yuzu and me

A space for fandom musings and spilled ink. 30s. A writer who rarely writes. 18+ MDNI

[yuzuandme]

about me/my blog MDNI. This is an 18+ blog. Call me yuzu. 30s. Writer. Black.

fandoms MCU (Captain America, Black Panther) Sinners Rebel Ridge masterlist What Healing Makes Room For | Husband!Joaquín x Agent!Reader

[legayllyblonde]

i drew some AA as Peanuts last year but seeing cz3chova’s Trucy & Mr. Hat comics got me thinking about it again...

the older drawings in question; they were scanned from ink & watercolor. i really want to take a spin at animating beanix on the piano or trucy & apollo dancing... (or maybe klavier busting down the guitar like snoopy...)

[rylandsgrace]

#Please he needs a puppy interview

Manny Jacinto Reads Thirst Tweets (Part Two)

[frogsbian]

[boyd-stevens]

CAPTAIN AMERICA: BRAVE NEW WORLD 2025, dir. Julius Onah

[yuzuandme]

Writing What Healing Makes Room For was challenging but at the same time the most seamless writing process I can recall? I felt really motivated to get the things I'd been imagining forever on paper and to publish a story I'd written for the first time ever, so it's actually so frustrating sitting down to write more and more and feeling like I'm getting nowhere with it lol. I keep hammering out these very full but disconnected scenes and it feels like I'm walking pretty briskly but like, on a treadmill. Or coming up with something cute and having no issue at all writing it out, but then realizing it doesn't really move anything along?

I know comparison is the thief of joy and frankly with everything else I have to do in a day I'm very proud that I was able to hammer out an 11k word fic in a matter of a like a week and a half. Imperfect as it was, that alone was a huge step for me. Even now I have no idea how I summoned the motivation to do it. So I'm trying really hard not to beat myself up over the next few stories not happening quite as easily, or compare my volume of work to writers who seem to be able to publish like every other day, especially since facing a blank word document is usually the hardest part

And I'm also just really grateful that so many people appreciated my work. I can't thank everyone enough who liked and reblogged and commented 😭

[thewinterclown]

SEBASTIAN STAN THE 355, 2022 dir. Simon Kinberg

[yuzuandme]

trying to commit to writing a simple drabble and instead days later winding up with a graphic timeline of the next three installments of an AU, 4,000 words on a document and still no closer to publishing anything

[geminiwritten]

happy birthday ; joaquín torres

fandom: marvel

pairing: joaquín x reader

summary: joaquín forgets your birthday while he's away on mission, so he flies home to beg for your forgiveness (friends to lovers)

notes: i'm not going to say this sucks (even though i don't love it) because it is a miracle it's even written! i've struggled so much these past two weeks, after the events of everything, and i'm so, so happy to be able to post again (even if i'm kind of nervous about it)! also i'm sorry if the smut gets a bit repetitive... i really struggled with it, and i ran out of creative ways to describe sex... but anyway! as always, please let me know what you think!

warnings: swearing, some angst, spiralling thoughts (?), italics, a lot of crying, potentially incorrect time zone math (?), begging, (spanish) pet names, SMUT (making out, dirty talk, fingering, shower sex (ish), f oral receiving, unprotected p in v) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!

word count: 12295

You don’t wake up to your alarm—you wake up before it. The sun is barely creeping over the horizon, but your body is too wired to fall back asleep. So you throw the covers off and pull on your gym gear, hoping to burn off some of the restless energy.

You spend an hour at the gym with your phone propped in front of you—resting in the treadmill’s cup holder while you run, balanced on your thigh during leg presses, leaning against a medicine ball while you stretch. Messages trickle in throughout your workout. Not hundreds, but enough to make you smile. Family, friends, a couple of people from work.

Happy Birthday!

Hope you get spoilt rotten today!

Best wishes!

You’re not the type to go around announcing your birthday all month, but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like a little attention on the day. It makes you feel loved. Reminds you that people still care—still think about you. And it gives you a reason to talk to family and friends, to feel just a little bit special.

It’s always nice to feel important—especially to those who mean the most to you.

On your way out of the gym, you swipe your access key at the gates and head for the exit.

“Happy birthday!” the woman behind the front desk calls out.

You almost do a double take, pausing mid-step toward the doors.

She laughs softly. “It pops up on our computer when you swipe your access key.”

“Oh,” you say, laughing too. “That makes sense. Thanks.”

She smiles. “Have a lovely day.”

You nod, flashing her an appreciative smile before slipping out the doors.

Even a simple interaction with a woman you’re pretty sure you’ve never spoken to before leaves you feeling warm. Some years, your birthday just feels good—and this year is one of those.

You head home, shower, and change into something soft and comfortable. You don’t always take your birthday off work, but this year you did. You’ve got big plans for rotting on the couch, baking yourself a cake, and eventually facetiming Joaquín—the only person you’re really waiting to hear from today.

You moved to D.C. with him not long after Sam officially made Joaquín the Falcon—not into the same apartment, but close. He helped you land a decent-paying job in a lower-level government office and, over time, started looping you in on all things Captain America.

You’ve been best friends since freshman year of high school... and in love with him since junior year—when the hormones kicked in and you started wishing your vibrator was him instead.

The years between high school and moving to D.C. sucked whenever he was deployed—but the second he came home, everything felt right again. You tried dating, tried moving on—but nothing ever really worked out, and eventually, you accepted your fate. You made peace with the fact that you were doomed to live out your days as a semi-tragic spinster hopelessly in love with her best friend.

It’s honestly not as depressing as it sounds, because having Joaquín in your life, in any capacity, has always been enough. You love him regardless. He doesn’t need to know just how much—only that you’re always here for him.

And the rhythm you’ve found together is perfect. There’s no point risking it just because he happens to be the single most beautiful man you’ve ever laid eyes on.

You’re perfectly content with fantasising about him in the dark, missing him when he’s off on missions, and enjoying your perfectly platonic Friday night 'date nights' whenever he’s got time between Falcon duties.

You’re happy. Truly.

Perfectly satisfied with the life you’re living—if you ignore the way your chest aches whenever you think about it a little too hard.

By one p.m., your cake is in the oven, the sun is bathing your studio apartment in warm golden hues, and you’re curled up on the couch watching one of your favourite 90s romcoms. It might seem a little sad to someone on the outside, but honestly, you couldn’t be happier.

Moving to D.C. meant leaving most of your family and friends behind, but being near Joaquín has meant you’ve never really been lonely—unless he’s off on missions, of course. And even then, he texts you, calls you, checks in—even if he’s halfway across the world in a completely different time zone.

This time, he’s in Hawaii. You’re not exactly sure where, but you know he’s about six hours behind. Which means…

You grab your phone off the couch beside you and check your notifications. There are a couple more messages from extended family, a few happy birthday promotional emails, and a single response from a friend you replied to earlier.

Huh. Weird.

It’d be at least seven a.m. for him by now—he should definitely be awake.

Maybe he’s just got stuff to deal with. Maybe he’s getting himself sorted for the day before he calls or messages. You can understand that—sometimes you just need a shower or a coffee before facing the world.

You drop your phone back on the couch, face down, and try to will your pulse to settle.

It’s fine. There’s no need to be dramatic.

It’s Joaquín.

You’ll hear from him soon.

Once the movie finishes, you start another—one you often watch when you need a little comfort. You keep yourself busy by decorating your cake, planning what you’ll order for dinner, and doing a little online shopping you’ve decided you’re absolutely entitled to today.

By the time that movie ends, you let yourself check your phone again. And—

Nothing.

Okay. Very weird.

It’s at least nine a.m. in Hawaii. He usually messages you by now.

You scroll back and reread the first message from yesterday.

12:02PM: Good morning, cariño! How did you sleep? I miss your face and I miss my bed. I’m convinced this motel bed is filled with nails.

That would have been six a.m. for him. A little early—but not unusual for him to text at that time. Still, it doesn’t mean he’s forgotten. He’s probably just busy. Maybe he slept in and had to rush around this morning. You wouldn’t put it past him.

For him, the day is still young. And he’s on a mission.

There’s no need to cry. Pull it together.

You blink quickly, swallow the lump in your throat, and toss your phone aside again.

For the next couple of hours, you do everything you can not to think about Joaquín. You do a face mask, a hair mask, take an extra-long shower, spend way too long moisturising every inch of your body, and then sit down to paint your nails. You smudge them several times and start over with a new colour—twice—before giving up entirely.

Then you decide to make yourself some tea, cut a piece of cake, and settle on the couch for yet another movie.

You check your phone a couple of times, unable to stop yourself now, and your stomach sinks lower with every disappointing flash of your lock screen.

Now you’re starting to panic.

Is he hurt? Missing? Bleeding out in some alley while you’re sitting here waiting for a text?

Could he have been kidnapped? Detained somewhere? Or worse—

No. You can’t think like that. This is Joaquín you’re talking about. He’s the Falcon. Ex-military. Strong. Capable. And this mission isn’t even dangerous—just recon and a little training for some of Sam’s new field operatives.

Joaquín is fine. He’s just busy.

Maybe he’s out in the field today and doesn’t have reception.

There are a million possible explanations for his lack of communication—and none of them include him being dead.

But still, you feel sick. It’s past six p.m. now, which means just after noon for him. It’s unusual not to hear from him by now, but maybe he’s just waiting until he can call you.

Yeah. That’s probably it.

He’s going to call later, and he wants to save everything he has to say for then.

You take a deep breath and try to focus on ordering dinner. You pick your favourite restaurant, order more food than you usually would, and hit submit.

Then you turn your attention back to the TV and pick a movie with an actor in it that kind of reminds you of Joaquín—a small slice of comfort that makes you feel just a little less alone. On the one day you were sure you wouldn’t feel as lonely as you have all week while he’s been away... somehow, you feel worse than ever.

After dinner, a couple of phone calls from family, and a glass of wine, the tears come.

You try to hold them back, but it’s no use.

You’re halfway through what feels like your twentieth movie of the day when you suddenly break. One minute you’re fine—numb, maybe—and the next, you’re sobbing. Full-body, can’t-catch-your-breath crying. Your chest is tight. Your head aches. Your breathing turns shallow and quick until your toes go numb, but none of it matters.

Because right now? You’re absolutely wrecked.

You don’t know whether to be angry or worried. You haven’t heard from Sam either—not that you expected to—but his silence only makes the panic worse. Joaquín could be hurt. He could be caught up in something. But deep down, one explanation cuts sharper than all the rest.

He just forgot.

You know it happens. You know he’s a superhero with bigger things to worry about than your goddamn birthday, but still—it hurts.

Because you would never forget his. Not even if you were on the other side of the planet. Not even if you were in another time zone, or fighting for your life. You would still find the time to send a text. Just something simple.

‘Happy birthday! Sorry I’m super busy today, but I’ll call you later. Love you!’

How hard is that? Just a quick message. Twenty seconds. One tap.

It’s not hard at all—and that’s what guts you the most.

Because if he really cared—if he cared about you the way you care about him—he would have done something by now. Anything. And maybe you’re being dramatic. Maybe you’re blowing it out of proportion, making the situation worse than it really is. But maybe you’re not.

Because this isn’t just silence. It’s a reminder. A reminder that you love him more. That you care more. That you’ve always been the one waiting, hoping, holding out for something he was never going to give.

You’ve always known you love him differently—in a way he doesn’t reciprocate—but you’ve always believed that you mattered to him. That he still loved you in his own way. That you were still important.

But apparently not.

Apparently, you don’t even make the list today—of all days.

And that’s why you’re sobbing into your couch cushion—shoulders shaking, face hot, heart splintering under the weight of it all—feeling like you should just pack up your whole apartment and move back home. Back to the people who at least care enough to send a goddamn birthday text.

It takes almost an hour for you to calm down enough to breathe properly—long, full breaths that actually get oxygen into your bloodstream. When you can finally feel your limbs again, you start to move. You turn off the TV, pack away the leftovers, and make your way to the bathroom.

You brush your teeth, wash your face, stare at your puffy, swollen eyes in the mirror, then head into your room and collapse into bed. You curl up beneath the covers and check your phone one last time.

And your heart nearly stops when you see his name on the screen.

You blink hard and rub your eyes to clear your vision, then tap on the message.

