requested! thank you.
content: pregnancy, public affection, protective!pedro
the press tour is loud. cameras flash nonstop, people shouting his name from every direction, microphones being pushed closer and closer like they might miss something if they blink. it’s overwhelming — not for him, never for him — but pedro still feels his hand tighten around yours instinctively.
you’re glowing. visibly pregnant, dress hugging your belly in a way the internet has already dissected frame by frame. there’s something sacred about it, about you standing there so calm, so sure, one hand resting protectively over your stomach as if the world isn’t screaming around you.
pedro doesn’t let go of you for a second.
his hand never leaves the small of your back. sometimes it slides lower, palm splayed over your belly, thumb rubbing slow, grounding circles like he’s reminding both of you that everything is okay. that you are okay. that the baby is okay.
and the internet? the internet is feral.
someone posts a clip — barely ten seconds long — of him stepping slightly in front of you when a photographer gets too close. his body shields yours without thinking. his arm curves around you, firm and sure, chin dipping just enough so he can murmur something only you can hear.
you smile immediately. that’s what sends everyone over the edge.
because you don’t look scared. you don’t look fragile. you look adored.
during the interview, the host asks a question about the project — some joke about long shoots and exhausting schedules — and pedro answers politely, smoothly, like always. but then he glances at you.
“we adjusted things,” he says easily. “made sure she was comfortable. that was the priority.”
no hesitation. no overexplaining. the priority.
your hand squeezes his, and he looks down at you like you’re the only person in the room. like the cameras aren’t there. like the world hasn’t been watching every move you’ve made together since the pregnancy became public.
later, when you’re seated, he pulls your chair closer without even asking. his knee stays pressed against yours the entire time. when you shift, he notices. when you breathe differently, he notices. when you absentmindedly rub your belly, he’s already there, covering your hand with his.
photos circulate within minutes.
pedro pascal cannot stop touching his pregnant wife.
the way he looks at her???
that man is DOWN BAD.
and they’re right. because when the carpet ends and the noise fades just a little, pedro leans down and presses a soft kiss to your temple. not for the cameras — they just happen to catch it.
“you okay, baby?” he asks quietly.
you nod. “yeah. you?”
he smiles, wide and warm and so full it almost hurts.
“never better.”
that night, the internet keeps spiraling.
zoomed-in screenshots of his hand on your belly. slow-motion gifs of him guiding you through the crowd. compilations titled pedro pascal: protective husband era.
and somewhere in a quiet hotel room, away from the flashes and the noise, he helps you out of your heels, kisses your stomach goodnight, and holds you like the world can wait.
✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work.
Summary: Pedro is all yours after the Super Bowl ends.
Pairing: Pedro Pascal x F!Reader
Tags: bf!pedro; drabble; established relationship; oneshot
Warnings: +18 content; MDNI; smut; cum; nudity; inappropriate language
A/n: first of all: LATINO POWER! second: I LOVE MY BOYFRIEND, HE LOOKED SO HANDSOME AND HOT IN THAT WHITE OUTFIT. Im happy that Pedro participated in this show that's so important for the Latino people, it means so much to us! I'm so proud of my roots and it's so good to have someone like Bad Bunny and Pedro using their influence to speak out in such dark times as this. I couldn't be more proud and grateful for the greatest halftime show ever! I love you Benito and I fucking love you Pedro! About this little fanfic, it's just a passionate rambling of mine. This man deserves all the love in the world and as long as I'm alive he will be loved and desired in all my stories! And last but not least: ICE OUT! AND FUCK YOU TRUMP!
Word count: 689
Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl performance had been historic, featuring some of the biggest Latin celebrities of the moment.
And of course, Pedro Pascal was there.
Your man looks radiant: his curls loose and moisturized by Coco, his eyes shining with emotion, the first buttons of his shirt undone, revealing the skin you had left flushed the night before. Pedro is so shy that you can tell exactly how nervous he is, and at the same time how happy he is to be there. He films and takes pictures of everything, thinking about how much you’ll love seeing it all once he gets home. And when he does arrive, he’s still buzzing with adrenaline from having taken part in something so important.
You wrap your arms tightly around him and scatter kisses across his face, so proud of the man you chose to spend the rest of your life with. He is one of a kind in every sense: the most loving, the kindest, the most empathetic. You met at a political protest, and from that day on, you never let go of each other.
It felt like a meeting of souls.
Even though he is famous and you are just an anonymous person, Pedro has never made you feel less important. There was nothing you didn’t know, nothing that ever made you feel absent from his life. Even when you couldn’t be with him in moments like that, he always made a point of returning to you as soon as possible. Like now, in his bedroom, city lights reflecting over his bare chest. You trace invisible lines with your fingers along the small marks on his neck left by time.
He is entirely beautiful from head to toe.
His hands rest slowly on your hips, a crooked smile forming the familiar dimples on his lightly shaved skin. You smile back and brush a curl away from his forehead before he leans down to kiss you. His kiss is unhurried, his warm tongue exploring your mouth as the two of you roll naked across the bed, him leaving you on top. His slightly calloused hands slide along your back as you straddle him and feel him fit inside you.
Bracing yourself against his chest, you take control, moving exactly the way he likes. Pedro is completely submissive to you, letting you do whatever you want and placing your pleasure above everything else. Watching your body overtaken by desire is his greatest pleasure, listening to your breaths, your moans, the furrow of your brow when you’re getting close. His loving gaze admires your body, sculpted perfectly for him, your hips moving in a constant rhythm, your long hair—his favorite—falling in layers down your back.
He loves the rosy hue that spreads across the apples of your cheeks and your lips, left damp from their shared kisses, as the sexual act goes on.
When you open your eyes, he knows, telepathically, that you’re close, and sensing your exhaustion, he switches positions.
Pedro sinks into you, gripping your hips firmly with one hand while the other cups your cheek, keeping your eyes locked on his. He likes fucking you while looking into your eyes, diving into the deep glow of your dilated irises. It excites him even more; his cock feels heavier between his legs, and he nearly cries out when you wrap your legs around his hips and tighten around him in response to his movements.
That’s enough for him. Pedro rushes to kiss you, and you both cum at the same time, the kiss breaking as a rough moan spills from his mouth against yours. You smile, breathing hard, your fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck while he drags his nose along your cheek and buries his face in your neck.
Pedro feels undone and lets out a nasal laugh. He wishes he had lasted longer, if it weren’t for how overstimulated he was.
He breathes hot and heavy against your skin, then lifts his face again, meeting your satisfied smile.
“I got you.” you murmur. He smiles and presses a languid kiss to your mouth.
pairing: CEO harry castillo x exec. assistant f! reader
summary: you fuck your married boss during a late night at the office.
part 2 here
a/n: so… this is like… heavy cheating stuff. if that’s not your thing, then best to stop now
tags/warning: +18, mdni. harry castillo is 48, reader is 25. age gap. cheating. f!reader. partners dissing. oral sex (f! and m! receiving). unprotected piv. creampie.
w/c: 9k
Harry Castillo takes many things in life very seriously.
That’s an essential trait when you're sitting in the executive chair of one of the largest construction companies in the United States: being sharp, meticulous, and systematic is as mandatory as a contractual clause imposing penalties for breach.
But there are two things Harry is even more serious and methodical about.
The first: every single one of Harry’s suits is custom-made by the son of the same tailor who once dressed his father and grandfather. Even if a ready-to-wear suit fits him perfectly, it must go to the tailor, even if it’s just to add a single stitch to the inside pocket.
The second: his wife must receive a gift on every single occasion that concerns her or their relationship.
You keep a calendar on your computer solely for this purpose. Her birthday on June 17th, their first kiss anniversary, the day he asked her out, their official anniversary, the day he proposed, their wedding anniversary, Dalilah the Poodle’s birthday.
Yes, there's even an anniversary for the first time they slept together, on September 19th.
And on all these dates, a gift must be sent to her, signed from Harry. If not, she’ll make his life a living hell, and he’ll spiral into one of those gloomy funks for at least three days: always polite, but with short answers and a stone-cold expression. And you hate seeing him like that.
Despite your color-coded calendars and hyper-organized schedule, it did happen once, but only because you didn’t know there was an anniversary for the first time Harry said “I love you,” which didn’t happen until February 15th, 2020, even though he proposed back on October 28th, 2019. Ever since, you make sure that expensive gifts are sent either to their apartment or to her law office.
Today is the anniversary of their first fight, and you're at your desk choosing between a bouquet from The Bouqs Co. and a pair of sapphire Spinelli earrings. Or maybe both?
The elevator doors open and Harry steps out, immaculately dressed in a navy suit you bought last week. He's on the phone and looks stressed. You raise your hand to greet him, and the tension in his face softens into a small smile, which is his version of “good morning.”
He walks past you into his office, leaving the door open, which means he’ll be back in a moment to give you a proper hello.
Harry Castillo’s office is on the top floor of the Castillo Construction & Co. headquarters. Behind your desk, the company’s initials — CCC — are elegantly embossed in gold on the wall. The reception décor is all rich, dark wood — on the wall panels, desks, and on the frames of the chairs in the waiting area. Gold details on the picture frames, doorknobs, and desk edges offer a refined contrast.
It’s beautiful, but a bit dull, so last year, you convinced him to add two dragon trees near the elevator. They gave the space a touch of life, even if he insisted he didn’t like plants in the office.
In the end, he liked it. You know he did.
Being Harry’s executive assistant for the past four years, since you were a twenty-one-year-old fresh out of college, means you sometimes read him better than you read yourself. Your therapist says that’s not healthy, but you like knowing his routine, especially because you’re the one who plans it. You like being his emergency contact, having access to his passwords and bank accounts, being his legal proxy with signing authority.
So, personally, you think your therapist is mistaken.
Ten minutes later, as you confirm your choice of the Spinelli earrings with Harry’s personal shopper, your boss reemerges from his office.
He’s taken off the blazer, and his white shirt sleeves are rolled up, revealing his expensive watch and strong forearms.
“Good morning,” he says with a small smile, leaning casually against your desk. “Did you have a good weekend?”
And here comes the inevitable truth: you are terribly attracted to Harry, which cannot be healthy. Having feelings for your boss, who gives you tasks and commands, kills any remaining instinct for self-preservation.
But God, how could you not? Everything about him pulls you in. The physical traits, the personality, the mind. His strong arms, neatly trimmed beard and mustache, kind brown eyes, tailored clothes, manners, scent, intelligence.
Just the other day, Harry mentally calculated the average profit margin Castillo & Co. made over a five-year period because the financial report hadn’t included it, and then estimated the net return percentage; all in his head. It was the sexiest thing you’d ever seen.
You’ve lost count of how many times you’ve thought of him while with your boyfriend, fully aware of how wrong that is.
“Good morning, Harry.” That’s another privilege: calling him by his first name, while everyone else calls him Mr. Castillo. “I finished watching Russian Doll on Saturday.”
“Yeah? Did you like it?”
You nod, excited.
“Yes, it’s great. You have to finish it.”
Harry gives a quiet grunt.
“I know… But I get home and just crash,” he says, clearly disappointed with himself. You offer an empathetic smile. “I’ll try harder,” he adds, before shifting topics. “I have a meeting at eleven. Can you come with me?”
“Just a moment.”
You open your planner while Harry watches, and you try your best to focus on the color-coded blocks. You have a meeting with the finance team to review some items for Harry, but you can reschedule.
“I can go.”
“Thank God. I’ll need your notes.”
You tap your fingers against your forehead in a playful salute, and Harry smiles before turning to head back to his office. But before he does, he says:
“I like the outfit. Gray is my favorite color.”
He’s referring to your gray pencil skirt and matching halter-style silk blouse.
“Thank you. And I know.”
He smiles, taps his fingers lightly on your desk again, and heads back inside.
And now you can’t focus on anything else on your morning agenda.
The eleven o’clock meeting is at the headquarters of a partner company just a few minutes from Castillo & Co.’s office. Already in the building’s lobby, Harry walks calmly beside you as you head toward the elevator. You’re carrying the leather folder with your iPad and a notepad for Harry, who insists on handwritten notes.
“Did you see how many plants are in the lobby?” you ask as you both stop in front of the elevator, side by side. His security guard stands just behind you, discreet but alert.
“Don’t start,” Harry replies without taking his eyes off the elevator doors. It’s always curious how his expression changes when you’re in public. “You already put two plants on our floor.”
You find it incredibly endearing when he says “our floor.”
“It’s not enough. I’m still planning to sneak one into your office.”
The elevator doors slide open and you both step in. Harry presses the button for the twentieth floor, and you lean against the glass wall at the back of the elevator as he leans in to whisper:
“And then you’ll swing by HR to pick up your termination letter.”
By the time you reach the twentieth floor, where the meeting will take place, there’s still a slight smirk tugging at your lips.
The receptionist at the main desk takes one look at Harry and immediately stands, adopting a posture you’ve come to recognize as reserved only for partners and high-level associates. You yourself soften your voice and demeanor as part of this same executive persona.
You and Harry are led down a long, white hallway with the sterile atmosphere of a hospital (which you hate) until you reach the meeting room. Harry lets you enter first, his hand resting lightly at the small of your back to guide you in.
Inside the glass-walled boardroom, seated at an oval table, are five men and two women. All eyes turn to you, but quickly shift to Harry as he enters the room, already unbuttoning his jacket.
“Please, don’t get up,” Harry says right away, raising his hand palm-out as if to stop them from standing to greet him. Harry hates shaking hands with that many people. “Don’t mind me,” he adds, scanning the room for a free chair. Only one is available. “We’ll need one more chair. I brought my vice president with me.”
Harry is ridiculous. He always introduces you as his “vice president” in meetings like this because, for some reason, if he says “assistant,” the respect people show you is just surface-level, barely polite enough to keep Harry from getting angry. Bunch of assholes.
Someone quickly slips out to fetch an extra chair, but in the meantime, Harry’s hand returns to the small of your back, guiding you to the only available seat at the head of the table, all eyes in the room following the two of you.
Realizing what he’s doing, you whisper:
“Harry, I’m not—”
“Sit,” he cuts you off with just one word, and it leaves no room for argument.
You obey, sitting in the only chair, while Harry stands behind you. With no other option, you slide into your businesswoman persona, straighten your spine, lace your fingers on the table, and meet the stares of the executives around you.
Moments later, someone wheels in another chair for Harry, placing it beside you.
The room falls silent until Harry, now seated and relaxed, says simply:
“So?”
And the show begins.
The goal of the meeting is to convince Harry to invest in the revitalization of a hotel in Madrid, Spain, currently owned by a chain undergoing judicial reorganization. Their last hope is to reopen the hotel, which has been closed for the past ten years, and Harry’s investment would signal a vote of confidence, seen as there’s no guarantee of return for Castillo & Co.
The chain’s administrator, a short man in a tight suit, is in the middle of a PowerPoint presentation showing 3D renderings of the hotel lobby, complete with bronze detailing, when Harry lets out a dramatic sigh and raises his hand.
The man immediately falls silent.
“It’s a good presentation,” Harry says, and you pause your note-taking on the iPad. “But this isn’t what I came to see. Honestly, I’m not the one you should be showing pictures of architecture and interior design to.”
The silence is so tense you could hear a pin drop.
“So far, not a single reason has been presented to me that justifies why CCC should invest in the Madrid hotel,” Harry continues. “Has no one conducted a financial risk analysis? Or at the very least, looked at the average returns of similar hotel chains in the same area?”
“Mr. Castillo…”
“With all due respect, Mr. Edwards,” Harry cuts in again, “my question is simple: was such a study conducted?”
The administrator opens his mouth, likely to offer another flimsy excuse, but this time, one of the women at the table responds:
“Mr. Castillo, we will immediately arrange for a study addressing those questions.”
“You’re asking for more time?” Harry asks, his voice calm, not the slightest hint of aggression, yet somehow that calm makes it even more intimidating.
The woman, to her credit, is brave enough to admit:
“Yes, we are.”
You glance at Harry. He’s tapping his pen against the leather folder he hasn’t even opened. When he stops, it’s to let out a small sigh, as if being in that room is as irritating as a speck of dust in his eye.
“I started construction on a multi-business complex in Madrid last year, and had the bad luck of launching the first month of works right when construction costs in Spain hit a historic record. 117.6 points on the Eurostat index,” he sets the pen down and laces his fingers together, commanding the entire room with nothing but words. “Even with that spike, the real estate market in Madrid is growing,” he glances your way and says, “Miss?”
Of course you remember. You were the one who researched it.
“Seventeen-point-five percent increase last year alone, with a forecast of another four to five percent this year,” you say.
A flicker of pride crosses Harry’s face — but he stays impassive.
“Seventeen-point-five percent,” he repeats, whistling softly in admiration before turning his gaze back to the group. “That’s a lot. Could that offset the budget blowout we’ll likely face by the end of construction in three years? What I do know is that my contract with the buyers of the complex units includes ongoing monitoring of economic indicators and adjustment clauses, because the project team, who are very competent, accounted for all of that. And I only work with competent people.”
More silence.
Harry concludes:
“I expect a study of that level within one month. If you’re not able to deliver that, I kindly ask that you refrain from sending me any more investment proposals.”
Harry stands, and just like that, the meeting is over.
It’s past 7 p.m. when Harry steps out of his office and walks toward your desk.
Under the desk, you’ve already kicked off your heels, and your stocking-covered feet rest softly on the carpet. Your hair is tied up in a bun that probably looks tragic by now, but the kind smile Harry sends your way isn’t one of someone looking at a disaster.
Then again, his hair looks a little tousled too, like he’s run his fingers through it more times than he should’ve.
“What are you still doing here?” he asks, leaning on your desk. He sounds nothing like the man who tore through a room full of clowns earlier in the day.
“I need to go over the spreadsheet the finance team sent me.”
“They sent it late?”
“No. I’m reviewing it late,” you admit, lowering your voice to a whisper and leaning in like you’re telling him a secret. “But don’t tell my boss or he’ll fire me.”
Harry plays along, whispering back:
“A corporate scandal.”
The grin you flash him is ridiculous, and so is the flush that warms your cheeks.
“Still got a lot to do?” Harry asks. You nod regretfully. “Have you eaten?”
You shake your head.
“Alright. I’ll order dinner for both of us. The usual?”
The usual means the Lasagna della Mama Rosa from Piccola that he always gets on late nights like this.
“The usual. Thanks, Harry.”
He ignores your thanks, as always, and heads back to his office. Halfway there, still facing away from you, he asks:
“Want a ribeye? I’m about to beg for one.”
“Rare.”
You can practically hear him rolling his eyes.
“Obviously.”
Thirty minutes later, you go downstairs to pick up the food, paying with Harry’s card. When you return, you head straight into his office.
Harry is at his desk, eyes fixed on the screen. His tablet shows a few graphs, and beside it, his phone is on speaker. He’s talking to his wife, and you pretend not to hear as you walk to the lounge area in the corner of his office, where there’s a leather couch and a coffee table big enough to fit all the food he ordered.
You slip off your shoes before stepping onto the rug and kneel to unpack the takeout bags on the table.
“...because I told her we’d both go with them,” his wife says over the phone, sounding upset. “I can’t back out now.”
“The problem is that you confirmed without even asking me.”
“I thought, as your wife, I could make one tiny decision for the both of us.”
Your brows lift.
“That’s not the point,” Harry says, calm but clearly tired. “The point is you planned a two-week trip out of the country without consulting me. I can’t reschedule twenty meetings or delay fifty different deadlines tied to the 72 active builds I’m overseeing.”
You walk over to the minibar in the corner and grab two sparkling waters and a couple of glasses.
She fires back:
“You could at least try to spend more time with me.”
“You’re being irrational.”
“You drive me crazy!” she yells. “Always with your robotic tone, your charts, your stats. For God’s sake, can’t you be spontaneous for once in your life, Harry?”
You turn to Harry and start to gesture that you’ll leave him alone, but Harry points directly at the lounge area, more specifically, at the table, silently instructing you to go back and stay there.
“You knew who I was when you met me,” he says into the phone, still looking at you. “And I’m not saying that as an excuse for never changing. I’m saying that you need to think about my work before making impulsive decisions.”
She hangs up on him.
You quietly return to the seating area and sit down on the rug, feeling a bit awkward. Seconds later, Harry joins you, settling on the opposite side of the table.
“Smells good,” he says as if he hadn’t just been in a fight.
“Mhm,” you hum, staring at the lasagna in front of you. The smell of melted cheese makes your stomach grumble, but before picking up your fork, you murmur, “I should’ve asked if I could come in. Sorry for overhearing.”
Harry hands you the container with your steak and opens a bottle of water, pouring it into both glasses.
“You know the passwords to my cards and accounts, the backup clouds for the entire Castillo company. My life’s in your hands. It’s not like I have anything to hide from you.”
It’s so satisfying to hear that. Your therapist is going to have a field day.
“You don’t, but maybe your wife wouldn’t love sharing her privacy with your assistant,” you say, mostly because it’s the right thing to say — not because you believe it.
He shuts that down quickly.
“What about your boyfriend?”
“What about him?”
Harry looks up as he takes a bite of lasagna. You pick up your utensils too.
“Is he okay sharing you with me?”
Your hands freeze mid-motion.
“He…” your voice cracks, so you try again. “He knows how much I value my work.”
“Of course.”
The steak is perfectly cooked, tender and rare. To escape the sudden tension, you put on a little show, leaning back dramatically on the plush Nina Magon rug as you chew a piece of meat.
“This is the best steak in the world,” you mumble with your eyes closed. “I’d work overtime every day if this was the reward.”
Harry lets out a low, amused laugh.
“That good, huh? You’d give up sleep for it?”
You hold up a thumbs-up. His laugh grows.
“You should come in later tomorrow,” he says as you sit back up. “That’s me speaking as your boss.”
“I have an eight a.m. meeting.”
“With who?”
“The marketing team.” You already regret it just thinking about it. “Your personal branding, actually. Someone from Forbes wants another interview.”
“Again?”
“Yes, Mr. Castillo. Again. That’s what happens when you’re running one of the world’s top construction firms at forty-eight.”
“Good line. You should pitch that as the interview opener.”
“I will.”
You eat in silence for a while. You take a moment to admire the New York skyline through the huge windows behind Harry’s desk. He likes to keep the lights dim when working late, and the atmosphere feels perfect. The basil lingering in the ragu, the scent of grilled meat, the view of the sprawling city.
Harry sitting across from you. The two of you sharing dinner, like so many times before, and for a moment, it feels like this could be your actual life.
“I can take care of things if you want to go on that trip,” you say, because apparently, your brain-to-mouth filter breaks down when you’re full.
“I know you can.”
“Why not take a vacation?”
“Because I don’t want to,” he says, and you don’t flinch. You’re used to those answers. “I don’t want to travel with the people involved. She knows that. And I have responsibilities.”
“Got it,” you say, leaning back on one hand. Harry watches you. You notice his rolled-up sleeves, the open collar of his shirt, and decide to confess: “I really get it. My boyfriend wants us to go to Bora Bora at the end of the year with two other couples. I can’t stand them.”
“Really? Why?”
“They go to bed at eight. Their idea of being ‘naughty’ is drinking one glass of wine with dinner. Can you imagine that in Bora Bora?”
“Definitely not. Waste of money.”
You snap your fingers and point at him.
“Exactly what I said!”
“You’d like Bora Bora. Rum, sun, and all the shrimp you can eat,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “Might be worth leaving the friends behind and going with your boyfriend.”
“My boyfriend also goes to bed at eight.”
Harry’s face says it all, and so does his smile. He finishes his last bite, scoots back on the rug with his water in hand, and leans against the couch. You do the same, sitting beside him, both of you stretched out in that familiar silence of people who’ve just eaten well.
“Do you two live together?” Harry asks. You shake your head. “How long have you been together?”
You do the math.
“Three years and two months.”
“Has he proposed?”
Straight to the point, as always. Instead of answering, you say:
“Can I grab a ginger ale?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
You walk over to the minibar, grab the can, and come back, fully aware of Harry’s eyes following you the whole time. As you crack open the can, you answer:
“He proposed at the beginning of the year, but I said no. For now.”
“Can I ask why?”
You shrug.
“I’m not really sure. I think a proposal should make you excited about the future, but I didn’t feel that. I felt trapped.”
“I see.” Harry studies your face like he’s searching for something. “I don’t think I felt excited about the future either when I proposed.”
“You love your wife.”
“Do you love your boyfriend?” he returns.
“I do.”
“Okay, but?”
“There’s no but,” you say. “I love him. I love our routine. It’s comfortable.”
Harry is silent, but his expression says he doesn’t buy it.
“Harry.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to,” you reply, shifting to face him. “I love him, but I don’t think I’ve ever been in love with him. No butterflies, no excitement, no stomach-flipping moments.”
“That’s anxiety, not love. Love should be calm.”
