybe three times. Then, without a word, you head back to your room and try not to cry while you pick something to wear for the day.

Eventually, you all reconvene in the living room. Joaquín grabs his jacket. You grab your keys. And you both follow Lucía out the door like lost ghosts.

She drags you both across D.C. like a tourist seeing the city for the first time—museums, a market stall, a coffee cart where she insists you try something sweet.

Joaquín softens around her. He links her arm in his, laughs when she teases him, smiles without thinking. It hurts in a stupid, petty way. And you can’t bring yourself to walk too close. To join them. You’re just near. Hovering. Following.

Joaquín steals glances when he thinks you’re not looking.

You look away every time, pretending to be fascinated by a city you’ve known for years.

Then there’s lunch—which is worse. Much worse.

Lucía, clearly at her limit with the brooding, decides to try—bless her meddling soul—to lighten the mood.

“So, querida… Juan was very handsome, no? The waiter last night?”

You choke on air. Joaquín goes stone silent.

Lucía smiles like she’s one rude comment away from exploding into laughter.

“Yeah,” you mutter, looking anywhere but at Joaquín. “I guess.”

Joaquín’s jaw ticks, but he says nothing.

And that’s the end of lunch. No one speaks for the rest of the meal.

By the time you get back to the apartment, you’re all exhausted. Not just from walking through the city, but from tiptoeing around whatever fragile thing is hanging precariously between you and Joaquín right now.

Lucía sighs as she kicks off her shoes, then presses two fingers to her temples. “I’m going to lie down,” she murmurs.

Joaquín gives her a soft smile as she starts down the hall toward his bedroom, and when the door clicks shut, silence spreads through the apartment again, heavy like smoke—slow and impossible to ignore. You move into the kitchen just to have somewhere to stand, fingers hovering at the pantry door even though you have no idea what you’re looking for.

Behind you, Joaquín clears his throat. “I can order dinner later,” he says. “If you’d like.”

A peace offering—fragile as glass.

You keep staring at the cereal box in front of you. “I’m not hungry.”

He shifts—the kind of shift you feel rather than see. “You barely ate at lunch.”

“And you barely spoke,” you say before you can stop yourself, finally turning to face him.

His jaw tightens. “I didn’t have anything to say.”

“You could’ve tried,” you murmur. “You could have said something.”

He swallows once. Hard. “I’m trying now,” he says quietly. “I’m asking you to eat dinner with me.”

It should feel good. It should feel like effort. Growth. Something inching toward reconciliation. But it doesn’t. It just feels like someone pressing a thumb into a bruise to check if it still hurts.

You exhale hard, gaze dropping to the floor. “I can’t sit across from you and pretend we’re fine.”

He steps closer—barely—but it still feels like too much. “We’re not fine?”

Your eyes flick up, a short, hollow laugh slipping out. “You tell me, Joaquín.”

He doesn’t answer—he just looks at you, apology lingering at the edges of his gaze, swallowed by fear before it can reach his mouth.

“I’m gonna shower,” you say, already turning away. “I’ll... see you later.”

The bathroom door closes behind you without a slam—which is worse, somehow—a gentle surrender instead of rage. A reminder that you’re not angry, not really. You’re just... sad. Heartbroken. Finally at the crossroads you’ve been dreading, where you have to give up what you’ve been hopelessly holding on to.

Because it’s not real.

And you can’t keep pretending it is.

Under the hot spray of the shower, you press your forehead to the wall and let the water hide the tears you swore you were done with. When you emerge thirty minutes later, hair damp, wearing an old t-shirt you’re not even sure belongs to you, you can hear him in the kitchen with his mom—cutlery clinking over quiet conversation.

You hover in the hallway—not eavesdropping, just... overhearing.

Lucía’s voice is low, but not low enough.

“Joaquín,” she sighs gently, “¿Qué te pasa? You were cruel last night. And today? You barely spoke to her.”

“I wasn’t cruel,” he mutters. “I just—it's complicated and it got out of hand.”

Lucía sighs, exasperated. “You are so blind. How do you not see the way that girl looks at you? Desde el momento que abrió la puerta, I knew she was in love with my son.”

Your breath catches. Hard.

A chair shifts, scraping softly against the hardwood floor. You imagine him sitting back, rubbing the back of his neck—embarrassed, uncomfortable, running from the truth like it burns.

“Mamá…” Joaquín’s voice is soft, frustrated—afraid. “You’re reading too much into things. It’s not—we’re not—it’s just casual. Nothing more.”

Your heart lodges in your throat, fresh tears burning your eyes.

Lucía huffs. “Casual? Joaquín, cariño, nothing about the way you look at her is casual.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Thick. You know too well that kind—the kind full of truths that could shatter either one of you if you dared touch them.

You don’t wait to hear more.

Before anyone notices you standing there, you slip silently back to your room and close the door without a sound. You climb into bed, pulling the blankets up like armour, and stare at the ceiling as your heartbeat stutters in your throat.

Because she sees it.

Everyone sees it.

Everyone but him.

You lie there for what feels like hours. Or maybe it’s twenty minutes. Time is strange when your chest feels too tight to hold air properly. You stare at the ceiling until the shadows shift, then you roll over, curl into yourself, unfold again. You toss. You turn. You try to sleep.

But you don’t.

Your eyes burn, and you swipe at them with the heel of your hand like it might stop the ache. But it doesn’t. So you grab your phone, dim the brightness, and scroll mindlessly—news, memes, someone’s engagement announcement you want to be happy for but mostly you just feel hollow. You watch three videos of raccoons washing grapes and read half an article about hair loss you don’t absorb.

Eventually, you hear Lucía’s voice—soft, muffled—saying goodnight to Joaquín. Then a door closes, footsteps fade, and the apartment settles into stillness. The kind of quiet that leaves you alone with your thoughts. The kind you wish you could outrun.

You switch off your phone and try again—eyes shut, breathing slow, blanket tucked up to your chin. It’s peaceful for maybe sixty seconds.

Then thunder starts to roll, low and lazy across the night sky. Not dramatic, not a storm—just enough to rattle the window and stir something restless under your ribs. The kind of sound that makes you think of company, warmth, someone’s chest to press your ear against.

You squeeze your eyes tighter. It shouldn’t be like this. You don’t get to think about him right now.

He’s not yours—no matter how much you wish he was.

Then another rumble. Closer this time. Louder.

You shift onto your back and stare at the ceiling again—heart beating too loud, the air too thick, the walls too close. Every second stretches until you’re sure you could hear a pin drop.

And then—a knock.

So soft, it’s barely a tap.

You stop breathing.

Another knock—gentle, hesitant—the kind that asks for permission instead of expecting it.

You know that knock. You’ve felt it against this door before—late nights, whispered laughter, the weight of a body sliding under the sheets beside yours like it was natural.

“Hey—uh, are you awake?”

Your heart stutters hard enough to hurt.

“Um. Yeah.”

There’s a pause—like he’s gathering courage, or trying to decide if he should turn around.

“…Can I come in?”

For a moment, you consider saying no. You should say no. It’d be easier. Simpler. But your heart betrays you like it always does.

“…Yeah. It’s open.”

The door creaks, opening just enough for him to slip inside. The hallway light silhouettes him for a second—messy hair, wrinkled t-shirt, uncertainty shaped into a boy who looks like he hasn’t slept either. He closes the door softly behind him, as if a noise too loud might break whatever fragile thing hangs between you.

You sit up, dragging your knees to your chest and hoping your voice is steadier than you feel. “What’s up?”

He looks at you, then the blankets, then the window behind you.

“I… heard the thunder,” he says quietly. “Didn’t know if it bothered you.”

You huff a laugh. “It’s just weather, Torres. I’ll survive.”

He takes a tentative step closer. Then another.

“I know,” he murmurs. “But... still didn’t feel right leaving you alone.”

Your heart flips. Stupid, traitorous thing.

You tilt your head toward the foot of the bed. “You can—uh, you can sit. If you want.”

He hesitates—just a second—then sits at the edge of your bed, careful to keep space between you. Not touching, but close enough that the mattress dips toward him. Close enough that you feel him like static.

Silence settles. Not heavy like earlier—but fragile. Delicate. Like one wrong move could shatter everything.

Then Joaquín sighs, his shoulders sagging. “I hate this,” he admits.

Your throat tightens. “Me too.”

He nods, staring at his hands like the words he needs might be written in the lines of his palms.

“I keep trying to figure out what to say,” he murmurs. “But every version sounds wrong.”

You shift, not away from him but toward, the blankets rustling as you pull your knees tighter and wrap your arms around them. “You could try just... talking to me,” you whisper.

He exhales—a long, slow release that softens something rigid in his posture—and when he looks up, his eyes catch yours with a kind of tired honesty that twists something deep in your ribs.

“But what if I say something that ruins everything?”

Your breath stutters, just a little.

He notices—of course he notices. He always does.

Then, slowly, he shifts closer, like gravity is doing the work instead of intention. The mattress dips beneath his weight, and you feel it—not just physically, but in the air, in your bones, in the way your pulse picks up like it recognises something familiar approaching.

His knee brushes yours, light enough to pretend it didn’t happen.

Neither of you move.

The room is dim—only the glow of moonlight bleeding through your sheer curtains, soft and silver, painting the curve of his cheekbone, the soft dent beneath his lower lip where he bit down earlier without thinking. His curls fall messy across his forehead, still a little damp from his own shower, and he’s close enough now that you could count the beauty marks scattered across his skin.

He clears his throat quietly, eyes flicking to your mouth and back like he regrets looking—but can’t help it. “Do you remember,” he asks, voice low and too warm, “the rules we made? Back when this was supposed to be simple?”

Your heart squeezes, painfully.

You nod slowly. “Yeah. I remember.”

He leans in a fraction, voice soft with something vulnerable. “What were they again?”

You feel it then—the moment the floor drops out from beneath you, the air thickens, the entire world shrinking down to the fragile space between your bodies and that question sitting between you like a live wire.

He knows the answer.

You know he knows it.

But he wants you to say it.

He wants to hear it now—from your mouth.

And God, it’s intimate.

Intimate in a way sex with him never scared you, but this does.

He waits—eyes searching your face like whatever you say next could ruin him completely.

Your voice comes out quiet, barely above a whisper. “There were only two rules.”

Something shifts behind his eyes—recognition, regret, something carved deep and unspoken. He leans closer. Slow. Careful. Like he’s approaching something he’s wanted for a long time but never trusted himself to touch.

Your breath catches when his thigh presses flush against your hip, when you can feel the warmth of his exhale on your lips. You don’t move away. You couldn’t if you tried.

“What were they?” he asks—soft, coaxing, like he wants you to ruin him.

You swallow, hard, because saying them now feels like prying open your own ribcage and handing him your heart still beating.

“No kissing,” you say, your voice thin.

His gaze drops to your mouth—slow, reverent—as though he’s memorising the shape of the rule he’s been breaking in every touch, every look, every moment he let himself linger. He’s close enough that one tilt of your chin would erase the space between you, and he knows it. God, he knows it.

“And the second?” he breathes.

Your pulse thrums in your ears, loud enough you’re sure he can hear it. You lick your lips without thinking—and his eyes follow the movement like he’s starving.

You breathe in once. Shaky. Unsteady. Then you give him the second rule like reopening a wound half-healed.

“No falling in love.”

The words hang between you. Heavy. Bare. Irreversible.

His breath stutters. You feel it—the tiny hitch in his chest, the way his fingers curl into the sheets like he needs to hold onto something before he reaches for you instead. He leans in a fraction closer, close enough that the tips of your noses nearly brush.

“Shit,” he whispers, eyes searching yours. “We really fucked that up, didn’t we?”

Your lips part—but nothing comes out. You’re not sure you could speak even if you tried.

He lifts a hand, slow as forgiveness, fingertips trailing along your jaw in a feather-light graze. A question. A plea. Permission hanging on a breath.

“I’m done pretending,” he murmurs.

Your breath catches somewhere between want and fear.

“And I’m about to break both of those rules.” His voice drops low, wrecked. “Unless you tell me not to.”

The whole world stops.

You don’t say no.

You don’t even think it.

You just breathe his name—soft, helpless, like a prayer you’re tired of choking down. “Joaquín.”

And that’s all it takes.

He moves first—barely—just a tilt of his head, the faintest brush of his lips to yours like he’s afraid the moment will vanish if he touches you too quickly. It’s soft, tentative, a question disguised as a kiss. His mouth is warm, careful, almost reverent. Like he’s been waiting to do this for a lifetime and doesn’t want to rush the first second of it.

You inhale sharply—not out of surprise, but relief. Relief so deep it aches. You kiss him back just as gently, your fingers curling in the sheets like you need something to anchor you before gravity takes over.

And it does.

Because when you don’t pull away—when you lean in the smallest amount, when your lips part on a quiet, helpless sound he swallows up—Joaquín breaks.

His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, drawing you closer with a desperation he’s fought too long to hide. The kiss deepens—slow at first, then hungry, then all-consuming—months of every touch but this, every touch but the one that mattered, breaking open between your mouths like those rules were never meant to exist.

He tastes like mint toothpaste and that fruity soda he had with dinner—familiar and new all at once, like something you’ve known forever and only just realised you were starving for. His other hand finds your waist, fingers splaying possessively, tugging you across the sheets and into him like he needs you closer—closer still—not just next to him, but against him.

You go willingly.

Your knees uncurl, your body shifting until you’re pressed chest to chest, breath mingling, heartbeats stumbling over one another. His curls brush your forehead, damp and soft, and he makes a sound low in his throat—not quite a groan, not quite a sigh—just pure want.

When you kiss him deeper, his fingers tighten at your waist; when you slide your hand into his hair, he exhales like you’ve knocked the wind out of him. The world narrows to mouths and heat and the slow drag of his thumb at your jaw as if he can’t believe you’re real.

He pulls back just a fraction, lips hovering over yours, breath shaky and warm.

“You have no idea,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “how long I’ve wanted this.”

And the way he says it—raw, unguarded, like confession and promise tangled together—makes your stomach twist, makes your pulse leap, makes any distance between you feel unbearable.

You kiss him again.

Harder this time.

His mouth meets yours, deeper this time—no hesitation, no gentleness left unspoken. The kiss steals whatever is left of your breath and gives back something hotter, hungrier. Your fingers tighten in his hair, pulling him closer, and he goes willingly, like he’s been waiting his whole life to be asked.

As you lay back, his weight settles fully between your thighs—careful, but urgent—and the low sound he makes against your lips borders on a plea. He’s everywhere at once—the warm press of his chest, the slow drag of his palm up the back of your thigh, the way his nose bumps yours when he tilts his head to kiss you harder.

He pulls back only far enough to speak, breaths mingling, foreheads pressed together.

“Tell me you want this,” he whispers—like he needs the words to anchor him. “Tell me you want me.”

Your thumb brushes his cheekbone, soft and trembling. “I want this,” you whisper. “I want you.”

Whatever restraint he had left dissolves.

He surges forward, kissing you like he’s making up for every night he talked himself out of this—slow, then deep, then deeper still, like he’s afraid to come up for air in case you disappear.

His hand slides beneath the hem of your shirt, pushing it up your ribs, reverent fingertips mapping skin he’s only ever touched in half-dark—never like this, never with your lips and your heart, never sacred.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to look at you—really look—eyes glassy like something inside him cracked open and light spilled out.

“You’re sure about this?” he asks, voice rough. “My mom’s still here, we can just—”

“Joaquín,” you breathe, “shut up and fuck me.”

He drops his head and groans against your throat, lips brushing your pulse, each word a confession pressed into skin. “I want you so bad,” he murmurs. “I want every last part of you—I need you."

He lifts the hem of your shirt higher—slow enough to back out if you push his hand away, slow enough for consent to breathe between you—but your hips arch instead, inviting, answering without words.

He exhales a shaky laugh—relief, disbelief, hunger—before pressing a kiss to your sternum through the thin cotton.

He helps you sit up just enough for the shirt to slip over your head, leaving you in nothing but underwear and the soft shadowed light. His gaze drags over you like a touch, slow and adoring, and his voice drops to something quiet and raw.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Then he leans down again, kissing the newly bared skin of your collarbone, then lower—trailing devotion like a rosary he’s repeating in reverse. His hands slide along your waist, your hips, your thighs, guiding you back into the pillows with something between gentleness and possession.

Your hands skim down his chest and curl into the fabric of his shirt, bunching it up until you can’t pull it any higher. A soft whine slips from your throat—wordless, pleading. He breaks the kiss only long enough to laugh under his breath, a low sound that vibrates where your palms rest on his skin, and then the shirt is gone—pulled over his head and tossed somewhere you’ll never find again.

He barely has it off before you’re touching him again, palms exploring lower, nails dragging lightly over the ridges of his stomach. He exhales like the contact winded him, like your touch is enough to undo him. Your fingers find the waistband of his shorts—hooking, tugging—and his breath catches as he shifts to help, pushing them down over his hips with a quick, desperate motion, never breaking the kiss for more than a second.

Your panties are last. The last thing between you and everything you’ve both been pretending wasn’t real. Wasn’t more.

His fingers hook in the waistband, dragging them slowly down your thighs with a reverence that borders on worship—slow enough for you to feel every inch, slow enough to make your whole body spark. You gasp when his fingertips brush the inside of your thigh, a shock of heat rippling through you, arching you off the mattress without conscious thought—just hunger. Just him.

When they’re finally gone, he settles between your legs again—and you gasp, sharp and helpless. He’s already hard, heavy, sliding through your slick with a slow grind that feels like he’s committing every inch of you to memory. Like he needs the friction. Like he needs it more than he’ll ever admit.