Hi, mi amor. Sorry I’ve been MIA today, I was training some of the new recruits for Sam and had to focus. I’m exhausted now. Want to call tomorrow night? I still miss your face.

You choke on your breath, your pulse thundering in your ears as the truth pulls at you like undertow, dragging you under before you can catch your breath.

Yeah. He forgot.

Tears rise again, quick and hot, spilling sideways onto your pillow as you stare at the message and wonder if you should even reply. You could send him a thumbs-up, or a simple k—but you’re not even sure he deserves that.

Then your phone buzzes with another message—this time from Sam.

Happy Birthday! Sorry I couldn’t message you earlier. I was stuck in meetings all day. I hope you had a great day, and I’m sorry for stealing your best friend, but I’m sure he’ll make it up to you when we get back. Only three more days. I promise not to extend it this time! xx – S

Normally, you’d laugh at the fact that Sam signs off all his texts, even though you have his number saved in your contacts—but not today. Today, it’s not funny.

With tear-blurred vision, you type out three red heart emojis and hit send—the only thing you can think of to reply with. Then you put your phone on Do Not Disturb, drop it face down on the bedside table, and cry yourself to sleep.

-

Your alarm wakes you up, and you turn it off without even glancing at the notifications on your screen. Every part of you wants to stay in bed, to disappear into the blankets and pretend the day doesn’t exist—but you force yourself upright and start moving through the motions of getting ready for work.

You still feel heavy—sad and a little hollow—but you know yourself well enough to understand that going into the office is better than wallowing in self-pity all day.

By nine a.m., you’re seated at your desk beneath the harsh glare of fluorescent lights, trying not to think about anything at all. Your email inbox isn’t too bad, which is a small mercy—because you truly don’t have it in you to do much today. In fact, you’re already planning to leave early, feigning a doctor’s appointment so you can crawl back into bed and pretend the world outside doesn’t exist.

That’s the plan for the entire weekend, too. Even once Joaquín gets back. Even when he inevitably tries to see you—after you’ve ignored every call and text for the next few days. Whether he shows up at your apartment or, worse, your office, it doesn’t matter. You won’t be talking to him.

Still, a small and anxious part of you wonders if he’ll even try.

What if he doesn’t? What if your silence is all he needs to walk away? Maybe this is easier for him. Maybe he’s relieved. Maybe this was the plan all along—to forget your birthday, to push you away, to finally cut the tie without having to say the words.

What if he asked Sam to schedule the mission on purpose? What if it was deliberate, calculated, something he’s been building toward for months—just waiting for a clean excuse to let you go?

The thoughts hit you hard and fast, spiralling tight in your chest until it feels like you can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do anything but sit there beneath the buzz of the lights, nausea churning in your empty stomach as you try to hold yourself together.

“Hey.”

Your manager’s voice startles you, and your eyes snap up to where she’s standing beside your desk.

“You alright, hon? You look ill.”

She’s always been kind—warm in her own way, if a little distant—and you’ve never minded that management style. You like being trusted to work independently.

You clear your throat. “Yeah—um—well, actually, not really. I’m feeling a bit nauseous.”

Her brows pinch together, and she leans in slightly. “Go home if you need to.”

You take a deep breath and offer her a watery smile, blinking back the sting of fresh tears. “I might just clear some emails and head home in a couple of hours. Is that alright?”

She nods. “Of course. Just let me know when you’re heading out.”

“I will. Thank you.”

She gives you a small, thoughtful smile, her dark eyes lingering for a moment—quietly curious—but she doesn’t press.

Once she walks away, you turn back to your screen and try to focus. You manage to lose yourself in the rhythm of work, the comfort of something familiar. One hour turns into two, then three, and before you know it, four hours have passed. You’re numb now—too empty to feel anything—but your empty inbox quickly invites back the swirling thoughts from before, and your eyes stray toward your untouched phone. The little device you’ve been ignoring since last night. Still on Do Not Disturb. Still sitting lifeless on your desk, exactly where you put it when you arrived this morning.

You take a deep breath and reach for it, feeling how unusually cool it is beneath your fingertips. Your heart pounds in your throat as you tap the screen and watch it light up. You flick off Do Not Disturb and slowly start scrolling through the notifications.

There are seven missed calls from Joaquín—some rapid-fire earlier this morning, the rest spaced further apart, and the last one only two minutes ago. Then there are his texts, too many to count, stacking one after another as you open the thread and begin to scroll.

Shit. I messed up. I’m so sorry. Please pick up, or call me back. I’m so sorry, cariño.

I’m an idiot. I didn’t mean to forget. I don’t have an excuse, but I need to talk to you. Please.

I don’t blame you for being angry, but I need you to answer me, cariño.

Please answer. Just let me know you’re okay.

I need to know you’re okay. Just one reply, please.

I can fix this, okay? I can make it up to you. I promise.

I need you to say something. I’m going insane over here.

I don’t blame you if you hate me, but I swear I’m going to spend the rest of my life making it up to you.

Baby. Please.

You read until your vision is too blurred by tears to make out the words. Then your phone starts buzzing in your hand, and you flinch. Sam’s name flashes on the screen—but you know it’s Joaquín.

You quickly decline the call, wipe the tears off your cheeks, and begin packing up your desk. Thankfully, the office isn’t too busy today, and no one seems to notice your breakdown—or if they do, they don’t seem to care.

By the time you’re ready to leave, your manager is still in a meeting, so you send her a quick text to let her know you’re heading home. Then you all but fall into the elevator and sob into your hands, trying to pull yourself together before you reach the ground floor.

You walk across the lobby with your head down, doing everything you can to avoid drawing attention.

Once outside, you hail a cab—desperate to get home as fast as possible—and cry quietly in the backseat while the driver glances curiously at you in the rearview mirror.

When you finally stumble into your apartment, there are two more missed calls and three new texts—one of them from Sam, asking if you’re okay. You don’t know if it’s really him or if Joaquín is using his phone still. Either way, you don’t care. You’re not replying.

Still crying, still gasping for a proper breath, you strip out of your work clothes, wash the makeup off your face, and collapse into bed. Then you cry harder. You sob. You spend the next hour—maybe more—howling into your pillow like a newly widowed wife.

You feel ridiculous, of course, but you can’t help it. Your heart hurts. Everything hurts. He seems sorry—he seems genuinely distressed—but you still can’t shake that awful weight from yesterday. The realisation that the person you love most in the world doesn’t love you back. Not the way you love him.

Maybe that’s why it hurts so much. Because deep down, you were still holding out hope—despite all the times you told yourself you’d made peace with it. Despite swearing up and down that you were happy just being his friend.

Maybe the truth is… you’re not.

You’re not happy. Or satisfied. Or content at all.

You’re lonely and aching and hopelessly in love with a man who has everything he needs without you. And that’s what guts you most. Because you know—deep in your chest, in the hollowed-out place where his absence lives—that Joaquín is okay without you.

But you without him? You’re unravelling. You’re not okay. You’re falling apart at the seams and he doesn’t even know it. You haven’t even truly lost him—not yet—but you feel like you have. And maybe you will. Because you don’t know if you can keep being his friend, not after this. Not now that you’ve seen the truth so clearly.

That you’ll never mean as much to him as he means to you.

Eventually, you fall asleep.

And you don’t wake up until midnight, when the world outside is dark and quiet and your body aches from the way you’ve been lying for hours—tangled in blankets, face swollen, head pounding from crying and dehydration. You feel dull all over. Empty. Like your emotions are swinging on a pendulum that just won’t stop—pulling you from the depths of heartbreak to a hollow, numb nothingness that makes your skin itch and your chest feel too tight.

You hate this. You hate how small you feel, and the fact that you still want him. Still want to hear his voice, feel his arms around you, have him whisper that everything’s going to be okay. That it was just an accident. That it didn’t mean anything.

But you can’t have that. Not now. Maybe not ever again.

So instead, you drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, hoping that a hot shower might help ease the ache in your limbs and loosen whatever vice is still wrapped around your chest.

After showering, brushing your teeth, and drinking at least a litre of water, you collapse onto the couch and pull out your phone. You take a deep breath and tap the screen, watching it light up with a ridiculous number of new missed calls and texts.

It’s chaos.

Please, please answer me, cariño. I’m begging you.

I know I messed up. I’m so sorry. I’m trying to fix it.

I’m getting a flight back tonight.

Your breath catches when you read that, your pulse pounding in your ears.

Sam is trying to hook me up. I’m not doing a layover, I’m coming straight home.

You don’t have to forgive me, but please hear me out. I know I’m an idiot, but I can’t lose you.

Your chest rises and falls too fast, breath coming in shallow gasps as you keep reading.

I think I have something. I’ll be home when you wake up tomorrow.

I hate how far away I am from you.

Your chest aches. Fresh tears sting your eyes.

Flight booked. I’m leaving soon. I love you so much and I can’t wait to see you.

I’m getting on the plane now. See you soon, baby.

Your hands are shaking. Your whole body feels tingly—nauseous, anxious, strung-out. You’ve never had such a physical reaction to anything in your life, but right now? You might actually throw up.

Because as much as you want to see him… you also really, really don’t. You know it’ll hurt too much. You don’t even know what you could possibly say.

With trembling fingers, you type the only thing you can think of—a weak attempt to stop him before he gets to you.

Don’t. I need space.

You don’t wait to see if he reads it. You don’t wait to regret it. You just power the phone off entirely and shove it beneath the couch cushions like that will somehow bury everything you’re feeling along with it.

Then you get up and start pacing. Back and forth. Over and over. Breathing hard. Thinking too fast.

What are you supposed to do when he shows up? What the hell are you supposed to say?

Could you ignore him? Pretend not to be home? Would he knock until the neighbours complained? Would he wait outside all day, refusing to leave until you answered?

God. You feel sick all over again.

And the worst part? You only have nine hours before he lands.

Nine hours to somehow piece yourself back together—before he walks through your door and tears you apart all over again.

-

You go back to bed at two a.m., but you can't sleep. You toss and turn, checking your phone for another message—just like yesterday, waiting for that birthday text that never arrived—but now for something else. Something worse. Something real. But of course, there’s nothing. He’s on a goddamn plane. On his way home. And in about seven hours, he’ll probably be standing at your front door.

By three a.m., you give up entirely. You throw the covers off, change into your gym clothes, make your bed with precision, and then start deep cleaning your apartment. All four hundred square feet of it—already spotless, already organised—because what else are you supposed to do?

You empty every cabinet, clear every shelf, strip the couch cushions, and move every piece of furniture. You dust, polish, vacuum, and mop until sunlight begins creeping through the curtains and your muscles throb from overuse. And when everything is finally back in place—looking exactly the same as it did before, just a little shinier—you’re exhausted.

So you drag yourself into the bathroom, peel off your sweaty clothes, step into the shower, and stand beneath the hot spray for far longer than necessary. You don’t even hear your phone ring while you’re in there, too focused on scrubbing every inch of your body, as if you can wash away the anxiety prickling beneath your skin.

When you finally step out, you dry yourself off, change into an oversized old shirt and a pair of comfortable panties, and text your manager to let her know you’re taking the rest of the week off. Then you collapse onto the couch and reach for the remote.

You’re just about to click on Netflix when—

Knock, knock, knock.

You freeze. Your breath catches, your fingers still on the remote, hands starting to tremble.

Then a few seconds later—

Knock, knock, knock.

“Cariño, it’s me.”

His voice is muffled but unmistakable—low, thick, and painfully familiar.

“Please open up.”

Tears sting your eyes. Your pulse pounds in your ears.

“Please, baby,” he says, voice breaking. “I know I fucked up, but I need to talk to you.”

For a second, it almost sounds like he could be your boyfriend—pleading with you after a stupid fight. Maybe he stayed out too late. Maybe you saw him with his arms around another girl.

But he’s not your boyfriend.

He never was. Never will be.

“I—” he hesitates, then clears his throat. “I have a key, but I don’t want to use it. I want you to let me in.”

Your stomach drops.

Fuck.

You forgot about the spare key—the one you gave him when you first moved in.

You take a deep breath and push off the couch, your legs unsteady beneath you as you cross the floor.

Either way, he’s getting in. But maybe—just maybe—you can stop him before he steps inside. If you can keep your voice steady. If you can make him believe you mean it.

You blink a few times—fighting back tears—and take a deep breath.

Then open the door.