“Maybe.”
Silence again. You look out the window. He looks at you.
“I was going to file for divorce last year,” he says suddenly, and it feels like a punch in the stomach. “My therapist told me to wait six months, so I wouldn’t do it in the heat of the moment.”
You’re speechless. He unclasps his watch, slowly continuing.
“I know there’s something wrong with my marriage when I’d rather stay here than go home. I should want to get home to see her. But I don’t. And I know that’s not fair to her either.”
He sets the watch down on the coffee table, next to the empty containers, and rubs his wrist. The hands on the dial show 8:20 p.m.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Not your fault.”
As he says this, Harry crosses his left arm over his chest to press his right shoulder, wincing slightly.
“Your shoulder okay?”, you ask.
“Pulled something at the gym this morning. Been bothering me all day.”
Before you can even think through the consequences, you offer:
“Want me to press on it a bit? Maybe it’s just tension.”
“Isn’t that a bit outside your job description?”
“I won’t tell anyone.”
Harry smirks and shifts, turning his back to you and giving you space to move closer.
There’s something different about today. You’ve never touched Harry like this before. At most, there were brief handshakes or polite taps on his arm, but now you’re kneeling behind him, pressing your fingers into his shoulder in what feels like the most intimate gesture of your life.
His muscles are rock solid.
“Jesus, Harry. I’m booking you a session with your massage therapist.”
Harry leans forward slightly as you apply more pressure on the tight traps and neck tendon, and for a second, your mind slips to a criminal thought: what he must look like under that shirt.
“Please,” he says, replying to your earlier comment. Then he grabs your hand and places it exactly where it hurts. “Harder, please.”
You press. He lets out a satisfied murmur, and without thinking, your fingers slide under his shirt where it’s already unbuttoned. Warm skin meets your touch, and you feel him stiffen just a little.
“This okay?” you ask.
“Yeah. Keep going.”
You hold one shoulder steady and massage with the other hand under the shirt for a few more minutes.
“If I gave you a raise,” Harry says, “would you become my full-time massage therapist?”
“I don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“And it still feels fucking incredible.”
He never swears around you. Or anyone. Hearing him say that makes the moment feel even more charged. Strangely, it encourages you. You press harder, still behind him, both hands now working the tension from his shoulders.
Then Harry reaches back and takes your left hand. His thumb brushes lightly over your ring finger, and your breath catches.
“There should be an engagement ring here.”
“Maybe.”
“If you get married, would you still work with me?”
“Yeah. I have Stockholm Syndrome,” you say, shifting your position and stretching one leg beside his body. He lets go of your hand, and you go back to massaging, now reaching the base of his neck. Goosebumps rise under your touch. “I could never live without you barking twenty report requests a day.”
“I’m not that bad. I’m nice to you.”
“You are.”
God. His scent is going to kill you.
“You know what the finance team says about us?” Harry starts. You hum, prompting him to go on. “They say you and I are having an affair.”
“Marketing, too. Pretty much the whole company.”
“What? Why?”
Maybe because you turn into a puddle around him.
“Because you pay me more than anyone else,” you say simply. “And I get privileges and people notice. Of course they’re going to think we’re sleeping together.”
“You don’t care?”
“Maybe I’d care if I worked on one of the lower floors. But here? Not a chance. Let them envy me.”
Harry chuckles, shoulders shaking, and rests a hand on your shin, right over the tights. That touch is new too, and, once again, you freeze.
“I know you pay me well because I’m indispensable,” you continue. “Which is very satisfying.”
“So when we stay late working together—”
“Yes,” you answer before he finishes. “They probably think I’m bent over your desk.”
Harry turns to look at his desk. For one second, you both know exactly what the other is imagining.
“Interesting,” he says slowly. “Has anyone ever said anything to you?”
“No. No one’s crazy enough to say anything to the boss’s supposed mistress,” you joke, but the line falls a bit flat, so you quickly add, “According to their little narrative, I mean.”
The awkward moment is cut short by a notification sound from Harry’s computer. You both look toward his desk, and he groans:
“I hope that’s the report from the Chinese investors. They’re three days late.”
He starts to stand, wincing again because of his shoulder, but you place a hand on his arm and get up:
“I’ll check it. Stay put, old man. Even standing up seems like a challenge for you right now.”
“You just got a 10% pay cut.”
You make a “blah blah blah” gesture with your hand and head to his desk, settling into the chair that’s more like a plush couch. On the screen, there’s an open chart, but you quickly move to his inbox.
The latest email is from someone named Yijun, and there’s an attachment.
“You got it,” you say. “Want me to reply?”
“Acknowledge receipt and say I’ll get back once I’ve reviewed the data.”
You begin typing the reply, carefully channeling your best Harry Castillo voice.
Through your peripheral vision, you catch Harry leaving the floor and settling into the leather couch with a satisfied murmur.
“Best regards,” you read aloud, finishing the email. “Harry Castillo, CEO of Castillo & Co Construction. Sent. Done.”
As you minimize the email window, another one pops up. It’s a pre-filled PDF titled “divorce agreement.” You shrink that window as if it had burned your fingers, only to reveal Harry’s personal inbox behind it.
The last message is from his lawyer. You catch a glimpse of the words “as requested,” “speak with her,” “assets,” and “properties” before closing everything immediately.
There’s a knot in your throat as you stand and silently walk back to the lounge area while Harry watches you. He’s left space beside him on the couch, and you settle there, folding your left leg underneath you.
You’re so close that your knee grazes his thigh.
“I sent it,” you say.
“Thanks. You can head home. I’ll stay a little longer.”
“Avoiding your wife?” He doesn’t answer, and honestly, silence is the wiser choice. But you’re not wise. “Can I ask you something?”
“I might not answer.”
“Fair.” You hesitate. “Swear you won’t fire me?” He still says nothing, and you let out a breath, trusting that you won’t be jobless tomorrow. “Is it true you had a thing with the finance manager?”
Harry’s response is a look of disbelief, as if you just told him the strategy department was considering investing in a country undergoing an economic collapse.
“Where’d you hear that?”
“People talk.”
He rolls his eyes.
“Right. And people also say you and I are having an affair, but that’s not true, is it?” If anyone else had used that tone, you’d probably shrink in your seat. But this is Harry. His stress never goes beyond sarcasm—at least with you. “Of course it’s not true. You really think I’m the kind of boss who sleeps with an employee?”
That silences you, and you’re not even sure where this sudden wave of disappointment comes from. It makes you painfully aware of your place in the company. Despite the trust, the passwords, the confidences, in the end, you’re the executive assistant. Nothing more.
“I don’t” you say finally.
He laughs, incredulous.
“Why do you sound disappointed?” he asks. And at this point, you don’t even know what to say, so you start putting on your heels instead, but Harry is faster. “No, no… Hold on.”
“Do you need anything else?” you ask politely, your left foot already in the shoe.
Harry freezes, eyes locked on you, and you freeze too.
“I have my morals,” he says.
“I know that,” you shake your head slightly, as if trying to hear him better. “Sorry, what do you mean by that?”
“I mean I have my morals, and that’s why I’ve never tried anything in here with the one person who makes me want to, especially because she’s my fucking assistant.”
God. You freeze, heart racing. Your mind latches onto the tense of the verb.
“Makes? Present tense?”
His quiet laugh is almost bitter.
“Unfortunately,” he says, settling back into the couch. “My father raised me right. I have morals, I respect my wife, and I care about my reputation.”
You drop the shoe again and turn to him. Your question is clear, firm:
“Even on nights like this one?”
He says your name like a prayer, rubbing his face with one hand.
“Don’t do this.”
That quiet, simple plea brings you crashing back to reality for the thousandth time. You whisper an apology just as softly, pick up your heels again, and before you can put them on, the leather cushions shift beneath you.
That’s the only warning you get before Harry is close behind you, his hand gently gathering your hair and moving it over your right shoulder to expose your neck.
“I have my morals,” he repeats, coming closer. “Don’t you?”
You think of your boyfriend, and how sweet he is to you. Your mind conjures up images of happy moments, trips, dinners, gifts, and you know you can’t just shove those into a box and lock it away for a few hours. That’s not how it works.
But the way your stomach knots with Harry’s closeness shrinks all those memories down like a sheet of paper folded over and over. They’re still there, but small. Insignificant.
“I do,” you say, because it’s true. “But I can live with that.”
“I don’t know if I can,” Harry murmurs the way he always does when something matters, as if tasting the words.
“If you’re just going to feel guilty—”
“I’m not talking about guilt,” Harry interrupts. And then his hand is on your stomach, pulling you back toward him with one decisive motion that makes you gasp. “I’m saying having you just once wouldn’t be enough.”
“Well, it’s going to have to be.”
At the very first touch of Harry’s lips on your neck, your entire body feels like it’s catching fire, every nerve alive with want, your hands clenched tightly on your thighs. It’s as if every hair on your body is standing on end.
“Did you forget I’m the one giving orders here?” he says. “Once isn’t enough.”
“Is that a command?” you challenge.
Harry’s mouth trails down to your throat, leaving open, wet kisses on your sensitive skin.
His fingers glide lightly to your breasts, the tips barely grazing your nipple through the silk of your blouse. The friction of the fabric makes you arch into his touch so slow and torturous it nearly drives you mad.
“If only you actually followed my orders,” Harry murmurs.
“Of course I do.”
“Yeah?” He kisses the corner of your mouth, pausing just to say, “Then get on your knees for me.”
You shift on the couch to face him, and suddenly, it all feels terrifyingly real. The weight of what you’re doing crashes into you like a slap across the face, because he’s right there, wedding ring on his finger and lips still flushed red.
But unfortunately, it’s not enough to make you stop.
“I want a kiss first.”
Harry parts his legs, giving you space, and you rest one knee between them on the couch, moving in closer to sit on his thigh. You run your fingers along his cheeks, his beard, the collar of his perfectly white shirt. It’s the first time you’ve touched him like this, and you’re certain your gaze gives away more than you want, because there’s a softness in the way Harry pulls you closer.
You’ve caught yourself wondering what kissing him would be like, even during office hours. You’ve seen him kiss his wife before, but it was always just polite pecks, the kind of affection acceptable under New York’s high-society scrutiny.
But nothing could have prepared you for how naturally your lips fit together, or how good it feels. It’s even better than you imagined, just like the rush of doing something so wrong, yet so irresistible, precisely because it’s forbidden, and everything you’ve secretly wanted.
Harry’s hands slide to your waist, deepening the kiss, and yours go straight to his hair, already messier now. The moment his tongue touches yours is the same moment his hands slip beneath your skirt, lifting the fabric as they go.
He finds the lace tops of your stockings, held in place by a garter belt. His hands go straight to your ass, gripping tightly as if it’s instinct.
The curse he whispers makes you smile.
“Take off the skirt and blouse. Get on your knees,” he says, cupping your face and pressing one more kiss to your lips. Then, with a whisper: “Please.”
Hearing this man plead is a dream come true, which is exactly why you nod right away and walk toward his office door.
You close it. Lock it. And as you return to him, you unzip the skirt and slip off your blouse, leaving it behind in your path. The air conditioning makes your nipples hard and sends chills across your skin, but Harry’s gaze, now seated deep into the couch with legs parted, more than makes up for the cold.
Next goes the skirt, and now you’re standing before him in just your stockings, panties, and garter belt.
His lips part as he draws in a deep, appreciative breath, eyes trailing slowly up your body. It’s almost as if he’s touching you with his stare. His hand goes to his tie, loosening it as you sink to your knees.
With your hands resting on your thighs, you watch as he pulls the tie off (the one you bought last month) and undoes the top buttons of his shirt. Next comes the belt and then the button on his pants. Harry leans forward slightly, legs still open, and pulls himself free from his boxers.
Despite the curiosity and heat flooding through you, you keep your eyes locked on his until your tongue brushes the tip of his hard cock. Harry exhales sharply, eyes fluttering shut, and there’s a quiet power in watching a man like him unravel — even just a little.
That alone is enough to make you take him fully into your mouth, lips closing around his thick shaft, sinking him deep.
It earns you a low, guttural curse.
Harry gathers your hair in one hand, holding it tight at the base of your neck. You have one hand on his thigh, the other stroking what your mouth can’t reach, and for a few minute, you lose yourself in the weight of him on your tongue, in his taste, his scent, the sounds he makes just for you.
And then just one question slices through the haze:
“What would your boyfriend think, seeing you like this?” Harry asks, his voice so polite it almost clashes with what you’re doing. He pulls your head back, letting his cock slip from your mouth, dragging the tip across your lips like he’s marking you. “On your knees for your boss. Do you suck his cock this well too?”
You narrow your eyes.
There’s probably an unspoken rule about not mentioning spouses or partners during moments like this. The act is already betrayal enough.
But if Harry wants to play that game, you won’t back down.
You rise slightly on your knees, aligning yourself so he can press his cock between your breasts, and you reach for his mouth to whisper:
“And do you get this hard when it’s your wife sucking your cock? Because if you did, you’d probably want to be home right now.”
Harry smiles against your lips and kisses you again as you climb onto his lap, and he remains silent.
“Let’s go all the way,” you say, because you’re far too wet to let this go to waste. “Right?”
“Right,” Harry answers without hesitation. “No turning back.”
“Do you want to?”
He slips his hand into your panties and finds so much wetness that his fingers glide immediately. His answer comes when he lifts the same fingers to his mouth, eyes locked on yours.
That makes you rush to unclip the garter belt and slide off your panties, tossing them aside. Harry gets the message and starts striping off his pants and shirt. And suddenly you’re on your back with Harry’s heavy and sturdy body on yours, skin on skin.
Harry rolls down your stockings in one smooth, hurried motion. You wrap your thighs around his hips.
“I don’t have a condom,” he says, and God, if eyes could beg, his would be on their knees. “It’s not like a married man needs to carry one around.”
“I printed your test results last week. And I don’t have sex without a condom…” you begin—and then add, “…with my boyfriend.”
He gets it.
“Can I?”
“You can.”
Harry doesn’t even glance down as he guides himself inside you, keeping his eyes on your face, your mouth, his own opening bit by bit while sinking into the wetness. When he’s fully buried, you have to shift your hips to adjust to his thick length.
“Just a second,” you whisper, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He nods, and you take the moment to ask, “Had you imagined this before?”
“I don’t know how to answer that without sounding like a pervert.”
You run your thumb across his eyebrow, studying his features in the dim light of the office.
“Would it make you feel better if I told you I’ve imagined you while fucking my boyfriend?”
Harry raises an eyebrow.
“I want details.”
“Earlier that day you and I were at a meeting. You did some absurd calculation in your head, and it made me wet. So I went home and…”
“Fucked him while thinking about me,” he finishes, smiling. “Filthy mouth.”
When you keep staring at him, silently asking for his turn, Harry sighs.
“Of course I’ve imagined it. Every time we stay late together, or when you wear that damn red dress and walk into my office, and especially when you put arrogant assholes in their place. You drive me insane.”
You reach between your bodies, your fingers trailing along where you’re joined, circling the base of Harry’s cock. He jerks his hips reflexively, breathing out a soft moan.
“And…” you press.
“And sometimes I dream about you and wake up so fucking hard that…” Harry begins to move his hips slowly when you give him a nod. The thrust is deep, slow, excruciating, and he fills you entirely. You almost miss his next words:
“…I wake my wife up and fuck her.”
“While thinking of me.”
Harry grips your hips and covers your mouth with his:
“While thinking of you.”
Your mouths open into a kiss that matches the way he fucks you: raw, urgent, drenched in tension. Every thrust hits something deep inside you, something you’re not sure anyone else ever will again. You cling to his shoulders, resisting the urge to claw at him, lifting your hips to match his rhythm.
You’re soaked, so much it’s nearly embarrassing, and you’re certain Harry’s lap is drenched with it too. As his movements grow more erratic, you slide a hand between your legs.
Harry catches your wrist, guiding it back to his shoulder.
“No, no… You’re gonna come on my mouth later.”
Well. Okay.
Harry shifts to sit back on the couch, one foot planted on the floor, the other tucked under his leg. He pulls you into his lap again, and this new angle makes him reach deeper, every little shift filling you completely. When he's about to come, he grips your waist tightly to keep you still and thrusts harder, driven by your moans, his mouth open against the space between your breasts."
“Can I come inside?” Harry asks, holding you firmly.
“Please.”
He groans, wrapping his arms around you, and just a few more thrusts later he’s pulsing inside you, breathing heavily against your skin. The warmth floods you in a way that makes you throb for your own release.
“Harry, I need to—”
“I know.”
You’re not sure how it happens so quickly, but in the next second he’s back on the couch, and you’re straddling his face. Then it’s his mouth, his lips on your aching clit.
You grip his hair and glance down, meeting his gaze. Your whimper turns into a moan as he drags his tongue along your folds, tasting both of you, and returns to sucking that overstimulated spot.
“Stick your tongue out,” you beg. “Please—”
He does, and you immediately grind against it, whispering Harry’s name over and over like a prayer.
It hits you like an earthquake. So sudden, so intense that your whole body trembles on top of him, and for a split second, it feels like you forget how to breathe. When you come back to yourself, you’re sitting on his chest, and Harry’s wiping his beard with the palm of his hand, a crooked little smirk on his red lips.
You look down at him and say:
“We’re going to hell.”
He wraps his arms around you and sits up, keeping you in his lap.
“I’m an atheist,” he says, kissing your shoulder. “So… okay.”
“Okay.”
“And now?”
“Now,” you say slowly, cupping his face and making him look at you again. “This never happened. We go back to our lives like nothing ever did.”
Harry sighs your name.
“You say a lot of smart things. That’s not one of them.”
You pinch his cheek, offering no reply, and slip off his lap to gather your clothes from the floor. Your stockings, panties, skirt, and blouse. When you return to the couch, Harry’s already pulled on his boxers and pants, so you sit next to him to do the same.
The entire process of getting dressed again is done in silence, and you’re not sure what you feel: shame, guilt, some strange sense of calm… The only thing that doesn’t hit you is regret — and that makes you feel guilty too.
As you’re slipping on your heels, Harry says:
“It’s only nine-forty.”
“Hm?”
“We still have two hours and twenty minutes before the night’s over. And I’ve got an empty apartment about twenty minutes from here.”
You look up at him, and he adds:
“If tomorrow we’re going to pretend this never happened, we might as well make the most of it tonight.”
You know it’s a terrible excuse. You know that tomorrow neither of you will be able to pretend this didn’t happen. You don’t know what comes next, and the ring on Harry’s finger sits like a weight in your gut, but you’re not a good person.
You lied to Harry. Your morals are bent, and even though you’re fully aware of the circumstances, they don’t stop you.
Nothing could stop you from getting what you want. And right now? You know exactly what you want.
Summary: You saved Joel's life from raiders but he, instead of thanking you for it, he gets mad at you for risking your life.
or
You get hurt and you are forced to be vulnerable with each other.
wc: 7k
warnings: age gap, established relationship, angst, fluff, miscommunication, insecurities, mentions of blood, and fluff
a/n: i'm slowly coming back to this with this baby here that was on my drafts. Reblogs and comments are always appreciated 💌
The forest was too quiet for your liking. No birds, no wind, just the soft crunch of the snowy ground beneath your feet as you followed Joel, who was ahead of you, and Ellie. There was something in the air this day, eerie silence pressing on your chest, tension, and Joel had been on edge all day; his broad shoulders seemed tense under his jacket, his grip on the rifle was tighter than usual.
It felt like the premonition of something bad coming your way. So, you kept your knife close and your gun pressed under your hand. Staying alert in case something bad could happen.
“We’ll set up camp soon,” Joel muttered exasperated, his voice low without looking behind to you and Ellie.
Ellie groaned. “Finally. My feet feel like they’re gonna fall soon.”
You gave her a tired smile at her remark, but your eyes stayed on Joel's back. His jaw was tight, the scar on his temple crinkling deeper. You knew him well enough to read the signs; he was worried. More than usual today.
That’s why you didn’t even hear them coming.
One second, you were walking behind Joel, and the next, chaos broke out. Shouts echoed through the trees. Five, maybe six men, all armed, came out from nowhere. Joel shoved you and Ellie behind an overturned log.
“Stay down,” he growled, pressing his rifle into your hands. “If anyone gets close, you shoot. Don’t move unless I say so.”
“Joel—”
“Stay here."
You swallowed your fear and nodded, grabbing Ellie and pulling her down. Joel stepped out, drawing their attention, firing a shot that took one of the men down, then another, and so on.
But the rest came fast. Through the cracks in the log, you watched Joel fight. He moved like a man who’d done this a thousand times before, as you already know, but even then, it was too much to bear; he didn't feel strong enough as before. One of the raiders tackled him, and suddenly, Joel was on the ground, with one of those men’s hands wrapped around his throat, squeezing hard.
“Shit,” you whispered, your heart pounding so hard you could barely hear Ellie’s panicked breathing next to you.
Joel clawed at the man’s wrists, his face turning red, veins bulging in his neck. He wasn’t going to get out of it, and you couldn’t just sit there watching the man you loved die in front of you as if it wasn't worth saving.
“Stay here,” you told Ellie, voice shaking from rage.
“Wait, what are you doing?!” she whispered.
Your body moved before your mind could argue. You were already running before Ellie could have the chance to stop you.
You tackled the man strangling Joel, knocking him off balance, but before you could finish him, another set of hands grabbed you from behind. You struggled, kicking and clawing, managing to land a sharp elbow into the man’s ribs before twisting free. The first man lunged again, but you dodged, feeling the burn of a knife slicing across your cheek. The pain barely registered as you drove your own knife into the man’s neck, then turned and plunged it into the second attacker’s chest before he could think of recovering. Warm blood splattered your hands as the man crumpled, gasping his last breath.
You stood there, panting, adrenaline rushing through your veins.
Joel coughed violently, rolling onto his side, his face pale and drenched in sweat. You dropped to your knees beside him, your hands hovering uselessly. “Joel? Hey, hey, are you okay?”
He didn’t answer right away, still gasping for air. When he finally sat up, his brown eyes locked onto yours, not with gratitude, but with pure, burning rage.
“What the fuck were you thinking?” he rasped, still coughing.
You blinked, the adrenaline still rushing through you. “I-I-I had to...He was going to—”
“And you didn't listen to me!" Joel slammed his fist into the dirt, his whole body trembling with anger. He hated when you had to put yourself in danger because he hadn't been strong enough to save the day. “I told you to stay hidden! What if he’d killed you?!”
“Well, he didn’t kill me,” you stated, “I saved your life.”
“And you risked yours doing it." His voice echoed through the trees, sharp and unforgiving. You felt your chest tighten, heat rising in your throat.
“Well, thanks to that risk you are not fucking dead." you spat back.
Joel stood up, wiping the blood from his hands. His jaw clenched, but he didn’t say anything else. The space between you felt impossibly wide.
He ran a hand over his face, stepping back like he couldn’t even look at you right now. "You put yourself in danger. You could’ve been killed. Do you even get that?"
"I get it. I just saved your ass." You shot back, the weight of the moment crashing over you. "And all you can do is yell at me?"
He exhaled sharply, his hands curling into fists before he turned away. "I won't do this with you."
"Fine," you bit out.
The air between you felt thick, suffocating. You glanced at Ellie, who stood off to the side, arms crossed as if sensing the tension.
You lifted a hand to your cheek, your fingers coming away sticky with blood. Now that the adrenaline was wearing off, the cut on your cheek burned, you sucked in a sharp breath. Ellie’s eyes flicked to the wound, concern flashing across her face, but she didn’t say anything. Joel still wasn’t looking at you, his back rigid as he adjusted his pack.
"We should get moving," he muttered, voice strained.
You nodded, swallowing down the ache in your throat. Without another word, the three of you fell into step, the silence stretching between you like the open wound on your cheek.
That night, you found a small clearing tucked between big trees, far enough from the road to feel safe enough to spend the night. The cold had settled deep, and you pulled your jacket tighter around yourself as you sat near the weak glow of the fire. Joel had barely spoken a word since the fight, his focus set on keeping watch, his back to you.
You weren’t hurt by his words or the outburst he had, but by the idea of him willingly dying and feeling at peace with it. How easy would it be for him to leave you behind and on your own?
You dismissed your thoughts as you dug through your pack for a rag, pressing it against the wound on your cheek. The sting made you wince, and you cursed under your breath.
A quiet shuffling caught your attention, and you looked up to see Ellie kneeling beside you, her brows furrowed.
"Here," she said, pulling a small bottle of alcohol from her pocket. "Let me help."
You hesitated for a moment, then gave her a small nod. She dampened the cloth with the liquid and reached for your face. The touch was gentle, but the sting made you hiss.
"Sorry," Ellie murmured, biting a laugh, concentrating as she cleaned the cut. "You’re lucky it’s not deeper."