A strangled, unhinged sound tears out of you when the head catches just barely at your entrance—too close to ignore, not close enough to satisfy. Just torture.

He smiles against your mouth, voice a low murmur of affection and arrogance all tangled together. “Always ready for me, huh, cariño?”

Then he moves lower, his mouth closing over your nipple, and you break—back arching, thighs squeezing around his hips as his tongue flicks and his teeth graze just enough to make you burn. His hand cups your other breast, thumb circling lazily in a rhythm that steals the air right out of your lungs.

“Joaquín—” your voice catches when his hips roll, dragging the thick length of him over your clit, slow and deliberate.

“Shh, baby,” he whispers, breath hot against your skin as he moves to your other nipple. “Gotta be quiet for me.”

You bite your bottom lip hard—copper blooming faint on your tongue—trying to hold in the sounds clawing up your throat as your body arches beneath his mouth. He’s warm above you, solid and shaking, teasing you with slow, deliberate rolls of his hips that skim right where you’re aching for him. Heat coils low and deep, tightening with every breath, every touch.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers as his mouth trails up your collarbone, voice rough like gravel dragged over confession. “I was jealous last night.”

You let out a sound—half laugh, half desperate moan—nails digging into his back like you need something to hold onto before you break apart under him. Words scatter. Thinking is impossible.

“I wanted to kill that guy,” he breathes, lips brushing along your jaw, voice dark and sinful. “The way he looked at you…” His tone drops lower—a growl you feel in your spine. “You’re mine.”

The word detonates inside you. A shockwave of want. Of relief. Your back arches, thighs trembling as heat rushes through you like a fuse lit too fast. You swallow a moan, shoulders pressing into the mattress.

“P—please,” you pant. “Joaquín, just—”

He shifts, slow and deliberate, guiding himself against you again—teasing, sliding through your slick, dragging pleasure through you in agonising, perfect strokes that make your vision spark.

“Please what?” he breathes, noses brushing, lips hovering over yours. “Use your words, cariño.”

His forehead rests against yours, breaths shared, hot and uneven. You feel him steady himself before sliding along you again, slow strokes that have your whole body trembling, coating himself inch by inch in the proof of how badly you want him.

You whimper, hips tipping up instinctively in invitation, but he still doesn’t push in—not yet. Instead he catches your mouth again, kissing you slow and messy like he’s trying to burn the shape of your desperation into his mind, rocking his hips just enough to drag pleasure through you until your legs shake.

He groans against your lips, the sound deep and unguarded. “Dios, baby… you’re already so wet for me.”

“Joaquín—” your voice breaks, raw and pleading. “Please. I need you.”

He lets out a sound—half laugh, half pained relief—and shifts his weight to one arm, the other hand sliding between your bodies like he needs to feel exactly how ready you are for him.

“You sure?” he murmurs, searching your eyes like he’s asking for more than just consent—like he’s asking for trust.

Your hands move to cradle his face, holding him there, close. “Joaquín, I’m going to scream if you’re not inside me in the next five seconds.”

His answering laugh is wrecked, soft with something dangerously close to love. “As you wish.”

Then he moves.

He drags himself down, nudging right where you’re open for him, and pushes in—slowly, unbearably slowly—like he wants to feel every inch of you take him. Your body stretches around him, tight and warm, and his breath breaks in a shuddered moan at the sensation.

“Fuck—” he manages, voice thick and ruined. “You feel… Dios… you always feel so good.”

Your fingers dig into his back, pulling him closer without thinking, legs tightening around his hips like instinct. He sinks deeper, then stills, foreheads pressed, chests heaving together as the moment settles—heavy, holy, too much and not enough all at once.

His eyes open just enough for you to see them—dark, vulnerable, worshipful. “You’re perfect,” he whispers, like he means it. Like he finally understands it.

Then his mouth is on yours again, soft at first—an exhale, a promise—and then he sinks into you fully, slow and steady, until he’s as deep as you can take him. The sound that escapes the both of you is almost identical—relief, disbelief, something too raw to name.

For one suspended, impossible second, you just hold each other there.

Breathing. Shaking. Whole.

Then—on a breath that brushes your lips—he starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Each roll of his hips measured, deliberate, like he’s speaking with the motion instead of words—I love you. I want you. I’m yours. You’re mine.

Your fingers find his back, shoulders, curls, anything you can hold onto as your body moves with his like instinct. Your lips graze his jaw, a half-moaned, half-cracked sound caught in your throat.

“Fuck, Joaquín—”

He answers with a groan that sounds like it’s been waiting years to escape. He pulls back only to return with more intent, more need, and the drag of his body against yours sets your nerves alight. Heat coils low and tight in your belly, slow-building and unstoppable.

“Feels so good,” he whispers against your mouth, voice frayed. “You feel so good, cariño. I’m not—God—I’m not gonna last long.”

Your legs tighten around his waist, urging him closer, urging more, and he kisses you again—slow, hungry, desperate—even as his rhythm deepens, pace picking up like he can’t help it. Like you’re pulling it from him.

Each movement has you gasping softly into his mouth, the world narrowing to shared breath and heat and the way he holds you like you’re something holy.

“You’re mine,” he breathes between kisses, voice rough, almost breakable. “All mine. Gonna keep you right here—wrapped around me, making those pretty little sounds.”

You whimper, helpless to stop it. Every inch of him is inside you, moving through you, dragging against that tender spot that makes your vision blur. The tension between you—months of denial and longing—sparks like a live wire, lighting up every nerve in your body.

His thrusts grow harder, quicker—hungry now—each one hitting deeper, stealing the air from your lungs. Heat coils lower in your belly, winding tight, your whole body trembling under the rhythm of him. There’s nothing but the press of his chest, the warmth of his breath, the drag of his body inside yours. Too much. Not enough. Everything.

“That’s it, cariño,” he groans in your ear, voice rough. “You take me so fucking well.”

You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—something broken, needy—and your hand slides up your chest, fingers pinching lightly at your nipple. His rhythm stutters, a shaky moan falling out of him at the sight.

“Shh,” you breathe, or try to, voice wrecked. “Gotta be quiet—your mom—”

“Fuck,” he gasps, hips snapping harder. “How am I supposed to be quiet when you—God—when you feel like this?”

His hand tightens on your hip, the other pushing your leg open wider so he can drive deeper, like he wants to carve himself into every part of you. Each thrust is devastating—deep and relentless—pleasure building sharp and fast, curling tight behind your ribs.

Skin meets skin in soft, desperate rhythm—wet, breathless, messy—the only sound in the room besides your shared panting, his soft curses pressed against your mouth, your throat, your shoulder.

Your thighs shake where he holds you open, but you barely register anything beyond the pressure building, climbing too fast, too much. Your fingers tug at your breast again, desperate for more, your voice breaking against his shoulder.

“Joaquín—” it’s barely a word, more a prayer. “I’m close. I’m—fuck—I’m already so close.”

“I know, cariño,” he grits, sweat dripping from his temples. “I can feel it. You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

His pace stutters, then finds a slow, devastating rhythm—deep enough to bruise, tender enough to worship. He kisses you again, sloppy and hungry, like letting go would kill him. You feel how close he is too, can hear it in his jagged breathing, feel it in the way his muscles tremble with restraint.

“Gonna come for me, baby?” he breathes against your mouth, voice raw enough to break you.

You whimper, nodding helplessly. Words are impossible now—your mind gone, your body nothing but nerve endings and him. Every thrust hits that perfect spot inside you, grinding up into your clit with each downward roll of his hips. It’s maddening. Hot. Unforgiving. You’re shaking, eyes fluttering, breath catching in broken gasps.

Your fingers claw down his back, reaching for any grounding you can find, your other hand sliding down your stomach—needing more, needing something—

But he catches your wrist, pushes it away, replacing it with his own hand like he knows exactly what you’re asking for without you saying it. His thumb finds your clit and circles—slow at first, then with steady, knowing pressure that has your breath catching sharp in your throat.

Your whole body arches, breath caught in your chest, every muscle drawn tight as the pressure builds, sharp and consuming. His thumb doesn’t let up—circling, pressing, teasing—until it’s too much, not enough, and everything in between. 

“Come on, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick and gone. “I’ve got you.”

Your thighs tremble around him, the pleasure twisting tight like a live wire pulled to snapping point. You choke out something broken—half a sob, half a plea. “‘S too soon—”

He lets out a wrecked, disbelieving laugh, forehead pressed to yours. “No it’s not. I’m right there with you. I—fuck—”

You crash your mouth to his, hips rising to meet the next thrust just as his thumb presses down perfectly—

And then everything goes white.

It hits you like a tidal wave—your orgasm ripping through you so fiercely it borders on pain, heat flooding every nerve as your body locks tight around him. You cry out before you can stop yourself, legs shaking, fingers digging into his shoulders like you’ll fall through the mattress if you don’t hold on. You pulse around him—slow, deep, relentless—and it feels endless.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice wrecked as he buries his face in your neck. He keeps moving through it, slower now but deeper, like he wants to feel every second of you coming around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

You don’t even have time to breathe before he breaks too.

His hips falter, then stutter, and he lets out a sound you’re going to think about for the rest of your life—something raw and helpless and entirely yours. He thrusts once, hard and final, and you feel him come with a shudder that shakes through both of you, spilling into you as he gasps out a broken, devastating, “Fuck—I love you.”

You hold him as he falls apart, his body trembling against yours, his breath hot and uneven at your throat. The room is quiet except for your mixed breathing—heavy, tangled, like you’re still sharing lungs.

For a long moment, neither of you move. You just exist in each other’s arms, skin to skin, hearts trying to beat out of your chests and into each other’s.

Then he lifts his head and kisses you—slow and gentle. The kind of kiss that feels like an apology and a promise and a confession all at once.

You smile against his mouth, breath still shaky.

“I think,” you whisper, “we might have been a little loud.”

A huff of laughter escapes him—soft, breathless—like he’s too wrung out to laugh properly but too happy not to. He presses another slow kiss to your lips, then one to your cheek, then your jaw, like he can’t decide where to love you first now that he’s allowed to.

You both sink back into the pillows, limbs tangled without thinking. His weight settles partially on top of you, heavy in the nicest way—grounding, real. His hand slides under your ribcage and tugs you closer until your thigh is hooked over his hip, your chests pressed together, hearts finally beating in something that feels like harmony instead of war.

He noses your temple.

You smile.

And for a long moment, neither of you speak. You just breathe. Warm. Shared. Safe.

Your fingers trace lazy shapes up and down his spine, memorising him in quiet ways—the dip at his waist, the slope of his shoulder, the tremor still hiding in his breathing. You’re both wrecked. You’re both glowing. You’re both absolutely done for.

“Why now?” you murmur into the dark, voice soft and a little fragile. “We’ve been doing this for months. So… why now?”

He stills—not tense, just thoughtful—his thumb brushing the underside of your breast absentmindedly, like he’s touching you just to reassure himself you’re real.

“I’ve always loved you,” he says finally, voice quiet and unbearably honest. “I just… didn’t let myself say it. Or think it.”

You swallow, chest tightening.

He shifts, just enough to see your face in the low spill of moonlight, curls falling across his forehead. You run your thumb along the curve of his jaw, and his eyes flutter shut like the touch knocks something loose inside him.

“When we were in Nevada,” he admits, “I kept turning over in bed expecting to find you there. I kept looking for you in every stupid moment—at breakfast, in the hall, brushing my teeth—and you weren’t. And it felt like someone carved something out of me and forgot to put it back.”

Your breath catches. “It was only a week, Joaquín.”

“And then last night,” he continues, voice even softer, “watching that waiter look at you like he had a chance—like he could be the one to make you laugh, or hold you, or wake up next to you—I realised I couldn’t do it anymore. Couldn’t share you. Couldn’t pretend this was casual. Not when every part of me already feels like it belongs to you.”

Your eyes burn—warm, aching.

“Joaquín...” you whisper, not sure how to hold everything he’s giving you.

“I don’t know why it took me so long,” he says, thumb tracing slow circles at your hip. “But I know we broke that rule months ago. I just didn’t have the guts to say it.”

You run your hand through the curls at his nape, gentle and slow.

“And now?” you ask.

He kisses you—soft, sure—like the answer is in his breath and not his words.

“Now I’m yours,” he murmurs against your lips. “You’re stuck with me.”

You tuck your face into the curve of his throat, breathing him in—warm skin, mint, something that feels like home. His arm curls around your waist, holding you like he doesn’t plan to let go this time. Maybe ever.

This time, when you shut your eyes, sleep comes easy.

And when it finds you, it’s tangled together—his fingers laced with yours, your leg thrown over his, his breath slow and steady against your shoulder like a promise.

Somewhere down the hall, a floorboard creaks softly.

Lucía’s door, maybe.

Or fate laughing quietly to itself.

Either way, you fall asleep smiling.

-

Sunlight wakes you before anything else—soft, warm, slipping through the curtains in thin golden stripes across the sheets. The first thing you register is heat against your back. A slow rise and fall. An arm around your waist. A leg tangled with yours like he anchored himself there in his sleep and never let go.

You turn your head just enough to see him—hair a mess, mouth soft, lashes dark against his cheeks. He looks young like this. Peaceful. Like last night cracked something open and let light in.

For a few minutes you don’t move.

You just watch him breathe.

Like a creep—maybe—but you don’t care.

Eventually, he stirs—nose brushing your shoulder, fingers flexing at your hip like his body notices you’re awake before his mind does.

“Morning,” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

You turn enough for your noses to brush, and he kisses you—slow, unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels like a secret being shared instead of stolen. His hand slides up your spine, fingertips barely there, just tracing, memorising.

It would be easy to stay here forever.

Too easy.

But your stomach growls—loudly. You didn’t eat dinner last night.

Joaquín snorts, his laughter warm against your mouth. “Okay,” he says, “I think that was a cry for food.”

You shake your head, nuzzling into his neck. “Five more minutes.”

He kisses your forehead, then your cheek, then your lips like punctuation marks. “If we wait five minutes, we won’t leave this bed.”

And he’s right—because the way he’s looking at you makes it a dangerous truth. So you groan, flop onto your back, and let him sit up, curls messy and lit by the bright morning sun.

He offers his hand, and you take it.

You both slowly find your clothes from last night, thrown somewhere across the room. It isn’t fast, because every time you get close, you pull each other in for another kiss. Just one more. Which is a lie every time, because after ten minutes of getting dressed, you’re both still only halfway there—sprawled across the bed again, hands roaming, smiles pressed against each other.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, you’re both half-dazed, hair scrambled, wearing the kind of glow you couldn’t hide if you tried.

Joaquín moves around the kitchen with that easy familiarity he always has—barefoot, shirtless, sunlight catching the slope of his shoulders as he rummages through the pantry. You hop up onto the counter just to watch him move, legs swinging, hands gripping the counter edge. It’s embarrassingly domestic how natural it all feels.

When he reaches the coffee machine, you feel your skin warm with recognition. His hand brushes your knee on the way, thumb lingering just a second too long. And the moment the button clicks on and the machine hums to life, you wrap a hand around his bicep and tug him closer.

He lets out a surprised laugh but goes willingly—slotting between your legs like he belongs there, looking up at you with those stupidly soft brown eyes that have completely ruined you.

“Can I help you?” he asks, smile lazy and lovesick.

You hum, hands sliding up to cradle his jaw. “I don’t know. Got anything to offer?”

“For you?” His fingers tighten at your hips, warm and sure. “Anything. Everything. Just ask.”

You try to roll your eyes, but it dies halfway with a lovesick grin to match his. “God, you’re cheesy.”

“But you love me.”

You inhale, leaning in until your noses brush. “Yeah,” you breathe. “You’ve got me there.”

And then you kiss him again.

Slow at first—soft and morning-warm—but it deepens quickly, heat sparking under your skin like flint to tinder. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer, and he goes pliant in your hands, mouth parting for you like he’s been waiting all morning for this exact contact.

The kiss turns lingering. Then hungry. Then something sweeter—fed by new honesty instead of tension.

His mouth trails to your jaw, down your throat, kisses slow and sweet and sinful, and your fingers dig into his shoulders as he presses closer, hips nudging against the counter between your thighs. You gasp against his lips and he swallows the sound eagerly, thumb brushing your jaw, eyes dark with softness and hunger all at once.

And that’s when—

“Ahem.”

You jolt so hard you nearly knee Joaquín in the stomach.

Lucía is standing at the edge of the kitchen—still in her slippers and robe, smirking like God personally handed her front-row tickets.

“Well,” she says, “glad you two have finally learned how to communicate.”

Joaquín’s cheeks go pink, and you bury your face in his shoulder.

“Buenos días, Mamá,” he mutters, voice embarrassingly wrecked.

“Buenos días, mijo,” she says, smirk widening as she steps around you both toward the coffee machine.

Joaquín peels himself away from you, strategically keeping his back to his mother as he rounds the breakfast bar to stand on the other side in the world’s most obvious attempt at dignity. His ears are red. His neck is red. He is, in fact, a tomato with abs.

You slide off the counter and drift to his side, like gravity is a concept invented just for the two of you.

“Sleep well, Lucía?” you ask, trying for casual and missing by a mile.

She hums as she pours her coffee. “Very well.”

Then she pauses, takes a slow sip, and turns to face you both—with a smile so smug it should be federally regulated.

“Although,” she says lightly, “I think this apartment is embrujada.”

Your stomach drops. “Haunted?”

She nods, far too innocent. “Sí. I heard… noises… in the middle of the night.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks so violently you’re surprised the lights don’t flicker.