Joaquín is standing there in the hallway—eyes wide, mouth slightly parted like he’s just forgotten how to speak. His curls are messy, flattened on one side like he tried—and failed—to nap on the plane. He looks exhausted. Worn thin. But the worst part is the look in his eyes. That soft, aching guilt that tells you he knows exactly how badly he hurt you.

“What?” you say, surprised by the steadiness of your own voice.

He blinks, clearly taken aback by your icy exterior. “Hey, I—I’m sorry, I—”

“I get it,” you cut in. “You’re sorry. I got all the messages. Is that it?”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again—swallowing hard. “I didn’t mean to forget—”

“But you did.” You hold his gaze, arms crossing over your chest like a shield. “You forgot me. Not a meeting. Not a dentist appointment. Me.”

His brows draw tight, hurt threading through his features. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?” you ask, voice steady—too calm. “It’s one day, Joaquín. One day in the whole year, and it didn’t even cross your mind.”

He steps forward, and you step back.

“I—I’ve never felt worse about anything,” he says, voice catching. “I’ve never hated myself like this.”

Your heart twists, but you don’t let it show. “Good.”

His eyes shine now—big, brown, and filled with unshed tears.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

“But you did,” you snap, a tear slipping down your cheek.

Fuck. You thought you were keeping it together.

“Baby,” he murmurs, stepping forward again.

“I’m not your baby, Joaquín.” There’s barely a few inches between you now, the zipper of his hoodie brushing your wrist where your arms are still crossed tight. “Stop calling me that.”

He looks down at you—not angry, just wrecked. So incredibly fucking sad. You’ve never seen him like this, and it’s finding every weak spot in your armour.

“How can I make it up to you?”

You scoff, tears still falling. “You can’t. You forgot. You did something I could never do to you, and—and you just proved what I’ve always known.”

His expression tightens. “Proved what?”

“That you don’t love me the way I love you,” you blurt, louder than you mean to. “That you don’t care as much. Because I could never forget your birthday. Not if I was in a different time zone, or—or trapped at the bottom of the ocean in a fucking submarine. I’d still find a way to talk to you. To tell you that I love you. To say happy birthday. But you—”

“I do love you,” he says, a tear tracking down his cheek. “I love you so much. And I don’t have an excuse, except that I’m a fucking idiot who forgot what day it was.”

You tip your head back and laugh—dry and bitter. “Yeah. Same shit, Joaquín. You forgot me.”

“No.” His voice cracks. “It’s not. You’re not just a date on a calendar. You’re—you’re everything. I think about you constantly. I talk to you in my head when I’m halfway across the world. I land in a new time zone and I want to tell you what the sky looked like when we touched down. I see something dumb and want to send it to you because I know you’d laugh. I—” He falters, breath shaking. “I’m in love with you. And I still forgot. What kind of person does that?”

Something in you breaks—a rib, a wall, your resolve—something.

You’ve been waiting to hear those words for years. Dreaming of them. Replaying fake versions in your head just to see how they might sound coming from his mouth.

But now that he’s actually said it—now that he’s standing in front of you, broken and trembling and saying he’s in love with you—your mind just blanks.

It doesn’t compute.

It hits you like a punch to the chest, and for a second, you genuinely forget how to breathe.

Because he can’t mean it. He just can’t.

If he did, he never would’ve forgotten. He never would’ve let you cry yourself to sleep or spiral or feel so completely fucking invisible on the one day of the year you’re supposed to feel special—loved.

You swallow hard, staring through the blur of your tears. “The kind of person who doesn’t love me enough.”

“No,” he says, suddenly too close—his hands hovering near your waist, not quite touching. “The kind who loves you too much and keeps fucking it up anyway.”

He’s shaking now. Visibly. Tears clinging to his lashes. Jaw tight like he’s holding himself together by a fraying thread.

“I thought I’d have time,” he says, voice breaking. “I thought I could stay close, keep loving you from the sidelines, and you’d never have to know how goddamn ruined I am for you. I thought if I kept it quiet, I could keep you in my life—because that was better than losing you completely. And for a while, it was enough. Just being near you. Just pretending.” He breathes in hard, like it physically hurts. “But it stopped being enough. And I was too fucking slow to say anything. I waited too long. I thought maybe—maybe one day you’d look at me the way I’ve always looked at you. But now you can’t even—”

You don’t know who moves first.

You don’t know if it’s you or him or both at once.

But his mouth crashes into yours, and you don’t stop it.

You gasp into the kiss like you’ve been underwater for days, like you’ve been holding your breath since the moment he forgot you—and this is the only way you’ll survive. Your hands find his chest, his shoulders, his face, gripping him like he might vanish if you don’t hold on tight enough. He kisses you like he’s unravelling, like he’s been waiting for permission to fall apart and this—this—is the moment he breaks.

It’s heat and ache and urgency, all tangled into one. He groans into your mouth, something low and wounded, and you feel his hands trembling where they’ve come to rest at your waist—thumbs pressing into your sides like he’s trying to memorise the shape of you.

You whimper when he deepens it, and it tears something out of him. His breath stutters, hitching against your lips, and then he’s murmuring into the kiss—“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry”—his voice cracking on every word.

Your fingers thread into the curls at the nape of his neck, anchoring him there, pulling him closer even though your chests are already flush. You don’t care that you’re both crying. You don’t care that you’re still angry or that this should be harder than it is.

All you know is that his mouth on yours feels like home.

Every kiss is an apology. Every touch is a confession. Every tear sliding between your cheeks is a year of aching, unanswered want.

When he finally pulls back just enough to breathe, your lips are red, your faces damp, and his hands are still shaking where they cradle your ribs like he can’t quite believe that you’re real.

“I love you,” he whispers, breathless. “I don’t know how to stop.”

You shake your head, voice wavering. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

His lips crash against yours again, desperate, trembling with soft sobs that mix pain and need. Like he’s unravelling in the moment, and you’re the only thing holding him together.

“I—I need to make it up to you,” he pants against your mouth. “Baby, you gotta let me—”

His breath catches when your hands slip under his shirt, fingers trailing over the firm planes of his stomach before dipping lower, brushing the waistband of his jeans.

“How’re you gonna make it up to me?” you murmur, voice thick with heat.

Your fingers hook behind his jeans, tugging him closer until his hips press flush against yours—and you can feel how hard he already is. Just from kissing you.

His lips curl into a slow smile against yours, his voice dropping lower, rougher—raw with promise. “I’m gonna make you come undone, cariño. Over and over. So many times, you won’t be able to walk by the time I’m done showing you how sorry I am.”

Heat coils deep inside of you, a rush of fire and ice that burns all the way down, settling behind your hipbones—pulsing with every quickened breath.

Before you can think of something to say, before you can even draw a full breath, he’s kissing you again. He moves forward, and you step back, his lips never leaving yours—even as the door clicks shut behind him.

Then his hands are on your hips, firm and warm, fingers slipping beneath your shirt, and you’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you never put on pants. A small part of you is impressed he managed to keep eye contact earlier. But another part—a more insistent, very aware part—registers the way he smells.

It’s not bad. Just not him. He smells like sweat and stale air. Like stress and adrenaline and a man who’s been trapped on a plane for nine hours.

You pull back just enough to breathe, just enough to look at him properly—his hair flattened on one side, shirt rumpled, jaw dark with day-old scruff.

“I think you need a shower,” you whisper, voice shaky with half a laugh.

His lips twitch, eyes still glassy. “Only if you’re coming with me.”

You take him in for a second longer—the line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the familiar shape of a face you know too well. And then his eyes catch yours—still a little bloodshot, but so full of love it makes your whole body pulse with the need to stay wrapped around him forever.

“Okay,” you mutter, sliding your hand into his.

You bite down on your bottom lip to keep from smiling—he hasn’t earned that yet—and turn to lead him through the apartment. He knows the way, but he follows close, like he’s scared you might disappear.

You step into the bathroom first, let go of his hand, and reach into the shower to crank the hot water. Then you turn back—and your breath catches.

Because holy shit.

He’s so beautiful.

Even now—sweaty and tired and a little rough around the edges—he’s breathtaking.

And you’re about to see him. Each other. Naked. For the first time. Ever.

He steps closer, eyes locked on yours as he shrugs his hoodie off his shoulders. The zipper clicks against the tile as it hits the floor, but neither of you look—you just keep watching each other.

Then his hands move to the hem of his shirt, fingers hesitating for half a second before he pulls it over his head. The fabric lifts to reveal warm, golden skin and the sculpted lines of his chest and stomach, a soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his waistband.

Your breath catches as you drink him in, eyes trailing over every inch with a quiet hunger that pulses low in your belly. Your thighs press together instinctively, heat blooming between them like a fuse catching fire.

“I can’t believe you came back early,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the sound of the running shower.

His gaze softens, a small, uneven smile tugging at his lips. “I couldn’t be away from you any longer.”

The shirt joins his hoodie on the floor, and his hands drop to his jeans. He starts to unbutton them, but you step forward quickly, your fingers brushing his to stop him.

“Wait.”

He freezes, eyes wide. “What’s wrong?”

You swallow. “Everything changes if we do this.”

His expression melts as his hands find your jaw, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth. “I know. I want it to. But we don’t have to rush. I just want to be here—with you.”

And just like that, your ribs crack open, and your heart falls right into his hands. Not that he didn’t already have it—but now, it’s his completely. You exist only for him. And there isn’t a sliver of hesitation in you. You don’t want anything else. Not now. Not ever.

You already knew this, of course. But right now, standing in front of him, memorising a face that’s already burned into the backs of your eyelids, you feel it settle into something bone-deep and permanent. He’s all you’ll ever need. As closely as possible. As deeply as possible. In every way he’ll let you have him.

“I want to,” you say softly, stepping closer until your bodies almost touch. “God, I’ve wanted you for so long, I don’t even know how to not want you anymore.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, but it catches on something else—something tender and breaking and real.

His smile is crooked, lips kiss-bruised and pink. “So we’re both idiots, huh?”

You nod, heat blooming in your cheeks. “Yeah. The biggest.”

Then your eyes drop to where your hand rests over his, right at the waistband of his jeans. You gently pull his hands away and begin to unbutton them yourself—fingers trembling, but sure. His breath hitches the moment your knuckles brush over the length of him, already hard and burning through the soft cotton of his briefs.

Your eyes flick up to his face, only to find him already looking down—watching every slow, deliberate movement as you drag the zipper down and start working the denim down his hips. He moves with you, grabbing the back of his jeans and shoving them down until they fall around his ankles.

You step back just a little, giving him room to step out of them—and to look.

Because God. Now he’s standing in nothing but those briefs, cock straining against the fabric, chest rising and falling like he can barely catch his breath. And it’s doing something to you.

He’s barely touched you, and you’re soaked. Just from looking at him.

“Think you need to catch up, mi amor,” he murmurs, voice low and thick.

His eyes drag up your bare legs and pause where the hem of your shirt brushes your thighs. He knows you’re not wearing anything underneath.

And now you’re trembling for an entirely different reason.

Your cheeks burn as you reach for the hem of your shirt and hesitate—but only for a second.

Then you quickly pull it over your head and let drop to the floor.

“Fuck,” he whispers, low and shaky.

And then he’s on you.

His hands are hot and urgent as they wrap around your waist, dragging you in until your bare chest presses flush to his. You gasp at the sudden rasp of his skin against your nipples—sensitive and aching—and he groans, deep in his chest, as his mouth crashes into yours.

The kiss is devastating. Open, messy, a little too much and nowhere near enough. He kisses you like he’s branding you—like the taste of your mouth belongs to him and he’s never letting you forget it.

You melt into it, into him, arms looped around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. His hips rock forward, cock grinding against your hip, and the friction makes you gasp again, makes your fingers tighten in his curls.

He groans into your mouth, deep and desperate, and the sound shoots straight through you.

You gasp against his lips as his hands slide lower, skimming the curve of your spine, tracing the waistband of your panties. He palms your ass, squeezing once—firm, possessive—before slipping his fingers beneath the fabric.

You whimper against his lips, knees almost buckling as he tugs your panties down in one swift movement. They fall to the floor, pooling around your ankles, and you step out of them blindly—too consumed by the way his mouth is moving over yours, by the feel of his skin against yours, to think of anything else.