You let out a small chuckle, though there wasn’t much humor in it. "Lucky isn’t exactly the word I would use to describe this day.”
Ellie huffed, finishing up before pulling a bandage from her pack. "Well, you’re not dead, so that counts for something."
You smiled faintly, glancing toward Joel. He still hadn’t turned around. You sighed, looking back at Ellie. "Thanks, Ellie."
She just shrugged, but there was warmth in her eyes. "Anytime."
As the fire crackled softly between you, you finally felt a small sense of comfort, at least from Ellie. Joel, on the other hand, was still a storm brewing on the other side of your little camp.
Joel sat a few feet away, his gaze drifting to you as he kept watch. He noticed the way you shivered, your arms wrapped tightly around yourself, but still, you slept. He hesitated, jaw tightening as he debated with himself. Then, with a quiet sigh, he shrugged off his jacket and carefully draped it over your sleeping form.
You stirred slightly at the added warmth, a small, unconscious sigh escaping your lips, but you didn’t wake. Joel lingered for a moment, watching you, before settling back down next to you as if he needed to remind himself you were still here.
The fire in your camp had burned down to glowing embers, the scent of smoke mixing with the cool morning air. Joel sat near it, his hands wrapped around his thermos, sipping coffee out of it, his eyes occasionally flicking over to where you slept.
Your back was to him, your body curled slightly, the jacket pulled high over your shoulder. The cut ran along your cheekbone from the fight the day before, reminding him of how you always put yourself in danger for him.
He hated himself for it. How he had come to the point where he felt useless to protect you.
Now, you looked peaceful despite the frown that creased your forehead. Joel knew that look. He knew you too well to know what was happening.
Ellie stirred next to him, stretching before getting to her feet. She glanced at you, then back at Joel.
“Should I wake her up?” she asked, rubbing her tired eyes.
Joel shook his head. “Not yet.”
Ellie raised a brow. “Why?”
Joel sighed, glancing at you again before taking another sip of coffee. “She has a frown.”
Ellie blinked. “Yeah, because she’s mad at you. Even in her sleep.”
Joel exhaled sharply through his nose, but there wasn’t much fight in it. “No. It’s different. She gets that when she gets migraine.” He ran a hand over his beard, glancing at you again. “Just let her sleep a little bit longer.”
Ellie’s teasing smirk faded slightly, replaced by something softer in her gaze, “You really pay attention, huh?”
Joel didn’t answer right away. Instead, he took another slow sip of coffee, staring into the fire, fading. “Yeah,” he admitted quietly. “When it comes to her, of course I do.”
Ellie sighed, dropping back down next to him. “So are you gonna fix this or what?”
Joel tensed, setting his cup down beside him. “She doesn’t wanna talk to me.”
“Yeah, because you yelled at her.” She reminded him.
Joel rubbed a hand down his face. “She shouldn’t have done what she did.”
“She saved your ass, Joel.”
Joel’s jaw clenched. “That isn't the point.”
Ellie scoffed, shaking her head. “Yeah, it kinda is. She did what you would’ve done for her.”
Joel was silent, his gaze dropping to the ground.
“Do you think she would be fine if you were dead?” she pressed on, sighing.
Instead of an answer, Joel reached for his bag, unbuckling the strap. He knew exactly where to look; tucked inside one of the side pockets were the pills he always carried for you, just in case.
Ellie, who had been watching with quiet curiosity, tilted her head. “Wait… do you carry her pills?”
Joel didn’t look up as he pulled out the small bottle, checking how many were left. “Yeah.” His voice was gruff, like he didn’t think it was something worth mentioning.
Ellie crossed her arms. “Huh.”
Joel finally glanced at her. “What?”
Ellie smirked. “Nothin’. Just, you act all tough, but you’re, like, secretly the softest person ever for her.”
Joel rolled his eyes, muttering, “Keep it to yourself, kid,” as he moved toward you.
You stirred slightly as he knelt beside you, brushing your hair back from your face with a careful hand. The sight of the cut on your cheek made his stomach twist again, but he pushed the feeling down. He had already failed to keep you from getting hurt once; he wouldn’t fail you now.
Gently, he set the bottle of pills down next to you, along with a canteen of water. He knew you still weren’t talking to him, but that didn’t mean he was going to stop taking care of you.
As he sat back, Ellie watched him with something unreadable in her expression.
Joel sighed, rubbing his thumb over the strap of your bag.
Ellie nodded. “You’re doing the right thing, at least.”
Joel wasn’t sure about that. But as he sat there, keeping watch while you slept, he figured it was all he could do for now.
The first thing you noticed when you woke up was the dull ache in your head. The second was the soft sound of the fire crackling and fading nearby. You blinked against the morning light, your body still heavy with exhaustion from the last day.
And then you saw the canteen and the small bottle of pills sitting beside you. You didn’t have to ask who put them there.
Your gaze flickered to Joel, who sat a few feet away, his back turned slightly toward you. He was sharpening his knife, and Ellie sat across from him, kicking at the dirt with her boot, sneaking glances at you like she was waiting to see what you’d do.
You swallowed, your throat dry. Carefully, you pushed yourself up, wincing as your muscles protested. Your fingers brushed against the bottle of pills, and you hesitated before finally picking it up.
Joel’s voice came before you could say anything. “Drink some water with that.”
It was quiet. Gruff. Like he wasn’t sure where the two of you stood after yesterday.
You pressed your lips together, debating whether to respond, but you didn’t have the energy to fight with him again. Instead, you obeyed, twisting the cap off and dry-swallowing the pill before chasing it with a sip of water.
Joel didn’t look at you, but you saw his shoulders drop just a little.
Ellie, of course, didn’t stay quiet for long. “Sooo, does this mean you guys are done being mad at each other?
You shot her a look. “Ellie.”
“What? I’m just saying—”
Joel cut in; his voice flat. “Eat your breakfast.”
Ellie huffed but dropped it, tearing off a piece of jerky with her teeth.
You sighed, rubbing your temples before stealing a glance at Joel. His eyes were still fixed on his knife, but you could see the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers gripped the handle a little too tightly.
He was waiting. For you to say something. For you to forgive him.
You sighed, pressing your fingers against your temples in a weak attempt to ease the pressure in your skull. It wasn’t working. Nothing ever really worked, except for him.
Joel had a way of grounding you when the pain got bad. He didn’t always have the right words, but he never needed them. He had his own way of taking care of you, of letting you know he was there. And right now, all you wanted was for him to kiss your temples the way he used to. The way he always did when you were hurting.
But things weren’t the same. You had fought, you had pulled away, and he had let you. And now, even though he was right there, he felt miles away.
You swallowed hard and shut your eyes, trying to push down the disappointment twisting in your chest. It was stupid to want that from him right now. After everything, you shouldn’t need him like that.
Except you did.
Joel shifted, and you felt him move closer, his presence clear even before he spoke. “Did you take the pills?”
You nodded. “Yeah.”
There was a long silence, and then, so softly you almost missed it— “Still hurts?”
You hesitated. Your pride screamed at you to say no. To brush him off and keep that last little bit of distance between you. But you were tired.
“Yeah,” you admitted.
Joel exhaled slowly. And then, finally, finally, you felt his fingers brush against your jaw, tilting your head just enough so he could lean in.
His lips pressed against your temple, lingering for just a second longer than they needed to.
You closed your eyes, breathing him in, savoring the feeling of his lips on your skin.
“Get ready, we have to go now,” he said, still closer to your face.
You nodded, your throat tightening at the sudden shift back to reality. The moment was brief, fleeting, just like every soft thing between you and Joel seemed to be.
He pulled away first, his hand dropping from your face like he hadn’t just touched you just a moment ago. Like he hadn’t just kissed you the way he always used to when you were hurting.
You cleared your throat, pushing yourself up slightly, ignoring the dull ache in your chest. "Yeah, okay," you muttered, rubbing at your face as if you could wipe away the lingering warmth of his touch.
Joel stood up, already shifting back into that closed-off version of himself, the one that had been there ever since your fight. The one who didn’t know how to bridge the gap now.
Ellie walked in just as you were attempting to stand, her eyes flicking between the two of you. "You guys look weird," she said, frowning.
Joel sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "Not now, Ellie."
She just smirked, clearly entertained by whatever tension was hanging in the air. "Whatever you say, lovebirds."
You rolled your eyes, reaching for your bag to distract yourself. Your fingers trembled slightly as you adjusted the straps, but you pretended not to notice. Joel pretended to, but you could feel his gaze lingering on you, watching you too closely, like he always did.
The road stretched ahead, cracked and broken, nature reclaiming what once belonged to people. You walked in silence, the weight of the morning still pressing against your chest. Your head ached, but you bit down on the pain, refusing to let it slow you down.
Joel was beside you, his pace slow, his presence solid as ever. But something about him felt distant. He was looking at you, and you could feel his gaze flickering toward you every few moments.
Before, his eyes had been filled with something warm, something certain. But now? Now, it felt like he was watching you from behind a wall, like he was making sure you were still there but refusing to let himself feel anything about it.
Ellie, for once, was quiet, kicking a stray rock as she walked ahead, letting the tension settle between the two of them.
Joel’s outburst had been raw and desperate, yes, but now, you saw it for what it was. Fear. Not just losing you. But what did it mean to him if he did it?
Because Joel didn’t think he deserved to have you. He thought he wasn’t enough, that he never had been. And maybe, he would never be the man you need it.
You swallowed hard, your fingers tightening around the strap of your bag. "You don’t have to keep looking at me like that," you muttered, not even turning your head.
Joel tensed beside you. "Like what?"
"Like you're waiting for me to cry to let you in and forgive you, you shout at me and I'm angry about it."
His jaw ticked, and for a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say anything at all.
"I am not," he said, voice rough. A lie.
You stopped walking. Finally, you turned to face him. "Then what is it?" you asked, your voice softer than you meant for it to be. "Because you had been like this for days, something's been different, and yesterday you just broke."
Joel exhaled slowly, looking away, his hands on his hips, his fingers flexing. "Nothing’s different."
You huffed out a bitter laugh, shaking your head. "Bullshit."
Ellie stopped a few steps ahead, glancing between the two of you like she wanted to intervene but thought better of it.
Joel shifted uncomfortably, his shoulders stiff, his mouth opening—then closing again. He had no answer. No real one, anyway.
Because the truth was, it had never been about you. It had always been about him. About the way he would rather push you away than let himself believe, even for a second, that he was allowed to keep you. That you would want to stay.
That you would choose him. But you were tired of being the only one fighting for this.
So, you just nodded, setting your jaw. "Alright," you murmured, turning back toward the road, ignoring the way your chest ached. "If nothing’s different, then let’s just keep moving."
He heard the way your voice broke at the end, and he just watched as you joined Ellie.
Joel stood there, hands tightening into fists at his sides as he watched you walk away. He’d done this again.
Ellie shot him a glance, her expression unreadable, before she turned her attention back to you. She said something low under her breath, nudging your shoulder. You didn’t look back.
And Joel? Joel just stood there, rooted in place, watching the one thing he was most afraid of slip through his fingers.
Because, deep down, he knew. It wasn’t the world that would take you from him. It was him. It was a matter of time.
A few hours later, when the cold still found its way deep down your bones. You followed Joel and Ellie into the old market, the air inside thick with dust and the remnants of a world long gone. The faded signs above the shop windows once advertised fruits and vegetables, but now they were nothing more than silent witnesses to the decay around them.
Joel stepped inside first, scanning the area with ease. His hand never strayed far from the rifle slung across his back. He wasn’t just looking for supplies; he was looking for danger, as always, and he was ready to find it. You watched him move with that quiet confidence that made him seem invincible.
He disappeared behind a corner, moving into the heart of the market.
Ellie, always ready for adventure, shifted impatiently next to you. “Is it safe?” she whispered, her voice barely audible in the stillness of the market.
You didn’t answer right away, your eyes fixed on the place where Joel had vanished.
“He’ll let us know when it’s safe,” you said quietly, not taking your eyes away from him.
Ellie raised an eyebrow, clearly not fully convinced. “Yeah, but what if-”
You cut her off with a shake of your head. “He’s careful. He’ll check everything first.”
She didn’t seem entirely satisfied with the answer, but she stayed quiet. You both waited in silence, the only sounds the distant hum of the wind and the occasional creak of the building settling.
Then, Joel’s voice echoed from ahead. “Clear,” he called out as he reappeared from behind a row of shelves, his gaze briefly flicking over you before he turned to lead the way deeper into the market. His expression was unreadable, but you could sense the wariness beneath it.
His fingers found their way to your shoulders, his touch was brief, just the slightest brush of his fingers against your jacket. A silent reassurance. Or maybe a habit he couldn't break.
You didn’t react, didn’t turn to look at him. Instead, you focused on scanning the shelves, looking for anything useful. Cans, medical supplies.
Ellie was already rummaging through a shelf, muttering under her breath about how people really liked canned beans before the world went to hell. Joel moved ahead.
You bent down, shifting through a pile of toppled boxes, when Joel’s voice came from behind you again, “You good?”
It was automatic, the way he asked. Like, even when he was keeping his distance, he still couldn’t help but care.
You hesitated, keeping your back to him. “Yeah.”
Another pause. Then a quiet, “Alright.”
But it wasn’t alright.
Not the way his voice sounded. Not the way your chest ached every time he was close, but not close enough. And definitely not the way his fingers had lingered just a second too long on your shoulder again, as if he didn’t want to let go.
Joel was already moving toward another section of the market, scanning the rows of empty shelves, searching for anything of value. Ellie had drifted further ahead, already rummaging through a crate she found. You stayed close to the wall, the building’s dilapidated structure making you nervous, but you tried not to let the unease show.
You took a few more steps, carefully picking your way over the cracked floor, when suddenly, the ground beneath you gave way with a sharp, unsettling creak. Before you could react, your foot twisted, the bone snapping like a twig under the weight of the fall.
A sharp, searing pain shot through your ankle as you cried out, unable to stop yourself. The world spun for a moment as you collapsed, hands pressing to the ground to catch yourself, but the pain in your ankle was unbearable. You let out a sharp gasp, fighting the urge to cry out again as you felt something shift beneath the skin; your foot didn’t feel right.
"Shit," you muttered, trying to stay calm, but panic crept in with each breath. Your heart raced as you instinctively tried to pull yourself up, but your foot wouldn’t hold any weight. You couldn’t put it down.
Ellie’s voice broke through the fog of pain, distant but growing closer. “What happened?”
“Sweetheart?” Joel’s voice followed almost immediately. You could hear the panic lacing his tone, the urgency in his steps as he turned back toward you. You were grateful for his presence when you saw him, his figure coming into view, moving fast.
He saw you on the ground, your face twisted in pain, and his heart dropped. "Damn it," he muttered under his breath, kneeling down beside you with a speed that surprised you. His hands were gentle, but you could hear the frustration in his voice as he assessed the damage. "What the hell happened?"
“I—I fell,” you stammered, gritting your teeth as you tried to hold back more of the pain. You couldn’t focus on anything other than your ankle, the way it throbbed, the way your body seemed to give way under the weight of it.
Joel’s face hardened, his jaw clenching as he reached down to carefully touch your injured ankle. “I’m gonna need you to stay still, alright?” His voice was calm, but there was a warning edge to it. He was trying to hold himself together, trying not to let his worry show, but you could see it in his eyes. His hands worked quickly, checking for anything more serious, his brow furrowed with concentration.
“Ellie, get over here,” Joel called out, his voice low and strained.
Ellie rushed back toward you, eyes wide with concern as she knelt beside you. “Shit, are you alright?”
“I’ll be fine,” you said through clenched teeth, trying to sound stronger than you felt. “It’s just my ankle.”
Joel’s gaze flicked between you and Ellie, his mind clearly racing. “We need to get you out of here, now.” His hand gripped your shoulder for a moment, his fingers digging into the fabric of your jacket as if grounding himself in that brief contact.
Ellie was already standing, her expression determined as she took a deep breath. “I’ll go grab what we need.”
Joel nodded, but his focus never left you. He reached down, his hands carefully lifting you as he positioned himself behind you. "I'm gonna carry you. It's gonna hurt a little, but I need you to hang on."
You bit back a hiss of pain as he adjusted his hold on you, making sure not to jostle your foot too much, but you couldn’t suppress the way your body tensed at the movement. The pain was still sharp, but something was comforting in the way Joel’s arms secured around you.
“Joel,” you whispered, too exhausted to speak louder.
“I got you,” he muttered back, his voice almost a promise. "Just hang in there."
As he started to move, carrying you carefully toward a safer corner, you could feel your heart rate begin to slow, your pulse steadying slightly in the rhythm of his steps. But the ache in your ankle was still lingering.
You closed your eyes for a moment, trying to block out the pain, trying to find some semblance of peace in the way Joel had his arms around you. Because no matter how mad you were, no matter how much you weren’t talking to him, Joel Miller was always going to take care of you.
Joel helped you settle into a quiet corner of the abandoned store, easing you down onto an old crate. He crouched in front of you, his hands working carefully as he pulled your boots off, careful not to jostle your ankle too much.
Ellie hovered for a second, glancing between the two of you, then rolled her eyes. “Alright, I’m gonna go check the other side of the store. Try not to kill each other while I’m gone.”
You didn’t respond. Joel didn’t either.
Once Ellie disappeared, Joel focused back on your ankle, pulling out a roll of bandages from his pack. He was quiet as he started wrapping, his fingers gentle but firm, pressing just enough to support your injury.
You watched him for a moment, then let out a quiet scoff. “You don’t have to pretend you care about this.”
Joel’s hands stilled. His jaw ticked. Slowly, his eyes lifted to meet yours.
“Do you think I’m pretending?” His voice was low, rough. Almost offended by the way your voice sounded saying those words.
You looked away, focusing on the peeling paint on the walls. “I don’t know what you’re doing, Joel. One second, you’re mad at me. The next, you’re acting like...like this.” You gestured vaguely at him. “Like it actually matters.”
Joel exhaled through his nose, sitting back on his heels. “It does matter. You are the most important person to me. ”
You let out a bitter laugh. “Does it? Because you sure as hell didn’t act like it when you were yelling at me.”
His hands curled into fists at his sides. “I was mad because you almost got yourself killed.”
“I was saving you.” You protested.
“I don’t need saving,” He replied, rough as always.
Your eyes snapped back to his, anger flashing in them. “And I don’t need you acting like I don’t have a say in whether or not I protect you."
Joel sighed, rubbing a hand down his face. He looked exhausted, like he was carrying too much weight on his shoulders. “You don’t get it,” he muttered. “I can’t—” He stopped himself, shaking his head.
You frowned, your voice softer now. “Can’t what?”
His gaze met yours again, something raw behind it. “I can’t lose you.”
The words hit you hard. For a moment, neither of you said anything. The only sound was the faint wind outside, the rustling of leaves.
You swallowed, your throat tight. “So do you think I want to lose you?”
Joel’s expression softened just a fraction. He sighed, reaching forward, his hand hesitating before resting gently on your knee.
Your breath caught. The fight, the tension, it was still there, but underneath it was something deeper.
“You are always so willing to die,” you sobbed, your voice breaking. “Like you’re just waiting for the exact moment. Like, none of this matters to you. Like, I don’t matter.”
Joel’s breath hitched. His grip on you tightened, grounding you, but he didn’t say anything.
You sniffed, shaking your head. “Do you even know what that does to me? How it makes me feel?”
He swallowed hard, his throat working around the words he wasn’t saying.
“You walk into danger like you’ve already made peace with dying,” you continued, your voice raw. “And maybe you have. Maybe you don’t care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I care. And you make me watch you throw yourself into danger like it doesn’t matter if you make it out. Like you don’t care if I have to watch you—”
Joel let out a slow breath. Then, finally, he spoke. “I do care,” he said quietly. “More than you know.”
You let out a bitter laugh, swiping at your tears. “You sure don’t act like it.”
Joel’s jaw clenched. His gaze dropped for a moment before he forced himself to look at you. “I’m not waiting to die.”
You scoffed, looking away.
“I’m not,” he insisted. His voice was rough, firm. “I just…I don’t know how to protect you.” He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face before gripping the back of his neck. “I spent twenty years not giving a damn about whether I made it out of alive. And then you—” He stopped, shaking his head like he didn’t have the words.
You stared at him, waiting. His gaze met yours again, and for the first time in a long time, he looked vulnerable to your eyes.
"Do you think I would survive without you?" You asked him.
"You're strong," he stated.
"That doesn't matter if the person I love and I protect throws himself to death," you said, tired of the cycle.
“I’m not trying to--” he started, but you cut him off.
“Yes, you are,” you snapped, your voice trembling. “You act like you don’t care what happens to you, but I do, Joel. I do. And I don’t know what’s worse, watching you run into danger without thinking or knowing that if you died, you’d probably think I’d just move on.”
His brows furrowed. “That isn't-"
You swallowed, your fingers tightening around Joel’s wrist. “Do you love me, Joel?”
He didn’t answer right away. His jaw tensed, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. For a moment, you thought he wouldn’t say it, that maybe, after everything, he’d still hold back.
But then, his hand moved, cupping your face gently, his thumb brushing over the cut on your cheek. His touch was careful, reverent, like he was memorizing traces of your face.
“I do love you,” he murmured, voice rough with emotion. “More than I know how to say.”
Your breath stilled.
Joel exhaled, shaking his head slightly. “More than I ever meant to. More than I know what to do with.”
Your heart ached at the honesty in his voice.
“Then stop trying to leave me behind,” you whispered, pleading to him.
He looked at you with such intensity, as if he was trying to see past the pain and fear, trying to understand something that had always eluded him.
“How do you even love someone like me?” Joel’s voice cracked slightly, the question laced with vulnerability, a side of him you rarely saw, something raw and unprotected. He was always protecting people.
Your heart hurt at the sound of it. You wanted to reach out and erase the doubt from his mind, to tell him that he didn’t have to question it. But instead, you just looked at him, letting the silence linger for a moment, trying to gather the right words to answer him.
“Joel,” you whispered, your voice soft but firm, “I love you because you’re you. Because through all the broken pieces, all the walls you’ve built around yourself, I still see the man who’s been there for me. You’re not perfect, and none of us are. But you’re the one I want. You’re the one I need.”
He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if taking in your words, processing them, before meeting your gaze again. His expression softened, the tightness in his jaw easing, but there was still that guarded look in his eyes. He was trying to fight something inside himself, something he had carried for so long.
“I don’t deserve you,” he said, almost to himself, but you heard it loud and clear. The doubt in his voice, something he couldn’t shake.
You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you, forcing him to see the truth in your eyes. “Stop saying that,” you said, your voice trembling with the weight of your emotions. “You deserve me. You deserve everything good that’s coming your way. I’ve seen who you are, Joel. You’re not what you think you are.”
“Why do you think I keep pushing you away?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper now, like he was afraid of the answer himself.
You leaned in a little closer, your forehead nearly touching his, and your breath mingled in the quiet space between you. “Because you’re scared of letting yourself love me the way you do,” you said softly. “You’re scared of losing me. But pushing me away won’t make it any easier. It’ll just leave you with a regret you can’t undo.”
He inhaled sharply, his chest rising and falling as if your words had struck a chord in him, but it wasn’t enough to break him completely, not yet.
“I don’t want to lose you,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “But I’m afraid if I let myself love you fully... if I let myself need you the way I do… I won’t be able to protect you. I can’t live with that.”
A single tear slipped down your cheek as you reached up to wipe it away, the tenderness in his voice catching you off guard. You could feel the pain in his words, the depth of his fear, and it only made you love him more.
Joel’s hand gently moved to your ankle, and despite everything that had just been said, the tenderness in his touch wasn’t lost on you. His rough fingers brushed against your skin as he carefully positioned your leg. You winced slightly at the discomfort, but it wasn’t the pain from your ankle that caught your attention; it was the way his eyes never left you, the quiet care he was showing in that moment.
“Hold still,” he murmured, his voice low, trying to keep his own emotions in check. You could tell he was trying to be calm for you, even though you knew he was anything but calm inside.
Joel’s fingers moved gently over your ankle, wrapping the bandage with the precision of someone who had done this a thousand times. His touch was careful, and for once, it was soft, more like the careful tenderness of someone who didn’t want to hurt you, rather than the harshness that often came with survival.
You winced slightly when the bandage tightened, but he immediately eased his grip, looking at you with concern.
“Sorry,” he muttered.
“It’s fine,” you replied, your voice barely above a whisper. You weren’t sure why, but his care made you feel vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to.
Once your ankle was properly secured, Joel leaned back, looking at you for a moment, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite place in them. He didn’t speak for a while, just stared at you like he was trying to decide something in his mind.
Joel’s gaze went to your ankle for a moment, then, unexpectedly, he leaned forward, his lips brushing the soft skin of your bandaged ankle. It was a gesture so tender, so unexpected, that you couldn’t help but laugh softly.