“Oh?” Joaquín replies, edging behind you like the coward he is. “What kind of noises?”

Lucía takes another sip—slow, dramatic, weaponised. Her eyes never leave her son.

“You know what kind of noises, hijo.”

Lucía sets her mug down, eyes twinkling with wicked amusement. You already know she’s about to deliver something lethal—and she does.

“Bueno,” she says casually, as if commenting on the weather, “if you two are finished making the walls shake, maybe we can celebrate properly. A nice dinner? Or…” she pauses just long enough to kill you both, “the engagement party later?”

You choke on air. Joaquín chokes harder, spluttering like someone handed him a live grenade instead of a mug.

“Mamá,” he manages, voice cracking in the middle. “We literally just—”

She waves a hand, dismissing his suffering. “Ay, por favor. Why so embarrassed? You’re grown adults. You don’t think I know how these things work?”

She pauses—taking another slow, theatrical sip of coffee.

“I know where babies come from, hijo.”

You’re pretty sure your soul leaves your body.

Heat floods your cheeks and you step back, searching desperately for dignity and finding absolutely none. “I’m—uh—going to… get dressed before I die of embarrassment,” you say, words tripping over each other as you retreat like you’re escaping a burning building.

You make it halfway down the hall when arms wrap around your waist from behind—warm, strong, sure—and a laugh ghosts against your neck.

“You’re really just going to leave me to suffer alone out there?” Joaquín murmurs, voice low, teasing, already smiling.

You try for stern and fail spectacularly. “Yes. Obviously. That's your mother.”

He spins you gently—not dramatic, just enough that your toes leave the floor and you let out a startled squeal you’ll deny later. You land against his chest, palms splayed over warm skin, and he looks at you like last night wasn’t a mistake or a question—like it was a beginning.

His forehead dips to yours, voices low enough that Lucía can’t hear.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers. His hands slide to your hips, grounding you, worshipping you in the simplest way. “Not a chance.”

Somewhere from the kitchen, Lucía calls out—

“¡Cierren la puerta si van a hacer más ruido!” (Close the door if you're going to make more noise!)

You bury your face in Joaquín’s shoulder as he walks you backward toward your room, and he’s shaking with silent laughter, kiss landing on your cheek like it belongs there.

The world feels warm. Ridiculous. New.

And when he nudges your door open with his foot, you know exactly how your day is going to end—happy, stupidly in love, tangled up in him with no intention of ever letting go.

© 2025 geminiwritten. this work is protected by copyright. unauthorized use, reproduction, distribution, or training of artificial intelligence models with this content is strictly prohibited. all original elements of this fanfiction belong to geminiwritten. characters and settings derived from original works belong to their respective creators.

[flowersforbucky]

means i care

joaquín torres x reader

"You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn't beating when I pulled you from that water."

He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”

word count: 3.3k

warnings/tags: friends to lovers, idiots in love, pining, enhanced!reader with energy manipulation powers, canon level injuries, some angst, fluff, no use of y/n, reader has she/her pronouns, pov switches

☆☆☆☆☆☆

“You know, if we don't succeed here, we'll be looking at World War III. I could use a little extra good luck. If you know what I'm sayin’.”

You shift your gaze from the Indian Ocean outside of the jet's window to the man sitting beside you. At first, you question whether or not you heard him correctly. Then, you see the sly smirk on his lips and the glimmer of mischief in his brown eyes and you realize that you had, in fact, heard him correctly.

If you had any doubt about what he meant by a little extra good luck, the look on his face makes it abundantly clear.

Your eyes flicker to his lips for a split-second before you look back out to the endless expanse of blue water surrounding you. God knows that if you stare at him for a moment too long, you might just be weak enough to give in.

It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve come dangerously close.

“Good luck, huh? I hope you’ve got a four-leaf clover or a rabbit’s foot stashed somewhere in that suit of yours, then.”

He laughs. The sound fills the jet and for a second, you forget where you are and what all is on the line.

“A thousand four-leaf clovers wouldn’t give me a fraction of the good luck that I’d get from a kis—”

“Landing in five!” Sam calls, effectively breaking the tension in the air. You doubt that it was intentional, but you’re thankful for the interruption nonetheless. As if the list of things on your mind isn’t already a mile long – the last thing you need to add to it right now is kissing Joaquín.

You should be used to it – the flirting and teasing. He hasn’t held back since the moment you met. First, you had assumed it’s just how he is – that he says the same things to any halfway decent looking girl in his age bracket.

Sam had insisted that’s not the case.

Still, past relationship trauma had left you unable to believe that he was being genuine –and unable to believe that any good could come from returning his flirtatious sentiments. Best case scenario, you hook up and relieve the tension that’s been brewing between you for months, things fizzle, and you have to continue to work together while attempting to ignore any awkwardness. Worst case scenario, you let yourself completely fall for him and someone inevitably gets hurt.

This line of work, this lifestyle – it doesn’t mesh well with romantic relationships. You’ve learned that lesson the hard way, a few times over.

So, despite the fact that you think he’s annoyingly attractive, you brush off the compliments and cheesy one-liners. You look for every excuse when he tries to spend time with you outside of work and missions, never letting yourself give in even when every fiber of your being is dying to do so.

Like right now. He sits beside you, his arm and thigh brushing against yours. Even through his thick, heavy gear, it sends a shiver up your spine. You resist the urge to grab his hand in yours and tell him that you and Sam have this handled if he wants to help from the sidelines.

You can hear his response as clear as day in your mind. “Keep to the sidelines? And let you and Sam have all the fun? Pshhh. You wish.”

You bite your tongue, afraid to let him know just how much you care. You might not let it show, but you’re more worried for his safety than you are your own.

There’s no chance of him staying on the base while you and Sam potentially risk your lives. But maybe you can at least give him an incentive to keep himself alive.

Joaquín starts to stand when you place a hand on his arm. He freezes, an almost hopeful expression on his face as he looks at you expectantly.

“Don’t die out there and we’ll see about that kiss. Okay?”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

“Are you listening to a word I say?”

Sam’s voice snaps you out of your trance. You blink rapidly, lubricating your eyes that had been locked on a beeping monitor for an embarrassing amount of time.

“No,” you answer honestly. You glance at him for a brief moment before your eyes are back on the sleeping body a few feet away from you. “Not really. Sorry. What did you say?”

He sighs. He’s trying his hardest to not let it show, but you know that he’s getting a little annoyed with you.

You can’t really find the energy to care. You’re a little annoyed with him, too. He won’t stop tapping his fucking foot against the linoleum floor and the whole room still smells like the Chinese take-out he’d eaten hours ago.

Your stomach growls. Maybe you’re just hangry.

“I said you need to go home,” Sam says in an even tone. “Get a few hours of sleep, take a shower. Eat something that didn’t come out of a vending machine.”

Over the last four days, you’ve spent more time in this hospital room than your own apartment. You’ve only left to go home long enough to shower every other day, and to get gas stations snacks and coffee on occasion. The longest you’d been away from Joaquín’s bedside was yesterday morning, when you went to the Target down the road to put together a get well soon basket for when he wakes up.

Most guests would be asked to leave after standard visiting hours, but you suppose working with Captain America does come with some perks. You suppose it also helps that you were the one who pulled Joaquín from the ocean, flew him to safety, and restarted his heart with your powers while you waited on the emergency medical team to get to you on Celestial Island.

Maybe the hospital staff pities or – or maybe they’re a little scared of you. Either is fine, as long as you aren’t asked to leave for an extended period of time.

You’re hungry, and you need to shower, and a few hours of sleep in an actual bed certainly wouldn’t hurt. But the thought of not being here when he wakes up…

“I’ll call you,” Sam says, as if reading your mind. “I swear. As soon as he wakes up, I’ll let you know.”

You don’t trust your voice enough to speak, so you just nod. You’ve somehow managed to refrain from crying up until this point, but you’re running on a few hours of sleep and it’s starting to get to you.

Despite the various wounds and bruising across his body, he looks peaceful in his sleep. His chest rises and falls with steady breaths, and you feel yourself relax at the visual reminder that he’s okay. He’s resting, and healing, and he’ll wake when his body is ready.

“Okay,” you whisper as you stand up from the scratchy, old recliner that you have been glued to for the majority of the last few days. “You call me as soon as he opens his eyes.”

Before leaving, you walk to the side of his bed. On the table next to him sits a vase of wildflowers that have already started to wilt, and the basket that you had brought, full of some of his favorite things – beef jerky, Takis, gummy bears – as well as a few personal care items that may be of use for the duration of his hospital stay after waking up – deodorant, a toothbrush and travel sized toothpaste, and the biggest stainless steel tumbler that you could find.

In the middle of the basket sits a small, plush falcon. You hadn’t even been looking for it when it caught your eye in the store, but you immediately knew you had to get it for him. Seeing it had felt like a sign that everything is going to be okay.

You remove the stuffed bird from the basket and tuck it between his side and his arm before leaning down and pressing a tender kiss to the center of his forehead. It’s the first time you’ve touched him since the accident, and you’re reluctant to pull away.

Your eyes sting with all of the emotions that you’ve been holding inside for days. You don’t look back at Sam or say another word as you walk out of the room, hoping with everything in you that the next time you walk into this room, he greets you with one of his obnoxiously perfect smiles and a corny pick-up line.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The first thing Joaquín hears is the low, repetitive beeping of a monitor. When he opens his eyes, he’s momentarily blinded by violent, early morning sunlight creeping through the blind slats.

“Well, well, well. How nice of you to decide to join the living today, Sleeping Beauty.”

He recognizes Sam’s voice a second before he sees him. Slumped in a chair in the corner of the room, he looks like he could use some sleep, himself.

All at once, images of the moments leading up to him plummeting into the ocean come flooding back. He remembers Sam yelling at him to back off from the last missile, the missile firing right at him, and then nose-diving into the ocean as you shriek his name.

You.

His eyes dart around the room in a panic, looking for any sign of you. His heartrate spikes on the monitor. Sam jumps up, rushing over to his side.

“What – where is she – is she okay?”

God, his throat is painfully dry. How long has he been unconscious?

“Easy, easy,” Sam soothes as he takes a seat at the foot of the hospital bed. “She is fine. She was unharmed and has hardly left your side in five days. It was like pulling teeth just to convince her to go home for the night. Made me promise to call her the second you woke up.”

At first, he assumes Sam is just messing with him. You have hardly left his side? You, the same person who has rejected every one of his advances for nearly a year?

“You’re being serious? She’s been here?” He asks in disbelief.

“Oh, yeah,” Sam exhales. “She’s been a mess, man. I don’t know how much you remember, but…” He trails off, avoiding Joaquín’s gaze.

“She’s the one who pulled you from that water. By the time she flew you somewhere safe, you weren’t breathing. She had to restart your heart with her powers until the medical team got to you.”

He can tell by Sam’s demeanor that he isn’t joking around, but he still struggles to wrap his head around it all. He had fucking died? His heart stopped, and you’re the reason that he’s alive? And you stayed with him while he’s been recovering?

Then, he remembers the last words you said to him before arriving on Celestial Island.

Don’t die out there and we’ll see about that kiss. Okay?

He isn’t sure if you really spoke those words, or if it’s some false memory that his subconscious conjured to keep him holding on while on the brink of death.

If it’s the latter, it worked. If it’s the former, and you really did say that, he supposes that offer is probably off the table since he technically did die.

Damn it.

Joaquín attempts to sit up and becomes aware of two things at once – he feels like he has been repeatedly ran over by a bus, and there's something fuzzy tickling his arm.

“What the hell…”

He picks up the small, stuffed falcon and can’t help but smile at it. “You shouldn’t have,” he chuckles, tossing the bird at Sam.

He catches it, smirking. “Oh, I didn’t.”

Sam gestures towards the table beside Joaquín. He follows his gaze, noticing the dying flowers and basket stuffed full of various snacks and self-care items. Whoever chose the contents of the basket, knows him well. He could live off of beef jerky if he had to, and gummy bears are his favorite.

“Who..?” Joaquín asks, trying not to get his hopes up that it could be from the person he most wants it to be from – the person who apparently saved his life.

“Take a guess,” Sam jabs as he tosses the stuffed animal back to Joaquín.

For a second, he thinks his heart just might stop again. He pictures you picking out the items and he has to shake his head to keep himself from grinning too big.

“Man, if I knew that all I had to do was die to get her attention, I would’ve done it a hell of a lot sooner.”

Sam rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Just don’t go making a habit of it, okay? I don’t know if she would forgive you if you did it again.”

Sam then pulls out his cell phone, excusing himself from the room to give you a call and to get Joaquin’s nurse. Once he’s alone, Joaquín fights against all of the stiffness in his body to reach for the basket sitting on the bedside table. In addition to all of the other goodies, there’s a card tucked between a stick of Old Spice deodorant and a bag of Takis.

It isn’t in an envelope. He instantly snorts at the image on the front of the card – it’s a cartoon dog wearing a cone collar with a dejected expression. In bold print, it reads: At least you don’t have to wear a cone.

He opens the card, and immediately recognizes your handwriting.

I specifically remember asking you to not die. Guess you were right about that good luck kiss, after all. I'll remember that next time.

☆☆☆☆☆☆

The simultaneous dread and relief that you feel when you see Sam’s name pop up on your phone can’t be described in words. Dread at the mere possibility of bad news. Relief that it could be what you’ve been hoping to hear for days.

As soon as you hear him say that Joaquín is awake, you’re jumping out of bed at the ass crack of dawn. You don’t think about taking the time to eat any breakfast or even make yourself a cup of coffee – you just throw on some clean clothes, brush your teeth, and you’re out the door.

The short drive to the hospital is spent talking to yourself about what you're even going to say to him. How are things supposed to just go back to normal between the two of after something like this? After it felt like your heart stopped when his did? Do you even want things to go back to normal?

You knew you’d feel relieved to see him awake, but you don’t expect the overwhelming rush of emotions that comes over you as soon as you hear his voice murmur your name.

He's sitting up in his bed, holding the stuffed falcon that you’d given him and smiling at you like you hung the moon and stars as soon as you walk through the door.

That’s when you know the answer to your question – no, you don’t want things to go back to normal between you. With the way that you feel your heart in your throat, you don't think that’s a possibility, anyway.

“This little guy was a nice surprise to wake up to, you know. Kind of wish it had been you, but he’s cute, too.”

You no longer attempt to hold back the tears that had been threatening to spill over for the last five days. You sit on the edge of his bed, directly beside his thigh and meagerly wipe the teardrops that leak down both of your cheeks.

“Hey, hey,” His demeanor completely shifts when he realizes that you’re crying. He leans in closer and pulls you to him. You sob against his chest, and he runs a large hand up and down your back. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m here. It's gonna take more than a missile or two to take me out.”

You nod against his chest, but don’t pull away. He continues to massage your back as you attempt to calm down, focusing on the feeling of him against you. When you finally lean back, he wipes a lingering tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb.

“You were dead, Joaquín. Your heart wasn’t beating when I pulled you from that water.”

He grins, taking your hand in his. He brings it to his lips and presses a soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Well, it’s beating now. Because of you. But what’s new? My heart always beats for you.”

You exhale, finally letting yourself return his cheeky grin. The teasing remark makes you feel the happiest you have in days.

“Leave it to you to find a way to flirt when we are having a conversation about your death.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, his expression suddenly turning more serious. “I do have a question, though.”

You tilt your head in curiosity.

“When you brought me back to life, was it like a mouth to mouth type thing? Or..?”

You roll your eyes, playfully shoving him back against his pillows. He cackles, his cheeks turning pink. He pulls you back to him, this time even closer than before. You can smell mint on his breath from the toothpaste you’d put in his get well soon basket.

“No. Thought I’d save that for when you’re awake.”

He places his hands on your sides, the light touches sending a thrill through you. The normally chilly hospital room suddenly feels a whole lot warmer.

“Are you sure?” He murmurs. “I don’t want you to think that you.. owe me anything, or have to kiss me just because of what happened—”

You’re shaking your head before he finishes speaking.

“Joaquín,” you interrupt him softly. “I’ve been stupid. So, so stupid and I'm so sorry. I'm sorry that it took something like this for me to open my eyes to what’s been right in front of me this whole time. I knew that if I let myself want more, if I let myself give in, that’d be it for me. And that terrified me. But I don’t care anymore. I’m more terrified of never getting the chance to—”

Suddenly, his hands move from your hips to either side of your face. He pulls you the remainder of the short distance to him, and then his lips are against yours; effectively ending your rambling.

One of your hands cups the nape of his neck, your fingers intertwined in his soft curls. His tongue ghosts along your bottom lip and you eagerly part them for him. The sounds from various machines and the voices out in the hallway all fade to white noise as he moves his lips with yours.

He's gentle. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s still relatively bedridden, but he touches you like he’s touching fine, breakable China. There’s an underlying urgency, like he’s scared he’s dreaming and wants to savor this as much as possible before he opens his eyes.

You pull away with a gentle tug of his bottom lip between your teeth. He doesn’t drop his hands from caressing your face, and your rest your forehead against his, basking in the afterglow of a kiss long overdue.

“Damn,” he breathes. “Please tell me we can do that again, minus all of the months of rejection and the close call with death.”

You laugh. “I can promise you no more rejection, but you have to promise me no more close calls with death.”

A gentle stroke of his thumb across your cheekbone sends goosebumps down your spine. “I promise, mi vida. I’ve been waiting too long for this. There’s no getting rid of me now.”