Your hands find his hips, fingers curling beneath the elastic of his briefs. He groans as you drag them down slowly, the cotton catching on his hard cock before it springs free and the fabric falls to the floor. You suck in a shaky breath as you feel the full weight of him against your lower belly—then step back again just enough to look.

And fuck.

He’s so beautiful.

Chest heaving. Lips kiss-bitten and red. Eyes burning as they drag over your naked body like you’re the most breathtaking thing he’s ever seen.

You take his hand in yours and step backward, pulling him toward the shower. The steam curls around you as you move, warm and thick in the air, and when you step beneath the warm spray of water, he crowds in again—bare skin pressed to bare skin, heat radiating between you like a second heartbeat.

He reaches for the body wash with one hand, the other trailing softly over your wet skin, and then lathers it between his palms before bringing them both to your body. He starts at your shoulders, working his way down your arms with steady pressure and soft murmurs.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, voice low and rough in your ear. “If I could take it back, I would. I love you so much, mi amor. I need you to feel it.”

You close your eyes and let him touch you, let his words wrap around you like the heat curling through the shower steam. His fingers glide over your ribs, your stomach, the undersides of your breasts. He’s gentle but thorough, brushing against the softest parts of you, the most vulnerable—never rushing, never greedy. Just present. Devoted.

“I missed you,” he says. “I miss you every second I’m not with you.”

Your breath shudders, and your hands move to return the gesture, trailing soap over the broad planes of his chest, down the ridges of his abs, over the sharp cut of his hips. He’s watching you—always watching you—with eyes that look like they might spill over at any second.

The quiet between you hums, heavy with want. Your fingers dip lower, following the lines of muscle that lead to his cock, and he sucks in a sharp breath.

But you don’t touch. Not yet.

“You’re killing me,” he says softly, forehead tipping forward to rest against yours.

You smile faintly, cheeks flushed from the steam—or maybe from the way you can feel him, hot and hard between you, aching to be touched.

“I’m gonna make it up to you, cariño,” he murmurs, lips brushing against your temple. “I promise. You’re gonna feel how sorry I am.”

He kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then dips lower—mouth dragging lazy, open kisses along your neck, over your collarbone, across your shoulder—each one slower than the last, like he’s trying to memorise every inch of your skin.

You can feel your pulse between your legs—heavy and insistent. Every breath makes you more aware of how slick you are, how achingly empty, thighs pressing together in search of friction that doesn’t come close to enough.

“Need a hand?” Joaquín mutters against your skin.

You whimper, fingers digging into his back as you wrap your arms around his neck and hold on tight.

He shifts closer, letting out a broken sigh when his cock brushes against your skin. “Gonna need to hear you say it, baby.”

He starts guiding you back until your spine meets the cool tile, his body boxing you in, all heat and muscle and sinful promise. His mouth keeps moving—hot, wet kisses trailing down your chest, leaving pink and purple marks in their wake—and you whine again, breath catching on the edge of a moan.

“Tell me you want me,” he murmurs, lips brushing even lower. “Tell me, and I’m yours.”

Then his mouth finds your nipple—warm, wet, perfect—and his tongue swirls over the sensitive bud until you're gasping.

“Need you, Joaquín,” you breathe. “Need you to touch me. I—I want you inside me.”

You feel his mouth twitch against your skin—still sucking, still relentless—but smiling

And then—

Oh, God

His fingers slip between your thighs and find your entrance with no effort at all—wet and ready for him.

He groans, guttural and low. “You’re so fucking wet, mi amor.”

You tip your head back with a breathless laugh. “Well, duh. We’re in the shower.”

He nips at your nipple in retaliation—just enough to make you yelp—then soothes it with his tongue before kissing across your chest to the other. The first brush of his mouth makes your back arch off the tile, heat flaring deep in your core.

His fingers dip lower—sliding easily through the wet heat between your thighs, and he groans again, like the feel of you is frying his goddamn brain.

"Fuck, baby," he mutters, voice ragged against your skin. "You’re so ready for me."

You whimper, thighs twitching as his fingers trace lazy circles around your entrance. Teasing. Testing. Making you shiver.

“Joaquín—"

He shushes you with a kiss, his free hand cupping the side of your face as the other finally slips one thick finger inside you. You gasp, nails scraping down his back as your hips stutter forward, chasing the stretch.

“So tight,” he breathes. “So warm.”

He starts to move—slow and steady—curling his finger just right as he watches your face from barely an inch away. And when your eyes flutter shut, breath hitching, he adds another.

Your moan echoes off the tile, high and broken.

“That’s it,” he whispers, breath brushing your lips. “Let me feel you.”

Your head drops back against the wall again, chest heaving, one leg lifting instinctively to hook around his hip and open yourself wider for him. He groans again—like he’s losing his sanity.

“Look at me,” he says softly, fingers working deeper now. “Wanna see you fall apart.”

You force your eyes open, blinking through the haze, and the second your gaze meets his—intense, reverent, absolutely wrecked—you clench around him hard enough to make his jaw snap tight.

“Fuck,” he growls, pressing his forehead to yours. “You feel so good, baby. Gonna make you come just like this—just my fingers.”

Your breath comes out in shaky, desperate gasps, your hips rolling helplessly against his hand as he works his fingers inside you. Each curl brushes that perfect, aching spot, and your thighs are trembling now, barely holding you up.

Then his thumb finds your clit.

You cry out—sharp and breathless—as he rubs slow, deliberate circles that make your whole body tighten.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with hunger. “Feel so fucking good like this. Can’t believe I’ve never touched you here before.”

His mouth is everywhere—your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth—before he finds your lips again and kisses you hard. Not sweet, not gentle. It’s filthy. Wet. Starving. His tongue curls into your mouth just as his fingers thrust deeper, his thumb grinding harder against your clit, and the moan you let out is swallowed by his kiss.

You’re panting into him now, legs shaking, nails raking across his shoulders. His cock is hard between you—thick and hot where it presses against your belly, and he shifts his hips just enough to drag it over your skin. Slow, firm pressure that makes your breath stutter and your knees nearly give out.

“You feel that?” he groans, rocking against you again. “Been hard for you since the second you opened that fucking door. Can’t stop thinking about how good it’s gonna feel when I’m inside you.”

Your head spins. The rhythm of his fingers, the pressure of his thumb, the weight of his cock grinding into your skin—it’s too much and not enough and you’re falling apart under it.

You gasp against his mouth, clinging to his shoulders. “Joaquín—oh my god—please—”

“I know, mi amor,” he pants, lips brushing your cheek as he fucks you with his fingers a little harder now, more insistent. “Almost there. Let me feel you come, baby. Just for me.”

Your whole body tightens. Heat coils low in your belly, fast and frantic now, about to burst—

And then he’s gone. Fingers, warmth, everything—gone.

Your eyes snap open just in time to see him drop to his knees, and the sight of him there—lips kiss-swollen, eyes dark with desperation—knocks you breathless.

“Let me taste you,” he says, voice rough and a little broken. “Please.”

You nod before you can even think—and then his mouth is on you.

He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder and drags his tongue through your soaked folds with a low groan that vibrates through your entire body. You cry out, the sound ricocheting off the tile, and one of your hands flies to his hair—gripping hard, grounding yourself.

“Joaquín—oh, fuck—”

He eats you like a man starved. Like this is the apology. The penance. Like your pleasure is the only thing in the world he gives a damn about. His tongue swirls around your clit, then flattens and flicks with just enough pressure to make your eyes roll back.

He moans into you like you taste better than anything he’s ever had, and when he slides two fingers back inside, curling deep, it’s like your body just stops thinking and lets go.

Your legs quake. Your hips roll. You’re panting his name, over and over, thighs tightening around his head—and he just groans and keeps going. Keeps sucking. Licking. Fucking you with his fingers like he’s trying to chase your orgasm down and wring every last tremor out of it.

And then it hits.

White-hot and all-consuming

Your back bows, your voice breaks, and your climax rips through you—violent and endless and overwhelming—until your legs give out completely and you slump against the wall, heart hammering, chest heaving, Joaquin still between your thighs.

When the wave finally starts to ebb, you glance down—and he looks up at you like you’re a miracle.

“Still mad at me?” he asks, lips slick and smirking.

You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t even have the energy for that, so you just look at him. You watch him rise to full height and gently press his forehead to yours, letting the water run over both of you—warm and steady. Now he smells like coconut and sex and something so unmistakably him it makes your knees weak.

“I’m gonna spend the rest of my life between your thighs making it up to you,” he whispers, voice thick with promise.

You huff out a breathless laugh and bring one hand up to the back of his neck. “I might think about forgiving you,” you murmur, your other hand sliding lower, tracing the ridges of his stomach, “if you make me come with this.”

Your fingers wrap around his cock and he chokes—actually chokes—on a groan like he was punched square in the chest. You can’t help but giggle, slowly stroking him as his eyes flutter shut and his hips jerk desperately into your hand.

“Such a tease, baby,” he mutters, letting his head fall back.

You give him two more deliberate strokes—just to hear that little catch in his breath—before planting both palms on his chest. “Let’s get out before my water bill bankrupts me.”

His eyes snap open, and he hesitates for a moment but doesn’t argue. You both rinse off quickly, steam curling between your bodies in lazy spirals, the tension still crackling like static. Then he turns off the water and steps out, handing you a towel before grabbing his own, and the two of you start drying off in silence.

But there are more heated glances than actual drying, your eyes drawn to each other like magnets, and before you’re even halfway dry, he’s back on you—towel forgotten, curls still dripping, hands cradling your face as he kisses you like it might kill him not to.

“Can I show you how sorry I am now?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours.

You pull back just enough to raise a brow. “That wasn’t what you just did?”

He flashes that devastating smile—the one that would melt your panties if you had any on.

“Not even fucking close,” he growls.

Then his hands slide to the backs of your thighs and he lifts you in one swift motion. You gasp, arms flying around his neck and legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. His cock presses hot and hard against you as he carries you—bare, dripping, aching—out of the bathroom and straight into to your bedroom.

He stops at the edge of your bed and drops you with a playful ease. You land with a soft squeal, the mattress dipping beneath you as he follows, crawling over you like he can’t stand even a breath of distance. His body hovers over yours for just a second—wet curls dripping onto your chest, breath hot against your cheek—before he sinks down, skin to skin, his weight settling perfectly between your thighs.

His cock is already so hard, heavy and leaking, dragging against your slick folds as he grinds into you slowly—like he needs to prove, with every aching touch, that you’re his. You gasp when the head catches just barely on your entrance, too close to be nothing, not close enough to be everything.

“‘M still sorry,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, lips brushing the curve of your breast. “Still not done making it up to you.”

Then his mouth closes around your nipple and you keen, back arching, thighs tightening around his hips. He groans as he sucks, teeth grazing gently—just enough to make your whole body burn. One of his hands comes up to cup your other breast, thumb circling lazily until your breath turns shallow and your fingers claw at his back.

“Joaquín—” your voice breaks into a gasp as his hips roll again, dragging the thick, sensitive length of him over your clit.

“Say it again,” he whispers, switching to your other nipple, mouthing at it like it’s the only thing that will keep him sane. “Say my name again, baby.”

You do. Over and over. Between panting breaths and needy little whines, your body grinding up against his as the heat builds all over again.

“I’m gonna be so good to you,” he groans, moving lower, teeth grazing your sternum before he kisses back up your throat. “You have no idea how good I’m gonna be.”

His cock presses flush against your entrance again, thick and hot and teasing, and you let out a breathless, broken sound.

“P—Please,” you whisper, breath catching. “I need you.”

Joaquín exhales like he’s been holding his breath since the moment you opened the front door. His forehead drops to yours, noses brushing, lips just barely touching. You feel the tremble in his arms as he shifts his hips, lining himself up properly—his tip nudging at your entrance.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, voice breaking against your mouth. “I’m so fucking sorry, baby…”

You whimper, hips tilting up instinctively, but he doesn’t push in—not yet. He just keeps kissing you, slow and messy and reverent, while his cock slides through your folds again and again, coating himself in your wetness, teasing your clit with the swollen head until you’re nearly shaking.

“Joaquín,” you plead, voice thin and wrecked, “I need you inside me now.”

That does it.

He drags his cock down, barely notching at your entrance—and then pushes in slowly. Excruciatingly slowly. Stretching you inch by inch like he’s afraid to hurt you, like he’s trying to savour the way you take him in. His breath hitches as you tighten around him, and he groans, deep and guttural, forehead still pressed to yours.