“Don’t laugh,” he murmured, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his voice remained quiet, almost apologetic. “I’m just trying to make it better.”
You shook your head, still chuckling lightly, the sound feeling strange after everything that had happened. “I wasn’t laughing at you, Joel,” you said, meeting his eyes with a smile. “It’s just... never thought you’d be kissing my ankle better.”
Joel’s smirk softened into something more tender, and for a moment, there was nothing between you but the quiet understanding. His eyes dropped back to your ankle for a brief second before lifting to meet yours once more, his expression serious. Without another word, he moved closer, his hand reaching to cup your face gently, his thumb brushing over your skin with the same tenderness he had shown when tending to your injury. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, his lips just a breath away.
And then, without hesitation, he kissed you, soft, lingering, as if it was everything he hadn’t been able to say before. You leaned into it, letting the kiss speak for you both, the tension between you finally easing, at least for this moment in the middle of this kiss.
“Oh, come on! Seriously?” Ellie’s voice cut through the moment like a knife.
You and Joel broke apart instantly, your breath still tangled in his, as you turned to see Ellie standing in the doorway with her arms crossed, a smirk pulling at her lips.
Joel cleared his throat and sat back slightly, rubbing a hand over his beard like that would somehow erase what she’d just walked in on.
Ellie rolled her eyes. “I leave you two alone for five minutes, and you’re already making out. Unbelievable.”
Your face burned, but you couldn’t help but laugh at her dramatic tone. “Ellie—”
“No, no,” she interrupted, waving a hand. “I mean, it’s kinda sweet, but gross.”
Joel shot her a look, his voice flat. “Ellie.”
“What?” She shrugged, grinning. “Just saying. But, uh—maybe save the romance for later, lovebirds? We kinda got shit to do.”
Joel exhaled sharply, shaking his head, but when he glanced at you again, you caught the ghost of a smile on his lips.
“C’mon,” he muttered, standing up and offering you a hand. “We should get movin’.”
You took his hand, squeezing it briefly before letting go. As you stood, Ellie shot you both a smug look before turning on her heel.
As she walked away, you heard her mutter under her breath, “God, I hope I never have to see that again.”
As soon as you put weight on your injured ankle, a sharp pain shot up your leg, making you wince. You bit down on a curse, trying to tough it out, but Joel noticed immediately.
“Joel, it’s fine, I can walk,” you protested, but you could see the look in his eyes.
“Not gonna argue with me on this one. Up you go.” Before you could protest, he crouched slightly in front of you. “Get on.” He waited for you to settle onto his back, and you reluctantly complied, knowing it would be easier than walking on your own.
You blinked at him. “Joel, I can—”
He shot you a look over his shoulder. “I'm not asking...”
Ellie snorted. “Just get on, lovebird.”
You sighed, but there was no real fight left in you. Carefully, you wrapped your arms around his shoulders as he hooked his arms under your legs and lifted you effortlessly.
“Easy, old man,” you teased, resting your chin on his shoulder.
Joel huffed, adjusting his grip. “Call me that again, and I’m dropping you.”
You laughed softly, “Thanks,” you muttered after a moment, your face buried in his jacket, still feeling the warmth of his body. The way he carried you felt like a sense of safety you hadn’t realized you needed until now.
You sighed against him, letting yourself relax just a little as Joel carried you forward with slow steps. Without thinking, you pressed a soft kiss to the side of his neck, just above the collar of his jacket.
Joel stiffened for half a second, his grip on your legs tightening before he exhaled slowly. “You trying to distract me?” His voice was lower now, rougher.
A smirk played on your lips. “Is it working?”
He huffed, shaking his head. “Maybe.”
You laughed, placing another kiss on the same spot, “I love you, Joel.”
His steps faltered for just a moment, barely noticeable, but you felt it. His grip on you tightened, his fingers pressing into your legs like he needed to ground himself.
He didn’t answer right away, just kept walking, his jaw tight. For a second, you thought maybe he wouldn’t say anything at all.
But then, in that quiet, gruff voice of his, he murmured, “I love you too, darling. Always”.
Javi shows you how much he loves you after a visit in the bar with his friends who couldn't stop teasing him about his new-found love...
Contains: smut, p in v sex, oral sex (m & f receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, praise kink, dirty talk, use of pet names, light possessiveness, condom use, brief mention of morning-after pill, soft!Javi, teasing, crying during sex (from pleasure), fluff, domesticity, Javier is obsessed with you, "i love you" for the first time, yearning, soft ending, vulnerability, established relationship
Wordcount: 8,957
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Javi took a small sip from his whiskey, feeling the alcohol burn against his throat as he swallowed it.
"Seriously?" Steve barked, gripping his shoulders tightly, his behavior noticeably altered by the alcohol he had consumed so far. Which was a lot more than Javi had.
"You're still at your first drink, Javi? Jesus… You're in a bad mood?"
Derek and Tom, two more friends from work, exchanged knowing glances, then leaned forward.
"He's not in a bad mood, Steve. You know that. But he's got a place to be. Just watch this motherfucker leave the bar at 11 to go home to his lady," Derek laughed.
Javi rolled his eyes, though he didn't deny their accusations right away.
"Right…" Steve snorted, emptying his glass in one go. "The mystery lady. How is she? You're gonna go to her after this?"
"Of course he is. Our man couldn't sit still since we got here."
"Just look at him being all shy…"
Their voices were a swirling chaos, mixing with the music gushing from the speakers in the corners. All Javi could do was roll his eyes again and shake his head faintly.
"Will you shut up? Goddamnit…"
"Are we wrong, though? That's why he doesn't drink so much. Because he's got other plans."
Javi chose not to answer and neither deny nor confirm their suppositions. Obviously, they were right, Javi did was going to come over to your apartment after this, just like you and he had planned. But his friends didn't need to know that.
One might not expect it, but Javi had never in his life encountered people more keen to gossip than those three men. He would tell them more about you, of course. But everything in its time. And he definitely wanted to find a quieter moment than a bar at 10 o'clock.
"I can't believe Javier Peña is in love at last… Would you guys have ever believed it? If I told you three months ago that we would be sitting in a bar and instead of approaching a beautiful lady at the counter, Mr. Playboy would sit here with his first whiskey of the night thinking about his girlfriend? Doesn't sound right to me."
Steve chuckled softly, but Javi could see in his gaze that he wasn't actually irritated by the shift in his behavior. No… just like Derek and Tom, he seemed satisfied. Genuinely happy for Javi, which made his lips curl involuntarily.
That and… you, of course. He couldn't help it. With his friends bringing up the topic of you over and over, it wasn't difficult to get lost in all the memories in his head, the countless dates, every single angle he had ever seen of your beautiful smile, the wrinkles around your eyes when you laughed, and how you jutted your jaw forward whenever you were thinking hard. There were a million things he could tell his friends about you if the circumstances allowed. How your eyes for some reason teared up when you drank sparkling water. How you always stubbed your toe on the last step when you sprinted up the staircase. Javi had told you so many times that you should just take it slower, but somehow, he couldn't stop you from falling into your old patterns.
"He's dreaming again," Tommy suddenly said, making Javi's eyes focus on his friend wearing a broad grin. They were clearly amused by the change in him. It wasn't that Javi was a different person around you, but nowadays, his head so busy going over every single detail he had ever spotted on you and was most smitten with, he was seldom fully present.
"Sorry," Javi whispered, but didn't really sound it. He lowered his gaze to the counter, scanning the wooden lines until Steve patted his back.
"Don't be sorry. I'm proud of you, you know?" His voice was oozing sarcasm, but Javi chose to just listen to what his friend had to say.
"You're finally in love… And it suits you. You've got that glow about you, my friend."
"Glow?" Tom laughed loudly, leaning in closer as if he intended to scrutinize his expression more closely.
"Yeah. Sometimes. Like during lunch break on Wednesday."
Goddamnit, Javi already knew what Steve was talking about without him having to give him any more information.
"What happened?" Tom asked, looking between Derek and Steve.
"Right, you weren't there for it. Missed quite the party. We were all eating peacefully, going over a case when Javi got a phone call. I swear to god, he looked at the number for a second and then rushed out of the room saying that he really needed to take that. Steve and I spent ten minutes guessing who it was, and this guy was fucking convinced it couldn't be her because Javi wouldn't be that worked up about it, but when he came back, I knew I was right. Because that man's face was glowing."
Yes, Javi remembered that moment so clearly he could go back to it any time he wanted. You had called him because you had had an important business meeting that morning. After you had told him about it the day before, he had insisted on you letting him know how it had gone the second it was over, which was why he had spent most of his lunch break in the copy room, listening to you recount the meeting, which had fortunately gone very well.
As so often these days, Javi had felt his cheeks burn when he hung up the phone, which hadn't gone unnoticed by his colleagues. It was just the natural effect you had on him. The sound of your voice alone made his knees weak and the blood rush through his veins, even when you weren't even in the same room.
"Really?" Tom chuckled at that, ripping him from his thoughts. "You really have to introduce her to us, Javi. We need to know what she's like when she's got that kind of effect on you…"
"You will," he quickly assured them, drinking the last sip of his whiskey before putting the glass back down with a low thud. "You will get to know her. She's… incredible."
Steve, who always became a little more touchy when he'd had a lot to drink, put a hand on his shoulder.
"He looks like a teenage boy with his first crush, doesn't he, guys?"
Tom and Derek laughed in unison, examining Javi's clenched jaw and sweaty brow, which was evidence enough that the teasing was getting through to him.
"Not a crush, though," Derek then corrected. "That man is head over heels. Remember when we saw him daydreaming in the office with that stupid smile instead of working?"
Tom and Steve, who only now seemed to recall the moment, burst into laughter.
"Yeah, yeah… very funny," Javi growled.
"You've gotten soft, my friend. You've turned into a soft, loyal puppy. I don't know how much I like that version yet, but it was about damn time you found someone. Need to make sure you're capable of loving, don't we?"
An hour later, Javi quietly walked up the stairs of the apartment building you lived in. His keys, or rather your set of keys you had given him, since he basically stayed over every single night, were dangling at his side, his head a little languid even though he hadn't had more than one whiskey. Which had been the source of a lot of teasing.
Javi normally didn't mind a few drinks in the evening at all, especially on a Friday night. But as his friends had so astutely figured out, he didn't want to show up at your place drunk, stumbling through the door so that you would have to get him to bed like a helpless child. No, the prospect of coming home to you was motivation enough and a source of infinite happiness to keep his good mood up even while everyone around him was gradually getting more wasted. They were probably still at the bar right then, making jokes about the changes in Javi's lifestyle, how he seemed more content and at ease these days.
Some of the things Steve, Tom and Derek had said about him had actually been rather kind, things that Javi felt proud of, but at the same time, he hadn't been too sad about leaving his friends early. Well, most of his anticipation about exiting the bar had probably been tied to you, to be honest.
He slowly put the key in the lock, turning it as quietly as he could. Javi assumed you were still awake, but he couldn't be too careful, especially since you had complained about a headache earlier when he had come home after work. It had worried him enough to offer to stay in with you rather than go out with his friends, but you had insisted that he go, claiming that you would be fine with a relaxed evening on the couch and a large jug of fresh water.
"Javi… hey."
You were sitting at the kitchen table, hair loosely tied in a knot and a sudoku in front of you.
"Hi, sweetheart." He crossed the distance between the two of you in two large strides, then pressed his lips against the side of your head. "How are you? How's your head?"
"It's fine, baby. I drank so much water, I think I went to the toilet four times in the last hour, but it worked."
Releasing a soft breath, Javi pulled up a chair to sit down next to you. "Great… I was worried."
"You were?" you asked softly, lips pursed in sympathy. "No… I told you to enjoy yourself, didn't I?"
Your hand connected with his cheek, gently tracing along his shaven skin that was never fully even.
"I know. And I still had a very good time."
"Yes?"
Javi nodded. "Yeah. Even though they can't stop with the teasing."
"What teasing?" you asked, eyes wide, but he just snickered softly.
"Just the usual… You know, the stuff about me being distracted at work sometimes… Talking to you on the phone. They said I had a glow on my face on Wednesday during lunch break."
"Oh," you said, your hand dropping to rest on his thigh instead of his face.
"Yeah. I figured I should take it as a compliment. I think you should take it as a compliment," he then added, prompting you to chuckle lightly, your voice warm and soft against his skin.
"Maybe I should… They really can't stop, can they? I thought they would grow tired of teasing you about this after a week or two."
"Oh, they're persistent, baby," Javi muttered and briefly kissed you on the mouth, running a hand up and down your arm. "Today, they also said that you made me all soft. That you softened me."
"I softened you?" you repeated with raised eyebrows, a dark gleam shimmering in your eyes.
"I hope you disagree with that, Javi…" you hummed seductively, glancing at his crotch.
"Jesus, darling…" Javi muttered, only now realizing the double meaning behind his friends' comments.
"What? I would be very disappointed in myself if you agreed with that…" Your hand followed your eyes, drifting up his leg until your index finger trailed along the stitching of his jeans.
"You don't, do you?"
"No. I — don't," Javi murmured, voice threaded with a faint tremble that you might have imagined. Yes, there it was. Javi looked down his body where his cock was stirring beneath the confines of his underwear. He could both feel it and see it, which meant it hadn't gone unnoticed by you either.
"Good… I would rather like to make you harder, you know?"
"Yeah, I know," Javi purred, leaning in once more to capture your mouth in a gentle, still explorative way, even though he knew the lines and curves of your lips better than he knew his own by now.
Meanwhile, the two of you had shifted to sit on the edge of your seats, minimizing the distance between your longing bodies as best as you could. But it just wasn't enough. Javi felt his cock uncomfortably rub against the tightly woven fabric of his jeans, your index finger ghosting over his crotch doing nothing to calm his breathing.
"Sweetheart…" he murmured, letting out a sharp hiss that tingled at the corner of your mouth.
And then, it wasn't enough anymore either. Javi felt frustrated sitting so far away from you, your back too far away to reach around and unclasp your bra. So he stood up abruptly, nostrils flaring as he took in the sight of you. You had that feverish glow about you, and maybe it was exactly what his friends had talked about earlier. If that was the case, it seemed to be infectious.
"Where are you going?" you breathed, sweetly sucking your bottom lip between your teeth. With a deep huff, he took a step forward, slung an arm around your back and hauled you up, pressing you close against his front as he headed for your bedroom.
"Oh, I'm taking you right with me, cariño…"
Everything about your apartment was so familiar, which was why Javi moved with such confidence, each stride willful and determined.
"You look so gorgeous, Javi."
Throaty laughter left him as he placed you in the center of the bed like he owned the room and everything inside it.
"Oh yeah? I'm flattered then…"
"I really need you inside me, Javi. Please. I… I thought about it all day."
Running a hand through his messy hair, Javi climbed onto the bed as well, the mattress sighing under his weight.
"Don't worry, hermosa, I'm gonna fill you up well… You want it right here?" Without any warning, Javi cupped your pussy, not moving or rubbing against you but just holding his hand right there while you squirmed and sighed heavily.
"Yes. Yes, there, Javi… But I would also like to suck it."
With the sole purpose of teasing you, he pretended to think about your request for a moment, lips pouty and brow furrowed. You, of course, knew that he would never deny such a proposal, which was why you quickly gripped his length through his jeans, although you weren't able to paw at him like you would have been had he worn sweatpants like you did right now.
"You're getting a little greedy now, aren't you?"
Despite his teasing, Javi didn't stop you when you moved to the edge of the bed, challengingly darting your eyes at the empty spot in the middle. How could he have possibly found the strength to do that? You were a perfect dream, the most beautiful and intoxicating person he had ever laid eyes on, and there you were asking him to let you suck his cock. It was ridiculous and unreal.
Still, Javi moved into position fast, his head swimming and his tip already leaking with precum, just a reaction to what you were about to do to him. He remembered all the times you had taken him in your mouth in vivid detail, but the most outstanding experience to date had been the very first time.
There was no use pretending to be new to any of this, in fact, Javi wasn't hesitant to admit that he had spent a good amount of his early adulthood sleeping around and exploring all sorts of things.
This had advantages and disadvantages. For instance, he knew precisely what he liked, what he didn't like, what he despised and what his guilty pleasure was. But on the other hand, when Javi was with you, he wished he could experience everything again with you for the first time. Not that it wasn't great all the same. Actually, sex and everything around it felt even more enthralling, intense and arousing since he did it with someone he was so bewitched by. Still, there was something so intimate and special about sleeping with you that made him want to relive all his first times with you. Which was applicable to the rest of his life as well.
He was lowering himself onto the bed now, spreading his legs a little so that there was enough room for you to crawl between.
"Baby, you're too good to me, you know that?" Javi whispered, his hooded eyes taking in the way you found a comfortable position between his legs, your hands settling on the waistband of his jeans.
"I like making you feel good, Javi," you answered with a playful smirk pulling at your lips.
"Yeah?"
"Yes… I like the things that you say." He drove his teeth into his bottom lip, breath hitching while he lifted his hips to help you yank down his pants.
"You like the things that I say?"
"Mhm." You nodded, eyes brightening with joy at the tent in his boxers.
"So you like it when I praise you?"
"Maybe," you grinned wickedly, one of your hands wandering up his thigh all the way from his knee. You clearly wanted to tease him just a little longer, stretch out the moment until he was going to lose a bit of his composure himself.
"Sweetheart, you're killing me here… Saying stuff like that… Touching me like that."
"Like that?" you muttered, your hand ghosting less than an inch above his clothed cock.
"Yeah, fuck — like that. I really need you to touch me, cariño. Are you gonna do that? Or are you gonna try to make me lose my fucking mind?"
His tone was more hollow now, lacking the intense depth of his usual voice. Maybe that was exactly what you had been talking about when you said you liked the things he said, how you could probably tell from the way he spoke how far you had driven him with your teasing.
"I like making you lose your mind just a little bit…" you admitted, but finally brought your hand to his hard cock, caressing it like it was much more sensitive than it actually was.
"Fuck, baby…" He drew a sharp breath through his tightly clenched teeth, one hand buried in your hair while the other pressed flat on the bed. "Is that what you wanna do tonight? Tease the shit out of me?"
You pretended to think about it, which provoked Javi to chuckle softly. "Oh yeah? You're seriously considering that? What do you want to punish me for then, mhm? Did I do something?"
Your expression shifted at that, eyes growing wider as you gripped his cock more firmly.
"No… You didn't. It's just really hot, you know? How you… look at me. Makes me feel like you want me so much."
"Oh, and I want you so much. You know that, don't you?" Javi leaned his head back against the wall, lips curling upward while he gently ran his fingers through your hair.
"Yes."
Returning the smile, you started to pull down his underwear and yanked them to his ankles with his help. His cock was hard against his abdomen, the veins standing out prominently and you involuntarily curled and uncurled your toes.
"It's so pretty, Javi," you murmured, lowering your head to the same level as his cock and darting out your tongue to lick a slow strip across his glans.
"Baby," your boyfriend huffed, his muscles coiling even though his gaze seemed to soften further. "Fuck… Your tongue's — so good."
His hand at the back of your head didn't push or hurry you but rather caressed your scalp in a way that made it all too tempting to glance up at him every now and then and devour the look he gave you. That sheer expression of his lust, his appreciation and even admiration. But since your main focus remained his cock, you kept your eyes on it for the most part, letting more and more of him slip past your lips in a manner that made Javi's eyes roll back.
"Jesus fucking Christ… Darling, you — you're so good to me. How the fuck did I deserve that, mhm?"
You brought your hand to his cock, pumping the part of his length that you couldn't reach so easily with your lips while twirling your tongue around his tip.
"You're just really good to me too, Javi. And you taste good."
"And you just want me to lose my mind… That's it, right? Fuck…" His free hand combed through his own messy hair, sweaty and tousled both from his time in the bar and the attentive work of your generous mouth.
Slowly, gradually, so that you wouldn't gag around him, you went deeper with closed eyes, your tongue flat so that his cock could slide past it. He really did taste good, a little salty, mixed with something warm and strong. And then there was his scent… Javi always smelled clean and fresh, but beneath the layers of his aftershave there was also something you couldn't quite find words for, something that you could only link to him. He just smelled like… Javier Peña. Through and through. Which was part of the reason why you loved going down on him so much. Why you loved it when your face was pressed against him and his lips whispered your name like it was a sin that shouldn't make its way out of his apartment.
"You feel so good, baby. So good, you — fuck, cariño… Can you look at me? Please."
You raised your head a little, just enough so that you wouldn't choke the second you lost your focus on your breathing, following his request instead. It definitely wasn't the most comfortable position, but you managed to lock your gaze with his, blinking a few times, determined not to let go of his dick just because he had asked to see your eyes.
"You're doing so well, sweetheart… I don't deserve you, shit… Holy shit — I don't know how you do it."
After toying with his cock for a few more minutes, focusing on his shaft and tip rather than forcing all of him down your throat, Javi tenderly pulled you off with a low groan. Spit and precum were coating his member, which was also the reason why slick, wet noises had been bouncing off the walls of his bedroom for the past few minutes. You liked it messy and therefore didn't mind the mixture of your drool and his wetness trickling down your chin or dropping onto your neck. If anything, it just made you feel like you were putting all your effort into the blow job, which was your goal at the end of the day.
"I need to make you feel good too, darling… Can I? Please, princess."
"Yes, Javi," you quickly murmured, allowing him to lift your face and kiss your lips.
"I need you, sweetheart." His motions were a lot more urgent, rushed even, as he cradled your head for a little longer, then helped you lie back. This time, neither of you even bothered to turn around on the bed so that your head could rest on the pillow, Javi just guided you down, his face hovering above yours.
"Fuck, baby, you don't know how much I want you. How much I was looking forward to coming home to you."
He knew that he sounded like he didn't give a fuck about his friends, like the cliché of a person who falls head over heels for a woman and abandons all his friends for months because he is so deeply in love, but in that moment, he didn't care. Because it was true. He had thought about you with almost no break ever since he had left the house and had to say goodbye to you.
"Can I have your fingers, Javi?" you breathed, rolling your hips up into his to grind against his hard length.
"Anything you want, hermosa… Where do you want them, mhm? Inside you? On your pretty clit?"
"Inside, please," you replied at once, making Javi believe that you had been thinking about his hands the entire time you were sucking his cock.
"Alright, baby. You're gonna get everything you want, I promise. You just gotta tell me, and you'll get it. Always."
"Always?" you giggled, hips rising while your boyfriend kissed his way down your body, pulling your shirt up for his mouth to leave a wet trace across your skin.
"Of course. Wherever you are… When I visit you at work… In a restaurant… a bar." Javi's hands were splayed across your ribcage, his lips purposefully tickling your stomach and making you jolt.
"I don't know if that's a good idea…" you whispered, your pussy clenching with excitement as Javi pulled down your sweatpants along with your underwear, wasting no more time with teasing you.
"What is?"
"You saying that…"
His large hand stroked up your thighs, gently parting them to take in the state of your cunt. "And why?"
"Because I want you often."
Javi lowered his head, though his eyes remained fixed on you. "How often?"
"Mhm… depends."
"Depends on what?"
Before you could respond, you had to get your breathing under control, which was why you drew in a deep breath, watching his tongue peek out and carefully circle your protruding bundle of nerves.
"Many things… Like what you're wearing… The things you're saying…"
Although Javi was thoroughly occupied with drawing patterns all over your pussy as though he intended to craft a painting with the quick swipes of his tongue, your words piqued his interest and his eyes found yours once again.
"What things I'm saying, baby?"
Your mouth twisted, eyes sparkling brightly. "Like… Like when you tell me about your work."
"My work?" Javi couldn't help but chuckle, effortlessly parting your pussy lips with the thumb of his right hand.
"Mhmm, yes… Sometimes. It just… sounds so hot."
He was still laughing as he slowly pushed his thumb inside your fluttering, soaked hole that was sucking him in so well Javi assumed it wasn't nearly enough to satisfy your needs yet. You needed more of him, all of him preferably.
"Well, then I guess I should tell you about my work more often, cariño," he murmured, his voice a deep vibration against your skin. "Because I like seeing you like that. S'really fucking sweet."
Driven by pure instinct, your head tilted away from him, your hair covering the side of your face where heat was rising in your cheeks. Javi couldn't be sure, though.
"Am I making you blush, cariño?" he wanted to know, pressing an open-mouthed kiss right on top of your blazing clit.
"No," you quickly lied and thrust your hips forward, beckoning Javi to push his finger further inside you.
"Good. 'Cause if you were, I'd tell you there's no reason to feel that way. Now do you want more, babygirl?"
You couldn't believe he was even asking you that, your hand flying out to grab his broad shoulder.
"Yeah. Yes, please. Please, Javi. I need more."