☆☆☆☆☆☆

mi vida: spanish for "my life"

thank you so much for reading!!! as always, comments and reblogs are very appreciated ♡

[myladybelle]

everywhere, everything

pairing: joaquín torres x fem!reader summary: being long-distance best friends with joaquín isn’t easy now that you’re on different teams. the more you talk, tease, and lean on each other, the clearer it becomes that friendship might not be enough for you anymore. tags: new avenger!reader, ex-widow!reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, you and joaquín are children of the sambucky divorce warning(s): cariño used as a pet name, suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy) word count: 9.5k note: WHEW this one has been a wip for a while and i finally finished it! title comes from the noah kahan song of the same name. also i’m not a native spanish speaker but my friend told me that cariño is an appropriate nickname for any gender, please correct me if i’m wrong 🩷

masterlist

Your phone buzzed with the kind of urgency that could only mean two things: either the world was ending again, or Joaquín had found another cursed meme he thought you needed to see at two in the morning.

QUINO 🪽: yo why are you on the news being announced as the new avengers lmao

You barely had time to process before the next messages dropped in.

QUINO 🪽: wait. hold on. is this for real??? 

QUINO 🪽: wtf???

Your stomach flipped. This was exactly the conversation you’d been putting off having with him. Because who doesn’t love a little light long-distance betrayal on a random Tuesday?

When his name lit up your screen with an incoming call, you hovered like a coward. It rang enough that you let it go to voicemail. When he called back, you decided you couldn’t avoid him forever.

“Heeeeeey, Quino,” you said, dragging out the greeting in the world’s least suspicious tone. “How’s it going?”

“How’s it—? What the hell is going on?” His voice crackled down the line, equal parts alarmed and offended. “Are you serious right now?”

You opened your mouth to answer, only for Alexei’s booming baritone to cut through the tower’s open-plan kitchen. “I was only trying to help!”

“Help?!” John snapped back, loud enough that you’d be getting noise complaints in a regular apartment complex. “You nearly set the oven on fire again!”

Ava’s dry voice chimed in. “Ten dollars says he’ll do it a third time by next week.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Yelena added, unbothered as ever. They shook on it.

Bob, poor soul, sat in the middle of it all on the sofa with a throw pillow hugged to his chest, swivelling his head back and forth like he was centre court at Wimbledon.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay, hang on, I can’t— one sec.”

“...Are you in the middle of a family reunion right now?” Joaquín asked, incredulous.

You snorted. Joaquín knew you didn’t know anything about your biological family; the Red Room made sure of that. “Something like that.” 

You ducked down the hall and made the now-familiar trek to your room. You’d requested one on the same floor as the common spaces because the other floors felt too empty. When you made it to your bedroom, you shut the door behind you and sighed in relief. 

Blessed, beautiful silence. Now that you lived at the Watchtower, it was rarer than you liked.

“Sorry,” you said, sitting on the edge of your bed with the phone pressed to your ear. “It’s been a crazy day. Or, you know, week.”

There was a beat of quiet on his end. Then, softer, “So it’s true? You’re one of them now?”

You sank back against your pillows, staring at the wall like it might have the script you’d forgotten to study. “Yeah,” you admitted, exhaling. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Joaquín exclaimed. “You were supposed to call me if anything major happened. I have to hear about it on CNN?” His voice cracked a little at the end, like he was trying to sound annoyed, but worry slipped through.

Guilt tugged at your ribs. “I know. I wanted to, but it all kind of snowballed,” you confessed. “One minute Bucky’s dragging me along as backup, and the next I’m knee-deep in whatever Valentina’s mess is. Then Yelena showed up, and you know our history. I couldn’t just leave her, and… it just spiralled.” When Joaquín stayed silent, you quietly added, “I didn’t plan any of this, Quino.”

Silence stretched, heavier this time, though not unfriendly. You could hear the faint rustle of Joaquín shifting on his end of the line. He probably had you on speaker while pacing his room, running a hand through his curls like he did whenever he was stressed.

You picked at a loose thread on your blanket. “The thing is, I don’t feel like I can leave. Not now. They’re…” You stopped, trying to find the words. “They’re ridiculous, obviously. You just heard the circus outside. But they’ve sort of wormed their way into my heart.” You smiled a little. “Alexei’s trying so hard to be everyone’s embarrassing dad. Yelena and Ava—I didn’t know I could have friends like that. And with Bucky, this is giving him something better to hold onto than that whole congressman crusade. I can’t walk away from that.”

On the other end, Joaquín made a thoughtful humming noise, then said lightly, “I could put on the Falcon suit and come take you away in a few hours. Just say the word.”

The laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “Don’t tempt me. You know we can’t.”

“I’m serious,” he teased. “No one would notice. I’d swoop in, whisk you out, and boom! You’re back where you belong. With people who actually own functioning smoke alarms.”

“Very funny,” you said, though your smile lingered. “But you know it’s not that simple. I love you, Quino. You and Sam are my family too. I’d never want to do anything to hurt you or make you feel like I’d betrayed you. But… I love them, too. The Thunderbolts.”

He went quiet. Long enough that you worried you’d overplayed your hand, or worse, confirmed some fear he hadn’t voiced yet. Then, “Who the hell are the Thunderbolts?”

There was a beat, and then both of you broke into helpless laughter. Yours came out wheezy, half-relieved, half-hysterical. Joaquín’s laugh rolled through the line warm and familiar, pulling you right back to every late-night hangout you’d ever had together.

When it finally ebbed into silence again, you were breathless, cheeks aching from smiling.

“You know you’re my best friend, right?” Joaquín said suddenly, earnest in a way that caught you off guard. “There’s nothing you could do that would change that. Not joining this team, not working with Bucky, not even— what did you call them? The Thundercats?” You knew he was teasing you.

“Thunderbolts,” you corrected him anyway, grinning into the phone.

“Sure, them,” Joaquín chuckled. “The point is, you’re stuck with me, cariño. No matter what headlines you end up in.”

The knot in your chest loosened. You pressed the heel of your hand to your eye, a little overwhelmed at how much lighter you felt just hearing him say it. “Thanks, Quino.”

“Don’t thank me. Just promise you’ll call me before you end up on the news next time,” he requested. “My heart can’t take that kind of shock.”

“I’ll put it on my to-do list, right under ‘stop Alexei from burning the tower down.’”

“Good,” Joaquín hummed. “Although, one of those sounds slightly more achievable than the other.”

You snorted. For the first time since the whole Void and New Avengers fiasco, the weight on your shoulders felt a little easier to carry. You stayed on the line a moment longer, reluctant to let the comfort of your friend go.

It still amazed you how all of this had started. 

You hadn’t been looking for new friends when Bucky Barnes had turned up on your doorstep with that gruff, awkward apology lodged in his throat. He’d braced for guilt, for explanations, for the familiar dance of trying to make amends the way his therapist wanted him to. Instead, you were the one who surprised him. 

You’d told him plainly that he didn’t need to answer for the Winter Soldier’s crimes; not to you, not to anyone. Somewhere in the middle of his therapy checklist, you’d adopted him instead. Bucky became your grumpy older brother, reluctant uncle, and occasionally an exasperated grandpa figure.

You met Sam soon after, and he introduced you to his protégé. Meeting Joaquín had been game-changing. It meant having someone closer to your age, someone who didn’t see you as a broken weapon or a case file. He helped you become a person who could laugh, tease, and stay up too late eating takeout on a worn sofa. 

It shifted something you hadn’t realised was stuck. He was a golden retriever puppy in human form, entering your life with boundless energy that made it very, very hard to keep the walls up. Before you knew it, Joaquín had woven himself into your life until you couldn’t imagine a single day without him.

When you’d moved to D.C. to help Bucky with his campaign—also known as keeping him from shit-talking his way into political disaster—being in the same city as Joaquín was a happy side effect. Close enough for coffee runs, late-night movie marathons, and the easy friendship that had become your anchor.

Sitting in the Watchtower a couple of hundred miles away, with Joaquín’s voice crackling through a line that already felt too short, you realised just how much you missed it.

“It’s really good to hear your voice again,” you admitted quietly. “Things got scary for a second there. I didn’t know what I was doing, or if I was helping or making things worse.”

Joaquín’s concern was immediate, voice softer than before. “Hey. Don’t say that. You can call me, you know. Anytime. I don’t care what’s going on. You can call until you’re absolutely sick of me.”

That earned a real laugh out of you, brighter than the earlier ones. “That’ll never happen. But fine, I promise I will. I’ll drive you insane with constant phone calls. Brace yourself.”

“I look forward to it,” Joaquín said, with a warmth that wrapped around you even through the static. Reluctantly, he sighed. “I gotta go. Falcon duties and all that.”

“Right,” you replied, though you clung to the moment until the call ended. “Talk to you soon.”

The screen went dark. You lingered in the quiet, phone still pressed against your ear, before finally dragging yourself back to the door. When you opened it, the chaos was still alive and well: John red in the face, Alexei defensive, Yelena and Ava gleefully egging them on.

You couldn’t help smiling. Yeah. You were in deep with these idiots.

Adjusting to life with the so-called New Avengers was a little like moving into a shared house where the neighbours were constantly on the verge of calling the cops. Which is to say: chaotic, loud, and kind of wonderful.

Alexei had decided, without consulting anyone, that he was the team’s fun dad. Which meant unsolicited pep talks, terrible jokes, and constant attempts to prove he could still do fifty push-ups in a row. He could not. 

Yelena endured this with the kind of long-suffering eye-rolls usually reserved for sitcom daughters whose fathers embarrass them in front of their friends. You, however, found it hilarious. Every time he started a story with, Back in my Red Guardian days, you could practically hear Yelena’s soul leaving her body.

Then there was John and Bucky. Together, they were like an odd-couple reboot no one had asked for. Two grumpy boomer figures trapped in a modern world they didn’t fully understand. John still called memes picture jokes. Bucky had once asked you in complete seriousness what yeet meant. You almost choked trying to explain it to him.

“Are you texting Joaquín about what I just said?” Bucky demanded one afternoon after you’d ducked into the corner, phone in hand.

You froze, glancing up and trying to look innocent. “...No,” you said, a little too quickly.

“Liar.”

“Fine, yes. But only because he needs to know that you actually said the words ‘thirst trap’ out loud.”

To his credit, Bucky only sighed and muttered something about kids these days being such little punks. You grinned even wider as you hit send. Joaquín’s reply came less than a minute later.

QUINO 🪽: lmao tell him he’s officially 106 going on 200

Meanwhile, Yelena and Ava were nothing short of revelations. Positive female friendships weren’t exactly in rich supply in your line of work. Having two women who just got it, who didn’t flinch at your past and still wanted to gossip about the others during stakeouts, made something inside you settle. Yelena wanted to, but Ava only tolerated it with minimal threats. 

You hadn’t realised how badly you’d needed it until it was right there, easy as breathing.

It wasn’t all sunshine. Training was brutal. Missions were worse. 

You still called Sam once a week, trading updates and making sure he wasn’t mad at you for joining a team that wasn’t his. He wasn’t, of course. Sam Wilson had more patience than saints. But it wasn’t the same as being back at the compound, where you could wander into the kitchen at midnight and find Joaquín raiding the fridge.

Still, there were good days. Great days, even. 

Days when Alexei’s antics made you laugh so hard your sides hurt. Days when Yelena and Ava dragged you into an impromptu game night, complete with verbal fights and everyone ganging up on John. Days when John and Bucky somehow managed to work together without yelling for a whole half hour. 

You started catching yourself smiling at nothing, storing up tiny snapshots of joy like you might run out if you weren’t careful.

And through it all, Joaquín was never far away. Every ridiculous tower moment got texted straight to him. The time Alexei tried to skateboard down the hallway and nearly took out a vase? Recorded, sent. Bucky falling asleep mid-mission briefing? Snapped and shared. 

Even the quiet moments, nights you chatted with Yelena about your past while Bob read a book upside down on the sofa, went to Joaquín. It was your way of keeping him tethered to your day-to-day, even when he wasn’t physically there.

In return, Joaquín sent you snippets of his world. Sweaty post-workout selfies, breathless but grinning as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Attempts at TikTok trends that usually ended with Sam shaking his head in the background, muttering something about kids and their internet dances. 

Joaquín always let you in on the more intimate parts of his life. A wide shot of the desert sunrise when his missions took him out west. A view from the cockpit, clouds stretching endlessly in every direction. His face when he turned the camera back around, softer somehow, like he knew you’d be saving it to watch later.

Sometimes, lying in bed after a long day of convincing Bob he should stop losing sleep over that time he went blonde, you let yourself wonder if you were leaning on Joaquín too much. But then your phone would buzz at one in the morning with a picture of his half-eaten pizza, and all the doubts would dissolve. 

Once, though, you picked up your phone and it wasn’t Joaquín at all. It was Sam.

“So…” Sam’s drawl came down the line, already laced with that particular brand of mischief he reserved for teasing you. “You and my guy Joaquín are still glued at the hip, huh?”

You froze mid-step in the tower hallway, nearly colliding with Bucky, who was carrying five grocery bags in one arm and looked alarmed at your expression.

“I—what—no,” you spluttered, waving Bucky away. “We’re just friends.”

“Uh-huh.” You could practically hear Sam’s eyebrow raise. “Look, I’m not here to pry. I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re okay out there.”

That disarmed you more than the teasing. “I’m… yeah. I’m okay. It’s a lot, but it’s good too.”

Sam hummed like he believed you, but not entirely. “You know you can call me if it ever isn’t good, right?”

Your chest squeezed a little at that. “I know. Thanks, Sam.”

“Good. Now go back to pretending you and Joaquín don’t FaceTime more than most married couples.”

You groaned loudly, especially when Bucky snickered, clearly overhearing.

Another tradition you loved was your TV nights with Joaquín. It started innocently enough: a “Hey, let’s watch something together like we used to,” that turned into a full-blown ritual. Now you and Joaquín were three seasons into his favourite show, a messy blend of soap opera drama and superhero action.

“Okay, okay, listen,” Joaquín’s voice crackled in your ear, bright and animated. “This is where it gets good. You’re not ready for this.”

Your stomach did a strange swoop at the sound of his excitement. You eyed the screen, unimpressed. “I bet you five bucks the dude with the bad haircut betrays them.”

“He’s not— what? No! He’s loyal. He’s literally their rock.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sure enough, three minutes later, Bad Haircut Man pulled out a knife and stabbed his supposed best friend in the back. Literally.

You sipped your tea like a smug cat while Joaquín groaned dramatically. “You ruin everything, you know that? I was so excited for you to see that twist!”

“Twist implies surprise,” you deadpanned. “I saw that coming from a mile away. His hair alone was a red flag.”

“You can’t keep calling him Bad Haircut Man.”

“Would you prefer Traitor Mullet?”

Joaquín made a strangled sound, half-outrage, half-laughter. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you replied knowingly.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched just a little too long. Butterflies stirred in your chest before Joaquín rushed in with, “Okay, fine, maybe a little. But still! You’ve got to stop predicting everything. Just enjoy it.”

“I am enjoying it,” you said, shifting so you could lie back against your pillows. Your phone was set to speaker mode beside you. “I’m enjoying being right about everything, like always.”

He groaned again, but you could hear the smile in it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you keep calling me,” you sang.

“Because I’m a masochist, apparently,” Joaquín said brightly, though he stumbled on the last word like he was trying too hard to keep it light.

That earned him a snort, which only made him laugh harder. It was the kind of laugh that was so bright you could almost see the way his face crinkled up with it. You could picture his warm brown eyes shining, and the curve of his mouth, and the image made your stomach dip again.

For a while, the two of you went back and forth like that, barely watching the show. You’d throw out another prediction to see Joaquín protest, and he’d respond with increasingly desperate defences of the show. 

“You don’t understand, this episode sets up the entire season four arc!” 

“Mm-hm, sure. Whatever you say, Quino.”

“C’mon, cariño,” Joaquín complained. The way he said your nickname this time was softer, though, almost breathless, and you had to clutch your pillow tighter to steady yourself.

Eventually, the TV faded into background noise, both of you too caught up in your own rhythm. It felt like he was right there on your bed beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him if you just leaned a little further into the sound of his voice.

“You’re quiet,” Joaquín said softly after a stretch of companionable silence. He was lying down now, too, you could tell by the muffled sound of his pillow when he shifted.

“Just tired,” you said, though the truth caught in your throat. Tired, yes, but mostly of pretending you didn’t miss Joaquín everyday.

There was a pause, then his voice came through, gentler. “I miss you.”

The words landed like a hand pressed to your sternum, grounding you even as your pulse kicked up. Joaquín always said things like that so easily, like it wasn’t a risk at all. Meanwhile, you had to wrestle your own honesty into submission before it could escape.

“…Yeah,” you finally admitted, words quieter than you meant. “I miss you too.”

Your ceiling blurred into soft shapes as your eyes stung, not with tears, but with the weight that had been building for weeks. On the other end, you pictured Joaquín sprawled across his bed, phone in hand, grinning that too-wide grin.

“You know what I’d do right now if I were there?” he asked suddenly, his voice dipping lower, hesitant.

You paused to consider it, your heart jumping into your throat. “Eat all the snacks I hid from Alexei?”

Joaquín laughed, low and warm. It came out a little breathless, almost shy, and the sound tangled with the butterflies already taking up permanent residence in your stomach.

“No. Well, maybe. But also—” Joaquín hesitated, and the pause stretched long enough to make your pulse race. Then, he barrelled on, “I’d bug you until you agreed to watch the next episode. In person. With popcorn. And you’d make fun of me the whole time, but I wouldn’t even care because you’d be here. Actually here, you know?”

Your lips curved despite yourself. “Sounds annoying.”