“Fuck,” he pants. “You feel—God—you feel so good.”

You clutch at his back, nails dragging, legs tightening around his hips to pull him closer. He slides in a little deeper, then stills, chest heaving against yours, giving you both a second to breathe. To feel everything.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “You’re everything. I’m never gonna stop being sorry for hurting you, but I swear—this, right now—I’m yours.”

He kisses you again, a soft sound caught between your mouths, and then pushes in the rest of the way—slow, steady, until he’s fully seated inside you and both of you are left shaking from the overwhelming relief of finally being whole.

For one breathless moment, you just cling to each other, suspended in it.

Then, with a low, strangled sigh, he starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Every thrust measured and deliberate, like he’s trying to say sorry with every inch of him. Like he’s trying to rewrite the last forty-eight hours with the press of his hips and the reverent way he touches you.

You hold on to him, hands grasping at every inch of skin you can reach, your mouth brushing his jaw as you gasp into the space between you.

“God, Joaquín—”

He groans low in his throat, the sound desperate and aching as he drags almost all the way out and pushes back in with a little more force. The drag of his cock inside you makes your toes curl, pressure building deep and steady, a fire licking up your spine.

“Feels so good,” he pants, forehead pressed to yours, lips brushing. “You feel so good, cariño. I’m not gonna last if you keep looking at me like that.”

You squeeze your legs around his waist and roll your hips to meet his next thrust. “Don’t stop,” you whisper. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He laughs—a soft, breathless thing—and kisses you again, slow and messy, tongues tangling, your breath stuttering between moans as he begins to pick up the pace. Each stroke grinds deep, just enough to make your breath hitch and your thighs tremble.

You can feel every inch of him, the thick press of his cock dragging over that sweet spot inside of you, over and over. And the tension between you—emotional and physical—is like a live wire sparking in the dark.

“You’re mine,” he breathes into your mouth. “All mine. Gonna keep you like this forever—wrapped around me, panting my name. Gonna make it up to you, baby, ‘til you can’t walk.”

And then it hits you—like a lightning strike—right in the middle of him moving inside you, skin sliding against skin. The boy who’s lived in your heart for so long. The one you thought might never feel the same...

He loves you.

No hesitation. No pretending.

Just raw, desperate, breathless love.

Right here, right now, with him fucking you like it’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Your chest tightens, breath catching as the whole world narrows to the heat of him, the slick rhythm of your bodies, and the impossible truth that he’s yours.

He’s finally yours.

“Hey,” he whispers, voice breaking as his thrusts slow. “Baby, what is it?”

His lips press to your temple, then your jaw, trailing wet, fevered kisses as he holds himself above you—arms trembling, hands braced on either side of your head.

You glance up, meeting his eyes, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack your ribs.

“I love you, Joaquín,” you whisper.

His expression softens instantly, breaking into the kind of smile that could ruin you—gentle, wide, boyish—and then he’s leaning in, nuzzling your nose like the lovesick fool he is.

“I love you too, cariño.”

“And I forgive you.”

His smile shifts, curling into something smug—something wicked. “You do?”

You nod, barely, fingers toying with the curls at the nape of his neck.

He rolls his hips back slowly—deliberately—watching your mouth fall open.

Then he shakes his head, grin turning feral. “No, you don’t. Not yet.” He kisses you deep, then draws back just enough to growl, “I’m not done making it up to you yet.”

And with that, he sits up, still buried to the hilt—and his next thrust hits a new angle that makes your vision blur.

He grabs your thigh and lifts it over his shoulder, holding you open without hesitation. The new position has him even deeper, his thick cock dragging against every sensitive part of you, and it’s all you can do not to scream.

He thrusts harder now—rough, fast, relentless—finding spots inside you that you didn’t even know existed. Your body tightens, your lungs burn, and your eyes lock onto his, wide and wild and desperate.

“You gonna take my apology like a good girl?” he pants. “Gonna let me say sorry with every fucking inch?”

You moan something garbled, hands flying into your hair as your back arches off the mattress. His name spills from your lips in broken syllables, again and again, like prayer.

And it only spurs him on.

“That’s it, cariño,” he growls, voice wrecked. “Feel me. Let me make it up to you.”

You don’t even know what sound comes out of you next—some ruined, hungry thing—and your hand moves to your chest, fingers tugging lightly at one nipple.

His rhythm falters. He groans—loud and helpless—the sight of you clearly undoing him.

“Fuck—look at you,” he gasps, eyes locked on your chest. “You gonna come like that? Gonna squeeze me so tight just from playing with those perfect tits?”

He adjusts his grip and thrusts deeper, harder, one hand anchoring your hip, the other pressing your leg back even farther as he drives into you like he can’t get close enough. Like the only way to be forgiven is to fuck you until the memory of anything else burns away.

Every thrust is devastating now—deep, punishing, perfect. The wet slap of skin against skin echoes in the room, nearly drowned out by the choked sounds spilling from both of you.

Your leg trembles where he’s holding it, thigh stretched wide over his shoulder, but you can’t even think about it—can’t focus on anything but the pressure building low in your belly, coiling tighter with every filthy grind of his hips. Your hand is still on your breast, tugging at your nipple, needy and impatient—like you can pull another orgasm out of yourself if you just try hard enough.

“Joaquín—” you gasp, voice cracking. “I’m—fuck—I’m getting close.”

“I know, baby,” he grits, sweat dripping from his temples, curls soaked, eyes fixed on where his cock disappears into you. “I can feel it. You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

His pace stutters, then steadies, grinding deep with a low groan that sounds like it’s been torn straight from his chest. He leans in just enough for your foreheads to touch, his breath hot against your cheek, and you can feel how close he is too—barely hanging on, every muscle in his body straining to hold back.

“You’re doing so good,” he pants, mouth brushing yours. “Taking it so good. You gonna let me keep saying sorry? Let me fuck you through every single thing I never should’ve done?”

You whimper, nodding, lips brushing against his, unable to speak as the pressure builds and builds. His cock drags against the sweet spot inside you that makes your legs shake and your eyes roll back, again and again, his pelvis grinding against your clit on every downstroke, drawing you tighter, higher, closer.

Your fingers scramble across his back, nails digging into his shoulder blades as your other hand slips down, desperate for more friction, for anything. But before you can touch yourself, his hand is there—slapping yours away and replacing it with his own. His thumb circles your clit, slow and slick and fucking perfect.

“Let me,” he growls. “Let me take care of you, cariño. Let me make you come.”

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

“Come on, baby,” he pants, his voice thick, ragged. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And then you do.

It slams into you like a tidal wave—your orgasm ripping through every inch of you, hot and sharp and blinding. You cry out, legs trembling as your thigh slips from his shoulder, fingers clawing at his arms while your body clenches around him, slick and pulsing and endless.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, still moving inside you, slower now but deeper—like he’s trying to feel every last pulse of you coming around him. “That’s it. That’s my girl.”

But you don’t have time to catch your breath—because he’s unravelling too.

His hips jerk, rhythm faltering, and he lets out a strangled noise—somewhere between a gasp and a moan—as he fucks into you hard one last time, spilling deep inside with a broken, breathless, “Fuck, I love you.”

You cling to him as he shudders through it, both of you shaking, bodies pressed tight and hearts pounding like they’re trying to break free from your chests.

For a moment, the only sound is your breathing. Laboured. Tangled. Shared.

And then he kisses you again, slow and tender this time, mouth soft and sweet against yours like he’s still trying to say sorry—only now with love, not desperation.

“I think,” you murmur, voice distant—breathless, “we might need to shower again.”

Joaquín chuckles, his chest rumbling against yours as he barely holds himself up on his forearms. “I don’t think there’s any point, cariño.” He flashes you a cocky grin. “I’m just gonna ruin you again.”

Your cheeks heat—despite everything you just did with him—and you giggle. “That so?”

He nods, then leans in to press a kiss to the tip of your nose. “Yep. But first—” He pushes himself up, muscles flexing— “I have something for you.”

The loss of his heat makes you shiver. The loss of his cock makes you whine.

He laughs again. “I’ll be back in a second, baby. Then I’ll be right back inside—I promise.”

He shuffles off the bed and throws a wink over his shoulder as he turns toward the door. You lie there, flushed and wrecked and floating, shamelessly ogling his ass as he walks away.

You can feel your pulse still thrumming through your whole body while you wait, anticipation building like static beneath your skin.

And when he returns, it’s hard not to stare—slick, still half-hard, still perfect. Holy shit. You’ll never get used to seeing him naked.

“Eyes up here,” he teases, smirking as he settles beside you on the bed.

You roll your eyes and sit up, dragging a pillow into your lap. Joaquín eyes it, clearly displeased with the coverage, but he lets it slide. For now.

“Here,” he says, offering you a little black box.

You frown but take it, confused—until you see the flush on his cheeks and the nerves written across his face.

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs.

Your heart skips and you look down at the box, fingers trembling just a little as you open the lid.

Inside is a necklace—a delicate chain with a small bird charm in flight, wings spread wide.

Tears prick your eyes. “Joaquín…”

He looks so sweet—so fucking boyish—it knocks the air right out of you. This soft, thoughtful man just gave you the most perfect gift... after absolutely rearranging your guts.

“I didn’t forget forget,” he says quickly. “I just—” He stops, swallowing hard. “I just love you so much.”

Your throat tightens as you blink hard, tears slipping free. “I love you too.”

You set the box on your bedside table, toss the pillow aside, and crawl into his lap. His grin blooms wide as his arms come around you, brown eyes lit up like you just handed him the whole goddamn universe.

“Think you’ve got another apology in you?” you whisper, rolling your hips against him, feeling his cock swell beneath you.

“Baby,” he groans, gripping your hips, “I plan on apologising all fucking night.”

And he does.

He kisses you like it’s the first time. Fucks you like it might be the last. He moves with something holy in his hands, something feral in his mouth. He whispers I’m sorry, I love you, again and again, breaking you open with every thrust. And you forgive him—again and again—until the words don’t even matter anymore. Until there’s nothing left between you but sweat and breath and the way your bodies fit together like they were always meant to.

He doesn’t stop until you’re both boneless. Breathless. Too wrecked to move.

And then, finally—he pulls you into his arms, kisses your hair, and tells you he loves you until the only thing left is sleep.

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

[nolita-fairytale]

de thank you for your service 🫡

[boyd-stevens]

Deleted scene from Captain America: Civil War (2016) dir. Joe & Anthony Russo.

[yuzuandme]

Hi! When you say you write for Black Panther, which characters will you write for from the franchise? ☺️

Hi anon! Thank you for the message :)

The list in my pinned comment is actually just the fandoms I'm part of -- I don't currently have plans to write for Black Panther characters (I love it, but I honestly don't feel like I have a firm enough grasp of the characters atm to do so confidently). But that's not to say that won't change in the future! Once I get my legs under me I'll definitely give it a shot.

For now I'm focusing on Team Cap characters, mostly Joaquin.

[boyd-stevens]

Sam Wilson being a polyglot.

[yuzuandme]

do you know how much stuff I'd write if I could push past the need to introduce context and chronology to everything omgggg

[yuzuandme]

Hi! Just wanted to let you know “What Healing Makes Room For” is one of my favorite fics I’ve ever read and came across. Period. It’s amazing! I keep coming back to it and re-reading it.

I can’t wait to read what else you come up with for Joaquin and Black Panther (I’m a big fan!) ❤️🫶🏾

This is so so so kind of you to say!! 😭 It means so much to receive a compliment like this and I really appreciate you taking the time to share it! For some reason it's taken me years to build the confidence to share my writing and to be proud of it. It means the world to have reached someone in this way ❤️

I'm really excited to write and share more here!

[yuzuandme]

What Healing Makes Room For

Pairing: Joaquín Torres x Agent!Reader (established relationship; marriage)

Summary: Months after Joaquín's accident, the deluge of feelings you’ve cast aside come roaring back at the most inopportune time. Joaquín reminds you what you’ve been missing.