He was so smug and so stirred by your pleas at the same time, tempted to draw the moment out a little longer, but in the end his desire to watch your pleasure unfurl in its purest form won out, and Javi put more strength behind his motions. He worked his thumb inside you to the knuckle, let a generous amount of spit run down your pussy and sucked the little nub between his lips, hollowing his cheeks to build pressure. All of it happened so quickly that your nails scraped his shoulders, even the thin layer of his open shirt unable to keep him from feeling a sharp pain soar through him. Still, it wasn't the kind of sting that would prompt him to tell you to keep your hands to yourself… No, Javi felt proud of making you lose control like that.
"Javi…" you howled, eyes pinched shut and thighs convulsing even though he had only just started.
"I know, baby. She tastes good. And I know she's been waiting for me, hasn't she? S'why she welcomes me like that. And s'why she's so wet and warm for me. Just for me, isn't that right?"
You adored listening to Javi giving your pussy pronouns, talking about it like it was a separate part of your body with a mind and needs of its own. You didn't know what it was about it, but you were well aware of the effect it had on you.
"Yes, Javi. Just for you. Only for you, fuck —" Your shoulders rolled, shoulder blades lifting off the mattress, hands travelling up to his dark hair, which you lightly tugged on. Once Javi decided it was about time to give you more of his fingers, he pulled his thumb out and instead fed you his middle and ring finger, both so long they reached far deeper inside you than his thumb had.
You nearly choked on your own spit, tension rippling through your spine like tiny shock waves, though you associated them with something good and pleasurable.
"Yeah, you're really fucking warm and tight for me right there, mhm? All that for me?"
"Yes, Javi. All that for you, please, fuck —"
You didn't even know what you wanted. Hell, how were you supposed to figure it out with his fingers seizing all your attention like a black hole every time you tried to coherently sort your thoughts?
But your boyfriend seemed to understand you regardless, or at least it felt like he was really hitting an aching spot when he slid his tongue over the underside of your clit. Yes, he was hitting all the right spots with that. His fingers were tapping against the spongy patch within your walls, which you rarely even found on your own, whereas Javi never let a single session go by without that little area getting its treat. "Like it deserves it," your boyfriend used to say.
Meanwhile, his tongue was taking care of your clit, which seemed to be in flames, your nerve endings on high alert. You wished he would quench your desires, finish what he had started and put out the fire scorching across your pearl, but at the same time you wished he were inside you with his cock rather than his fingers. Sure, you loved to squeeze around them, to feel them move and stretch your walls, but there was always something entirely different about Javi putting his cock inside you. The intimacy, the closeness of it all was probably what was most alluring to you.
"Javi…" you whined, voice higher than when you normally talked to him. You squirmed on the bed with your thighs pressing against either side of his head, your hips bucking in search of something you couldn't quite describe.
"I know, baby. I'm gonna make you feel so good. So good that this pussy's gonna soak my face. She's so wet, sweetheart, so fucking perfect for me… You feel that?"
Javi slowly drew his fingers back, proving to you that your cunt couldn't be called wet but downright drenched. Slurping noises rose from your center, so unambiguous and filthy that you might have felt embarrassed about it. But not with Javi. Not with a man who always worshipped your body's reaction to him and showed his adoration in the same way that he savored every last one of your moans and whimpers.
"I want you to — fuck me, Javi," you stammered, his lips closing around your clit and dragging his heavy tongue along the outline. It was staggering, so perfect that it took a lot of willpower to make peace with the fact that he was about to comply with your request and pull away, but you longed for his thick cock inside you too much to wait for your first orgasm of the night.
Javi loved to make you cum at least once before he buried himself inside you, but tonight your need to feel him was especially strong. You wanted to feel every inch of him on top of you, be able to tangle your fingers with his and drape your legs around his hips. And that was only possible with him lying on top of you, fucking you into the bed.
"You want me to fuck you, sweetheart? Now?"
"Yes," you whimpered and spread your legs wider. Javi didn't need any more than that. He hadn't been lying when he said he would give you anything you wanted, which also included stopping his tongue play on your cunt earlier than he had anticipated.
Panting heavily, Javi left his space between your legs, though he rubbed your clit one last time with the pad of his thumb. Then he crawled toward your bedside table and opened the top drawer with a confidence that suggested he knew his way around your apartment effortlessly. There they were. Condoms that fitted him perfectly.
"Really, Javi…?" you muttered through pursed lips, feet planted flat on the bed, your hand busy tucking your hair behind your ears.
"Yes, cariño. C'mon, don't give me those eyes."
He should have known that he had made a mistake the first time he had fucked you raw. Okay, it had happened more than once, but definitely no more than three or four times. Obviously, Javi had regretted it within minutes, but you had shown a particular fondness for feeling him without a condom every single time.
And to avoid the fear of getting pregnant, you had taken the morning-after pill, which had relieved Javi even though he wasn't keen on watching you go down that path just because it was convenient and allowed you that special connection during sex. Condoms were safer, and Javi knew that, goddamnit. At times, it was just very difficult to deny you anything at all. Tonight, he would remain unwavering, though.
"Just this once. Please," you begged, putting even more hunger and yearning into your eyes, though Javi quickly averted his gaze so that he wouldn't feel too tempted by your dangerous request.
"Baby, you gotta stop… I'm gonna make it good, I promise. You trust me, right?"
"Yes," you whined, glancing down at his cock, which was throbbing in his firm grip.
"Okay… Then just relax. And enjoy it."
Javi was quick to tear the small package open, fumbling with the plastic and dropping it onto the nightstand. Then his eyes connected with yours again, skimming past the yearning in your gaze with a faint stumble of his heart.
"I'm gonna make it good, cariño… Gonna do all the work… Just need my princess to enjoy it and keep her eyes on me."
You couldn't help but chuckle softly, which relieved Javi, who had feared that refusing to fuck you raw would set off your pouting.
"I can do the work too," you insisted, reaching for his hard, throbbing cock, but Javi shook his head with a glossy twinkle in his eyes.
"I know you can… But tonight I just want you to lie back and relax. Okay?" Javi lovingly placed his palm on your cheek, thumb stretching out to brush against your cheekbone.
"Okay…"
He didn't need to hear more than that. Running his hand up and down your thigh, Javi single-handedly rolled the condom over his cock and stroked himself a couple of times. Of course, he would have liked to forgo the condom as well, but he already knew that he would feel guilty afterwards when the two of you had to rush to the pharmacy in the morning for the morning-after pill.
His left hand guided his tip through your slit, smearing your wetness all over your folds to make a mess he would be happy to clean up later.
"Javi," you whimpered as his cock nudged your sensitive bud, your legs spreading a little wider as though reminding him where your hole was.
"You want me to put it in?" he murmured, leaning down with his entire weight, knowing well how much you adored feeling as much of him as you physically could.
"Yes. Yes, Javi, please."
Your chests were flush against each other, not just sweat connecting your bodies but your heat as well. Everything was in sync, your heavy breathing, your heartbeat, probably even your temperatures.
"Put it in," you demanded once more, then drew a slow breath when you felt his heavy tip nudge against your hole. As always, Javi pressed his thumb into your clit while he worked his cock inside your cunt, giving you something to cling to and focus on while your walls stretched to accommodate him. Besides, he swore he always felt you loosen up a little more whenever his finger provided extra stimulation.
"Oh my god," you hummed, sliding your hands over the toned muscles of his arms and shoulders before planting them on his back. You pushed gently against him, communicating that you wanted to minimize the distance between the two of you without using your words. And just like you had hoped, Javi understood despite your inability to speak.
"Baby, you feel like a fucking dream. Look at me, cariño, please."
It wasn't easy to keep your eyes focused on one spot as your pupils tended to uncontrollably flick to the sides whenever he was stretching your walls like that. Still, you tried your very best for him.
"Javi, oh my god, oh my god," you whimpered quietly, feeling his chest cage you beneath him in the most exciting way possible.
"That's it, sweetheart. That's it… You like it? You like it when I go in slowly like that?"
He wasn't even halfway inside you even though you were more than ready to take him in one go.
"Yes," you breathed, your legs wrapping around his hips tightly.
You were holding onto him like a monkey, like you weren't planning to let him go any time soon. Pulse thundering behind your temples, you hid your face in the crook of his neck while Javi disappeared inside you painfully slowly, taking his time with every single inch. Of course, his touch on your bundle of nerves hadn't stopped and he still rubbed fast circles over your skin, which caused your lids to flutter and your pussy to drench his girthy cock.
You didn't know how Javi managed to squeeze his hand between your bodies, which were pressed so closely together that you had been certain not even a sheet of paper would fit between you. Still, he somehow found a way.
"Just a little bit more…" Javi hummed against your earlobe, pinching your clit between thumb and index finger. "Fuck… You're squeezing me so tightly. Just need you to look at me. Need to see how — good you're feeling."
That was something you could comply with. You didn't struggle for a second to convey your love for his actions and didn't shy away from moaning his name softly, working it between your teeth like a reverent prayer or a holy exclamation.
"Javi… Javi, please —" You took a deep breath, which didn't help. You felt too hot and short of breath, your body deliciously confined in the best way you could imagine. Buried beneath the man you needed so badly, held in place by his strong arms.
At last, he was fully sheathed inside you, his cock hitting all the right spots from within. Now that he was entirely buried in your warmth, he couldn't hold back any longer and quickly started to move in a steady rhythm. You weren't new to his technique, his long, intense, still quite slow thrusts that seemed to press you a little deeper into the bed with each one.
"Oh my god," was all you could breathe, your eyes on him as requested, though a thick veil hung over your sight.
"I know, baby. Feels good, doesn't it? I can feel you clench so hard around me. S'a lot for your pretty pussy, isn't it?"
You nodded softly, hazy eyes gazing back up at him.
"Too much?" Javi searched your face suspiciously at the faint shake of your head. "Talk to me, sweetheart. Need to hear you say it."
"No. S'not too much. It's good like that."
His hand gently slapping your clit wasn't really a reward, yet it felt like one.
"Deeper, Javi… please. Please, I need — more."
This time, it was Javi nuzzling your neck with his lips, kissing along your pulse point and hungrily inhaling your scent.
"Deeper? I can't go any deeper, hermosa. I'm already all the way inside you… She won't let me, you know?" To give you something different all the same, Javi swirled his finger around your clit with more force, smiling contentedly as you softly cried out his name.
"Javi… Javi, oh my god. I'm gonna cum."
It was no surprise that you were so close, considering he had already spent some time between your legs warming you up. It wouldn't take him much longer either, even though part of him just didn't want to let go yet, wanting to feel you a little longer.
"Jesus… You're so fucking warm, babygirl. So wet 'n' warm. Just made for me alone, mhm? I want you to cum for me and I want you to let it all go. Don't hold back."
He tucked your hair behind your ears, which didn't align with the powerful, sharp thrusts he delivered at all. They weren't painful or brutal, of course, but rather made you believe that Javi wanted to make sure you felt him. Preferably for days after. Each one was pointed and precise, driving into you with so much force you shuddered when he slammed back. Occasionally, Javi even broke the rhythm just to make his thrusts a little more surprising, drawing out a few more of those squeals from you. With success, obviously.
"You're so —" you mumbled, teeth dragging over your tongue to release the tension building in your body.
"I'm what?" Javi grinned, knowing that whatever words had formed in your head would amuse him.
"Good. Fuck… so good."
"That's my girl… You know what it does to my cock, don't you? Hearing you talk like that." Javi glanced down meaningfully, though you couldn't see a thing with your heavy, swimming head comfortably resting on a pillow.
"No. What?" you innocently asked, toying with the hair at his temples as your hooded eyes took in each of his lustful glances down your body, your jiggling tits, the thin layer of sweat covering your cleavage.
"Makes it really fucking hard… And proud." Javi purposefully drew his hips back before snapping them forward harshly, fully filling your spent pussy.
"Oh my god," you panted, unable even to tease him further about the effect of your words on his cock.
"Makes me wanna give it to you all night… Just playing with that sweet pussy for hours while she cums for me over and over again… So often that she forgets which one was coaxed out of her by my fingers, which one by my tongue and which by my cock… Makes me wanna give it to her really good, hermosa."
Javi lazily dragged his thumb around your bundle of nerves, throat vibrating with laughter at the way you jolted and jerked underneath him.
"C'mere, cariño…" Javi placed wet kisses along your jawline, all the way around your face until he landed one on your lips. "I want you to cum for me. Want you to give it all to me, baby, fuck… Need to — watch it. How you lose it."
His face was flushed and gleaming with sweat, drops falling from his brow onto your cheeks, but neither of you could have cared less. You were both on the verge of exploding, so much pressure and tension built up in your bodies that Javi felt like the condom wouldn't catch his entire load.
Meanwhile, your hands were still pulling at his hair, using a little more force every time he hit a particularly good spot or touched your clit right at its most sensitive point.
"Cum for me, baby. C'mon, sweetheart," he whispered at the exact moment his cock was buried all the way inside you, the rough skin of his thumb pressing directly onto your nub.
It was all you needed. His exhausted voice, his torso trapping you beneath him. Your head spun like a carousel, and the next thing you knew you were orgasming around Javi's cock, clenching around him ten times harder than before. He followed at once and spilled into the condom, his entire body quivering and shuddering.
His head dropped while you greedily let air fill your lungs, the muscles in your stomach convulsing.
"Oh my god," you murmured like a religious mantra, a single tear escaping from your lower lashes, which Javi quickly wiped from your face. "Javi… I — shit."
"I know, cariño… I got you. I got you, always. Just look at you cumming like that… S'fucking perfect. You're perfect."
There was a lot of vulnerability resonating in his voice, but since you were hovering in a similar dreamy state, you met his tenderness precisely, bringing your hands up to the back of his neck.
"Don't leave," you whispered, caressing his shoulder blades and closing your eyes.
"Where would I go, baby, mhm?"
"You could go home. But I want you to stay."
"I want to stay too…" he muttered through clenched teeth, flexing his jaw as he glided a hand from your hip up to your ribcage.
Javi stayed.
And he didn't just stay, he also fucked you again and again, like he had wished for earlier. First with his tongue, since his cock needed a little time to recover. Javi knelt between your legs and kissed his way down your body, which drew a fresh layer of sweat across your thighs and raised goosebumps along your forearms.
He made out with your clit slowly and passionately, like an ardent kiss shared between two lovers. After your third high of the night, you were crying softly, causing Javi to crawl up to you and scoop you into his arms. Your chin resting on his shoulder, he brought his lips to your ear, nibbling at your skin and speaking quietly.
"Can I give you more, baby? I just can't fucking stop. You taste so good and I need to see it again. Need to hear you say my name when you cum. You say it like you're mine. Like you're trying to tell me that you belong to me and that I'm the only one who gets to touch that pretty pussy."
You wanted to tell him that it was the truth, and that you only ever wanted him to be so close to you, but the words caught in your throat. All you could do was nod and whine his name once more while Javi crawled back down your body.
"Never gonna be done with her, hermosa… Never gonna be done telling her how perfect she is," Javi murmured the instant before he dove back in.
After making you cum again, this time keeping his tongue inside you throughout your high, he fucked you one more time with his cock. He had had great plans to coax a fifth one out of you, but about halfway through you had pressed a hand over your mouth, whimpering that you were too sensitive, which he had respected without a second thought. So it was just him spurting into the condom while hissing curses through his gritted teeth, mostly followed by high praise for you, how well you always took him, how addicted he was to your cunt, how perfect you felt. Better than anything else he had ever experienced.
"Jesus Christ… You're gonna be the fucking death of me, hermosa, shit… Fuck, yeah, like that… Don't move, baby, yes… Just stay like that, goddamnit…"
Then it was over.
Javi pulled out of you carefully, aware that after four releases, you would shriek at the slightest contact against your raw skin. A much darker, more twisted part of him found delight and rotten pleasure in the idea of his cock turning you into such a mess. You had willingly let him bruise your insides, had allowed him to push his fingers or tongue back inside you again and again just because you were so intoxicated by the feeling of him.
"You make it really hard to stop, baby," Javi chuckled, lying down next to you and offering you his hand, which you eagerly took.
"How late is it?" you whispered.
"I don't wanna know…"
"Why?" you asked, turning your head to glance at his profile. "We can sleep in tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah… we can. But still. I think it's really late."
Chest rising and falling steadily, you kissed the knuckles of his hand. "I'm feeling very sleepy, Javi…"
"That's okay, cariño… I put you through a lot today. Are you feeling good? Everything okay?"
You nodded with a faint smile lingering on your lips. "Yeah. Very good."
"Your pussy too?"
Your grin broadened as you felt Javi's fingertips ghost over your thigh, drifting toward your center.
"Yeah… But I really can't go another round."
"I know," he admitted, jutting his jaw forward. "You're just… really addictive. All of you. Makes it hard not to touch you all the time…"
"Well, we've got all the time in the world tomorrow…" you murmured, knowing well how much your boyfriend adored lazy morning sex when neither of you were really awake but highly sensitive to each other's touch.
He had barely even stopped touching you, yet Javi was already excited by the idea of waking you up with his mouth. Perhaps you would still be wet from the night before. Or maybe his proximity, his cock pressed against your backside, would make you dream filthy things that would turn you on in your sleep, resulting in drenched panties when you woke up.
Before Javi's thoughts could wander too far, he quickly kissed the top of your head.
"I can't wait for it. I'm gonna be all yours."
You smiled, then tilted your face so that his next kiss landed on your lips.
"I love you, baby."
Those four words had been as quiet as all the others, yet they carried a different feeling. A different weight, a different emotion ringing in his tone. There was longing and desire mixed with curiosity and fear. Fear that you wouldn't say it back. Now more than ever, Javi became aware that he had never said it quite like this before. He had spoken about being in love with you, told you how wonderful and perfect you were, but saying it to your face like that? It was a first. And hell, it was a little scary.
"I love you too, Javi. I love you so much."
Tears welled in your eyes, your bottom lip quivering as you pushed your face against his neck. A wave of relief coursed through him, flooding from the top of his head down to his little toe. It was ridiculous to feel so afraid of you not reciprocating his love after everything you two had just done, but Javi couldn't help it.
He wasn't half as confident with you as he usually was. Not in a bad way, though. It wasn't like you drained his self-assurance, but he just felt so much shyer and more afraid of doing something wrong whenever he was around you.
Maybe that was what his friends had talked about in the bar. They weren't blind to the way you had fundamentally changed something within him. Something that Javi couldn't quite grasp, but he knew that he liked it. He liked this version of himself, the one who was capable of allowing himself to feel things he had been reluctant to admit before. He liked what you did to him, how he acted in your presence.
"Just stay, baby. I just want you to stay," you whispered, his and your limbs a tangled sprawl across the bed.
"I will stay, cariño. For as long as you want me to. God… I love you."
warnings: 18+ (minors dni). established relationship, semi-public sex, unprotected sex, p in v, degradation, dirty talk, spanking, bodily fluids, mild choking, praise kink, oral, domestic fluff and filth, profanity, slight age gap, discussions of children, mentions of alcohol. no use of y/n, if i missed something please let me know!
a/n: *taps mic* hi besties...remember me? got inspired to write a little extra for love is complicated. it’s mostly self-indulgent, but i hope you enjoy! you can read it as a standalone, though it makes more sense if you’ve read the original (here's the masterlist) and reminding everyone this is a work of fiction so just sit back and relax. happy reading <3
The bed was cold on his side.
You stirred, eyes blinking open to gray London light filtering through the curtains. For a moment you thought he’d gone completely, that he’d slipped away unnoticed like a dream, but then you padded barefoot across the chilly wood floor and found him.
Pedro stood on the balcony, leaning into the railing, broad shoulders framed against the pale sky. Dark sweats, messy bed hair, and the damn purple Lakers t-shirt that had grown as familiar as your own heartbeat. His hand rubbed absent circles over the railing. He looked like he was carrying something invisible but heavy, the kind of weight only he could name. You paused in the doorway, watching. Being with him had taught you that love wasn’t just closeness, it was curiosity. You wanted to know every thought, every hidden corner of him. Even the parts he kept behind that polite smile, the eternal people-pleaser. You wanted to swim inside his mind until you knew every shadow.
So you crossed the room and slipped your arms around him from behind, pressing your face into the softness of his shirt, breathing in clean soap and him.
“Happy birthday, old man,” you murmured.
He laughed, low and rough, the vibration shaking through his stomach beneath your cheek.
“Thank you, mi amor.”
“Why aren’t you in bed? It’s crazy early.”
“Felt a bit restless.”
“Birthday blues?” you asked, your cheek still pressed to his back.
He didn’t answer at first. The city stretched out below, a smear of gray rooftops and cranes. It was one of those mornings that felt caught between night and day, muffled and uncertain. His silence said enough. Finally, he exhaled, shoulders rising and falling under your cheek.
“Hm. Yeah. A little.”
You could hear the way he said it, soft but weighted, like a man reluctant to admit he was carrying more than he wanted to show. He was Pedro, after all, he’d made a career of smiling through exhaustion, of filling other people’s needs before his own. You understood the feeling intimately, that quiet ache that came with another birthday, the strange mixture of gratitude and grief that aging brought.
You slipped around to face him, leaning your back against the railing. He looked at you then, eyes heavy-lidded, framed by the faint crow’s feet etched deeper than the year before. His beard was still wild from sleep, silver scattered like threads of light through the dark. He was beautiful, but you knew he wouldn’t call himself that.
“Talk to me,” you said gently, offering your hand. He took it, warm and rough, his thumb brushing circles over your knuckles like he always did when he was trying to himself grounded.
He sighed again. “I don’t know. Fifty just… sounds old.” His mouth twisted, not quite a smile. “I wake up and sometimes I still feel like I’m twenty-five, like I’m waiting for my life to start. And then I catch myself in the mirror and think—shit. You’re not the kid anymore. You’re the old man on set. The one people call sir.”
You bit back a smile. “They don’t call you sir. They call you something else.”
That earned a laugh, though it was short and self-deprecating. He shook his head. “Yeah, that’s worse. It’s funny until I’m the punchline, you know? Until I wonder if I’m just some caricature." His shoulders hunched slightly, his voice softer now. “Sometimes I wonder if people really see me. Or if I’ve just become… whatever they need me to be.”
You let that sit between you, because you knew what it meant. The man who had spent a lifetime offering himself up in pieces until he forgot where the performance ended and the person began. You reached up, cupping his cheek so he’d look at you properly.
“P,” you said, your voice breaking on the letter. “I hope you know how loved you are.”
His eyes flickered, glassy now, but you didn’t stop. “I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. I wish you could see how much you mean to me. How kind you are. How brave. How fucking extraordinary you are just by existing in the world. Not for the roles, not for the public, not for the stupid labels people give you or don't give you. For you.”
You slid your arms around his hips, pulling him closer until you could lock your hands against the small of his back. He leaned over you, bracing his hands on the railing at your sides, caging you in as if you were the only thing keeping him upright. He looked down at you, eyes shining, his expression both open and vulnerable in a way he rarely allowed.
“Do you know what I see when I look at you?” you pressed, your voice low, urgent. “I see the man who makes everyone in the room feel safe. I see the boy who worked harder than anyone gave him credit for. I see someone who is better than he thinks, someone who deserves every ounce of love that comes his way.”
His jaw flexed, as though he was holding the words in, not trusting himself to speak. Then he pulled you into him, crushing you against his chest so tightly you almost couldn’t breathe.
“I love you,” you whispered against the fabric of his shirt, muffled, “even if you suffocate me to death.”
That broke him. His laugh was wet, shaky, reverberating through your body as he loosened his hold just enough to kiss the top of your head.
“I love you too,” he said, his voice hoarse, like the words had been waiting there for years.
•••
Later, the place smelled like coffee and butter as you clattered around in your pajamas, hair still mussed from sleep, sleeves tugged down over your hands as you set the small kitchen table. Two mismatched mugs, the blue plate he always claimed as his favorite, and a stack of pancakes you’d managed not to burn this time, amongst other things. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and that was the point.
He emerged from the bedroom shower-fresh, a curl of steam drifting out behind him. His hair was damp, curling in places you wanted to smooth down with your fingers. The silver threaded through his beard looked sharper now that it was trimmed neat, catching the morning light from the window. He padded in barefoot, tugging absently at the hem of his faded sweats until his eyes landed on the table. That smile—boyish, warm, a little disbelieving—lit his whole face.
“You made all this?" he said, the soft wonder in his voice like you’d laid out a feast fit for a king.
“Your favorites,” you replied, sliding into your chair.
He sat close, closer than he needed to, his knee brushing yours under the table. The press of it stayed there, steady, as if he needed the reminder that you were real. He forked into the pancakes first, humming his approval around the first bite, and reached over to cover your hand with his. Big, warm, calloused. He always ate like this with you: hand to mouth, mouth to hand, as if affection and food went hand in hand.