“You love it.” He threw your words back at you, smug and playful, but you caught the tiny stumble after love, like he’d almost said too much.

“Maybe a little,” you echoed his earlier response. You rolled onto your side, hugging your pillow like it might stop your heart from thumping straight through your ribs.

“I mean it, though,” Joaquín said, voice stripped of all his usual bravado. “It’s not the same without you here.”

You closed your eyes, wishing you could bottle his voice just as it was in that moment. Hushed, intimate, a little frayed at the edges. You wished you could reach through the line and trace the shape of that smile you knew was lingering.

“Don’t go getting all sentimental on me, Quino,” you managed, trying for lightness even as your chest ached.

“Too late.”

The two words hovered between you, more dangerous than any plot twist on his ridiculous show. You laughed because it was easier than admitting how much his words mattered. Easier than confessing that this—Joaquín’s voice in your ear, the soft cadence of his breath as he got sleepy—felt a lot like falling.

The credits rolled in the background, the show entirely forgotten. The line crackled gently beside you as Joaquín shifted again, probably stretching out like the overgrown golden retriever he was, all long limbs and restless energy.

“You’re gonna keep guessing plot twists next time, aren’t you?” he asked finally.

“Obviously,” you said, overly smug. “Unless the writing suddenly gets less predictable.”

Joaquín groaned. “Why do I put myself through this?”

You grinned. “Because you’d miss me otherwise.”

And though he tried to play it off with a mock-suffering sigh, you could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “Yeah, I would.”

The conference room was supposed to be a place of serious business. Debrief, strategy, updates. Instead, it had become a comedy club where the punchline was you and Bucky.

Everyone was trying, and failing, not to laugh. Shoulders shook. Snorts slipped out. Yelena had her face buried in her hands like she was praying, but her muffled giggles gave her away. John kept letting out little bursts of air through his nose, like an angry bull who couldn’t quite keep it together. Ava had her arms crossed, but her mouth was twitching dangerously at the corners.

And there you were, standing up front with your arms crossed beside Bucky, who looked like a dad dragged to a parent-teacher conference against his will.

“Stop it,” he said finally, gruff and unamused. “This is not funny.”

That did it. The room collapsed. Yelena wheezed, clutching her stomach. Alexei slapped the table. Ava actually let out a laugh, sharp and bright, like she couldn’t contain it anymore. Bob seemed to be holding back best, lips just slightly curved into a smile.

Through her cackles, Yelena managed to get out, “I’m sorry, but it’s hilarious that the tabloids think the two of you are dating!”

That just set everyone off again.

“Oh come on,” Bucky grumbled, glaring at them all.

Ava raised a brow, deadly calm but still clearly amused. “She’s not wrong. You’re literally old enough to be her grandfather.”

“Technically—” John started, but Bucky shot him a withering look that silenced him.

“Even if you go by his biological age,” Ava continued, ignoring him, “you’re still way too old for her. Not impossible, but kind of cradle-robbing.”

You had your arms folded tight. But honestly? Your lips were twitching too. Because you could totally see it.

Valentina had orchestrated the whole thing, of course. She probably thought pairing you and Bucky up in the public eye would soften your reputations or distract from less flattering headlines. So she’d whispered in the right ears, and suddenly three different gossip magazines had sources swearing you’d been together for years.

The articles came complete with a glossy little photo essay. A greatest-hits montage of every vaguely affectionate moment you and Bucky had shared since the Flag Smashers fiasco.

There was one of you walking side by side, shoulders brushing, both of you frowning like you were about to go punch something. The tabloids captioned it as STEELY LOVERS ON A MISSION.

Another was you handing him a sandwich of coffee after a mission. Innocent enough, except the angle made it look like you were gazing at him all adoringly while he took it. LUNCH DATE WITH NEW AVENGERS COUPLE, one magazine cooed, like you were influencers instead of international fugitives-turned-sort-of-heroes.

And then there was the pièce de résistance. The one that had everyone in stitches right now.

A few weeks ago, you and Bucky had ducked into a little coffee shop in disguise. Baseball caps pulled low, heads bent together, doing your best not to draw attention. Somehow, a photographer still caught the exact moment Bucky said something so grouchy that you’d lost it. 

He’d tipped his head back, laughing so hard it looked like joy had cracked him wide open. And you? You were doubled over, one hand braced against his chest, eyes squeezed shut as you giggled.

It was completely platonic. Just a rare, stupidly normal moment between the two of you. But freeze it in time, slap on a raunchy headline, and boom—suddenly you were the New Avengers’ It Couple.

Was it mortifying? Absolutely. Did you understand why the public ate it up? Unfortunately, yes.

“I mean,” Yelena wheezed, wiping her eyes, “you two do look cosy. Look at this one.” She held up her phone, flashing another coffee shop picture across the table like she was presenting evidence in court.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

You felt your own cheeks warm, though whether from second-hand embarrassment or the fact that the photo really was ridiculously convincing, you didn’t want to think about it too hard.

“It’s not like that,” you tried to say, but your voice came out too defensive, which only made everyone snicker harder.

Alexei tilted his head, shrugging. “We know this, but the public does not.”

This was what Valentina wanted. She wanted people to buy the story because a little romantic intrigue always sold better than the complicated reality that Sam was insistent the Avengers title didn’t belong to you.

You sighed, slumping in a chair at last. “I hate my life.”

“Tell that to your boyfriend,” Yelena teased, making kissy faces at Bucky.

Bucky groaned audibly this time, and the team dissolved into another round of helpless laughter.

Later that night, your phone buzzed just as Bob declared John’s collard greens were “life-changing” for the third time. John, who was on cooking duty and surprisingly knew what he was doing, was too busy shooing him away from the cornbread batter to notice your quick escape.

You slipped out of the kitchen, phone pressed to your ear before it could ring again. “Hi, Joaquín,” you said, leaning against the wall in the hallway.

“You didn’t tell me you were dating a centenarian,” he said without preamble. His voice was bright, teasing, but you could practically hear the grin through the line.

You groaned, rubbing your forehead with your free hand. “Not you too.”

“Am I supposed to act surprised? The whole internet thinks you’ve been sneaking around with Bucky.” You could hear the faux pout on his face when he said, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“Do you want me to hang up right now?” you threatened. “Because I will. Don’t test me, pretty boy.”

Joaquín laughed, high and delighted, like he lived for winding you up. There was something about knowing he could pull a smile from you, even miles away, that made him feel closer to you. “Relax, cariño. He does have that rugged, silver fox thing going on.”

You sighed, dragging the sound out dramatically. “Joaquín.”

“What? It’s a compliment. If I had half that man’s jawline when I’m pushing a hundred, I’d be thrilled.”

Despite yourself, your lips twitched. “Technically he’s not a hundred. He was cryogenically frozen, remember?”

“Feels like it,” Joaquín teased. “Anyway, I’m proud of you. Bagging a war hero? Iconic.”

You let out an exasperated laugh, sliding your back down the wall to sit down. “You’re the worst.”

“And you love me for it,” he declared.

That was the problem. Joaquín said it so casually, like it was just another joke tossed between friends. But your chest tightened all the same.

The laughter faded. Joaquín’s voice lowered, gentler now. “Look, it doesn’t matter what people think. Anyone who actually knows you knows the truth. He’s basically your weird adopted uncle.”

Relief loosened your shoulders. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

“Always,” he promised. 

But there was a pause. Joaquín hadn’t meant for the joke to stick in his throat, but it did. Because sure, he knew the rumours were ridiculous. He knew Bucku was family to you, nothing more. 

And yet when the tabloids plastered those photos everywhere, Joaquín couldn’t stop looking. He couldn’t stop picturing a world where they were true, except he was in the coffee shop with you, not Bucky. Joaquín laughing with his head tipped back, your hand pressed against his chest, the whole world catching on camera what he’d wanted for months: that you were his.

Instead, they thought you belonged to someone else.

He’d carried his phone from room to room that day, scrolling past those pictures even though he swore he wouldn’t. Each time his stomach twisted the same way, each time his chest burned with the same ache. He wanted to hack the internet just so he didn’t have to see you leaning toward someone else, even if he knew it wasn’t real.

Joaquín tried to shake it off because that wasn’t fair. You didn’t belong to anyone. But the image dug into him all the same. He hated that it made him jealous. Hated that the distance between you made it worse. 

He hated that he couldn’t reach out and be there. That he couldn’t press his palm to the back of your hand where it curled around the phone, couldn’t feel you laugh against his shoulder instead of hearing it through tinny speaker static.

All Joaquín could do was call, tease, and make you laugh until you sighed and softened. But at the end of the day, you were still hundreds of miles away, and the world was still convinced you were in love with someone else.

“I really do miss you,” you admitted quietly. The words slipped out before you could second-guess them.

On the other end, Joaquín’s breath caught, just for a moment. God, how he wanted to tell you he missed you so much it hollowed him out. That on some nights, he stayed awake replaying every single conversation, every shared joke, every spark of your voice in his memory, because it was the only thing that made the silence bearable.

Then he rallied, light again. “Miss me? Please. You’re probably just jealous no one here makes tamales like I do.”

You laughed, a soft, warm sound. “You don’t even cook.”

“I’d learn. For you, I’d learn.” The words hung there, playful but weighted. You knew Joaquín meant them. 

And on his end, lying back against a hotel pillow in a city that wasn’t home, Joaquín shut his eyes and let himself imagine it. A kitchen, your laugh at his side, a life where you were his. He wanted it so badly he could taste it, and the wanting was its own kind of torture.

He listened to you breathe. He should’ve said goodbye, but every second he didn’t hang up was another second where he could pretend you were close.

“Still there?” you asked, a little tentative.

“Yeah,” Joaquín said. “I just don’t want to hang up yet.”

Your chest pulled tight, something tender and dangerous blooming there. You should’ve teased Joaquín, but you didn’t. You just let it sit between you, honest and unassuming.

Footsteps interrupted the moment. You looked up to see Bucky leaning against the doorway. “Dinner’s ready,” he said, his voice gruff but softer than it usually was when it was just the two of you.

On the line, Joaquín went silent. He’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“Quino?” you prompted gently.

He cleared his throat, covering the hitch with a laugh. “Tell your boyfriend I said hi,” he teased, light and sing-song. Playful enough to pass as a joke. But underneath, you heard the thin crack in it.

You rolled your eyes, though your smile tugged wide. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Joaquín said, but softer this time, like the word was wearing something heavier than humour. “Talk soon, cariño.”

And before you could answer, the line clicked as he hung up.

You were perfectly content that afternoon. Curled up on the sofa with Bob pressed up beside you, his latest book splayed open in his lap. He gasped every few pages as though he hadn’t spoiled half the plot for himself earlier by reading reviews. 

You were scrolling aimlessly through your phone, not really absorbing anything, until the familiar script of Joaquín’s name lit up your screen. Your lips curved before you even tapped the notification.

The photo loaded, and you bit the inside of your cheek. Joaquín. Shirtless, sweaty, muscles catching the light. But instead of sultry intensity, he was grinning like an idiot, hair mussed from a workout, a dimple cutting into one cheek.

QUINO 🪽: bet I can still do more push-ups than sam. place your bets, cariño.

You laughed a little. Only Joaquín Torres could make a post-workout selfie funny and platonic. Except apparently you were wrong about that.

“What is this?” Yelena’s voice landed over your shoulder, dry as ever. She’d just come back from Oregon with John in tow, dirt coating her boots. “Why is Falcon sending you thirst traps?”

Your phone nearly flew out of your hand. “It’s not a thirst trap!”

Bucky, from his armchair across the room, gave a long-suffering sigh and stood. “Nope. Not doing this. I hear that phrase one more time, I’m gone.” True to his word, he disappeared down the hall muttering something about needing quiet.

“Yelena,” you began, but it was too late. 

She was already plucking the phone from your grip with ninja reflexes. “Ohhh,” she drawled, scrolling with deliberate slowness. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

John leaned over. “Lemme see.”

You lunged, but he was faster, bracing one big hand on Yelena’s shoulder as they both peered at your screen like it was evidence in a criminal case.

“Oh my god,” John said, half laughing, half stunned. “He’s obsessed with you. Look at this one! Morning stubble, pillow hair, abs in the background. That’s not friendly, that’s a man playing dirty.”

Heat crept up your neck, pooling in your ears. “No, he’s just— he always looks like that,” you defended your best friend. “He’s… naturally photogenic?”

Yelena snorted. “Photogenic? He’s flexing.” She tapped the screen, enlarging one of the photos. “See? Bicep angle. Classic.”

You flailed. “He’s literally just holding his phone!”

John wagged a finger like a teacher making a point. “Nah. Guys don’t send selfies like this unless they’re flirting. Trust me.”

The words hit harder than you wanted to admit. Joaquín, flirting? With you? Your stomach swooped, butterflies you thought you’d outgrown years ago suddenly alive and thrashing. You tried to smother but your pulse betrayed you, drumming in your throat as image after image passed under Yelena’s ruthless examination.

You caught glimpses of them too. Joaquín, half-asleep. Joaquín pulling a face mid-training session, sweat-dark curls sticking to his forehead. He looked like he was on the cover of Men’s Health in every single picture.

Your mouth went dry. What if they were right?

Bob, who’d been suspiciously quiet, leaned over the sofa. His eyes went wide. “Oh yeah,” he declared without hesitation. “That’s a slutty Florida man who wants you bad.”

The room froze. You, Yelena, and John turned to gape at him.

Bob blinked, then flushed scarlet. “What? He does! Don’t act like I’m wrong.”

You burst out laughing, loud and incredulous, mostly to cover the way your heart had launched itself into your throat. Yelena cackled, clapping Bob on the shoulder while John doubled over, wheezing.

That night, sleep refused to cooperate. You were on your back in the dark. The ceiling was an indistinct blur above you, Joaquín’s selfies branded behind your eyelids like they’d been carved there.

Your teammates’ voices haunted you—especially sweet, unfiltered Bob’s.

You pressed your hands over your eyes, groaning into the darkness. What if they were right? What if those messy, unposed, grinning photos weren’t just Joaquín being Joaquín? What if you’d been too wrapped up in your own denial to notice that he’d been saying it all along without words?

Your stomach dropped just thinking about it, the kind of swoop that made you feel reckless and restless and half-sick with longing. Attraction, plain and simple, except you didn’t have the vocabulary to name it.

So when your phone buzzed across the nightstand, screen lighting up with his name, you didn’t even hesitate. “Quino,” you whispered, answering the phone.

“Cariño,” he answered, warm and teasing, mimicking your tone. “What? You weren’t asleep already, were you?”

“Obviously not. You know I never sleep before two.” You turned on your side and tucked your arm under your pillow. “What’s your excuse?”

“I was thinking about that mission briefing Sam gave earlier,” Joaquín said. “And then I started thinking about you, and— well, here we are.”

Your breath caught. Joaquín said it so casually, but now every word landed like a spark. After what Yelena and John had said, you couldn’t hear it any other way.

The conversation moved forward at its usual pace. Joaquín’s rundown of training drills, your sarcastic commentary about tower drama, but it all felt tilted. Each of his laughs sounded softer, more deliberate. 

When Joaquín told you about racing Sam up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and losing spectacularly, you pictured the sweat on his chest from that selfie, the sun catching the edge of his grin. When he groaned about a bruised shoulder, you thought about how his biceps had looked, corded and flexed, and wondered how they’d feel if you traced the curve of muscle with your hand.

It was stupid. You knew it was stupid. And yet your chest ached with how much you wanted to believe it wasn’t.

“Are you smiling right now?” Joaquín asked suddenly, his voice suspicious and boyish.

You swallowed hard. “Maybe.”

“Good. I like when you smile.”

Your heart skittered. Joaquín had said things like that before, but never had they felt so heavy. Confirmation bias, you told yourself. Except your body didn’t care about logic. Your body was all butterflies and fire.

The two of you drifted into a softer silence. Joaquín must have been lying down too, because his voice was lower now, the edges fuzzy with sleep.

“You know,” he murmured, “DC isn’t really all that far from New York.”

Your eyes opened, darting toward the ceiling like it could anchor you. “You’re kidding.”

“No, seriously. An hour and a half by plane, less than a half hour by Falcon-wings. If I had a free weekend…” Joaquín trailed off, hopeful in a way that made your chest squeeze.

You pressed the heel of your hand over your heart, like that could steady the gallop. “Valentina would kill me,” you whispered. “Especially now that Bucky and I squashed the dating rumours without permission.”

“I’d take the risk,” Joaquín said easily, without hesitation. “I’m pretty sure I can take her.”

You closed your eyes. “Don’t tempt me. Because I really, really want to see you.”

For a beat, neither of you spoke. Then Joaquín let out a soft laugh, breathless, almost shy. “Careful, cariño,” he said. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And lying there, phone warm against your ear, you almost wished he would.

Some days just conspired against you. Today was one of them.

It started in the morning when Bob, in a burst of affectionate enthusiasm, high-fived you so hard you nearly somersaulted backwards. He looked horrified, apologising six times, but the bruise blooming on your arm didn’t care. You knew he was still getting used to his super-strength, and you weren’t badly hurt, so you didn’t hold it against him.

Then Alexei ate the last of your cereal. He didn’t even seem sorry about it. He just shrugged and said, “It is better fuel for Red Guardian,” as if that excused everything.

The tiny miseries stacked higher as the hours went on. You stubbed your toe on the sofa. Your phone slipped out of your hand and smacked you square in the face when you tried to read lying down. Yelena left a damp towel on your bed after using your shower since you had nicer-smelling shampoo. Even the vending machine betrayed you, spitting out a packet of chips that was so broken up it was basically dust.