Rating: Explicit, 18+ ONLY MDNI

Word Count: 11,300 (I don’t know what’s wrong with me)

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Romance, Smut

Warnings: 18+ ONLY MDNI. Explicit sexual content, explicit language, mild angst. Fem!Reader. Use of nickname (Joaquín refers to reader as Ace); no use of Y/N. Medical trauma (in reference to the accident). Major spoilers for Captain America: Brave New World. Poor reader is traumatized by the accident. Possible mischaracterization of minor characters because I needed extras but have only sparingly watched MCU media outside of the mainline story lmao. In this timeline, Dunphy makes it out alive. No idea what a realistic recovery timeline looks like for what Joaquín went through.

A/N: Dearest reader I’m so sorry for not knowing or caring about the intricacies of military or intelligence agencies’ fraternization policies. I had half a mind to at least attempt something realistic then I realized none of these characters need to concern themselves with that much moralism in a world where Thaddeus Ross can hold public office. And also none of this is real. This is my first time posting my writing, please be nice. *Bubbles voice* I'm sensitive, you know

You’re no stranger to poorly timed reactions.

How could you be? You’d spent the last 10 years outrunning the maw of emotional ruin, driven by adrenaline from mission to mission. For as long as the days dragged by, the years spanned the length of a footfall, and with the passage of time came the inconvenience of healing. Unpacking the trauma of existential threats, of injury. Of burying the fallen. Burying your fallen.

This was no different.

As it turns out, six months isn’t anywhere near enough time to process the emotional fallout of watching in high definition as the love of your life flies headfirst into an explosion. A reasonable revelation and a completely fair one had your traitor brain not landed on “anger” as the emotion it decided to tackle first. It mars and mixes ugly with the breathlessness you feel as Joaquin scoops his strong arms under your thighs and lifts you off your feet as effortlessly as he’d done six months prior, your squeal muffled by the thickness of his hoodie. Your head clouds with the mix of shock, the clean scent of his cologne and the faint grip of want that you’d all but forgotten in the time it had taken his body to heal. 

“Joaquín, take it easy!” Trying to wriggle free proves futile — the muscles in Joaquín’s arms chord and his smile grows all the more brilliant as you try to scramble down, still convinced that one wrong move would be enough to reopen wounds that had long been replaced with healed skin. “Could you please just stick to your care plan for once? You shouldn’t—”

“Baby relax,” He times his rebuttal with a kiss placed right at the base of your throat and you fight heaven and earth to suppress the answering shudder your body betrays you with. You can’t indulge this. You can’t encourage this, no matter how much your baser instincts are clawing their way to the forefront of your mind. “Med team cleared me for lifting weeks ago. I’m technically not breaking any rules.”

You can feel his smile against your skin as he ushers you to the living room of your shared compound unit, laying you down gently on the plush sectional. You use the opening to put some distance between you, eyebrows drawing together as you recount the paperwork you’d been sent home with at his most recent rehabilitation session. That “technically” was doing a whole hell of a lot — you were intimately familiar with every change in his care plan. In fact, it sat in a Goodnotes document on your iPad, highlighted and with handwritten notes in the margins, and printed and laminated on the door of your refrigerator. You’d even asked what his therapist meant by “cleared to lift” because of the downright devious look Joaquín had shot you from his seat on the elliptical the second the words left her mouth. 

“Your therapist said you’re cleared to lift weights, Quín. Up to 75 pounds to be exact. Not the weight of a grown ass person.” 

You know when he playfully rolls his eyes and dismisses the concern with a suck of his teeth that he’s not trying to piss you off. That when he demonstrates exactly what he thinks of that caveat by pulling you into a straddle over his lap it’s because he’s missed the warmth of your skin where his hands roam and press under your t-shirt as he returns to your neck with more incessant brushes of his lips. And you burn hot enough under his attentions for a moment that your mind wills away the guidelines drafted by the best medical team in the country under an abundance of caution, urging your hands to chart their favorite path across his shoulders, past his nape and into the growing curls on his head until you ghost over the raised skin of a scar. Your recoil is so sudden Joaquín peels back to look at you, the heat in his gaze making way for concern as you clamber off his thighs. 

“I’m sor—“

“It’s okay — baby it’s okay, it doesn’t hurt anymore—“ 

“No, Quín, I shouldn’t have—“ You take a grounding breath as Joaquín stands to meet you, his warm eyes searching yours for clarity. “You’re at the tail end of your recovery. I don’t want anything to threaten the progress you’ve made.” 

“Having a little fun isn’t going to set me back, Ace. I just miss you, you know?”

The irritation you’ve been tamping down for the better part of the last few weeks roars back with that same confounding mix of butterflies at the way an easy grin finds its way to his pretty face and his big warm hands find yours, interlacing your fingers. You know it’s not fair to him, the way the anger has quietly but suddenly built, shooting straight to your heart before any part of you even gets to elate in the fact that his recovery has already been nothing short of miraculous. It’s unfair that you keep bailing on the conversation you so desperately need to have with him if only you could even begin to untangle the haphazard splints of emotion — some you can’t even name or fathom — because it never seems to be the right time. 

He’s, at most, a month away from field work again. A fresh suit, courtesy of Wakanda, is en route to your doorstep. He’s beaming that mega-watt smile at everyone within a 10 mile radius because soon enough he’ll be back in the air, courting danger, saving lives. He’s so, so happy. You’re so, so upset. You can’t tell him that, though.

“I-I know, Quín. But let’s stay the course, okay?” He’s going to object and you know it, so you busy yourself brandishing your phone, pulling up the color-coded notes detailing a full regimen of at-home exercises, pain management tips, meal plans and medication schedules as you back away towards the staircase. Joaquín lets your hand slip away as you leave. “I’m gonna shower before I start dinner and then I’ll help you with your reps. I’ll be right back!” 

You wince at the unnatural pitch of your voice in an effort to sound chipper but keep up the act, bounding up the stairs even as you feel Joaquín’s hurt gaze on your retreating form. 

In the quiet of the bathroom you stand under the unyielding spray of water for five full minutes, breathing labored as you try desperately to calm the panicked beating of your heart. For what feels like the first time in six months, the fog of worry over your mind finally gives way to the tumult underneath. The ugliness you hadn’t had time for — the fury, the grief, the helplessness, the hurt — surges forth with the unmeasured strength of a tidal wave. It has its way with your heart as the painfully long days stretch across your memory like a film strip, snapshots in time of the most terrifying moments of your life. The hot pinprick of tears threatens the corner of your eyes and you succumb to them in lieu of screaming.

It’s getting worse.

It’s not accurate to say the facade of a happy and supportive wife is cracking because beneath the potent storm of feelings you’re compacting and shoving into the recesses of your mind, you are genuinely happy for Joaquín. But his once-contagious enthusiasm cuts into your resolve bit by bit each time a new recovery milestone brings him closer to work. On Monday, it’s an offhand joke Sam makes about Joaquín being just about ready to get back in the ring with Isaiah as he shadowboxes his mentee. On Tuesday, it’s a fitting for his new and improved propulsion wingsuit. Shuri insists over FaceTime that he take to the skies for a quick remote calibration and vital scanning, and Joaquín soars — in your opinion — far higher than necessary to complete the process. By Wednesday, the needle has come perilously close to dropping when Sam tells you five minutes before your bi-weekly team briefing that he’s bringing Joaquín back into the meetings to “reacclimate the kid before he skips his happy ass back onto the field.” 

He takes his position at the front of the conference room the interdisciplinary platoon has effectively commandeered as a briefing space, clapping a few times to bring all eyes up front as he begins a general overview of the agenda. You take a seat next to Agents Leila Taylor and Melinda May, friends and fellow agents from your cohort. They'd taken it upon themselves to be your work mates over the past few months, a balm in your husband’s absence. They both fix you with a strange look, Melinda pointedly turning a full 180 degrees to look at an empty two-top just a few feet away.

“Um?”

“Mhm?” You sip at your matcha latte. Silence your phone. Pretend to pay attention to what Sam is saying. Melinda lets the silence hang uncomfortably as you take entirely too long to select a pen to jot the date on a fresh page of your grid notepad.

“Okay so, not that we don’t love sitting next to you—”

“Same!” 

“—but a little birdie told me that Joaquín is rejoining briefings soon.”

“Yeah.”

“Like starting today,” Leila adds when you make no move to get to the empty table. “Like any minute now.”

“I know. It’s great news.” You’re going for that perky tone again but it’s no use trying to make it feel natural. It makes you sound like you’ve been body snatched, which is exactly how Leila looks at you.

“You don’t want to sit next to your husband?” 

Heat floods your cheeks in that embarrassingly girlish and giddy way it does every time something or someone reminds you Joaquín is yours, warring with the unease of how fast it feels like things are moving. You can feel the wedge you’re driving between the two of you and you know Joaquín feels it, too, his touch growing increasingly hesitant and eyes ever quizzical each time you invent a reason to pull out of his arms or avoid conversation. It hurts you just as much to do it. But that poor dam of emotion is being held up by popsicle sticks at this point. You don’t trust yourself to have prolonged conversation with him without yelling or weeping in anger, neither of which is fair to him. Your next therapy session can’t come soon enough.

“Oh my God, of course I do,” Why are your hands so clammy? “It’s just—I mean I figured he’d sit next to…Sam?”

Melinda looks down at where you’re swiping sweaty palms against the layered mesh panels of your leggings. “You’re acting weird.”

“What? I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” Well damn, now they’re just ganging up on you. 

“I’m not, I just—“

“If it isn’t the man of the hour!” Sam’s booming voice sends your heart into a free fall, interrupting what was sure to be an unconvincing rebuttal, anyway. When you bring your eyes back to the front of the room, Sam’s got his wide grin pointed toward the doorway as he pushes it open. “Torres, get in here, man!”

The room erupts into cheers as agents and military personnel alike stand to welcome Joaquín back to the briefing room, drumming against the table tops, clapping and pumping their fists. In spite of the conflicting emotions swirling in your gut, your heart can’t help but swell at his reception, at how loved he is by everyone. You clap right alongside them, a small smile overtaking your face as Joaquín enters the room to what seems like dozens of high-fives and half hugs, face split with a grin. 

“Good to see diving headfirst into missiles isn’t enough to take you out, Torres!” Goodnatured in his ribbing, Commander Dennis Dunphy can’t help but welcome the younger man back with a joke or two. Your smile falters immediately anyway. Clearly in better spirits and used to the older man’s teasing, Joaquín rolls his eyes.

“Man, please. That little thing?” 

Laughter overtakes the conference room and you try to fix your face, you really do. But it’s not fucking funny to you. The low roil of irritation emerges again, bringing with it the nervous fidget of your hands and the incessant bouncing of your leg. He’s trying to make light of the situation, as is his right, you remind yourself. What else would he do? He’s trying to make it easier for everyone to deal with. No one wants to think about how he couldn’t walk for nearly two months. How much everyone missed his well-timed quips when his jaw was wired shut. How many different ways he’d been opened up, rearranged and stitched back together again before his surgeons emerged with “cautious optimism” that he’d even live at all, much less stroll back into briefings with the same confidence and easy charm as the day Sam handed him the mantle of the Falcon.

“Nah but for real though, I missed y’all like crazy,” Joaquín’s cheeks redden and his voice catches in a way that works to immediately disarm you. Next to you, Leila places a hand on your knee in understanding, stilling your movement. You squeeze her hand back. “It’s been a…a rough road, as many of you have seen and heard. And I can’t thank you enough for the well wishes and check-ins. And those imported fruit baskets? With the Japanese melons? Oh my God — whoever sent those, you a real one.” 

“Oh yeah, that was me,” Sam says, unserious. He can never pass up an opportunity to make a crowd laugh. “You can just Venmo me later. Those shits are pricey.”

The two of them bump fists before Joaquín’s eyes find yours and a soft grin makes its way back to his face. Thankfully you’re not too far gone in your own reverie to answer it with one of your own, the warmth of him reaching you even across the room. 

“And of course, I have to thank my wonderful wife for being by my side the entire time. Ace, I wouldn’t have—” He clears his throat with a shake of his head. “Ah, man, I don’t wanna get emotional in front of everyone. But I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

A collective “awww” and a smattering of applause makes its way around the room as everyone turns to look at you. Behind their smiles you see the genuine care, concern and empathy you’d been surrounded with all the while, and your waterline is threatened again. During the hardest parts of recovery — the parts when no one could say definitively if Joaquín could continue as the Falcon, even if he’d managed to live a full civilian life — everyone in this room had shown up for the two of you in some way. Sometimes it was pre-made dinners, other times it was jumping into FIFA matches with Joaquín. It had taken the two of you days to arrange the flowers and hand-written thank you cards you’d sent them all. Your heart feels a fullness at the reminder of the extended family you’ve made. 