Conversation meandered easily. His schedule for the day, your teasing complaint that of all days he had to be busy today. He groaned about it, dramatic enough to make you laugh, then squeezed your hand like an apology.
“Hope they don’t make you work too hard,” you said, giving his fingers a squeeze back.
He swallowed, looked at you with those soft eyes of his. “I’ll survive.”
When he finally pushed his plate back and started to rise, you caught his wrist. “Ah, ah. Sit. I have something else.”
He raised an eyebrow, but sat again. You darted into the kitchen, quick on bare feet, and returned with the little box you’d hidden last night. Inside was the small cake, crooked on one side, frosting uneven, and rainbow sprinkles scattered like confetti. You like to think you get better at it each time. You’d fussed over it for hours, but when you set it down in front of him, candle already flickering, you forgot every insecurity. Because his face cracked wide open, grin blooming like sunlight.
“Babyyy,” he drawled, leaning back in his chair like he couldn’t believe you.
“You say that every year,” you teased, setting the lighter aside. “And every year I remind you—tradition. I have to make you a cake.”
He tilted his head, grin still splitting his face. “Sprinkles this year, huh?”
“You gotta tell me what you want next time. I’m running out of ideas.” He leaned forward then, catching your cheek with a kiss that was so tender, so brief, it left you smiling helplessly when he pulled back.
“Happy birthday, baby,” you whispered, lighting the candle. The flame wobbled between you, and you felt suddenly silly and shy, but also glad. “Make a wish.”
He closed his eyes for just a second before blowing it out, then turned immediately to you. One big hand came up to cradle your face, warm and steady, thumb brushing your cheekbone as if you were the gift.
“I have everything I need already,” he said, his voice low, certain. “And more.”
Your throat caught. You leaned in and kissed his nose, soft enough that he shut his eyes and smiled.
“I love it when you do that,” he murmured.
•••
The venue was buzzing long before you even walked in with him. Inside, the air was warm with bodies, laughter, and the clink of glasses. Everyone you’d ever expect. old friends, castmates, family seemed to orbit him, pulled in by that gravitational charm he never quite believed he had.
He looked devastatingly good, of course. Loose black pants, a “Protect the Dolls” t-shirt stretched just enough across his chest, that black coat he shrugged off halfway through the night when it got too hot. His dark-rimmed glasses caught the purple strobe of the lights, and the grey at his beard glinted like it had been put there just to make him more dangerous. He smelled of cedar and the scotch someone kept topping up for him, and even across the room you could feel the pull.
The problem was—so could everyone else.
You felt like you barely saw him. Everywhere you looked, he was being pulled into another conversation, another dance, another photo. His siblings had him for a while, and you smiled watching them laugh with their heads tipped together. Then someone else whisked him away, then another. Every time you started toward him, someone was already dragging him off, clamoring for just a brush of his hand, a story, a laugh.
“Have you seen Pedro?” you asked Coco, leaning in as you wiped sweat from your collarbone.
She glanced toward the bar. “I thought I saw him doing shots with Jason a second ago.”
You turned, and there he was: framed in the glow of the bar lights, head tipped back in laughter, surrounded. He looked younger like that, unguarded, his hand slicing the air as he told some story. You wanted nothing more than to press yourself into his side, claim a sliver of him just for yourself.
But by the time you made it across the room, he was gone again. You ordered another drink, biting back your impatience, telling yourself you could wait.
Prince’s “Kiss” pulsed through the speakers, and you gave in, dancing with your girlfriends, hips loose, skirt glittering purple under the lights. You were tipsy enough not to care who was watching when you felt him, those familiar hands sliding over your hips, tugging you back against a body you’d know blind.
“Hi, stranger,” he murmured into your ear, voice all smoke and warmth.
You smiled, easing into him as he swayed you to the beat. His palms skimmed lower, playful, testing the hem of your skirt. You reached back, fingers curling into the back of his neck, and felt him singing into your ear, his breath hot as he ground against you. Hard already. The alcohol, the heat, the bass vibrating through the floor, it all rushed to your head.
“Missed me?” you teased.
“Very much so.” His voice was rough and purposeful.
You turned, facing him now, and his hands were quick to drag you close again, with no space between you. His glasses slid down his nose; his eyes were dark, hungry, happy. God, he looked so fucking good like that: loose, flushed, alive.
“Thought you’d forgotten me, Mr. Popular.”
His brows shot up, mock-offended. “I could never, princesa.” And then he kissed you, right there in the middle of everything. You didn’t care about the stares, the burning eyes; you only cared about his mouth slanting over yours, desperate, relieved.
When you pulled away, he stayed close, his lips brushing yours. “I’ve been staring at you all night.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“That little skirt—fuck."
You grinned devilishly. Before you could say something, someone cut in—“Lovebirds, sorry to interrupt, but they need you—” Whatever it was, it pulled him away. He looked at you like he was asking permission. You gave him a quick peck and said, “Go.” He mouthed I love you before disappearing into the crowd.
You were patient.
Then, half an hour later, he found you.
You were leaning near the hallway by the bathrooms when his hand caught your hip, turning you toward him. The crowd was a wall of sound just behind, but here, tucked in shadow, it felt like the world had gone quiet.
“Hi again, birthday boy,” you murmured, fingers grazing the hem of his t-shirt.
“Hi, trouble.” His voice rasped low, already frayed. His eyes swept you—sparkly purple skirt, boots, mouth curved in that knowing smile—and something in him snapped.
He pressed you against the bathroom door, broad chest flush to yours, pants hard against your thighs. “Do you have any idea what you’ve been doing to me all night?” His breath hitched. “And those boots—don’t get me started.”
You tugged his belt loop, testing. “Yes, actually. That was the plan all along.”
He groaned, kissing you like he’d been holding back for hours, because he had. Sloppy, hot, his teeth catching your lip as his hands dragged under your skirt, cupping your ass and lifting you onto the sink like you weighed nothing.
You laughed, breathless. “You’re shameless.”
“Always have been with you.” His voice was a promise, filthy and tender at once.
The bathroom smelled of soap and spilled beer. The music thumped faint through the door, but here, it was just you and him, and he was starving. His beard scraped your neck as he kissed down, big hands greedy over your thighs, your jaw, every inch he could claim.
“Pedro—”
“Feliz cumpleaños to me,” he muttered against your skin, grinding into you, voice breaking with need. He shoved your skirt up, groaning when he saw the lace beneath. His fingers slipped under, finding you wet already, and he laughed softly, pressing his forehead to yours.
“Mira eso,” he whispered, pushing two thick fingers inside with no hesitation. “Already ready for me.”
You clutched at his shirt, felt the flex of his biceps as he fucked you with his hand, the fabric tight over his chest as he held you pinned with his other arm. His eyes locked on yours, feral and sweet at once.
“Pedro—please—”
“You want me to fuck you here?” His tone was half-taunt, half-desperate.
“Yes.” Yes, yes, yes.
That was all it took.
He bent you over the sink so fast your breath caught, the porcelain biting cold into your palms. In the mirror you saw the feral version of him: hair mussed, glasses slipping low on his nose, mouth already parted like he couldn’t get enough air. His pants shoved down just enough, and then—without mercy—he rammed into you, one brutal thrust that had you crying out, the sound strangled beneath his palm clamping hard over your mouth.
“Shhh,” he hissed, hips driving in with a punishing rhythm, the slap of skin sharp in the cramped, tiled space. “You want everyone to know I’m bending you over a fucking sink on my birthday?”
You shook your head, but your body betrayed you, back arching, ass pushing into him, wet and greedy. His chest pressed to your back, sweat soaking through the cotton of his shirt, the thick scratch of his beard against your neck as he growled into your ear.
He let go of your mouth only to drag your head up, forcing you to meet your own reflection.
“Mírate,” he panted, fucking you so hard your tits bounced against the porcelain. “Look at yourself. Look how messy you are for me already. You love it.”
His hand came down on your ass with a vicious smack, the sting searing, your moan bouncing off the glass. He did it again, harder this time, and smirked at the way you clenched around him.
“Dirty little—" he groaned, a moan getting in the way of his words. “Bending over for me in your tiny fucking skirt, making me chase you all night. This is what you wanted, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” you gasped, voice breaking as he yanked your panties to the side and fucked you even rougher, each thrust rattling the sink.
“That’s right,” he rasped. His fingers found your clit, rubbing it ruthlessly, timed with every brutal slam of his hips. “My birthday, my rules. You come when I say.”
You whined, helpless, tears pricking your eyes as your orgasm threatened to tear through you too soon. He spanked you again, his rings leaving faint marks.
“Beg for it.”
“Please,” you choked out, your forehead hitting the mirror. “Please, Pedro, let me come.”
“That’s it. Say you’re mine.”
“I’m yours. I’m yours.”
The way he growled, low and guttural, was enough to undo you. Your release ripped through you, violent and wet, your body jerking as he fucked you through it. The mirror fogged with your breath, lipstick smeared, hair a tangle.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, losing his rhythm now, thrusts erratic. “So tight when you come, you’re milking me—fuck—” His hand dug bruises into your hip as he spilled inside you, hips slamming forward, burying himself to the hilt.
He stayed pressed against you, both of you panting, sweat sticking you together. You caught sight of yourself in the mirror. Flushed, mascara smudged, mouth swollen, and of him, glasses crooked, lips parted like he could devour you all over again.
When he finally pulled out, your thighs trembled, his cum dripping down your thighs. He slapped your ass once more, possessive and filthy, and leaned in to kiss the back of your neck.
“Happy birthday, old man.”
“Best fucking gift I’ve ever had,” he muttered, voice wrecked. Then, softer, almost tender through the filth: “My love…mía."
Your legs wobbled as he finally stepped back, tucking himself away, breath still ragged. You caught his reflection in the mirror, glasses crooked, hair slightly damp with sweat, that wild smirk softening into something far too tender for what he’d just done to you. You shifted, skirt still bunched at your waist, thighs slick, your panties hanging uselessly to the side. “I can’t feel my knees,” you whispered, voice hoarse.
Pedro chuckled, the sound gravelly and smug. “Good. Means I did it right.”
You turned slowly, leaning against the sink for balance. He was already pulling paper towels from the dispenser, wetting a few under the faucet. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” you teased, but your lips twitched.
“Oh, come on, mi amor. You’re dripping all over the floor,” he said, kneeling in front of you with zero shame. He nudged your thighs apart with those big hands, cleaning you gently, almost reverently, even as his smirk lingered. “Messy girl.”
“Mess you made,” you shot back, a shiver running through you when his thumb brushed too close to your clit on “accident.”
He looked up at you from his knees, glasses sliding down his nose, and your stomach flipped.
“Don’t tempt me. I’ll keep you in here all night.”
You swatted his shoulder, laughing breathlessly. “People are gonna notice we’ve been gone forever.”
“They already noticed,” he said, rising to his feet, leaning in close until his beard scraped your jaw. “They’ll know you’re mine when you walk back out there flushed and wrecked in that little skirt.”
You gasped, but his lips caught the sound, kissing you slow this time, sloppy and sweet, tongue lazy against yours. When he pulled back, he nudged his nose against yours, softening again like he couldn’t help it.
“Fix your lipstick, amor,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across your swollen lower lip. “Or don’t. I like it like this.” You grabbed a napkin and dabbed at your mouth, half-hearted, still dazed.
“You’re impossible.”
Pedro leaned back against the sink, watching you with that quiet, satisfied look that always undid you. “And you’re trouble.
You rolled your eyes, tugging your skirt back down and straightening your top. “Come on, birthday boy. Before someone sends a search party.”
He chuckled, slipping an arm around your waist as you headed toward the door. But just before opening it, he bent down, lips at your ear. “Later,” he promised, voice low and dangerous. “I’m not done with you.”
You adjusted the mic, smiled at the sea of expectant faces, and said,
“It’s exciting. To be stepping into a movie now, after three seasons of the show. To see these characters evolve on a bigger canvas. I’m very much looking forward to everyone finally seeing it.”
The crowd clapped, cheers bursting like confetti. Pedro’s hand brushed the back of your chair, a subtle reassurance. You didn’t look at him, restraint had become second nature at these things, but you felt his presence, steady and comforting.
When Pedro spoke, he was all charm, leaning forward in his glasses and blue shirt. “We’re having the time of our lives. It’s been a dream working with this group—” his eyes cut briefly to you, a flicker of softness hidden behind the professional smile—“and I think fans are going to feel how much love went into this.”
You caught the way his lips twitched like he wanted to grin just at you. He always did that, little cracks in the armor.
Later, on the carpet, you posed dutifully for the flashing bulbs, turning your head this way and that, striking practiced smiles. And in the corner of your eye, you caught him. Not posing. Not playing to the press. Just…taking photos of you on his phone like you were a tourist sight, like he couldn’t help himself. When your eyes met, he grinned, unashamed.
That night, tucked into a narrow booth in a sushi bar down an alley you’d never have found without a friend’s recommendation, you finally breathed again. The city outside pulsed neon; inside, it was all wood panels and low laughter. You sat hip-to-hip, chopsticks clumsy in your tipsy hands.
“This sushi is soooo good,” you groaned, mouth full, and Pedro snorted.
“You sound like you’re in pain.”
“I am in pain. It’s too good.” You swallowed dramatically, then nudged his plate. “Wanna try mine?”
He lifted his chopsticks, feeding you a bite of whatever he’d ordered. You chewed, eyes closing, practically moaning again. “Oh my god.”
He was watching you with that fond, amused expression, elbow propped on the table. “You’re ridiculous,” he murmured, shaking his head like you were the most entertaining thing Tokyo had to offer.
You poked his side. “Shut up. Let me live.”
After a beat, he tilted his head, quieter. “Do you want to do something tomorrow? We still have a couple of days here.”
You glanced at him, lips still shiny from soy sauce. “Like what?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. You, me. Just us.”
You smiled. “I like that plan.”
As you reached for your cup of sake, he caught your hand. “Wait—hold still.” His thumb grazed your nails, eyes narrowing with interest. “These are new.”
You laughed. “Oh my god, I forgot to tell you. I got them done this morning by this girl—they’re perfect, right? Look—” You turned your hand under the light, the gloss catching. “She’s amazing. I’m going back to her next time we’re here.”
“They’re beautiful,” he said simply, still holding your hand, as though the nails were just an excuse.
•••
The next morning, you walked through Shinjuku Gyoen, cherry blossoms just past bloom but still scattering petals like secrets across the grass. Pedro carried iced coffees, his free hand tucked into your back pocket, completely unbothered by the stares you drew. You caught him sneaking petals into your hair just to hear you protest.
That afternoon, you took the metro at rush hour, pressed shoulder to shoulder with strangers, and he leaned down to murmur, “Todo es romántico contigo.” Just like that, simple and lovely, as though a packed subway could be the most intimate place in the world.
Another night, you wandered into a tiny record shop in Shibuya. Pedro dug through crates, humming softly, until he found an old Caetano Veloso vinyl and held it up like treasure. “For our place,” he said, already imagining the sound of it filling your home.
And there were the small things: you feeding him takoyaki too hot off the grill while he hissed and laughed through the burn; his bullseye tattoo tracing idle circles on your bare knee under a restaurant table; his glasses slipping down his nose as he studied a map, refusing your help just so you’d tease him.
Everywhere you went, he touched you. Your wrist, your shoulder, your hip, as though anchoring himself. And everywhere you looked, the city glowed brighter because he was there, beside you.
The Riviera heat clung to your skin like silk, the kind that made your hair stick to the back of your neck even though the sea breeze tried its best to cool you. The sun was beating down on your face as you walked the Croisette with Pedro at your side. The flashbulbs hadn’t started yet, that storm still waited for you, but even in the quiet before, you could feel it: the shift in the air, the way strangers looked at him like he was theirs to consume.
He wore black—head to toe, simple, sexy. Sleeveless shirt, tailored trousers, arms bare, the definition in his muscles making you want to claw at him right there in the street. His sunglasses glinted, reflecting back the world he was about to conquer.
“You ready?” His voice tugged you out of your thoughts.
You blinked, forcing your focus from the past. Cannes years ago, just friends then, oblivious idiots standing outside some afterparty, you tracing his nose with your fingertip like it was the most natural thing in the world, him freezing, swallowing, smiling because he didn’t know what else to do. How had you not seen it then? How had you wasted so much time?
“Are you trying to kill me?” you asked now, low enough that only he could hear.
His smile was slow, teasing. “You like it?”
You stepped into his space, ignoring the handlers and assistants buzzing around, and kissed him once, firm. “How lucky am I to have the hottest man on earth?”
He chuckled, his hand brushing your waist like he couldn’t help it. “You flatter me, amor.”
But the truth was, there was no flattery. Cameras devoured him. His sister glowed beside you both, proud, radiant, but you couldn’t stop watching him. Pedro, walking into Cannes like he had always belonged there.
Pedro’s face was everywhere. Posters, red carpets, interviews where he was lit in gold and called every flattering name under the sun. And you were happy for him, genuinely, achingly proud. He deserved it all, every ounce of attention, every headline, every stranger screaming his name. So you didn’t know where the pang in your chest was coming from. Maybe it was the distance. Maybe it was your period.
Probably both.
When his name flashed across your phone that night, you answered instantly.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he said, propped against a hotel headboard, glasses on, the faintest rasp of exhaustion in his voice.
You smiled, settling back against the couch with your bowl of pralines ice cream. “Hi, movie star. Long day?”
“The longest,” he groaned dramatically. “Smile, smile, wave, wave, ‘how does it feel to be everyone’s crush.’” He widened his eyes and raised his brows in parody, making you laugh.
“Poor baby. Must be so hard being adored by millions.”
“It is, actually,” he said gravely, then cracked into a grin. “What are you doing?”
You scooped another bite of ice cream. “Watching Love Island. Trying to figure out how people can fall in love after two margaritas and one firepit chat.”
He laughed, a warm rumble through the phone. “Don’t act like you wouldn’t dominate that show. You’d have three men crying by day two.”
“Excuse you,” you said, mock-offended. “I’d only have two crying. The third would be fetching me snacks.”
He shook his head, smiling so soft it made your stomach hurt. “You’re ridiculous. I miss you.”
You blinked at the screen, heart tugging. “I miss you too.”
There was a beat of comfortable silence, just his quiet breathing through the speaker, and then he said, casual as anything, “I’m having dinner with Dakota again tomorrow night, by the way.”
The shift inside you was sharp, unwelcome. Not ugly, not the kind of jealousy that burned, but a sudden dip you hated yourself for.
“Mm.” You tried to keep your tone even, spoon scraping the bowl.
His eyes narrowed a little. “What’s that ‘mm’?”
“Nothing.”
“Amor.” He tilted his head, glasses sliding further down his nose. “Talk to me.”
You hesitated, pressing the spoon to your lips. “It’s stupid.”
“Probably,” he said, smiling gently. “Tell me anyway.”
You exhaled. “It’s just—sometimes it’s hard, you know? Seeing you out there with all these people, all this… everything. And I’m here with my ice cream and Love Island. It’s dumb. I’m happy for you, I swear, I just—sometimes I wish it was me you were having dinner with. I haven't seen you in so long.”
His expression softened instantly. “Amor.” He leaned closer until the screen was filled with beard, silver, and love. “Do you know what I think about when I sit down at those dinners?”
“What?”
“You. How you’d sneak your dessert onto my plate. How you’d tell me later that half the table bored you and then make me laugh until I couldn’t breathe. You are my favorite dinner date. Always will be.”
You smiled despite yourself, spoon forgotten. “You’re the cheesiest man alive.”
He grinned, proud. “Yeah. But I’m yours. Even when the world wants me.”
And just like that, the heaviness shifted. Not gone, but lighter, softened by the way he said it. Not as reassurance, but as fact.
Other nights were different.
You were curled up in bed, the glow of your lamp soft against your face, hair down and falling over your shoulders. Pedro was in another hotel room, the kind that all blurred together for him by now.
“You look cozy,” he murmured, lying back against the headboard, his t-shirt tugged loose at the collar. His voice carried that gravel it always had when he was tired, low and slow, the kind that pulled a shiver right down your spine.
“I am cozy,” you said, pulling the blanket higher with a small grin. “You look…” You trailed off deliberately, eyeing him through the screen.
“Handsome? Rugged?” He waggled his brows.
“Like you need a hug,” you teased, softer than your grin suggested.
His smile faltered into something tender, eyes catching yours through the pixelated glow. “Yeah. That too.”
The conversation drifted. Little jokes, talk of the day. But then his voice dipped lower, the way it sometimes did when he couldn’t quite keep the want tucked away.
“Amor,” he said, quiet but direct. “Show me.”
You tilted your head, pretending to misunderstand. “Show you what?”
His mouth twitched. “Don’t play.” His eyes were steady, soft but hungry. “I miss you too much tonight. Just… let me see you.”
Your chest tightened. You hesitated only a second before you shifted, setting the phone against your pillows. The screen tilted, framing your face, your hand sliding down under the blanket. His eyes darkened instantly, his breath catching.
“Fuck,” he rasped, his hand disappearing below the camera’s edge, shoulders flexing under his t-shirt. “You’re so beautiful like this.”
Your breath hitched as your fingers worked between your thighs, the sound of his voice alone almost too much. “Pedro—”
“Say it again.” His voice broke, rougher now.
“Pedro.”
He groaned, hand moving faster. “That’s it, baby. Let me hear you. Pretend I’m there, right there between your legs.”
Your hips arched, blanket slipping as your body betrayed you, breath coming quicker. He cursed, words tumbling low and filthy.
The room shrank until there was only the sound of your breathing, his muffled groans, the rhythm of two bodies trying to bridge oceans through glass. You gasped as release crept close, fingers trembling.
“Pedro—”
“I’m right here,” he panted. “Come for me, baby. Come with me.”
And you did. The sound you made was caught by the quiet of your room, by him murmuring your name like a prayer through the phone. He followed, breath breaking, glasses slipping down his nose as he came with a groan that felt ripped from his chest.
When it was over, you both lay there in your separate beds, sweaty, flushed, quiet but smiling.
“God,” he muttered, pushing his glasses back up. “When I get back to you…I’m not letting you leave the bed for a week.”
You laughed, still breathless. “Promises, promises.”
“Pack a bag,” he said before hello. “I’m taking you away for the weekend.”
“Well, hello to you too. How are you?”
“I’m good, baby. Pack a bag.”
You laughed, half incredulous, half giddy, clutching the phone closer. “So bossy. Where are you taking me?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Oh, no, señor. That’s not how it works. Because, one—I hate not knowing things. And two—I need to know what weather I’m packing for. You know I don’t play about my outfits.”
Pedro laughed, head tipping back, the sound rich and smug. “Cold.”
That caught your attention. July, and cold? You narrowed your eyes at him through the screen. He was grinning like he’d just checkmated you.
“Cold where?”
“You’ll see.”
You scoffed, dragging out a groan. “Bossy.”
“Efficient,” he shot back without missing a beat, lips twitching.
You leaned forward, squinting at him. “Hmm. I’ve got a couple of ideas where you might be taking me.”
“Oh yeah?” He shifted, leaning closer now, his tone low and baiting.
“Cold. July. I actually paid attention in geography, you know.”
He smirked, shaking his head like you were incorrigible. “Okay, smarty pants, don’t spoil my surprise, please.”
You groaned louder, throwing yourself back against the pillows. “You’re soooo annoying.”
“Don’t be a brat,” he warned lightly, smiling like he liked it when you were.
“Fine,” you said, though you were still pouting. “But if I end up in Antarctica without the right coat, it’s on you.”
“Deal,” he murmured, leaning so close to the camera that his face filled the screen, eyes warm, crooked smile softening. “I’ll keep you warm.”
•••
Three days later, the terminal smelled faintly of coffee and disinfectant, yet you found him instantly. Even with the cap tugged low, even with the way he tried to blend into the quiet corner of the lounge, he was impossible to miss. You walked fast, then faster, until you were crashing into him, arms tight around his torso, your face pressed into the familiar scratch of his t-shirt. You held him longer than usual, long enough to feel the slow exhale against your hair, long enough to breathe him in like oxygen after drowning.
“I missed you too,” he whispered into your crown, his voice low, the warmth of it settling deep. His hand spread wide across the back of your neck, anchoring you like he always did when words were too small.
The jet felt impossibly private once you were inside; two seats facing each other, a couch that seemed too sleek for comfort, windows framing nothing but endless sky. You fell into the same quiet rituals you always did: Pedro ordering snacks from the flight attendant and sliding the ones you liked onto your tray, you stealing the crossword from his lap only to abandon it half-done between you, your cheek pillowed on his chest, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his breath beneath cotton.
Now and then, you caught fragments. Little hints, enough for your mind to start tracing patterns, though never quite settling on the whole picture.
It was only hours in, when the hum of the cabin had softened and the window framed nothing but sky, that he finally said it.
“Bariloche.”