By the time night rolled around, you were exhausted in a way that wasn’t physical. Just wrung out, fed up, convinced the universe was laughing at you. You sat hunched on your bed, scrolling through your phone with the distinct energy of someone hoping to be distracted. 

QUINO 🪽: miss you today. there’s a package waiting for you in the quinjet hangar

You blinked at the words, frowning. A package? This late? And why had he written it like some secret spy dead drop? For a moment, you just stared at the message, heart ticking faster without permission.

Curiosity trumped exhaustion. With a sigh, you shoved your feet into slippers and pulled the sleeves of your sweater down over your wrists. The tower was quiet at this hour, the usual noise hushed down to a low hum as everyone relaxed in their rooms.

When you reached the far end of the bar area, you paused, drawn to the wall of glass overlooking the city. New York at night never failed to take your breath away. The whole city pulsed with restless life, and from up here, you could almost believe you were just an observer floating above them.

When you stepped out onto the hangar, the air was sharp and cool against your skin. But you hardly felt it, because there—standing with his wings tucked close, helmet off, green Falcon suit catching the floodlights—was Joaquín.

His head lifted the second you appeared, and his smile lit up brighter than the skyline behind him. Open, radiant, all warmth. Your heart squeezed so tightly you thought it might burst.

You didn’t think. You didn’t worry about who might be watching or what rules you were breaking. You just ran.

By the time you reached him, you were already laughing, already breathless. You launched yourself forward, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, arms locked behind his neck. His hands caught you without hesitation, steady and sure, like he’d been waiting his whole life for you to throw yourself at him.

“You’re here,” you breathed, words muffled into his shoulder. You didn’t even care that your voice shook. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Joaquín answered, laughing a little, but his arms tightened around you like he wasn’t planning on letting go. “God, I missed you, cariño.”

The admission hit you like a wave. You pressed your face closer, eyes stinging, and whispered back, “I missed you too, Quino.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You just held on, greedily soaking up Joaquín’s warmth, the faint smell of soap and jet fuel clinging to him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his chestplate. Months of phone calls, teasing texts and pixelated video chats melted away. 

Joaquín was here, actually here.

When you finally leaned back, you found his face only inches from yours. His eyes were wide, dark and searching, and you could see every ounce of what he felt written plain across them.

Neither of you spoke, but the tension thrummed between you like it had its own heartbeat. For months, you’d skirted the edge of this moment. Too careful, too uncertain, too far apart. But now, with Joaquín’s hands still firm at your waist and your fingers still curled into his hair, there was no more pretending.

You both leaned in at the same time. The kiss was everything and nothing all at once. Not dramatic, not cinematic, just inevitable. Joaquín’s lips were soft, insistent but devoted, like he’d thought about this a thousand times and still couldn’t quite believe it was real. You sighed into him, the sound swallowed up as he kissed you deeper.

“Took us long enough,” he murmured when you broke apart. Joaquín kept his forehead pressed against yours, breath shaky, grin unstoppable.

You laughed, nudging your nose against his. “Tell me about it.”

You reluctantly unwrapped your legs from around his waist, pressing a few delicate kisses to the corners of Joaquín’s mouth as if trying to memorise every curve. 

He shivered slightly in the night air, but didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands found your hips again, steadying you, and he bent his head, burying his nose just beneath your ear. You felt his warm breath brush against your skin, and then a quick peck at the hollow of your neck made a soft sigh escape you.

You pulled back enough to look at Joaquín, brushing your fingertips lightly over the curve of his jaw, the stubble rough against your skin. His eyes flickered to yours, wide and bright, and for a heartbeat, all you could do was stare. 

It was the kind of look that made you forget words entirely. You swallowed, heart thudding, and led Joaquín towards the Watchtower’s interior. The wind cut through the open hangar, tangling your hair and biting at exposed skin, and even through your sweater, you could feel the chills.

“Come on,” you murmured, tugging him gently along. “It’s freezing.”

Joaquín let himself be led, gawking as you walked through the communal bar and kitchen area. His eyes were wide, taking in the lights, the clutter of mugs and plates, the cosy chaos that was life here. 

“Wow,” he breathed, “this place is… It’s like a spaceship apartment or something. I love it.”

You grinned, feeling that familiar swell of affection that always accompanied his awe. “Yeah. It’s still homey, somehow.” 

You guided him down a couple of hallways, past the living room, and finally to your door. Inside, the air was warmer, the light softer. 

Joaquín paused at the threshold, taking it all in. Shelves lined the walls, filled with novels, a small stack of notebooks splayed on your desk, and a few mementoes from missions and friends. It was you, exactly you, and it hit him visibly.

He stepped forward, eyes scanning your room until they landed on a framed photo. He picked it up gently, cradling it as if it were fragile. It was the two of you from almost a year ago. You’d taken him to one of his rehab sessions and stayed the entire time to offer him some support. The two of you were laughing in a rare, unguarded moment.

“I have this exact picture in my room,” Joaquín said softly, reverently. “It’s… it’s always there, you know? Every time I look at it, I feel like you’re right there with me.”

Your chest warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the heater. 

He turned the photo in his hands, gaze lingering on your face before he met your eyes. “I like having a piece of you near me,” Joaquín murmured. “Even when I can’t actually be with you.”

Something fluttered low in your stomach, deep and insistent. You could feel your pulse in your throat, remembering the soft rise and fall of his chest against yours, the warmth of his body pressing against yours. 

Joaquín stepped closer, just enough to close the distance. “I couldn’t wait to see you,” he said quietly. “I’ve been feeling so homesick, and I just had to see your face.”

You swallowed, nodding, letting yourself lean into him. Your forehead rested against his shoulder, and you could feel every small inhale, every micro-movement of his adjusting just to be closer. You pressed a quick, delicate kiss to his jawline, then his temple, and Joaquín hummed softly. 

You both sank onto the edge of your bed. Joaquín’s grin was wide enough to make your heart ache. 

“I still can’t believe you kissed me back,” he whispered, voice a mix of awe and disbelief. “I mean, you want me the way I want you?”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched into a smile. “You’re dramatic,” you teased softly, brushing a curl from Joaquín’s forehead. “Of course I feel the same way.”

He let out a breathy giggle, head tipping back slightly. It made your chest feel like it could explode. “Wow,” he murmured, voice low, “so I’m not imagining it? You actually, really want me?”

“Maybe,” you said, letting the word dangle teasingly in the air. “Depends on the night. And the lighting.”

Joaquín leaned closer, nudging his forehead against yours. “I’ll take what I can get.” His thumb brushed across your cheek, light and deliberate. “Because I’ve wanted this for months. You don’t even know.”

You swallowed, heart thudding. The truth was, you did know. Or at least, you had known in fragments, tiny flashes of realisation that kept you awake on nights like this one. 

“I’ve wanted it too,” you admitted quietly, voice almost lost in the hush of the room. “Probably for just as long.”

Joaquín’s lips curved into a soft, contented smile, and he leaned in to press a quick kiss to your temple. “You’re a little terrifying,” he said, breath warm against your skin. “Independent, mysterious, and somehow perfect at winding me up and making me feel like I could fly.”

“I’m aware,” you murmured, letting a laugh slip out, low and soft. “You’re not exactly subtle either.”

He leaned back just slightly to look at you, eyes sparkling. “Subtle is boring. You, on the other hand, keep me guessing. It’s amazing.”

“So, do we… admit how badly we both want this?” you asked softly, teasing but earnest.

Joaquín chuckled, a warm, low sound that vibrated through you. “Maybe we should whisper it. Make it official. Even if the whole world can’t know just yet, I’ve been craving you.”

You let the words settle between you and whispered back, “Me too. Badly.”

He nudged your shoulder playfully. “So, now that we’ve officially confessed, does this mean I get to make you watch my TV shows forever?”

You smirked. “You can certainly try. But fair warning, I’ll be spoiling all the predictable plot twists.”

Joaquín leaned in closer. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His grin widened into a smirk. Joaquín leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. Your body reacted before your brain could even register it, arching instinctively into him as he hovered over you, fingers threading through the silky softness of his dark curls.

His hands braced himself on either side of you, sinking into your bed and positioning his knees between your parted legs. Your hands roamed over his shoulders, memorising the feel of him, the slight tension in his muscles from months of holding back the want you both now released.

Joaquín groaned softly, lips brushing against yours again and again, each one leaving fire in its wake. Your heart hammered in your chest, heat pooling low in your stomach as his tongue traced along your lower lip. The push and pull of it all felt at once new and achingly familiar.

Your hands drifted to his back, pressing him down against you. Joaquín’s careful weight was comforting, possessive, and thrilling. Your arms slid up and around his shoulders as your hips shifted, seeking more contact, more of the electric friction that had been building since the moment he’d arrived.

You broke the kiss only to gasp, shivering from the mix of cold air and heat radiating between you. Joaquín’s eyes were dark, glimmering with the same need that made your chest ache. He arched into you as you dragged your mouth across his face and to his neck, leaving gentle, needy kisses, nipping softly in a way that made his knees weaken.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Joaquín murmured, breath ragged. He tilted his head to give him more access. “You have no idea.” 

“I think I do,” you replied, grinning as you kissed along his jaw. Your fingers dug into the hard shell of his Falcon suit, tugging him closer as if you could somehow bridge all the months of distance in that single motion.

Joaquín groaned, a low, rough sound that sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands slid from the bed to the small of your back, pressing you into him with an urgency that made your knees shake. You tilted your head back, letting him take the lead, lips and tongue moving against yours.

Every kiss, every press of lips, every soft brush of teeth carried the electric thrill of new territory. You could feel the rapid thrum of Joaquín’s heartbeat against your own, matching your own frantic pulse, and it made your stomach flutter. You tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands wandered over your back, brushing against your sides. 

The taste of him, the faint tang of sweat from the day, only sharpened the sensation, making every inhale, every sigh, send sparks through your body.

Joaquín tilted his head, lips dragging down your jaw. You whispered his name, and he caught it in his mouth, murmuring yours back with a breathy groan. You tested boundaries you hadn’t dared before. Joaquín nipped your neck, and you responded in kind, teeth and lips and whispered moans overlapping in a rhythm all your own. It was messy and perfect.

“Cariño,” he groaned into your neck, voice rough. “I— fuck, I can’t believe this is happening”

“You better believe it,” you breathed back, pressing your lips against his shoulder, tracing the slope of his neck, memorising him again in every way you could.

The sound of the door swinging open didn’t give you time to react. “Hey, do you know why the security system keeps flagging something in the hangar—” Bucky froze at the sight of Joaquín on top of you, still wearing his Falcon suit.

The three of you stared at each other, eyes wide. After a moment, the surprise on Bucky’s face melted into something amused. He stood there, arms crossed, the sheer deadpan of his expression making your stomach flip between mortification and humour.

“I’m too old for this shit,” Bucky said flatly, voice cutting through the haze of heat and adrenaline like a guillotine. He blinked, clearly weighing his life choices.

John’s voice rang out from the hallway. “What’s going—” He gasped in a scandalised tone, opening your bedroom door wider and taking in the image before him. You were below Joaquín, your arms still tangled in his hair, while he had red marks littering his neck and jawline from your efforts.

Ava barreled past John, phone already raised. “Wait! Hold up!” She snapped a picture without a second thought, capturing Joaquín perched on top of you, grin wide, completely unfazed.

Bob shuffled in next. “Finally,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. You shot him an offended look that said you’re just as bad as the others, and he gave a little shrug.

Yelena followed, arms crossed, deadpan as ever. She looked at Joaquín and tilted her head, eyes scanning him like he was a puzzle she’d just solved. “Golden retriever,” she declared, nodding once. “Of course.” Her dry amusement made Joaquín grin sheepishly, and you groaned, covering your face with your hand.

Joaquín, however, didn’t flinch. Lips still swollen, jaw marked with your tender kisses, he stood up and waved at your team. “Hi! I’m Joaquín. Pleasure to finally meet you properly,” he greeted cheerfully, voice bright and undeterred. “I guess you already… uh… know of me?”

Bucky put his face in his palm. He gave a single, exasperated groan from the doorway. “I need a drink,” he muttered.

You sank further into the bed, using your blanket to cover your face as the rest of the team filed out, giggling. Joaquín leaned down slightly. 

“Don’t mind them,” he murmured, pulling the blanket from your head and brushing his lips against yours. “They’ll get used to me eventually.”

“I don’t know if ‘get used to’ is the right phrase,” you whispered back. You peeked up at Joaquín, who was still grinning like a fool. “Well, I guess the secret’s out.”

He leaned in, voice low and teasing. “Just the way I like it.”

[of-apollo]

₊⊹ ONLY YOU, ONLY YOU !

PAIRING: Joaquin Torres x GN!Reader, PB&JJ x Platonic!GN!Reader.

SUMMARY: You and Joaquin have spent a long time dancing around your feelings for each other. It doesn’t help that he might just be the most oblivious man alive. Luckily, your friends are relentless in their efforts to get you together.

WARNINGS: Fluff, mutual pining, obliviousness, typical match-making chaos, slight jealousy, friends to lovers.

REQUESTED BY: @clonesdserveb3tter.

NAVIGATION | MCU MASTERLIST | KO-FI

There’s something ridiculous about being in love with your best friend. Not the movie kind of love. Not something swept up in violins or passionate speeches. Yours is the kind that’s quiet, slow-burning. Domestic. It sits somewhere behind your ribs and waits. It’s steady. Frustrating. Real.

Joaquin never notices.

He touches you constantly, hand to your lower back when you move past him, shoulder pressed against yours on the sofa, fingers tapping your knee absentmindedly while watching terrible late-night television. He does it like it means nothing, like it’s muscle memory, like it doesn’t kill you every single time.

The others notice.

Peter, who’s maybe too emotionally intelligent for his own good. Bob, who tries so hard to pretend he’s not a romantic when everyone knows he absolutely is. Johnny, who has never once in his life known how to mind his own business.

You love them all. Deeply. Stupidly. Even when they’re being absolute fools about it.

It starts one evening when you’re all curled up in the living room, feet tucked under legs, everyone half-watching some sci-fi film Peter insists is ‘underrated’. Joaquin is beside you, of course, legs tangled with yours, arm slung across the back of the sofa, fingers occasionally brushing your neck. Casual. Torturous.

At one point, you reach for the popcorn, and he shifts automatically, lifting the bowl for you like it’s second nature. Your fingers brush. You look up at the same time.

He smiles. You smile back, heart screaming.

Across the room, Peter makes a noise. Something soft, strangled.

Johnny leans across him with a whisper that’s about as subtle as a sledgehammer. “I’m this close to locking them in a closet.”

Peter groans. “No.”

“It’s the only way. They’re both so oblivious, man,” Johnny says.

Bob, half-asleep on the armchair, mutters, “Please let me sleep through your crimes.”

They don’t. The next morning, things start to get suspicious.

First comes Peter’s idea. He approaches you in the kitchen, holding a mug of tea like it’s a peace offering.

“You know,” he starts, too casually, “Joaquin was saying the other day that he’s never been to that gallery you like.”

You pause, spoon hovering over your cereal. “Okay?”

Peter leans on the counter. “I just think it’s weird. I mean, you two like the same stuff. You should go. Together. Like a, um,” he stops himself, thinking. “Friendly outing.”

You narrow your eyes. “A date?”

“No,” he lies. “Obviously not. Unless you want it to be.”

“I don’t.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

Peter hums, unconvinced. He walks out sipping his tea, suspiciously smug.

Next is Johnny’s turn. He ropes you into helping him ‘reorganise’ the hallway storage cupboard, which is weird because Johnny has never organised a single thing in his life. He waits until you’re wedged between a Hoover and a box labelled ‘Peter’s scientific failures’, before he says, “So, you and Joaquin.”

You freeze. “What about us?”

Johnny shrugs, pulling out a bag of mismatched socks. “Just saying. You’d make a hot couple.”

You snort. “That’s your angle?”

“I’ve got others.”

“Please don’t.”

He smirks. “Come on. He looks at you like you hung the moon.”

You try to sound unaffected. “He’s like that with everyone.”

“No,” Johnny says. “He’s not.”

Then, there’s Bob. Bob doesn’t say anything for days. He just watches. Quiet. Observant. A little too perceptive for someone who’s meant to be the chill one.

Then one afternoon, you walk into the kitchen to find him baking. This isn’t strange, Bob stress-bakes like most people breathe, but the cookies are heart-shaped.

You raise an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

Bob shrugs. “Felt romantic.”

You grab one. “What are you even stressed about?”

He levels you with a look. “You.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You and Joaquin. The emotional tension is unbearable.”

“He’s just my best friend.”

“You’re in love with him.”

You stare at the cookie in your hand like it betrayed you.

Bob sighs. “Just ask him out.”

You shove the heart-shaped cookie in your mouth. Cowardice never tasted so sweet.

To their credit, the three of them try not to be pushy. Their version of not being pushy includes sabotaging seating arrangements, getting ‘called away’ during partner tasks so you’re paired with Joaquin, and casually mentioning your taste in music right before Joaquin offers to share his headphones on long drives.

You know what they’re doing. The worst part is that Joaquin doesn’t. He just smiles, oblivious. Offers you his jacket when you’re cold. Rests his chin on your shoulder when you’re on your phone. Makes you playlists titled things like if we danced at 2am.

Every interaction feels like a secret love letter he doesn’t realise he’s writing. You’re going to combust.

It all comes to a head one rainy afternoon in September.

You’re sprawled on the floor with Joaquin, building the world’s worst IKEA shelf. He’s got one knee on the instructions, and you’re trying not to laugh as he swears under his breath while holding three different screws that definitely don’t match.