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat,” You mean it. “But Joaquín Torres, I will literally kill you myself if you pull that shit again.” You mean that, too, but thankfully the joke lands and everyone laughs again, Joaquín answering with a cheeky grin and a wink. 

“Alright, alright, enough of the sappy shit — it’s good to be back. I know it was touch and go there for awhile, but c’mon. Y’all knew your boy wasn’t about to give up the wings!”

The room devolves into hoots and hollers that turns into a chant of Falcon! Falcon! Falcon! Joaquín eats it up, his excitement infectious as he eggs them on, turning a room full of some of the most decorated and feared soldiers and operatives in the country into rowdy juveniles.

God he’s such a dude. You love him so bad. His sincerity and frat-boy tendencies still make your heart flutter the way it did when he was courting you, his charm damn near lethal. As Sam suppresses a smile and attempts to regain control of the room, Joaquín catches your eye and makes a beeline to your table. 

Quick on their feet, Leila scooches around the table as Melinda draws a free chair to the space she’s made next to you. 

“Sorry, Pretty Boy,” Leila says, welcoming Joaquín back and giving you an off-ramp in one graceful swoop. “We didn’t realize we’d have to go back to sharing our girl today.”

He answers with a laugh, bringing his hand down his face at the nickname catching on. He should have known when Isaiah first uttered the words that Sam would make sure everyone within blast radius heard about it.

“Don’t even trip, Leila,” he says, bringing your knuckles to his lips for a quick peck. “I’ll have a new nickname for you by the end of the week.”

For as much reservation as you have about Joaquín’s return to work, it’s a sweet relief to have him next to you. He’s the picture of professionalism as he listens to the latest overview of the laundry list of items that’s been occupying the gathered teams. His closeness reminds you of the giddiness you’d felt at seeing him on campus years ago, the way he’d reduced you into a schoolgirl with a crush. 

No sooner than the meeting ends, he’s turning toward you to ask if you’d like to join him for — of all things — centrifuge resistance exercises. You train your features into something you hope doesn’t look half as horrified as you feel at the thought of your newly healed husband being strapped into a ball spinning at 20 times the force of gravity.

“I…I can’t.” You power through before you can lose your nerve at the way Joaquín’s face immediately drops. “I’m sorry. The brass has reason to believe a dossier will drop soon on Ross and the—the incident. I’m expected for an update,” you say, relieved that the excuse had occurred to you so quickly.

It’s technically not a lie, though that update would probably take all of an hour. The better part of the last month had been spent pre-empting the potential leak. Sam was worried about bad faith actors seizing the opportunity to use generated images to spread disinformation. Leaders across every branch of the U.S. military were working overtime to produce a document that could be declassified to minimize that risk. Joaquín likely would have heard of that development in the updates he’d started receiving again as an Air Force captain.

The disappointment in his eyes clouds with understanding, though the cute pout on his face remains.

“Well, what about later? I’ll be doing a few flight sims in the afternoon,” he says, hopeful. He bumps your shoulder playfully. “I could use my good luck charm.”

There’s no one on this earth who knows you better than Joaquín, but Melinda’s intuition is unmatched. Graciously picking up on whatever weirdness is up with you, she puts an apologetic hand on Joaquín’s shoulder to step in.  

“Sorry Torres, your girl’s in back-to-back intel meetings with me all day. I’m afraid she’s getting a little too important around here.”

Joaquín smiles at you both, his pride in you evident even with the hint of sadness at not seeing you the way he’d planned. But he’s so sweet he doesn’t dare hold you back, leaving a quick kiss on your cheek as he places your bag back over your shoulder. “Well I can’t hold you up if the fate of the country is in your hands,” he says, making you giggle. “I’ll see you at home, baby.”

You nod and begin the trek to the corridor with Melinda and Leila. The entire time you’re in his line of sight you can swear you feel him staring at your back. You only allow yourself to let go of the breath you’ve been holding when you make it well past the doors.

“Babe,” Leila starts gently. “What the fuck?”

“Yeah, please don’t make me lie to your golden retriever husband like that ever again.”

You stomp out a small, contained tantrum, knowing you owed them an explanation but no more prepared to offer one. 

“First of all, it’s not really a lie that we’re in meetings together today. And I did not make you do that, Melinda. You love making shit up. That’s why you’re so good at this job.”

Melinda can’t help but shrug and nod in agreement at that.

“Second of all, I don’t know okay? I just — it feels like things are happening so fast. I guess part of me isn’t ready to face it.”

Leila frowns a little as she looks at you. “Have you talked to Joaquín about this?”

You focus your gaze at your hands with a sigh, inspecting the marquise stone symbolizing your union and the neat, black lacquer on your nails as you struggle yet again to articulate what you’re feeling. “I don’t even know what to say, to be honest. I don’t know what I’m feeling. I mean I’m happy for him, but I also — fuck, this is frustrating. I just want to be able to understand it before I say anything to him. Because I feel like if I don’t…”

“You’ll just blow emotional chunks all over him?” You know Melinda’s trying to make you laugh before you can tear up. She’d do her best to comfort you if you cried, but it’s not her strong suit.

You huff in response. “Yeah, pretty much. I know that’s terrible of me.”

“Oh, honey,” Leila hugs you and you bring your arms around her, resting your chin on her shoulder, grateful for the affection. “You’re not terrible, you’re hurting. Y’all have been through a lot the last few months.”

“You deserve some grace,” Melinda adds, giving your shoulder a squeeze. “And you also deserve some closure over what happened. Both of you have thrown yourselves back into work and recovery. You owe it to Joaquín and yourself to just…feel for a second. You know?”

You do know. You just don’t know how.

Joaquín beats you back to your compound apartment that evening. You make sure, knowing that the tangled knot of your heart can’t take the shared ride home as he recounts the details of his first day back on the saddle. You volunteer for more than necessary, reworking meeting notes and readouts until the sky settles into a dusky blue.

By the time you make it home, you’ve donned a convincing enough mask to make it through dinner with Joaquín, thankful that you’re able to share intelligence with him again now that his security clearance is restored. Catching him up on work and office gossip occupies plenty of conversation, and by the time you’ve showered and completed your skincare routine, there’s little time to do much else than curl into Joaquín’s side watching brain rot reality shows until you drift off.

Joaquín’s imploring gaze follows you until you’re asleep.

“—where we’ve just learned Captain Joaquín Torres, also known as the Falcon, has just been rescued from the Indian Ocean where he crashed after intercepting a missile in an unexpected conflict between U.S. and Japanese military forces. The medical crew onboard the USS Milius are currently working to stabilize his condition, which our source tells us is critical, as the crew awaits a LifeFlight transport for continued care. As of now, the U.S. military has not reported further casualties—“

“Just a few hours ago we saw Torres fall from the sky after an explosion from the missile he intercepted, and rather candidly the impact from that fall looked quite horrifying—“

“—cause of the conflict remains unknown. Torres has been transported for what witnesses are calling life-threatening injuries after using his body as a human shield to protect —“

The coverage is inescapable in the waiting room of Walter Reed’s surgical intensive care unit. The sound of the news breaking on every television lining the walls filters in and out of your subconscious, numbness settling into your bones where you’ve sat on the edge of your chair for what feels like minutes and hours all at once. The small paper cone of cold water Bucky had slipped into your hand is barely depleted. Sam has taken your phone into a quieter hallway to field the calls you couldn’t pick up without the strength leaving your body over and over again. Distantly, you hear him sigh before answering the trill of your phone once more. No, unfortunately his condition hasn’t changed, he says, his voice trailing off as he walks further from earshot. The doctors said the next few hours are critical…

Bile rises in your throat and you shift, immediately drawing Bucky’s attention.

“You alright, kid?”

“I think—I think I’m gonna be sick.”

Bucky takes the cup from your hand, easing it up to your lips for you to take small sips that turn into desperate gulps as his vibranium arm wraps around your shoulders. 

“Do you want to go outside? Get some air?”

The question doesn’t leave his mouth fully before you’re shaking your head, pushing the cup away. Your breath is coming shallow and labored. “I don’t want to leave him,” you croak. Your lungs don’t feel right. You feel detached from your own body. “I want to see him. Bucky, please take me to see him.” 

Bucky can’t school his features into something neutral fast enough. You see the worry etched in his eyes — whether for you or Joaquín, you can’t be sure — before he drags his hands down his face. He starts to suggest that you take it easy, wait until Joaquín’s condition stabilizes, but unspoken between you is an understanding that he might not make it off this floor. That if he doesn’t take you to the observation room where he and Sam had witnessed Joaquín undergo multiple defibrillation attempts to restart his heart, you might never see him alive again. He shoots a quick text to Sam then stands, offering his hand for you to follow him. 

The trek down the hall stretches into what feels like miles. You walk in a dissociative fog, feet stumbling clumsily over the stark white tiles, cool florescent lights scrambling your sense of both time and place. Your heart thunders in your rib cage and you feel as though you can’t get enough air into your lungs as you approach the patient rooms, the beep and whir of machines growing in volume. 

Bucky slows down to stop, looking at you as if to give you time to collect yourself before you see your husband in what could generously be described as a state of brokenness. But you walk right passed him in a daze, eyes fixed on the window where just beyond the glass Joaquín lies motionless. His face and the parts of him that aren’t covered in surgical drapes and bandages are marred with blood and bruises, and he’s connected to countless machines you can’t name at his temple, arm and wrist. It’s the intubation that makes your throat close, watching him breathe only with assistance that causes an acute pain in your chest. You hear your own cries before you feel them, and Sam and Bucky’s footsteps behind you as Sam crushes you into his chest. 

As your head turns back to the window, the world falls away to a long, shrill beep — several members of the staff filter into the room with barely contained urgency and you distantly register more beeping emitting from the various machines in the room before your ears begin ringing, chest heaving. You fall to the floor, then somehow deeper, deeper and deeper until—

You wake with a gasp, forcing your breath into regulation before you can start wheezing the way you’ve done countless times before. The dream itself isn’t new. It’s half a recollection and half a nightmare, and you’ve come to expect it on the days you can’t keep your mind from filling in the gaps of the “what ifs” and “how comes” that plagued you. You’re grateful, in a way, because its recurrence has made it easier for you to wake yourself before it plays out one of two different ways. 

The first way is what actually happened, what’s led you to gaze gratefully at your husband’s sleeping face opposite yours, safe and whole. And while you still hated reliving that day, you prefer it to the second way, which was what you’d feared happening — that the lead surgeon on Joaquín’s medical team would emerge from the room swallowing thickly, telling you that they’d done everything in their power to save him, but it hadn’t been enough. That he had fought impossibly hard to live, but he’d succumbed to his injuries. That’s the one you can’t help but wake up screaming from. That’s the one you vaguely describe to Joaquín as a 'bad dream' when he wakes immediately to comfort you, fixing you a mug of herbal tea and holding you until you fall back asleep.

Somehow, even in REM, you’d managed to contain your reaction enough that Joaquín hasn’t stirred, but you’re wide awake now. Already resigned to a night of fitful rest, you slowly begin creeping out from under your fluffy duvet, padding across the room and employing every stealth method you’d learned in training to quietly open and close the door behind you, stopping by the hallway linen closet for a minky plush throw. It wouldn’t be nearly enough. You slept with the apartment freezing because Joaquín burned like a furnace at night. The warmth he radiated combined with the bamboo sheets you’d invested in and the unit set to 68 degrees usually made for the perfect sleeping conditions for the two of you. Now, as you shuffle to the couch, you’re rethinking the threadbare cropped t-shirt and yoga micro shorts you’d opted to sleep in. Oh well. You’ll freeze your ass off but at least you won’t wake Joaquín by tossing and turning. And if he’s not awake, he can’t ask you questions. And if he can’t ask you questions, you don’t have to lie about being alright. 