The name dropped like a stone into a still pond. Patagonia. The word unfurled in your head like music, like a chord struck after silence. Cold in July, mountains serrated against the horizon, sky so wide it might undo you.
You turned toward him, lips parting, and found him watching you with that half-smile, as if he’d been waiting for the exact second it clicked.
The flight was long, a stretch of hours that should have worn you thin, but instead it meant more of him. More time pressed against his side, more cardigans stolen and bunched beneath your cheek, more of his palm coasting idle circles over your thigh, warm syllables spilling over you until your body felt loose, your mind sliding toward dreams.
•••
The plane descended into Bariloche beneath a sky so crystalline it looked rinsed clean. The mountains rose like cathedral spires, snow clinging to their ridges, the peaks pale against the cobalt stretch of sky. The air outside the terminal cut straight through your coat, sharp and clean, your breath turning visible as you exhaled. Patagonia. It was almost absurd that a word could contain so much space.
Pedro tugged his beanie lower over his ears and caught your hand, squeezing once, eyes darting as if memorizing the view and you all at once. “Worth packing a sweater?” he teased, and you rolled your eyes.
“You didn’t even let me bring half my closet.”
“Because your closet doesn’t fit in a carry-on, mi amor.” He smirked, adjusting the strap of his bag across his shoulder. “I did you a favor.”
“Mm, debatable.” You nudged him with your elbow. “You’re only saying that so you can keep stealing my cardigans.”
He gave you that exaggerated guilty look, eyes wide behind the smudged lenses of his glasses.
The cabin he’d rented sat at the edge of a lake, its surface glassy, catching every cloud as if it had been painted with mirrors. Inside, the place smelled faintly of cedar and woodsmoke. Thick quilts piled on the bed. A kitchen that begged for coffee and late-night snacks. Pedro opened the balcony door, and the cold rushed in; bracing, alive. He stood there for a moment, broad shoulders silhouetted against the mountain line, grey threading more boldly now through his hair. You caught yourself staring at the slope of his neck, the scatter of freckles across his skin. That familiar ache of wanting everything he was, and everything he tried to hide.
The first night was quiet. You cooked a simple meal together. Pasta with jarred sauce, garlic bread singed at the edges, and it tasted better than anything expensive. Pedro put music on his phone, something low and winding, and you danced barefoot in the kitchen while the water ran in the sink. He spun you in one of your own cardigans, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the hem brushing his thighs.
“Is that mine?” you accused, tugging at the sleeve as you passed him.
“Guilty,” he admitted, pulling you close, his nose brushing against your temple.
•••
You woke to sunlight brimming at the edges of the curtains and the scent of coffee. When you went downstairs he was at the kitchen counter in yet another of your sweaters; stretched out by his broad back, sleeves pushed up, the bullseye doodle inked on the flesh between his thumb and forefinger peeking through as he poured milk for your coffee. He watched you with a look like his ribs had migrated to his face, soft and honest.
“Lake?” he asked, and later you were bundled in thick wool scarves and boots, walking the narrow path to the shore. The cold bit your nose. He wrapped his arm around your waist and pressed you closer until the heat between you fought with the frost on your lashes.
You took photographs, a ridiculous number of them: him with his mug of coffee and pretending to fall into the lake, you laughing at a joke only you two understood, his hand tucked into the small of your back. He made faces at the camera, then stole a sudden, fierce kiss that left you dizzy.
You continued your walk, he stole the camera from your hand at some point. Your boots sank into the damp earth while he stopped every few minutes to take pictures of you. You laughed, half-shy, half-delighted, as he crouched to capture you adjusting your scarf, as he murmured, “Just one more,” even after the twentieth shutter.
You huff out a laugh. “Don’t you ever get tired of pointing that thing at me?”
He lowered the camera, his Roman nose catching the last of the sun, and shook his head with quiet gravity. “Nope.”
That evening, his hands were gentler. You set the table; candles trembled. He stood behind you as you stirred something in a pot and slid his arms around your middle. “You look so sexy in cardigans,” he murmured, nuzzling the knot at the back of your neck.
“You’ve been wearing mine so much I can’t tell which are mine anymore,” you said, but you did not demand them back. What's mine is yours, what's yours is mine.
There was so much love during those days, so much laughter, and so much sex.
The first night, it felt like release. Hungry, unpolished, the way you both ached from the time apart. He had you on the cabin’s old wooden table, the quilt you’d dragged from the bed bunched under your hips, his glasses discarded somewhere between the stove and the door. His thrusts were uneven, rushed, as if he couldn’t get deep enough. Your hands scrabbled at the freckled skin of his shoulders, nails marking crescents, and he only pressed harder, whispering against your mouth, “You missed me.”
“So much,” you gasped, and he smirked, almost feral, fucking you harder until the table creaked in protest. He came with your name broken in his throat, forehead pressed to yours, breath shuddering out of him like relief.
The second night, he took his sweet time. He pressed you against the cold window overlooking the lake, fogging the glass with your moans, the sky outside pale and endless. His beard rasped against your neck as he sucked bruises into your skin, leaving proof, claiming you quietly. His hand between your thighs worked you open, slow and deliberate, until you were shaking before he even pushed inside you.
The glass was icy against your cheek, but his body was molten, his chest flush against your back, his sweat dampening the fabric of your borrowed cardigan. Yes, one of yours again. He fucked you with a rhythm that bordered on cruel, pulling you back onto him until your voice cracked.
“You’ll wake the whole lake,” he teased in your ear, muffling your mouth with his hand when you cried out, grinding into you with filthy precision.
After, you stayed there against the window, your breath still painting clouds on the pane, his arms wrapped tight around your waist. He kissed your shoulder tenderly, murmuring, “Mía. Siempre mía,” in a voice that was as much prayer as it was possession.
The third night, he worshiped you. He laid you on the bed, stripped slowly, until all you could see was the grey threading through his hair, the long slope of his Roman nose, the freckles scattered like stars on his chest and shoulders. He kissed down your body as if he had nowhere else to be, as if each inch of skin mattered. His tongue traced the inside of your thighs until you begged, until your hips lifted helplessly toward his mouth.
When he finally gave in, his beard scratched deliciously against your skin, his groans vibrating into you as he devoured you. He held you down with big hands on your hips, keeping you spread, keeping you trembling until you shattered under him. He looked up at you with his mouth slick, eyes glassy, whispering, “So perfect, baby. So perfect for me.”
When he slid into you after, it was slow, a stretch that made you both gasp. His lips brushed your ear, his words soft, reverent. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this. To deserve you.” You pulled him closer, fingers digging into his skin as he fucked you slow and deep until tears pricked at your eyes, not from pain, but from the unbearable sweetness of it.
•••
The last day tasted like endings you didn’t want. You sat curled together on the couch, mismatched mugs of coffee warming your palms. The lake outside shifted colors as the clouds rolled past, from silver to deep, startling blue.
Pedro had saved an article, a long essay about the evolution of character-driven films in the last decade, and the ways directors shape performances to create lasting impact. He adjusted his glasses, tufts of hair escaping, and you smoothed them absentmindedly. He began reading aloud, letting his voice roll through the room, pausing on lines that made him grin or groan.
"The actor becomes a vessel for the director’s vision, but also must carve out their own soul within the frame,’” he read, then looked at you, shy.
“What? You think that’s pretentious, P? No!” you said, teasing.
“Don’t get me wrong,” he said, red creeping up his neck, “I love everything I’ve done so far.”
You gave him a funny look, squinting. “Uh-huh.”
He laughed loud and full, head thrown back, eyes small by his cheeks. “Well… almost everything.”
You just sipped your coffee, a small smile playing on your lips.
“The point is,” he said, quieter now, voice soft, shifting in his seat, “I think I’m ready to do more. More serious stuff, you know?”
You leaned forward, playful but earnest. “I think it’s a smart move. You’ve garnered all this attention from your recent projects. It’d be really cool if you started exploring auteur-driven films now.”
He ran a finger through a curl of his hair, shy and proud at the same time. “I’ve been approached for a couple of things, actually…”
“Yeah?”
“One of them is with Tony Gilroy.”
“No way…” Your eyes widened, disbelief and excitement mixing.
He nodded happily. “That reminds me—we need to finish Andor, babe.”
You didn't reply and he continued, “Should we watch an episode now? Before we leave?”
“About that…” you said, trying to keep a straight face.
“You finished it without me?” His face contorted in mock horror, voice high.
“I’m sorry! I was really hooked and—”
“You evil woman!” He lunged at you, pretending to be outraged, and immediately started peppering your face with quick, playful kisses. “I can’t believe you! How could you?!”
You laughed, trying to dodge him. “Pedro! Stop! I really am sorry!”
“But you know,” you added, grinning, “I can rewatch it with you, yeah?”
He paused just long enough to frown at you theatrically before grabbing your cheeks and kissing you again, slower this time, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You better,” he said between kisses. “Or I’ll keep attacking you until you beg for mercy.”
You rolled your eyes, laughing, completely helpless under his playful, relentless onslaught of kisses.
Several weeks had passed since and his press run was still in full swing but he had a couple of days off and was finally home in LA.
Pedro saw it before you showed him: the carousel of photos on Instagram.
You, posing with posters and banners for Freaky Tales, Eddington, Materialists, Fantastic Four. New York streets, London corners, Los Angeles bus stops. Every shot was different, but the throughline was unmistakable: your grin, your playfulness, the way you pointed at his face looming several feet tall, or pretended to kiss his printed cheek. You’d captioned it simply: “Pedro Pascal summer, indeed.”
He smiled, slow and easy, the kind that reached his eyes, but beneath it, a strange feeling crept in. Rolling his head against the back of the couch, he let the weight of it settle for a moment. There were also the not-so-kind comments he’d glimpsed at sometimes, the judgment, the eyes trained on him with critical precision. He didn’t care. Not really, but they were still there, like shadows at the edge of a bright room. The strange feeling wasn’t fear, not exactly. It was vulnerability, a sudden awareness that even in the comfort of home, the world could reach him.
He cracked one eye open to look at you, sprawled beside him in a T-shirt that wasn’t yours. His T-shirt. His his, his. Your toes nudged his calf. “You think people will get tired of me?” he asked, softer than he intended. The room was dim, some old black-and-white movie murmuring on the TV, the kind of background noise that had always made him feel less alone.
The question surprised even him. It wasn’t false modesty. It was the same raw worry that had lived under his skin for quite some time now. The suspicion that people would one day wake up and decide he wasn’t worth it anymore.
You tilted your head toward him, a slow blink. “Who cares?” You said it like fact, not comfort. “If it were up to me, you’d be in every movie ever. This face—” you tapped his jaw, where the salt had crept into the black, “—was made for the screen.”
He snorted, shifting uncomfortably because compliments sometimes still stung, even from you. Especially from you. “You’re only saying that because you love me.”
“Uh, I’m pretty sure the internet agrees with me.” You shot back. “At least the smart people do.”
And then you leaned back, lazy and radiant, and kept scrolling, unbothered. As though your love wasn’t a knife but a balm.
Pedro turned his head away, staring at the flicker of the movie. And it hit him, out of nowhere.
This was what he used to run from.
Years ago, at Oscar’s house, the moment you turned and he caught your face in the light. That hunger, the way it had terrified him, the way he’d smothered it under the safety net of “just friends.” He remembered convincing himself he couldn’t do relationships, that he wasn’t built for them. That love was a trap leading only to pain, and he didn’t like pain, so he avoided it like fire. He remembered shaking his head in bitterness, muttering to someone once that you deserved better, that he’d only hold you back.
But here you were. Years later. Wearing his T-shirt, nudging him with your foot, captioning your joy to the world without hesitation.
You had lived strangely in his head for so long. And now you lived everywhere else: in his mornings, in his nights, in his suitcases, in his phone, in the curve of his days. And the fear? It wasn’t gone, but it was useless. You’d made it useless.
Sometimes, when Pedro looked into your eyes, he knew God existed. He was not a religious man, but there was no other explanation for how a life so riddled with loneliness, fear, and the sharp edges of doubt could land him here, with you, building something incandescent out of ordinary days.
He didn’t say it, not yet. But inside, it clicked. Clear as a bell.
He wanted to spend the rest of his life with you. You, you, you.
Not because the world said he should, not because it made sense on paper, but because it was the only way he could imagine giving language to what you’d done to him. To how you’d cracked open his avoidance, dug your fingers into the softest parts, and stayed. To how you’d made him believe that forever wasn’t something to run from, but something to sprint toward.
You shifted closer on the couch, tucking yourself into his side, pressing a kiss absentmindedly against the bullseye tattoo on his hand. He shut his eyes again. That was it. The quiet knowing. He would carry this realization with him until the day he asked you.
For now, he let it settle like a secret vow inside his ribs, the sweetest secret he had ever kept.
The front door creaked open just as you were muttering at the open kitchen.
“No way, oh my god. That’s just not very smart,” you said to the air, pausing at the counter to shuffle your audiobook back a few seconds. AirPods in, leggings stretched tight around your thighs, bagel half-assembled and bacon cooling on your plate.
Pedro’s footsteps padded across the floor, the faint squeak of sneakers still damp from his morning workout. He appeared in the doorway, hair plastered to his forehead and a half-drunk green juice in one hand.
“Who are you yelling at?” His voice was rough from exertion, but amused.
You turned, cheeks a little flushed from the kitchen heat. “Oh, hi. How was the workout?”
He leaned down, pressed a quick, sweat-salty kiss to your lips before answering. “Exhausting.” Then, predictably, he stole a strip of bacon from your plate.
“Hey, that’s mine,” you protested, snatching the plate back.
He only grinned, chewing. “New book?”
“Yeah. Started it last night.” You tapped the phone on the counter, pausing the audio.
“What’s this one about?”
“It’s a thriller. A psychiatrist who murders a patient.”
Pedro raised both brows, juice bottle paused mid-sip. “That’s crazy.”
“Mmhm. It’s not too long though, so we can read something together after this one.”
He put on a gravelly, mock-serious voice. “The book club lives!”
You laughed around a bite of your messy bagel. “The two-people book club.”
“Hey, it works because we like most of the same stuff. If we add more people, it’d be an issue.” He wagged a finger dramatically. “Imagine if we had to read Atomic Habits?”
You stared at him, then made a dramatic gagging noise. “Ugh. Don’t even joke.”
“Exactly.” He chuckled, pointing at you with his bacon. “Fiction all the way, baby.”
“Fiction all the way.” You slapped his raised palm with your free hand.
For a moment, you just stood there, your morning routines colliding: his damp t-shirt sticking to his chest, your counter cluttered with bagel toppings, the kitchen smelling like coffee and bacon grease.
Then Pedro tipped the last of the green juice back, set the bottle down, and smirked at you.
“Wanna shower together?”
You tilted your head, smiling. “An offer I can’t refuse.”
He held out his hand, already tugging you away from your breakfast.
He had not meant to steal it. The ring was nothing loud or showy, only a thin gold band that lived on your finger as casually as a habit. He noticed it the way he noticed small constellations on your skin: the freckle at the base of your thumb, the tiny nick on your knuckle from some kitchen accident you never remembered to tell him about. One afternoon, while you were in the shower and the house smelled of steam and whatever playlist you had left on, he slipped that ring into his pocket because he wanted something to take to the jeweler, something honest and exact to show the man behind the counter. He told himself it was practical. He told himself a dozen clever reasons and then pocketed the truth like a warm stone.
Days later you were rifling through your bag. “Think I lost one of my rings,” you said, voice light. You paused, thumb skimming the lining. “Maybe between fittings on set.”
His chest tightened hard enough that for a second he could not breathe properly. He kept his face even. “Sure it will turn up,” he said, because that was the least dramatic, most useful lie.
You let it go with the rest of the day, because you always let the world push forward with its own momentum. He did not. He took the ring to the jeweler with Lux, hands that did not know how nervous they were until the clerk put velvet trays between them and the soft light made everything look ancient and important. “Not too much,” he muttered, turning bands as if the right one might reveal itself by touch. “I don’t want it to look staged. I want it to feel like her. Simple. Right.”
Lux nodded. “You know her. Beautiful. Timeless.”
He rubbed his jaw and for a moment felt foolish. He was a grown man, he told himself. He had been through so much. He had been the steady voice on the other end of countless people's crises. And yet the ring on the little stand looked suddenly so heavy. He asked the quiet question that sat where fear usually lived: do you even want this? Do you want this with me?
Lux was talking to the jeweler, voice softened then and as if reading his mind said what everyone sensible said: she loves you. That's enough. It was not enough for the small dark thing that lived in him and fed on all the what ifs.
•••
At one of the Fantastic Four premieres he watched you the way a man watches sunlight fall through old glass. You laughed with Vanessa, your hands at ease on her belly as you both talked about names. His stomach tightened without permission. A selfish thought that felt like a stain slipped into the margins of his mind: what if you want children and he cannot give that? He had imagined other futures for himself, but they had become hazy in the years he spent avoiding the kinds of attachments that hurt the most.
The worry simmered for days until it no longer stayed in the quiet places. One night, back in a hotel room you emerged from the bathroom, a cotton pad in your hand. “I can’t believe Vanessa is doing all of this while pregnant,” you said, the tone bright. “She’s really a superhero.”
Pedro, bent at the edge of the bed, was tugging at his shoe. “Mm,” he said.
“And Jen called this morning. She’s expecting her second! Can you believe it?” You sounded delighted, the kind of delighted that made his chest ache.
“That’s wonderful, mi vida,” he managed.
“More babies to play with,” you added, disappearing back into bathroom steam.
He stared at the carpet until you returned and then could not keep the distance between his thoughts and his mouth. You noticed the way he shuffled and asked with the soft patience of someone who had learned the contours of him. “You okay, P?”
"Yeah."
You didn't push him after that and just continued to put on your pajamas and went into the bathroom once again, when you returned to the room, he spoke suddenly.
“I lied,” he said, because the truth had begun to feel heavy and immediate.
You arched an eyebrow. “Yeah, figures.”
He chose his words like stones and then threw them clumsily, urgent and earnest. “Do you want kids?”
You froze for only a second. “What?”
“Do you ever think about kids?” His voice was small, the conversation spilling out of him in the way rain spills when it is suddenly uncontained. “I’ve seen you with Vanessa, with my nephews over the years, with Oscar's kids. You seem…so natural, so happy. I thought maybe—”
You let him talk until he ran out of words. Then you spoke, clear and kind. “You thought I wanted one?”
“Well, yeah,” he admitted.
You smiled then, the kind of smile that was both reassuring and mischievous. “I get excited for Vanessa because she’s excited. That’s her story. With your nephews and friends’ kids, I’m mostly thrilled because I get to hand them back after sugar crashes. I’m flattered you think I’m a natural, but the truth is I do not want children. I never really have, if I'm being completely honest.”
Relief cracked across his face like sunlight. He dropped his head into his hands and choked out a laugh. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” You curled into him. “I spiraled about it too last year. I thought what if you do want kids and I cannot give that? I was terrified of breaking something.”
He kissed your temple as if sealing a promise. “We have to stop spiraling alone.”
“We will,” you said, and meant it. “Kids are beautiful. Not everyone needs them. My mother said it was selfish to say that, but I do not believe that. I love the life we have. I love you.”
He said he loved you back into the thin light, and for a moment the room felt like a harbor.
The ring burned a hole in his pocket. It rode with him through dinners and dressing rooms and late-night interviews. Pedro had rehearsed it too many times. In his mind, the night unfolded like film: dinner at your favorite restaurant, laughter echoing against wine glasses, the familiar comfort of food you both loved. Then, the car ride to the museum, quiet anticipation, your hand resting on his thigh. Finally, the moment, just the two of you in a room full of art, asking a question that would change everything.
But New York had other ideas.
A car accident blocked half the avenue. He sat in the back of a black SUV, knuckles white on his phone, while the minutes bled out of his plan. You were supposed to arrive together, supposed to glide into the night with ease. Instead, he was watching tail lights blur red in the rain, your name glowing on his screen.
“Baby, it’s okay,” you told him when he answered, your voice warm and steady even through the static. “Traffic’s been terrible today anyway. I can wait.”
He could hear the clinking of cutlery on your end, the low hum of conversation around you.
“I’m so sorry,” he muttered, forehead pressed to the window.
“Don’t be silly,” you said, light, teasing. “I’ll order for you. By the time you get here, it’ll be perfect.”
But an hour passed and he was still stuck. You ordered, ate, even laughed on the phone between bites while he cursed the gridlock. Finally, when it became clear he would not make it, he texted your driver. Take her to the museum. Don’t tell her anything. Just get her there.
You left the restaurant with a takeout bag for him, still thinking the night was only slightly derailed. When Tom opened the car door for you, you slipped inside, thanked him, and scrolled your phone as the city lights smeared across the glass.
After a few turns, you looked up. “Tom, where are we going?”
“To the museum, ma’am.”
You frowned. “The museum? It’s late, just take me home.”
“I’m sorry. Mr. Pascal asked me to take you there no matter what.”
You laughed, disbelieving. “Tom, you work for me. Turn around.”
He hesitated, then with quiet finality: “Technically, I work for both of you.”
You huffed, half amused, half annoyed. “Fine. We’re almost there anyway.”
The car stopped at the steps, and Tom opened the door. The night air hit you cool and alive, a faint breeze carrying the smell of rain. You checked your phone—no missed calls—and began climbing the stairs, your coat wrapped tight, your hair lifting in the wind. The city loomed behind you, grand and restless.
Pedro arrived seconds later, bolting out of the SUV, feet pounding against wet pavement. As if the night had not mocked him enough, it began to drizzle until the steps glistened with water. He spotted you at the top, your back turned, shoulders hunched against the rain.
He called your name.
You turned, slow, and it felt like the city paused. He reached the top, chest burning, out of breath, dripping hair clinging to his forehead. You stood one step higher, looking down at him with that small, unshakably soft smile that undid him every time.
“You know,” you said lightly, “the last time we were outside in New York and it rained, we were fighting.”
The memory flickered in him: rooftop after his play, cigarette between his fingers, the rain as sharp as his temper. He swallowed hard.
“Let’s get inside,” he urged, voice rough.
“They’re about to close, P.”
“Please,” he tried, but you shook your head.
“It’s okay. We’ll come back tomorrow.”
“No.” His voice cracked on it. He had run out of plans. “No, I can’t. I… I fucked up.”
You blinked at him. “Why?”
“Because I had the perfect night planned. The universe clearly had other ideas.” His laugh was strangled, bitter with nerves. “You deserve perfect. And this—” He gestured helplessly at the rain, the empty steps. “This is not perfect.”
“Pedro,” you said softly, “it’s fine. We’ll try again another night.”
But the words he had swallowed for weeks clawed their way out now, reckless and unpolished. “No, this was supposed to be the night I asked you to marry me.”
Your mouth parted, eyes widening, the world slowing.
He pushed on, rain dripping down his lashes, voice breaking open. “I know this isn’t how it should’ve been. You deserve candlelight and music, not me looking like a drowned rat on a museum step. But none of that matters. What matters is you—always you. I want to tell you everything and nothing, I want to hear you mutter to yourself about whatever audiobook you’re devouring, I want to argue with you about movies until we’re both stubborn and smiling, I want to steal your cardigans and hear you scold me for it, every single time.”
Your laugh broke through your tears, thin and trembling, but it glowed like light in the storm. “God, you’re so ridiculous.”
He smiled, closing the gap, his hand lifting to sweep the wet hair from your face with aching tenderness. “I want every boring morning and every sleepless night. I want to hold your hands through the good and the bad. I want to be the man who stands beside you until my legs give out.”
Your eyes filled, rain and tears blurring together, and he fumbled for his jacket pocket. His knees nearly gave way, but he let himself drop down, rain soaking into the stone beneath him. He pulled the small box free, water streaking his glasses, his grin wild with nerves and hope.
“You’re going to have to help me stand after this,” he said, a shaky laugh undercutting the gravity, “but—will you marry me? Will you let me love you for the rest of my life?”
“Yes,” you whispered, your voice breaking, then stronger, clearer, certain: “Yes.”
The world blurred at the edges. Your hands flew to your mouth, laughter spilling through your sobs, rain dripping off your lashes. “Yes,” you said again, sure as anything you’d ever known.
He rose and kissed you, fierce and unshaken, the drizzle wrapping you both in a silver curtain. He held you as though he had just been given everything he never dared believe he could want. He carried that moment inside him, secret and holy, knowing he would ask you again in a thousand ways, in a thousand small proofs, for the rest of his life.
The hotel pulsed with the low hum of chaos. Doors opening and shutting, assistants balancing garment bags, the scent of hairspray seeping into the hallway. Your room was crowded, stylist, makeup artist, publicist, everyone orbiting around you while you sat in a robe, makeup done, hair half-pinned. You were mid-laugh at some story when your phone buzzed.
Pedro: Can you come over for a moment?