Across the room, Peter, Johnny, and Bob watch with the quiet intensity of matchmaking vultures.

Joaquin leans over to grab a screwdriver. His shoulder brushes yours. He doesn’t move away. You feel your heart trip.

He looks up. “You okay?”

You nod.

He studies your face, expression softening. “You look tired.”

“Didn’t sleep much.”

His hand reaches up, thumb brushing gently under your eye. “You should rest more.”

You freeze.

Across the room, Johnny mouths something wild. Peter slaps a hand over his mouth. Bob whispers, “For the love of God, do something.”

You open your mouth.

Then Joaquin says, “You’re my favourite person, you know?”

You swear the world goes quiet.

Your chest tightens. “You don’t mean that.”

He frowns. “Of course I do.”

“I mean, like, you say that kind of thing to everyone.”

He tilts his head. “I don’t.”

Your mouth goes dry. Joaquin still looking at you like you hung the moon. You look away. He doesn’t push. He never does.

Later, you’re in the kitchen again, hands wrapped around a mug of hot chocolate that you’re not drinking.

Peter walks in. Stops when he sees you.

“Did he say something?” he asks, carefully.

You shake your head.

“Then what happened?”

“I panicked.”

Peter sighs. “He’s not going to stop waiting for you. But you’ve got to stop pretending you don’t want it.”

You whisper, “What if he doesn’t mean it like that?”

Peter smiles, gentle. “He does.”

The next day, Joaquin finds you on the roof.

You don’t hear him approach. His voice is quiet when he says, “Hey.”

You don’t turn around.

He sits beside you, knees brushing. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

You shrug. “I’m not.”

“You are. I didn’t mean to make things weird,” Joaquin says.

“They’re not weird,” you lie.

He lets out a breath. “Then why won’t you look at me?”

You do. He’s close. Too close. His voice softens. “You know I meant it, right? About you being my favourite person.”

You nod, slow.

“I think I’ve been in love with you since the first time you stole my hoodie.”

You blink. “You knew I stole it?”

He laughs. “I literally watched you take it.”

Your heart thuds in your chest.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says. “I just needed you to know.”

You stare at him. Then you kiss him. It’s soft. Quiet. Like every moment that led to it. Like coming home.

Downstairs, Peter wins the bet. Johnny swears loudly. Bob pretends he didn’t cry. You and Joaquin walk in holding hands. No one says anything. You’re smiling too hard to care.

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[rafessweetgirl]

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ i've been missing you ~ joaquín torres

➷ featuring: joaquín torres!!

➷ synopsis: joaquín's finally come home from what felt like the longest week of your lives. he needs to show you how much he's sorry for being gone for so long. how much he appreciates you. how much he loves you. even if it means waking you up in the middle of the night.

➷ warnings: 18+, mdni!!!!, smut, oral sex (f! receiving), fingering, porn w/ plot???, swearing, fluff, soft sweet cutesy joaquín, semi-somno (leaving this here just incase), reader acts like joaquín hung the stars and the moon for her...he would've if he wasn't beat to it by like thousands of years.

➷ word count: 1.2k

➷ notes: new character unlocked!! lots of firsts here; first joaquin fic, first marvel fic (odd considering i fuckin love marvel), first time writing a full smut fic, first fic that's not based on a song whattttt?? i wasnt sure if i should go full on somno, but that's alr bc we love consent. i love joaquín and this is what i imagine he would act like when he feels guilty. enjoy!! <3 (gif by @monikanarnia)

you look so pretty like this. smooth, soft skin, covered only by the soft linen sheets in which your legs are tangled. your sleeping form, barely visible in the dark room. you’re lying on your back, your hands resting on the mattress near both sides of your head. it’s a scene joaquín wants a picture of. if only he could freeze time, step out of his body and capture not just an image, but a feeling too.

joaquín's restless. he’d spent all week without you. he still wonders how he withstood such a long period away and if you felt the same. after the first day, he felt like he was experiencing withdrawal, everyday without you his own personal hell. you’re his drug. he could just never have enough of you. really, he could never have too much.

his back is also to the bed, chest to the ceiling. his head is turned towards you, eyes roaming your relaxed form. the room is dark, illuminated only by the moon. it’s mostly silent. he’s hyper aware of the subtle sounds, though. the clashing of waves outside. the creaking of the open balcony doors, opening a bit more with the breeze. his breathing. your breathing. even something as simple as your soft slow breaths entrances joaquín.

you were sleep when he arrived home, but it was evident that you tried to stay up. the living room was set up for a movie night with snacks set on the coffee table, fluffy throw blankets lying on the couch, and the tv already set to the movie you’d picked out for the two of you. always so sweet and considerate, joaquín thought. he felt bad about keeping you waiting for so long. you’d awaken only long enough to realize he was home, greeting him lazily before falling back into your slumber.

he turns his body to face yours. you deserve some kind of loving from him. a gift for being his gift. it's the least he could do.

he sits up and moves himself, landing in between your thighs. he reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through your limp ones. he doesn’t want to take advantage of you. he just wants to make you feel good. reward you for being so sweet to him. apologize for being away for so long.

“baby?” he tests. “you awake?”

your eyes flutter open. “mmm.”

he lets out a quiet chuckle. “i don’t know what ‘mmm’ means sweetheart.”

“im awake,” you reply groggily.

"good," he brings his face close to your mound. “can i make you feel good?”

you nod tiredly. how could you say no to him? he was irresistible. even when the two of you fought, you couldn't harbor any negative feelings towards him for long.

he shifts upward, gently pressing his lips to your stomach, not quite kissing you. he moves back down, and puckers his lips, delivering sweet kisses to your clit. “is this okay?”

you squeeze his hand as you nod. “mhm.”

“uh uh, needa hear you say yes.”

“yes baby,” you whine.

joaquín groans, the nickname making the blood rush to his dick. he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your cunt, letting his tongue graze over your core. he darts his tongue out and licks a long stripe upwards. you moan and squeeze his hand again. he decides to repeat the action, this time putting more pressure on. he knows how to work your body. knows when to suck and when to lick. when to speed up and when to take it slow.

“i’m so sorry, baby,” he mumbles against you.

“sorry for what?” you question breathlessly.

“for keeping you waiting-“ another kiss. “for taking so long to come home.” his tongue dives in between your folds, as if he’s searching for something. maybe, it’s forgiveness. “you don’t know how much i missed you.”

his other hand finds its way to your thigh. he rubs his thumb back and forth over it. he wants to do anything he can to show you how much he appreciates you.

“joaquín,” you moan, as he brings two fingers to rub your clit. you let your eyes flutter shut, reveling in his softness. “it’s okay, you don’t- fuck.” he speeds up. “you don’t need to apologize. jus glad you’re home safe. missed you more.”

he continues his movements on your cunt, pulling you closer and closer to the edge. he pleasures you the way he loves you, soft but purposeful. “yeah? missed me like i missed you?”

“uh huh,” you pant. "missed you so bad joaquín." you repeat his name again, this time in a moan. you're almost there, teetering closer to your release. you unravel your hand from his, moving both your hands to grip onto his dark hair, squeezing, pulling, grabbing. you rock your hips in tune with the strokes from his tongue. you use joaquín to chase your orgasm and he doesn't mind one bit. he lives for every little reaction your body gives to him. the gasps, the moans, the way your body locks up when you're about to cum - all of it.

joaquín gives you one last long lick, finally gifting you what you've been needing all along.

your back arches off the bed as you throw your head back into the fluffy pillows. your hips freeze and your lips form into an o, letting out a gasp and then a silent moan. pleasure rushes through every vein in your body. it's a lot to handle, but you love this, you love him. you love how he knows your body so well, as if it was his own. joaquín never fails to worship you how you deserve.

he reels back to admire his precious view. your bare chest rises up and down, your arms back where they stared with your luscious hair splayed out on the pillow. you give him a warm smile. "you look so pretty when you cum, sweetheart." he drags his two fingers from your clit and pushes them inside of you. he fingers you gently, helping you ride out your high.

you giggle. "thanks." your exhaustion and post-orgasm bliss combined mimics the feeling of being drunk. you're on cloud nine now and you don't plan on coming down anytime soon. everything is perfect now that you have your lover back home. your other half. your twin flame.

he continues to finger you, slightly curling his fingers. he's still gentle with it and careful not to overstimulate you. he wants to make sure you can fall back asleep easily.

you sit up slowly, making sure not to remove his fingers from inside you. you reach your hands out and joaquín leans forward, placing his head in your hands. you lean in and kiss him softly and it feels right. it’s like taking a deep refreshing breath after being suffocated for what felt like forever.

“i love you torres. missed you so much.” something about you calling him by his surname gets him. you always use it as if it was really his first.

"i love you too baby, and i missed you more.”

you slip your hand in between your bodies, reaching for his cock. “i feel selfish, let me help you feel good.”

he stops you. “you already did, princess. we can worry about that tomorrow. let’s get you back to sleep.”

you sigh dramatically, prompting a laugh from him. “fiiine..” you lay back, already imagining all the ways you could properly welcome him home tomorrow.

for now though, he lies down behind you, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you into him. you snuggle into him. your limbs tangle together similar to how tree roots do in a rainforest. your bodies take their time reconnecting after all this time apart, your hearts never disconnecting, not even for a second.

➷ notes: sooo half of the original work got deleted.....idek how to explain it. js know i don't recommend having the same draft opened on mobile and laptop at the same time while in separate stages of a fic on each device....but im so goated (jp) that i remembered pretty much exactly what i wrote, only after having a meltdown over losing it. and almost crying. can u tell this is important to me? anyways feedback is welcome, nd reqs are always open <3 love ya

➷ tags: @sweetstrawberrianne @littlesoulshine (lmk if you want added!)

© rafessweetgirl ~ 2025

[readreidsworld]

Bucky Barnes x female reader

Summary: You try a TikTok trend on your boyfriend

──────── ˚✧₊⁎ ˚✧₊⁎ ────────

You don’t tell him you’ve seen the trend.

You don’t tell him you’ve watched far too many videos of girls kissing their boyfriends, watching them melt like butter in the sun. You definitely don’t tell him you’re absolutely convinced Bucky is going to fail this challenge in the sweetest way possible.

He’s in the kitchen when you find him, back to you, sleeves pushed up, dog tags resting against the thin cotton of his shirt. He’s humming under his breath, focused on the mission of making you tea. Very serious business.

Perfect.

You move quietly, socked feet soft against the floor, and slip your arms around his waist from behind. He stiffens for half a second— old habits, muscle memory— but the second he realizes it’s you, his body relaxes, melting instantly into your touch like it wants to belong there.

“Hey, doll,” he murmurs, voice soft, warm, already smiling even though he hasn’t seen you yet. “Didn’t hear you come in.”

“Hi,” you say, and before he can move, before he can even fully turn—You go for it.

You take his jaw in both hands and kiss him.

Not rushed. Not playful. Just pure, slow affection— lips soft, full of love, nothing but warmth and quiet promise. You kiss him like he’s safe. Like he’s yours.

And oh. He melts. Absolutely melts.

His shoulders slump, all that tension draining out of him like you’ve switched something off. His metal hand curls around your waist instantly, tugging you closer like instinct. His other hand slides into your hair, fingers gentle, like he’s terrified you might vanish if he holds too tight.

He sighs against your mouth.

Actually sighs.

Then he leans into you completely, forehead pressing to yours when you finally pull away, eyes glassy soft and dazed like you’ve just knocked him absolutely senseless.

“Where’d that come from?” he whispers, voice rough in the sweetest way.

You shrug, trying not to grin too hard. “Just wanted to kiss you.”

He studies you for a second, lips curving into the softest smile the one he only ever wears when it’s just you and him, when he feels safe enough to let it show.

“Do it again?” he breathes, already leaning in like you’ve cast a spell on him.

You do, and he melts again.

This time, he makes a small sound in his throat, content, happy, the kind of sound that would absolutely break the internet if anyone ever heard it. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your skin reverently, like loving you is something holy.

When you finally stop, both of you slightly breathless, you can’t help it.

You start laughing.

Bucky immediately frowns, confused, brows pulling together in that adorable way. “What? What’s funny? Did I miss something?”

You grin, resting your forehead against his. “There’s a trend. You’re supposed to not react. You failed so hard.”

He blinks. Then scoffs.

Then does the most Bucky thing imaginable.

“Why would I not react when my girl kisses me?” he says, absolutely offended at the concept. “That’s ridiculous. C’mere.”

He pulls you back in, kisses you again, slower, deeper, absolutely shameless about how gone for you he is.

When he finally lets you go, he smirks.

“Post it,” he murmurs teasingly. “Let the world know I’m whipped.”

You laugh. You don’t post it. But you do kiss him again. And again.

And he melts every single time.

──────── ˚✧₊⁎ ˚✧₊⁎ ────────

[fireinmoonshot]

soft hearted | joaquin torres x fem! reader

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Fem!Reader Summary: You're not the type of person to go clubbing – but Joaquin is pretty good at convincing you to come along with him when he goes. Yet, when an interaction with another man at the club goes badly, Joaquin is there to pick up the pieces and make sure you're okay. Warnings: Mentions of drinking/clubbing/eating/food as well as a guy at the club being creepy and physically grabbing the readers wrist, causing a bruise. Word Count: 4.1k A/N: Here I am with another Joaquin fic! I really love how this one turned out. I honestly wrote it just this afternoon in a few hours, I started it and I couldn't stop working on it. I'm really happy with it so I hope those of you who read it enjoy it, even though it's longer than my last Joaquin fic! Please let me know if you liked it and if you'd like to read more Joaquin from me! 💗

“Did I ever say thank you for coming out with us tonight?” Joaquin says, placing a hand on the small of your back to help guide you as the two of you make your way through the crowd, heading back to your booth where your friends are waiting for their drinks.

He’s been texting you all day trying to convince you to join them tonight – but you are the one member of your friendship group that isn’t into partying and clubbing. It’s always difficult to convince you to leave your house once you’re there. 

It never stops Joaquin from trying though. He always enjoys clubbing more when you come out with them. Even just being in your presence is something he loves – whether he’s at a club or anywhere else.

“Oh, just about ten times,” you flash him a grin, trying to avoid bumping into anyone and spilling the drinks. Your friends had been waiting long enough considering how busy the club was. 

Joaquin laughs, the sound audible above the loud music in the bar. It’s a familiar sound and one that instantly comforts you despite your unease at being in such a crowded place. “Definitely room for me to improve, then, angel. What do you think?” 

“I think, pretty boy, that you could probably benefit from inviting me out somewhere other than a packed club sometimes, simply so I can talk to you without having to yell!” You joke, flashing him a look as you finally get back to the booth where your friends are waiting, placing the tray with all of their drinks on it on the table. They all take their drinks, yelling thank you’s at you and Joaquin as you take your seats again. 

“You guys made it!” One of your friends, Cruz, yells out at the both of you.

Joaquin meets your eyes from across the table with a grimace. Cruz is incredibly drunk by the sound of his slurred voice. Joaquin is only a few drinks deep and he’s nowhere near as far gone as Cruz is. You both share an amused smile as Joaquin takes a swig of his beer.

Clubs are not your thing, never have been. It just so happens that you’ve befriended several people that love them – Joaquin being quite the enthusiast. He’s dragged you out to many clubs over the city in the time since you’ve known him. If it were anyone else, you were pretty sure you never would’ve gone… but with Joaquin, you don’t mind it. His presence is comforting, even in such a busy and chaotic atmosphere.

Joaquin is the kind of guy that all the girls and guys in clubs like these like, and on nights like this, you can understand why. The way he looks, a smile on his face as he laughs at something one of your friends says, the slight sheen of sweat on his forehead from the warm air. He’s effortlessly attractive to anyone that looks at him. He’s so comfortable here. You’ve always found Joaquin attractive, but even you can admit that he looks even more attractive when he’s in a place like this – if that’s even possible.

You take a long sip of your drink – water, having decided early in the night that you were gonna be the designated driver for your friends so that they could all enjoy their night properly. 

“I’m just going to the bathroom, okay?” You lean into your friend, Katy, sitting beside you to tell her. “I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ll take my phone with me if you need me!”

She nods, a little pre-occupied in a conversation with the guy beside her – someone she’d met earlier in the night at the club and had been with you guys ever since. Your eyes fall on Joaquin briefly, still laughing at something he’d heard, as you stand from the booth.

It’s difficult to make your way through the crowd without Joaquin guiding you, making you feel safe with his hands on you, but you manage. When you see the door to the bathrooms you almost let out a sigh of relief. They’re empty when you finally make your way inside – another relief. Girls at clubs can be nice, but they can also be the entire opposite and it’s nice to have a moment completely to yourself to have a second to breathe.

Once you’re done, you take another long breath before leaving the bathroom, preparing yourself for the walk back through the crowd of people dancing so you can get back to your friends. You walk past the bar first, finding it to be a little less crowded than the dance floor.

It’s louder over this side of the room, the music thudding and thumping since you’re closer to the speakers. It’s probably the reason you don’t hear the voice of someone beside you at the bar trying to talk to you as you attempt to make your way past. You only realise when a hand grabs your wrist, tugging you backwards. You stumble a little, bracing yourself on the edge of the bar, eyes falling on a light haired man sitting on a stool at the bar. The way he’s looking at you already makes you feel uneasy. 

“Do you often ignore people who are trying to talk to you, honey?” He says, voice raised enough for you to be able to hear him.

“I’m sorry?” You furrow your eyebrows. “If you said something before, I didn’t hear it. It’s pretty loud in here.” You point towards the roof of the bar where the speakers are. 