You excused yourself, murmuring you’d be back in five, and slipped into the hall barefoot. Carpet soft under your soles, you crossed to the room opposite. His door was propped open; you greeted the small army of stylists and agents buzzing inside.
“Where is he?” you asked.
“Bathroom,” someone replied, distracted by a garment bag.
You nodded and slipped through.
He was there, leaning on the sink counter, white shirt unbuttoned low enough to show the double glint of necklaces at his chest. His hair was perfectly styled, his reflection half-shadow, half-gold under the vanity lights. He turned, and the shy smile that crossed his face almost undid you.
“Woah. Handsome,” you said softly.
“Are you good?” you asked when you reached him.
He faced you fully, shoulders rising and falling. “Yeah. I just needed to see you.”
Your hands found his chest. His fingers pressed into your sides like he was bracing himself.
“Award jitters?”
He nodded, almost ashamed. “I don’t even know why I’m fussed about it. After the SAG win I let myself get hopeful, and now I’m scared of being disappointed if it isn’t me tonight. But I do want it. God, I’d like to win. And at the same time, it’s just an award, right?”
You tilted your head, steady. “All valid thoughts, baby.”
His eyes searched yours. “Yeah?”
“It’s okay to want this. It doesn’t make you greedy. It’s recognition from your peers—it’s not stupid. But if it isn’t your name in that envelope, it doesn’t take anything away from you. You’re still… incredible. Always.”
He exhaled, a laugh in his chest, and kissed you, slow, grateful, lingering. His hands found the belt of your robe, tugging until the knot slipped loose. You smiled against his mouth, warmth in your belly as his palms traced your bare stomach, your breasts, the low hum in his throat vibrating against your lips.
“You’re so wise, fiancée,” he murmured.
“I have my moments, fiancée,” you teased back.
From the other side of the door came his stylist’s voice: “No funny business, you two! That’s a Céline!”
You both broke into laughter, your foreheads pressed together. He re-tied the robe, neat little knot at the front.
“I have to finish getting ready,” you said, reluctant but smiling.
He nodded, kissed you once more, and let you go.
Back in the hallway, you brushed past his stylist and grinned. “The Céline survived,” you quipped, earning a laugh from her and his agent.
That night, Pedro looked devastatingly handsome, moving through the room with ease, charming everyone, stealing kisses from you whenever he could. You showed off your ring, happy to tell the story. “It was raining, he looked like a wet rat, and it was perfect,” you said, and everyone laughed.
When his category came up, you held his hand tight. Someone shouted his name from the back as the envelope opened, but it wasn’t his. He was the first on his feet, clapping hard for the winner, and you followed, pride in your chest even as you glanced at him.
“Two-time Emmy loser,” he whispered when you both sat again, a grin tugging at his lips.
“I’m sorry, baby,” you murmured, kissing his cheek.
•••
Long after the dance floor had spun you both breathless, after champagne and laughter and friends pressing in on every side, Pedro pulled you away. The hotel room door shut behind you and the noise of the night dimmed into silence.
He finished what he had started in that bathroom hours earlier, only now there was no one to interrupt, no knock at the door, no warning about delicate fabric. The Céline suit lay crumpled on the floor, a casualty of urgency. His mouth was on your skin, his hands sure, his body pressed to yours; winning, losing, none of it mattered. What mattered was you, the way you gave yourself over to him, the way he whispered your name like it was the only award worth having.
You were two days into a blur of sun and wine when the reception settled into the kind of slow reckoning that makes you forget the clocks. The villa sat like an old story on a hill overlooking the valley, terracotta and ivy and a sea of vines that caught the light and turned it warm. Guests drifted between tables. A child chased a paper lantern and the sound of small feet punctuated the low hum of conversation. Somewhere, a cork popped. Someone laughed too loud. It all felt, improbably, like a miracle that had finally been arranged around them.
You did not remember exactly when the speeches began, only that they came as a river of voices you loved. His father’s voice was quiet and lovely. He spoke about Chile, about medicine and music, about Pedro’s mother and the ways she would have adored this night. And Pedro, who could perform a dozen lives on screen without faltering, blinked hard, his jaw tense, his eyes glassy. He turned to Pedro with a look that was equal parts pride and warning, and you watched his son melt into the child his father remembered.
Lux followed with a roast so sharp it cut through every remaining jitters; even the cousins who had been brazenly flirting at the aperitif quieted to listen. Oscar, the man who had been present at every comic beginning of this life, gave a toast laced with profanity and tenderness that made half the table cry and half the table howl with laughter. He stood with a glass raised high and said, “I was there the night these two idiots met, and I knew then what everyone knows now—it was inevitable. The universe has been conspiring to put them in the same frame all along.”
The speeches had done what speeches always do: revealed all the small, private histories that had been wound together to make this life. Friends told stories about the early days, about ridiculous things Pedro said on his first attempts at charm. The stories were funny and awful and true.
You remembered briefly last night, at the rehearsal dinner, Pedro leaned in toward you, arm warm against your chair, and whispered, “There’s still time to back out.”
You rolled your eyes and nudged his thigh under the table. “Very funny.”
“I’m serious,” he said, a crooked grin tugging at his mouth. “One word and I’ll stage a dramatic runaway. You’ll never see a man vanish so fast.”
“Please,” you scoffed, sipping your wine. “You’d trip over your own shoelaces before you made it to the door.”
He laughed, but you saw the way his eyes softened, the way he reached for your hand beneath the table and squeezed. For all the jokes, he was sentimental, dangerously so. His throat had already tightened twice that evening.
People said love felt like a thousand tiny sensible things, said commitment was not fireworks but the daily smallness of habit and patience. But there were moments, places between sentences, little gaps in the music, that felt more like revelation. You found one of those moments when a friend raised a glass and said something simple and ridiculous, the kind of sentence that flattens you with its perfect honesty: “You two are that rare kind of mess that’s actually beautiful.” The table laughed, and you looked up at Pedro and saw every line, every river of light, and thought: oh here's the rest of my life. It had arrived wearing his laugh.
He looked impossibly handsome, as if every wrinkle and freckle had been placed by a kindly editor. The late sun made the brown of his eyes molten; you thought of honey, of a leaf falling slow and final in autumn. He caught your eye and the smile he gave you was private and whole. He threaded his fingers through yours beneath the table and you felt the old, familiar anchoring, a small, exultant theft.
At some point you were pulled into another circle, arms entwined with family and friends. Laughter echoed and glasses were raised and words were offered that meant more than the sentences themselves. You heard yourself say thank you a dozen times and mean it in different ways each time.
As the night wore on and fireflies flickered into being like old film frames, you slipped away from the crowd with Pedro at your side. The music and laughter from the villa softened behind you as you wandered barefoot past hedges and olive trees, gravel cool against your soles. His suit jacket had been discarded somewhere hours ago, forgotten on the back of a chair, and now he looked undone in the best way, shirt loosened and collar open.
When he stopped, he turned and cupped your face in both hands, thumbs brushing at your damp temples as if even your sweat belonged to him. The world shrank to the span of his palms. “How do you exist and how are you mine?” he asked, voice cracking on the marvel of it, the question as much an admission as it was awe.
You smiled, because you knew the answer, though it was too large to fit into words. It was there in the thousands of small proofs that had carried you here.
Later, back beneath the string lights, the last slow set unfurled, and the Bee Gees played again as though the world itself wanted to underline the night. Pedro drew you into his arms, your bare feet atop his polished shoes for a moment before you slid back down, swaying together. Around you, the party blurred into islands of light and laughter, but you and Pedro moved with a rhythm that was only yours, earned across years of travel and absence and return.
It was not cinematic, not ostentatious. It was brave in its simplicity. Honest in the way his chest pressed against yours, his head tilting down to rest in your hair. You felt the shape of a lifetime in that closeness.
Love, you thought as you watched the light catch the brown in his eyes, is a gentle thing that shows up in the middle of things you did not expect to be sacred. And here, in the impossible autumn of your life, it was.
I see the signs of a lifetime, you til' I die.
a/n: they are so sweet :( thank you for reading, besties. please let me know your thoughts! like and reblog.
--- A quiet moment turns heated as Joel reminds you why some things are better kept just between the two of you.
Jackson!Joel Miller x Reader (4kwc)
tw: 18+ MDNI; explicit sexual content, heavy sexual tension, age gap, possessiveness, jealousy, hiding a relationship, emotional vulnerability, mild anxiety, groping (over/under clothes), neck kissing, hair pulling, power imbalance (protective/possessive), soft dominance, slow-burn to heat, lingering touches, close proximity, unspoken intentions, introspection, private/domestic intimacy, mild language.
a/n: BC IM GONNA ACT LIKE NOTHING BAD HAS EVER HAPPENED EVER; have just for some reason been thinking a lot abt pedro lately it’s absolutely insane, also now that lent is over i’ve taken up gardening again and i’m just yearning so inspired again.
--
The wooden screen door swung open effortlessly, to your surprise, to a clean and empty kitchen save for the half drunk mug of coffee on the kitchen island. The jagged edges of the chipped paint on the door caused your skin to rise as you cushioned the door on your bare shoulder to not let the door slam shut.
You let in a breath about to call out, but the faint sound of music could be heard playing in the other room. Stepping lightly around the corner, and peeking behind the wall you saw your current beau— well, the back of his head but him nonetheless. He was sitting on the sofa, gazing down at something on his lap as the late afternoon sun showered him in rays of light. You watched as small dust particles floated around his frame, and it was then you realized you were holding your breath.
Letting out a small huff of air you hoped the floor wouldn’t creak beneath your shoes as you took slow steps towards the open room. You were in a quiet awe watching a moment of rare vulnerability, the man you figured was just permanently stiff now had his back hunched, causing his shoulders to slouch. Despite his slacked frame he was still broad, taking up a large amount of quiet space. Eyeing the outline of his body, you watched how the muscles of his traps dipped below the neckline of his shirt, only a sliver of sun kissed skin visible between the curls at the base of his head, and the fabric of his ratty t shirt and you could practically feel the heat radiating off of the exposed skin, you found yourself reactively sticking your hand out to grasp that warmth—and grab you did.
You let your fingers graze the side of his neck, finally giving away that you were here. The flesh beneath your fingers went rigid, and a small chuckle hid behind a puff of air left your body. Leaning your body over the back of the sofa your hands again finding the base of his neck fingers entangling in the strands of his outgrown curls tugging ever so slightly.
“Hi.” You whispered, pressing your lips to his temple.
“Almos’ scared me half to death,” He said, trying to play it off by flipping a page of the town newspaper. Your fingers left his hair and slid down his neck, and chest to clasp your fingers together, arms hung around the man.
“Sorry, I just couldn’t resist,” you snickered lightly, resting your chin in the crook of his neck staring at his fingers. “It’s not every day you see Joel Miller relaxing.” Your fingers started roaming his chest again, coming to toy lightly with the stubble on his jawline. His skin was warm from the summer sun, and the Wyoming heat. Joel cleared his throat, rustling the papers in his fingers shifting beneath your weight.
“I wasn’t relaxing, I was jus’ readin’ up.” He shook his shoulders lightly to try and shoo you off, and you did just briefly enough to realize he was wearing his reading glasses, yet another rare sight.
“Right, because Jackson Hole is so big.” You teased, resting your cheek on his shoulder.
He cleared his throat again, beginning to fold the pamphlet between his hands eyeing you from the side.
“Ellie?” He asks tossing the papers to the side, he then moves his fingers to take his glasses off, but you stop him, enveloping his fingers with yours.
“Out with Dina,” you say, a hand finding its way back to his salt and pepper curls tucking loose strands behind his ear.
“Are you—”
“Saw them with my own two eyes at that food hall.” You reassured him, already knowing if he was going to ask for reassurance.
“Next to your very much in love Brother and his wife.” You mumbled, and you felt a deep sigh leave his body and only the sound of music played softly in the background as a pause of silence passed between the two of you. Joel held your fingers, resting his prickled cheek against your forearm as you rested on his shoulders.
“Joel,” you whispered, you took his silence as a sign to continue. “Why don’t you want anyone to know about us?” you said softly, hoping your question didn’t just break this glass bubble you were both floating in.
But it was eating away at you, especially when you saw what seemed like everyone and their brothers' mothers in a tooth-rotting, core cringing relationship.
Joel cleared his throat and shifted in his cushiony seat.
“W-well, uh…” He cleared his throat again, clearly uncomfortable. You kept running your fingers through his hair, gentle and steady, trying to ease him. You knew he didn’t mean any harm with how he was fumbling—he was just like an old car that needed a few tries to get going.
“What’s got you thinking like this?” He quickly rushes out, grabbing your hand, you could feel the heat radiating off of him. You debated on telling him the drawn out version of word jumble, and anxious rambling or tell him outright like you’ve been rehearsing.
“I would just—” You grabbed his hands again, thumbs caressing his calloused fingers noticing the faint tan forming beneath his wrist watch. Suddenly struck with shyness you shrug, toying with his hands. “Sometimes, I’d just… love to hold hands with you.” you said said, voice getting softer with each syllable.
“Sweetheart,” He whispers, pulling your hands, and bringing you around the arm of the sofa. Your hand trails the length of his right arm, muscles taut beneath the pads of your fingers. You watch the hairs on his arm stand, as your nails lightly scratch the surface of his skin. He makes you stand before him.
“Sweet girl,” he murmurs, placing you in the space between his legs, your knees pressing gently against the edge of the sofa. You feel yourself pouting, lips tugging downward despite your best effort to stay composed. Joel’s large hands wrap around yours, rough palms hot against your skin as he brings them to his lips. The soft brush of his mouth on the back of your hand sends a flush to your cheeks, and you shift your weight from one foot to the other.
“As much as I would love to show everyone what’s mine…” he says, voice low, as he leans forward, guiding your hands to rest on his shoulders. He kisses the inside of your wrist, slow and deliberate, before his hands slide up the length of your forearms, settling at your hips, fingers curling into the small of your back.
“Right now…” he presses a small kiss just above your waistband, his lips lingering against your skin before he looks up at you, gaze steady, almost searching. “I just wanna keep this ours, for a little longer,” he murmurs, arms tightening around you. One hand dips lower, fingers brushing over the sliver of bare skin where your shirt lifts, slow and deliberate, like he’s savoring it.
"It’s good like this. Just you and me."
You feel him breathe you in, feel the way his fingers linger at your waist, grounding himself in the warmth of your body like he needs the contact to stay present.
"I think about it too," he says quietly. "What it’d be like, not keeping it quiet." His hand rests firm, steady against you, thumb brushing lazy circles into your skin. "But... I ain’t had something like this in a long time."
His voice trails off, thick with something unspoken, thumb still moving like he can’t bring himself to stop, can’t let go.
"I just... I wanna hold onto it a little longer, like this."
You cradle his head in your hands, fingers threading through his hair before dragging down the length of his back, nails scratching softly against the fabric of his shirt as you let out a deep, aching sigh. Joel’s thumbs slip beneath the hem of your shirt, his touch firmer now as he pulls back just enough to see you.
You meet his eyes, face to face, trying to ignore the way your stomach flips at how good he looks—his glasses slipping low on his nose, jaw tense, eyes soft. It only makes your chest tighten more.
You huff, frustration bubbling up.
“I don’t care what anyone thinks,” you say, quiet, yet certain.
Joel’s eyes stay on you, hands steady at your waist.
“I know you don’t.”
He swallows hard, more of his fingers slipping beneath your shirt, onto your skin.
“But this—what we’ve got right now—it’s the only thing in a long time that’s felt…” His eyes search yours, waiting for that unspoken understanding, and when he finds it, he leans in, voice low.
“I’m not ready to give that up. Not yet.”
Your forehead rests against his, as if the closeness alone could quiet the anxiety crawling its way up your throat.
“Can… we really keep going like this?”
Your fingers find their solace in the curls at the nape of his neck, playing with them in slow, nervous motions, your nails lightly tapping against the arms of his glasses with every other pass. You can’t help but watch your hands move, almost detached, like they don’t belong to you anymore.
It’s some quiet reminder—how much you already lean on him, how even now, you’re using the feel of him to steady yourself, to keep your worry at bay.
Joel lets out a soft chuckle to the side as he straightens up, leaning into the back of the sofa with a sigh, his eyebrows scrunched with disappointment but you knew it wasn’t directed at you.
His hands pull you easily, guiding you into his lap, like a missing puzzle piece. Straddling him now, your knees press into the cushion, chest light against his, the steady rise and fall of his breath meeting yours.
His hands move down your sides, and around the curve of your ass to rest against the sides of your thighs, his palm’s warm against the fabric on your legs.
“You’re here. I’m here. Is there somethin’ else we need that I’m missin’?”
Your eyes search his, drawn to the fine lines at the corners, the way they crease softly when he looks at you like this. The sun has left its mark on him, scattering faint freckles and warm tones across his skin, like time didn’t just pass—it stayed, settling gently. As if in a trance, your eyes find a way to his lips, holding his face delicately in your hands, you shake your head slowly.
“Baby girl,” his fingers burn against your skin, his voice low, and rough, “I’m tryin’ to keep you to myself, just a little longer.”
His thumb drags slowly over your skin.
“Ain’t ready to let everyone see what’s mine.” And with one more look, you feel yourself caving. You subconsciously lean in closer, absolutely weak to whatever hold he seems to have on you.
“Damn you, Miller,” you whisper, and he lets out a small snort, breath fanning across your lips.
His hands slide up from their place on your thighs, slowly, fingers pressing into the soft give of your skin before settling at your hips, pulling you closer.
You watch his hands, almost dazed, as your jean-covered knees shift, dragging his shirt up ever so slightly along his sides. The fabric rises, revealing the warm skin beneath—soft, familiar, the faint line of his waist exposed in the now dimming light.
You don’t look up. Not yet.
Your hands slide what feels incredibly slow from his jaw down his neck and chest, fingertips tracing the edge where his shirt had risen, drawn to the heat of him. His hands tighten on your hips, holding you steady, waiting.
And then you look at him, really look, taking him in for all he’s worth, and you lean in, tapping your forehead to his, the plastic of his glasses cool against the bridge of your nose. You dip your fingers beneath the neckline of his shirt and pull him closer. Your lips tentatively brush against his, light as breath, your eyes half-lidded, hoping—waiting—for him to meet you there.
When his lips finally touch yours, he kisses you, really kisses you, it’s slow, and deliberate at first, like he’s aware of how delicate this moment is. His breath hitches, just barely, but you feel it in the way his hands dig into your exposed skin, dragging you flush against him, no space, no air, just him.
His kiss stays soft, for a moment. The kind of soft that makes your chest ache, makes you lean in harder, chasing the heat of his mouth, the way his lips part just enough to taste you, to take more. Your hands trail up his neck and down his chest, in slack patterns stopping at times to caress his ears, or toy with his tousled hair.
His tongue brushes yours, just a flick, just enough to make your stomach twist. and you feel his hands slide, lower now, gripping at the curve of your ass, squeezing like he’s trying to keep himself grounded.
You let out something between a sigh and a whimper, and that’s all Joel Miller needs.
The already searing kiss somehow deepens, rougher now, his teeth catching your bottom lip before he soothes it with his tongue, pulling you impossibly close, taking and giving all at once.
You sigh into him, your breath warm between you, your fingers curling around the fabric of his shirt, tugging at it as you shift in his lap. The cotton stretches under your hands, bunching in your fists as you press closer, the solid weight of him beneath your palms impossible to ignore.
Your hands roam, slow, dragging over his chest, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric, your fingers curling, groping softly here and there—testing, squeezing, not quite gentle, not rough, just needing, just taking your time as you explore the shape of him. The way he breathes beneath you, steady but tight, makes you linger, pressing your palms flat before curling them again, feeling the give of muscle, the warmth that seems to rise with every touch.
Your hands drift lower, fingers dragging across the stretched fabric, and it’s only when you shift again that you feel it—your knuckles brushing against the sliver of skin exposed just above his waistband. You pause there, just for a moment, fingers tentatively skimming the heat of him, tracing the edge where skin meets denim, where the faintest line of hair disappears beneath the waist of his jeans.
He tenses, breath catching against your lips, and you can’t help the small smile that ghosts across yours.
One hand finds its way back to the curve of his neck, slipping beneath the neckline of his shirt, holding him there, grounding him, grounding yourself. You lean in to kiss him again, your hips pressed firm to his, and your other hand slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, fingertips grazing the bare skin of his stomach, light at first, like a question, before smoothing higher, feeling the heat, the tension, the way he shifts beneath you like he’s trying to stay still, but he can’t.
His hand slides up your back, slow, firm, until his fingers are tangled in your hair, tilting your head just enough for him to pull you away.
When you let him pull you back, it’s only enough to breathe, to see him with his lips swollen, eyes heavy, chest rising hard beneath your hands. You stay close, your breath still tangled with his, the warmth between you humming, thick.
A slow smile pulls at your lips, fingers brushing the warm skin on his back, light, deliberate.
“My, my, Mr. Miller...” your voice is low, soft, but there’s no mistaking the edge of it, “I’m seeing all kinds of sides to you today.”
You feel the way he tenses under you, the pause in his breath.
Your thumb drags along the curve of his necklline, slow, tracing.
“Didn’t think you got jealous.” The words are almost a whisper, your eyes focusing on his skin exposed fingers ghosting, not quite touching.
“Didn’t know you could be so...” you pause, fingers slipping beneath the waistline of his shirt into the curls at the base of his belly button, your palm warm against the heat of his skin. He gazes down, and watches your hand move beneath the fabric of his shirt. “...soft.”
The heat of the room caused his glasses to slide further down his nose, as we quickly glanced up at you. Smirking slightly at his disheveled state you take your hand that’s on his shoulder and swiftly push his glasses up higher on the bridge of his nose before a smirk found its way to your lips.
The weight of his gaze was heavy on you as he doesn’t answer, not with words. Instead, he leans in, his breath hot against your cheek, and then lower, until his lips find the spot just below your jaw, kissing you slow, open-mouthed, like he has all the time in the world, like he’s content to feel you melt into him.
His hand moves from your body, sliding down your arm, fingers tracing lightly until they curl around your wrist, rough and sure. He doesn’t speak, just guides you, pulling your hand from his shoulder, slow and steady, down the curve of his chest, lower, until your knuckles meet the hem of his shirt.
And then he pulls you under.
Your fingers slip beneath the fabric, joining the other hand already resting there, against the warmth of his stomach, where the muscles are tight beneath your touch, where the faint trail of hair leads down, disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.
He doesn’t let go.
Instead, he holds your wrist there, pressing your hand lower, like he wants you to feel just how much he’s burning, how much of him is wound up right beneath your palm. His breath stutters against your neck, lips still moving over your skin, kissing, nipping, but slower now—like he’s caught in it, too.
You feel the heat of him, the way he shifts beneath you, hips pressing up ever so slightly, chasing your touch as your hands move together, exploring the firm planes of him, tracing the edge where skin meets denim, groping, lingering, hoping to god you’d take more—but instead, your breath catches, something low in your belly pulling tight, and though you don’t stop, not really, your hands stay, palms still pressed to the bare skin of his stomach, fingers splayed, feeling the way he stays warm beneath you, the tension thick, still humming between your bodies, heavy and close.
You lean back—not far, not fully, just enough to draw in a breath, to see him, to take in the way he looks, the way he’s fallen back into the sofa, not letting go but giving in, his chest rising sharp beneath your touch, his shirt pushed up, bunched high enough that you can still feel him, still press into him, skin flushed deep across his chest, creeping high along his neck, blooming in his cheeks, the color settling there, soft and red and beautiful in a way you weren’t prepared for.
And you don’t move your hands—you can’t—because there’s something about feeling him like this, about having him beneath you, so undone, so real, that makes it impossible to pull away, impossible to even think about letting go.
His hair’s a mess, still tangled from your fingers, the curls at the nape damp with heat, and those glasses—slipping low, crooked, barely holding on—make him look ruined in the best way, like no one’s ever touched him like this, like no one else should ever get the chance.
Your thumb drags slowly over his waist, your other hand rising slightly, feeling the way his stomach still trembles under your touch, and your breath hitches—not from what he’s doing, but from what he is, from what you see, what you feel, what you know.
“Yeah...” the word leaves you soft, low, more breath than sound, your eyes locked on him, watching the way he stays with you, caught in it, flushed and open and completely yours. “No one else should see you like this.”
You feel him shift beneath you, his breath deepening, like he knows, like he’s heard exactly what he needed, and you press your hands to him, firmer now, like you’re holding him there—not just to feel, but to claim, to remind yourself that this, him, all of it, belongs to you.
And you’re definitely not letting anyone else have it.
Not now. Maybe not ever.
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a/n: WAAAHHHHH I WANT TO KEEP HIM SAFE IN MY ARMS FOREVER (also not really edited so soz for the typos)