He laughs, a sound completely opposite to the sound of Joaquin’s earlier. This mans laugh immediately unsettles you and if he wasn’t still holding onto your wrist, you would be gone. But he has an uncomfortably tight grip on it and you doubt he’s planning to let go.

“Yeah, sure,” he scoffs, then picks up his drink and takes a long sip of it. “Listen, I don’t appreciate being ignored, okay? I put myself out there to talk to you, so I’d appreciate it if you gave me the same energy in return.”

You swallow, heart in your throat, and attempt to take a deep breath. This is not good. Why had you gone to the bathroom by yourself? Especially on such a busy night in a busy club.

“Okay,” you start. “If you let go of my wrist, I’ll sit down here and we can talk for a bit.” You figure it can’t hurt to try and bargain with him, even though you have every intention of trying to get as far away from him as quickly as possible when he lets go.

“How can I be sure you won’t run away? Nah, I don’t think I will let go.” He adjusts his grip on your wrist, pulling you a little closer to him. Your heart starts beating faster as the fear starts to set in.

You risk a glance across the bar in the direction of your friends booth and feel your stomach drop as you realise you can’t see them from here, meaning they can’t see you either. Surely Katy would notice that you hadn’t come back yet and would come looking for you… you aren’t too far away from the bathrooms, so there’s a chance she’d see you on her way… but you know that she’s too occupied with her new man to come looking for you. 

This is why you don’t like coming out. This is why you always say no when Joaquin or your other friends ask you to come out with them. And the one time you say yes, this is what happens. You should’ve told Joaquin where you were going as well but you figured it’d be okay – it was just a quick trip to the bathroom, what could go wrong?

Panic starts to rise in your stomach and you try your best to push it down and not let it get the better of you. You know you need to keep yourself calm in a situation like this, especially around a man like this, or things can go south quickly. 

“I promise I won’t run away,” you lie, trying not to let your nerves come through in your tone of voice. “But you’re actually really hurting me right now, so I’d appreciate if you let me go. Can we make a deal? I won’t run and you’ll let go.”

You can tell by the look in the mans eyes that he isn’t going to give up this easily. The longer he keeps holding your wrist, the more your breathing starts to get heavier. How can you get out of this situation when he’s not willing to make this deal with you?

A hand gently lands on your lower back and you flinch, just as you hear a soft voice in your ear. “It’s just me, you’re okay,” Joaquin whispers, calming you immediately.

It’s impossible not to let out a breath of relief as your eyes fall on him. He’d come after you. He’d noticed you were gone or Katy had told him you hadn’t come back yet. He’s here. You’re not alone with this man and you know Joaquin isn’t going to leave you.

Joaquin’s hand gently rubs up and down on your back.

“What you’re gonna do right now is let go of the ladies wrist,” he says simply.

You watch as the mans eyes flicker towards Joaquin but then fall back on you, his grip still tight around your wrist. You attempt to step a little closer to Joaquin but it’s impossible to move with him still holding onto you.

“Hey! Eyes over here, man. Not on her.”

The man sighs. “Listen, man–”

“No, you listen to me,” Joaquin steps in-between you and the man, his voice forceful and loud above the music. “What you are going to do right now is let go of her wrist or I am going to break yours right here, right now. And that won’t be all I break either.”

“Okay, sure. You definitely look strong enough to do that, pal,” he scoffs.

You inwardly wince. You know Joaquin is strong enough to do that and worse. He’s a Captain in the Air Force and he’s The Falcon. You’re pretty certain that he could inflict a lot more damage than a broken wrist.

“You wanna find out?” Joaquin asks.

The look on Joaquin’s face must be intimidating because the man finally relinquishes his hold on your wrist. You immediately wrap your other hand around your wrist, holding it to your chest and trying to ignore the pain throbbing through it from his grip.

The man throws his hands in the air and rolls his eyes before standing and walking away, further into the crowd of people. Before he’s even disappeared from your view, Joaquin has turned around, his hands moving to take your arm and carefully examine your wrist.

“It’s already starting to bruise… that bastard,” he mutters, his eyes dark. You can hear every word despite the loud music around you simply because of how close he’s moved into your space. “You okay? I’m sorry I didn’t get here sooner. I only just noticed you were gone a few minutes ago and Katy mentioned something about the bathroom so I went there straight away but I couldn’t find you.”

The fear and panic in your stomach has gone, now replaced by nausea. You can feel yourself starting to shake, the adrenaline of everything starting to wear off. “Can you take me home?”

Joaquin doesn’t hesitate to wrap an arm around your waist, hold you close and leading you out of the bar. He figures he’ll just text your friends once you’re both safely in a cab to tell them where you’d both gone – that and he’s a little annoyed at Katy for letting you go to the bathroom alone. He’s annoyed at himself for not noticing sooner that you’d disappeared. 

“I’d drive you home myself but I’ve been drinking, angel,” Joaquin says as the two of you wait for a cab on the sidewalk just up the street from the club. His arm is still wrapped around your waist, holding you close. It’s comforting to you, helping you to remember that he’s still there beside you, not going anywhere. “My place is closer, but we can go to yours if you feel up for a longer cab ride.”

You shake your head. “Your place is fine.” You’ve stayed over at his apartment before, several times, both alone and with other friends. His bed is much more comfortable than your own, you’ve learned, since he never lets you sleep on the couch.

“Okay,” he says, rubbing your back gently as the cab pulls up in front of you.

He lets you in first before sitting beside you and telling the cab driver his address. One of his hands holds yours, his thumb gently sweeping back and forth over your skin in an attempt to help calm you down. He can see how uneasy you still feel after it all. Why had he not gotten to you sooner? Not realised you were missing sooner? 

The cab ride back to his apartment is silent, as is the elevator ride up to his floor. You wait beside him, arms crossed over your chest as he unlocks his front door and lets you inside first. 

“You wanna shower or something?” He asks, closing the door behind you.

“Yeah, I think that’d help,” your voice is small. The sound of it makes Joaquin’s heart hurt. 

“You remember where I keep my clothes? You can help yourself, angel.” 

You nod, reaching over to gently squeeze his hand again before heading towards his bedroom to get some of his clothes to change into before heading into the bathroom just off of his bedroom. 

While you shower, Joaquin kicks off his shoes, steps into the kitchen and starts working on making you something to eat. Something warm, something comforting. He’s become a pretty decent cook over the past few years and cooking for you is one of his favourite things to do. He’s always inviting you over for dinner, which is exactly the reason why you know where he keeps his clothes – you eat, you stay late talking, Joaquin refuses to let you go home when it’s so late at night and he has a perfectly comfortable bed.

His heart almost stops in his chest as he sees you walking out of the bathroom, dressed in a pair of his sweatpants and a shirt. “I know I’ve said this before, angel, but you look damn good in my clothes,” he flashes you a grin. 

You teasingly roll your eyes at him as you walk into the kitchen, arms crossed over your chest as you try and suss out what he’s cooking you. “Bet you say that to all the friends you let stay over and borrow your clothes, Torres.”

Joaquin snorts. “Bold of you to assume I have other friends staying over.”

He doesn’t. Even out of your friendship group, you are the only person who’s stayed over in the last several months and especially the only person he’s let sleep in his bed and borrow his clothes. He’s not willing to admit to himself what that really means. Not yet.

“What are you cooking?” You ask, peeking inside the pot on the stove.

“Pozole,” he says, coming up beside you, his hand resting on the small of your back. He’s apparently incapable of keeping his hands to himself when he’s worried about you. “It won’t be ready for another hour and a half at least, but I figured cooking you something comforting and warm might be nice. I was already gonna cook it for dinner this week so I had everything in the fridge ready to go.” 

“Joaquin, you didn’t have to do that,” you glance over at him. “Really, I would’ve been fine with a cup of tea or a pack of cup noodles. And it’s so late.” You mean it honestly, even though the fact that he’s been prepping everything for this while you were showering sits heavy and meaningful in your stomach. No one ever does things like this for you… except Joaquin.

He shrugs his shoulders and moves away from the stove, hands on your waist so that you move with him. He directs you over to the couch, waiting till you sit down before he puts a blanket in your lap and attempts – badly – to tuck you in. 

“What are you doing?” You can’t help but laugh. 

“You are gonna sit here for the next hour and a half, till the pozole is ready, put on a movie or something, and just try and relax. And I am gonna sit beside you, once I get changed out of these sweaty ass clothes,” he says, standing back up straight. “I’ll be two minutes, angel!” He calls out, hurrying away from you towards his bedroom.

You smile to yourself as you grab the remote to the TV and try your best to curl up under the blanket. It’s amusing, how quickly things can change. An hour ago, you were in the club with Joaquin, who was having the time of his life, and now here you are, curled up on his couch in his clothes. Your eyes drift down to your wrist, where a bruise is already starting to form, and you wince. That’s going to be painful when it fully forms.

Joaquin comes back out a few minutes later, wearing a similar pair of sweatpants and a muscle tank that causes you to focus on his biceps for much too long. You barely even notice that he’s carrying something in one of his hands. 

“Uh, what’s that?” You ask, motioning to the tube.

“It’s cream that’s meant to help bruises,” he says, lowering himself down onto the couch beside you. “I forgot I had it but I bought it for myself not long after I became Falcon. Will you let me put it on you?” 

You nod, letting him take your arm in his gentle grip. He squeezes some of the cream onto your wrist and gently massages it in. It hurts already, even with just the slightest bit of pressure, but you try your best to ignore it and focus on the look of concentration on Joaquin’s face. He looks up at you afterwards, catching you staring. 

“See something you like, angel?”

You look away, a little flustered, and pull your wrist out of his grip. “Thank you.”

He grins and stands up, heading back towards the bathroom to put the tube away and wash the cream off of his hands. He knew it might not be the right time to be teasing with you, but he had to be – this was the Joaquin you knew, and he could tell that right now, the last thing you wanted was for him to treat you like you were something breakable, like what had happened at the bar was something you couldn’t move past. 

“All right, what are we watching?” He says as he walks back to the couch, climbing over the back of it and settling down next to you, resting his arms up on the back of the couch and kicking his feet up on the coffee table. “You pick somethin’ good?”

You surprise him by passing him the remote. “You choose. I can’t find anything.”

He almost freezes solid when he feels your head lean down on his shoulder. He lets his arm fall around your shoulders, pulling you closer to his chest so you can rest comfortably. 

“What if I pick something you don’t like?” He asks, trying his hardest not to stare at the top of your head and hope to hell you can’t hear how fast his heart is beating, even though you’re laying on the opposite side of his chest.

“Nah, you won’t,” you say. “I like everything you like.”

Joaquin clears his throat and huffs a laugh. “Yeah, what if I put on The Conjuring or something?” 

“You wouldn’t,” you mutter, knowing him well enough to know he’s joking.

“What if I’m being serious, angel? What if all I want is to put on a scary movie so you get all frightened and have no choice but to cuddle up to me in search of safety?” He grins. 

“Joaquin, I’m already cuddled up to you.”

He pauses. “Okay, well that’s true.”

“Just pick a movie, Joaquin.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You’re thirty minutes into the movie by the time you speak again. Joaquin is invested in the story but the second you speak, his entire attention is on you. 

“Thank you for saving me tonight, Joaquin,” your voice is quiet.

Joaquin gently rubs your shoulder. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there sooner. You don’t have to thank me for anything, angel. You know that, right? I should’ve noticed and come after you as soon as you left. Katy should’ve never let you go to the bathroom alone either.”

He can’t help the bitterness in his tone. 

“I didn’t meant to ruin your night, Joaquin,” you mutter, seemingly ignoring everything that he’d just said to you. 

Joaquin is quick to sit up straight, making you move from your spot on his chest. You look at him, eyebrows furrowed at his sudden movement. He gently cups your face in his hands. 

“Ruin my night? Angel, you did not ruin my night. Did you not hear anything I just said? In fact, you probably made my night even better than it already was. I mean, c’mon, pozole and being curled up on the couch watching a movie with you is a hell of a lot better than being out in that club without you,” Joaquin admits, his honesty getting the better of him. 

You frown a little, eyes clouding with tears. Joaquin is quick to wipe one from your cheek after it falls. His heart hurts at the sight of the tears in your eyes. 

“C’mere,” he says, pulling you into his chest again, wrapping his arms around you and letting you cry into his chest. Your arms wrap around him, gripping the material of his shirt. One of his hands rubs up and down on your back in an attempt to relax you. “I always ask you to come out with us cause I enjoy it more when you’re there. I thought you knew that. And I know the clubs aren’t your scene, but I figured you didn’t hate them that much if you said yes to me every now and then. I promise I won’t ask you again, angel. Especially after what that prick did tonight. I almost knocked his jaw in then and there.”

He smiles as he hears something that sounds like a sob like laugh come from you. 

“If I ever see him again, I can’t promise I won’t break his wrist, believe me.”

“No, you won’t,” you mutter, pulling away from his hug. 

His hands immediately move to your face again, clearing the tears off of your cheeks. 

“Maybe I will,” he shrugs.

“You’re too much of a sweetheart for that, Joaquin Torres. I mean… look at everything you’ve done for me tonight. You telling me you’re not a soft hearted person?” You ask.

Joaquin smiles to himself. “Angel, I’m just soft hearted for you,” he confesses. “Now, I’m gonna quickly go check on this pozole okay?” He stands up from the couch, stretching his legs and padding over towards the kitchen – mostly just to make it so you don’t feel obligated to say anything in return. 

He’s standing in front of the stove, stirring the pozole with a wooden spoon, when he feels your arms snake around him from behind, surprising him with a back hug. “Uhhh, what’s happening right now?” He asks, pausing his stirring.

“Thank you,” is all you offer in answer.

“Angel, what’s going on?”

You remove your arms from around him so he can turn around and face you again. He’s about to ask you what you’re thinking when you lean up and press your lips to his cheek before bounding back over to the couch without another word. Joaquin stands, staring after you in shock. He feels like his cheek has been burned – in a good way, if that’s even possible.

“Hurry up and finish stirring that pozole, pretty boy!” You call out from your spot on the couch. “I wanna finish watching this movie and my pillow has gone missing.” 

Joaquin lets out a small laugh, gives the pozole another small stir and starts walking back over to you. “I suppose I’m the pillow?” He asks, shaking his head. “I’m comin’, angel. I’m comin’.” 

[rhaenyraeri]

getting caught with joaquin torres <3

joaquin torres x fem!new avenger!reader

minors dni, 18+!!!

you’re a new avenger, he’s on sam’s team of avengers. what could go wrong?

he wasn’t supposed to be here; he shouldn’t be.

that’s the thought racing through your mind as joaquin knelt at the end of your bed, pulling your legs to place them over his shoulders, causing you to yelp.

“shhh, baby. quiet,” he murmured, breath hot against your core, “gotta stay quiet for me.”

your fingers tangle into his hair, grabbing at his hair as his tongue slid over you painfully slow, just enough to work you up. joaquin didn’t like to rush, not when it came to you. especially not when you’re laid out before him like this. his tongue felt around you, savoring the taste of his girl. your heart beat faster as the sight of his head between your thighs as he all but buried himself into your pussy, as well as the added secrecy and heightened adrenaline, flooded your mind.

you shouldn’t have let your boyfriend stay, knowing the repercussions of being caught. tensions were high between the teams now— the thunderbolts/new avengers and sam’s avengers team. but that didn’t stop him nor you from seeing each other. but never once did you sneak into the bases of the other, until tonight.

“joaquin,” you moaned, trying to whisper as to not alert anyone, “you.. we can’t..”

he hummed against your clit, licking like a man starved, then pulled away, “i know, cariño, i know.. please let me have this. i’ll be gone before they get back, i promise.”

you nodded, throwing your head back in pleasure as he went back to your pussy. his tongue swept deep motions that sent you arching your back off the bed, using your free hand to clamp over your mouth. keeping this quiet heightened your senses, focusing in on how good he was. too good. your thighs started to tremble around his head, lightly clenching around the dark curls.

“are you fucking serious right now?”

it was bucky.

his voice bounced off the walls, sounding louder than it actually was due to the silence. you reach out to grab an article of clothing, but in the panic you couldn’t find one, so you pull joaquin’s hair to get him to stop.

but he didn’t stop. he didn’t skip over a swipe of his tongue or a suck to your core. his eyes just flicked up towards your bedroom door, looking at the soldier before him.

“kinda in the middle of something,” he mumbled his answer against your pussy, the feeling of his lips ghosting over you causing you to clench.

“torres,” bucky’s voice roared, growling his name like a command, “off her. now.”

he grunted in disagreement, but unwillingly removed your legs from his shoulders and stood up. his mouth shined with your slick and his own spit combined, “i told you, man. we’re busy.”

“b-bucky, i,” you tried to defuse the tension, but to no avail. he’d already seen way more of you than you ever thought he would. now he’s upset at the sight before him, knowing what would happen if you were caught by literally anyone else.

your eyes took their gaze from joaquin to bucky, who looked like he was holding back from punching the man before you. his jaw clenched, then he sighed. “you’ve got five minutes before the others make their way through the tower. both of you better handle this before it becomes everyone else’s issue too. get straightened up.”

bucky slammed the door, his loud steps trailing off down the hall.

you looked back to joaquin, who was staring at the door. he felt your eyes on him, and he looked down at you, eyes dark and still filled with lust. instead of apologizing for getting the two of you caught or for putting you in that position, he knelt back down between your still-spread legs, kissing up your thigh.

you opened your mouth to stop him, but he cut you off. “he said we got five minutes, baby. but i only need one.”