In the stillness of the living room, you can’t help but let your mind wander, desperate to make sense of what you’re feeling and why. In all honesty, the entire week has been triggering in the worst of ways. Not only is Joaquín gearing up to fly right back into danger, newly declassified parts of the intelligence that Captain America's task force had surmised even before the events at the Indian Ocean are finally becoming public. Sam had been on a selective press run to get in front of it before cable news could sensationalize things further. As part of that force, you’d been in more meetings than you cared for, preparing public statements by rereading the information that comprised the pitiful explanation for the U.S.’s sudden offensive that day. The dots you’d connected months ago — that the president himself had reason to suspect that the foiled assassination attempt unfairly framed Isaiah; that he was closely connected to the theft of an allied nation’s resources, and that he’d refused to disclose that he’d been compromised by a mess of his own making — made you see red. How many people died or nearly died because of the consequences of his actions? The thought of Joaquín needlessly sacrificing himself, of Isaiah being unfairly imprisoned again and Sam being hunted by mercenaries because of the self-centered political ambitions of that stupid mother—deep breaths. Deep breaths.

A distraction might have been helpful had you not left your phone on its wireless charger on your nightstand, so instead you settle for a little mindless television, turning the set on and quickly silencing the sound bar. You settle back into the couch, curling yourself into a ball beneath the throw to the muted sounds of the Golden Girls and closing your eyes, willing sleep to come.

That’s how Joaquín finds you, his heart having dropped when he pawed at your side of the bed only to find it cool and empty. You don’t know how long you’d managed to drift in and out, but the TV has entered energy saving mode and the room is dark but for the glow of the moon through the balcony window when you wake from a light sleep to his gentle touch at your back, eyes furrowed with a mix of hurt and confusion that has you propping yourself up instantly.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I feel like I should be the one asking you that,” Joaquín says, worry obvious in his voice. “Did you have another nightmare?”

“Yeah…yeah I did, but I’m okay now.”

“Are you really?”

“Yeah!” Your own inflection betrays you every time. Joaquín tilts his head at you.

“Then why are you up here? Alone?”

“I-I just…I couldn’t go back to sleep and I didn’t want to wake you.” You shift uncomfortably, folding your arms for warmth. With your blanket falling away, the draftiness of the apartment begins to reach you under his questioning. Joaquín sits next to you but looks ahead, sighing into the darkness.

“Ace, what is going on with you? Why—why are you boxing me out like this?”

“What? I-I’m not, I just —“

“Don’t lie to me. You’ve been lying to me all week, and I’ve been letting it slide. Now you won’t even come back to bed with me? What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing, Quín, just let it—“

“No! No, I won’t keep letting it go. I’ve been letting it go for weeks now while you break my heart a little more every day!”

Oh God, the way your own heart shatters around his admission. The way shame and guilt form a vise grip around your lungs. Your mouth opens, then closes. You don’t know how to talk yourself down. You don’t know how or where to start. The fear that Joaquín has kept at bay is on full display in his features, in the crack of his voice. You want nothing more than to comfort him.

“Baby, talk to me, please. I keep thinking the worst, like you don’t want to be around me, or you’re not attracted to me anymore. Like you don’t love—“

“Joaquín! My God no, it’s nothing like that—“

“Then what? What is it? Did I hurt you? Did I upset you, are you mad at me?”

The dam finally splinters, then breaks, and the trickle is suddenly a roar as a violent sob rips through you. You couldn’t control it if you wanted to. Joaquín is on you in an instant, pulling you to his chest where you curl into him and let each ragged breath and tear fall. It crests into a full-on wail and you’re certain you’ve not cried so hard since you were a child; not when you sat alone, sobbing quietly on the floor of you and Joaquín’s shared walk-in closet after his discharge from the hospital, newly tasked with redressing his wounds for the first time; not on the stiff linen of your therapist’s couch as you recounted the sight of him in the operating room as his heart monitor flatlined and Sam and Bucky rushed to hold you after your legs gave out; not even when the local paper jumped the gun and published a pre-written obituary when rumors started swirling about how the Falcon couldn’t be saved. Not when any of that hurt suppressed the fury that simmered underneath, the need to direct blame and lash out at someone, anyone, everyone, no matter how unfair, how unreasonable or how justified. You were furious at Joaquín for leaping in harm’s way and ignoring a direct order from Sam. You were mad at Sam for mentoring Joaquín in the first place. You hated yourself for being mad at either of them for acting on their selfless purpose — saving lives, preventing a literal war and just doing their jobs. You could never imagine the weight the world laid on their shoulders. How dare you? How fucking dare you?

When the sobs finally relent, Joaquín is still holding you, rubbing gentle circles into the dip of your spine, behind your ear and against the column of your neck, his face buried in your hair. His touch grounds you enough for you to open your eyes to the bleariness of the dark living room. Your voice is raw and quiet when you finally respond.

“I was mad.”

His hand stills and from where you’re cradled against his solid chest you can hear his heartbeat quicken. Before you can entertain the thought of retreating, folding that ugly mess of feelings as best as it will fit back into a corner, he swallows, breathes deeply and continues those soothing movements at your back. Your eyes water again at his willingness to hear you, to make it safe for you to continue.

“I was mad at you because…because I still think about losing you. Every single day. Every fucking day, Quín,” you start as his hold grows tighter. “I guess I just didn’t have time to think about it before? It’s so…weird. But in a way, when—”

You’re determined to state your piece, even as your anxious inclinations urge you not to say it. Even if you have to sniffle and stutter your way through it as your voice thins and cracks under the weight of your admission.

“When it looked like you might not make it. I mourned you. And then there was a tiny ray of hope before your heart just stopped again. When the doctors managed to save you, everything that came after that felt like such a blessing I couldn’t bring myself to think too far into the future or about anything else. 

But now that you’re better and I know you’re okay, it’s like I can’t stop thinking about—about—how I felt deep, deep down when you weren’t. And underneath it all, I was so mad at you for being so reckless. I was mad at everyone and everything. And I had the most selfish thoughts, Quín. Like not fucking caring about what happened to anyone else if it would have kept you safe. And wondering why—why you would do such a thing if you knew there was a possibility you wouldn’t come home to me.”

It takes such a labored effort to articulate your emotional spiel that you don’t even bother to tell Joaquín about all the borderline evil things you thought about the disgraced Thaddeus Ross, and how if you’d put them in writing or said them too loud in public you’d probably be hauled off to face a tribunal. That you really didn’t give a fuck how remorseful he was, and given the opportunity you’d gladly tell him where he could shove the apology he still owed Sam, Joaquín and Isaiah — not to mention the entire country and its allies.

Feeling better, if not completely spent and a little guilty having finally told Joaquín what’s been plaguing your thoughts, you melt into his chest, bringing your arm around his torso to burrow into him. Sensing your relief, Joaquín relaxes, too, falling against the couch cushions with you.

“It’s not that selfish,” His reply is muffled where he’s squished his cheek into your hair. “It’s not selfish at all, actually. When my head was finally clear enough to remember what happened…I felt like shit for messing up like that.”

You sit up to look at him and he can’t help but chuckle at the adorable frown marring your face. 

“You didn’t mess up! Joaquín, we’d probably be at war right now were it not for you.”

He smiles a little at your immediate defense of him, shaking his head with the resignation of someone who’d had plenty of time to think about the events of the day his life nearly ended. 

“That’s sweet of you, baby. But I did. I’ve made my peace with the fact that I messed up, even though I saved a lot of people. And part of me is okay with it because I know when I’m better at this? When I’m stronger and wiser? I’ll be able to save the day without doing a bunch of crazy, reckless shit. Without causing myself or anyone else this much pain.”

You hear the unstated part between the lines of his conviction — that when he’s got as much experience under his belt as Sam, Steve and all of the heroes he’s looked up to most of his life, maybe every effort might not need to be so herculean. That he knew the stakes, but he also knew now the importance of picking and choosing the battles he’d be willing to die for without a second thought.

“And the other part?”

He sighs, taking your hands in his and meeting your eyes, fighting a mist of his own. “The other part…I’ll never forgive for hurting you like that. For scaring you that way.”

You don’t trust your voice, so you hope that the way you squeeze his hands conveys your reassurance that you wouldn’t dream of holding that against him. You let them go only to haul him up by the shoulders to bring him into a bear hug, which he returns instinctually. The crushing weight of his arms around you makes you feel lighter than you’ve felt in weeks.

“I’m sorry for boxing you out, Quín.”

“I’m sorry, too.”

“But you don’t have anything to be sorry for?”

“I’m still sorry.” 

You huff at that, drawing back a little and suddenly remembering something you wanted to return to. 

“Can I just ask what the hell and fuck made you think I didn’t love you anymore?”

“That—“ Joaquín’s sheepish as he answers, his hand going to the back of his head. “I didn’t really think that as much as I just…I don’t know, I guess I’d been scared of it happening? In the back of my mind, I think I was afraid that you’d start to resent me or get tired of me for needing you so much these last few months.”

Somehow your heart manages to break even more at his confession, the smallness of his voice when he says it.

“I know it sounds ridiculous. And it’s not that I’m not grateful for everything you’ve done to help me get better. I thank God for that every day, for you every day. It just hurt not being able to help you. It hurt knowing it wasn’t easy for you, either. Hell, it hurt in general. I guess some small part of me worried that the attraction wouldn’t survive and…other parts of us might die with it.”

Something in your chest clenches and you’re immediately pulling his face between your hands.

“Look at me. I am soul tied to you, Joaquín. In sickness and in health, remember? It’s an honor to help you heal. I could never, ever resent you. I will always think you’re beautiful. I’m so sorry me pushing you away because I couldn’t figure out my own brain made you doubt that for even a second.” You break into a grin. “Is that why you've been doing the absolute most in physical therapy?”

“Hell yeah,” he grins back, relief written all over his pretty brown eyes. “I just wanted to hurry up and get better so I could get back to normal. So we could get back to us, you know? I’ve been busting my ass at the gym tryna stay sexy for you.”

That elicits a snort that devolves into a hysterical fit of giggles between you, the silliness of the statement lifting more of the dissipating heaviness of the evening. It also drags forth a heat you’ve been ignoring for months, something carnal that teases the edge of your subconscious mind now that Joaquín has reintroduced the concept to you. 

The intimacy hadn’t suffered in his healing, but it had changed, evolved into something more wholesome, making way for a connection deeper than either of you thought possible. Heated nights were traded for warm epsom salt soaks to accelerate the healing of more superficial wounds and aches. Your usual Shrek marathons over cartons of sea salt and honeycomb toffee Tillamook were brought to an early end by the side effects of the potent mix of drugs he’d been prescribed. The drowsiness and fatigue made way for some of the silliest, most endearing pillow talk you’d ever heard from him. 

Even without things in the way — bandages, casts, slings, compression sleeves, heart monitors — you could hardly think more than a day or two in the future for a long while. As every bit of the recovery aids fell away with Joaquín’s remarkable progress…you weren’t blind. You’d noticed the definition of his body returning through the shirts he’d soaked through during his workouts, the bulk he’d added to his frame, and he’d been trying and failing to convince you that his body and heart were back in perfect working order. But juggling the space between “wife” and “caretaker” had been hard. Allowing yourself a moment to rationalize anything other than concern felt out of the question. 

Now, though, you’re hyperaware of the near searing weight of Joaquín’s hand where it rests on your hip, toying at the hem of your tiny shorts. Your eyes drift to it, following the leather cords of his wrap bracelet to the veins along his forearm and up to his bicep, which he flexes playfully when he catches you staring. It makes your mouth water. Unlike your misplaced anger, there’s really no better time than the present for you to realize desire was among the many things you hadn’t let yourself feel.

When you finally drag your eyes back up to meet Joaquín’s, you’re beckoned by what you see. There’s gratitude, of course, and understanding. But it’s the want that pulls you together, lips just a breath apart as you whisper the obvious truth — that hell itself would freeze over before you ever stopped loving him — into the shared space. He closes the gap in an affectionate kiss, deepens it with a heavy hand at the back of your neck.

To his credit, Joaquín tries to keep it cute. It’s not as if he hasn’t kissed you in six months — but he hasn’t kissed you like this, and he doesn’t want to make any assumptions about what you’d let him do if he has his way. He’s contented to sate himself with the taste of you, the petal softness of the skin at your waist, the sounds you make when he indulges a little in his oral fixation with nips of your collarbone and his lips and tongue at your shoulder. It’s making him hard and sensitive and hungry, but it’s okay. The scent of the body butter you’d unearthed in your latest rotation — his favorite, the one that smells like sea salt and coconut, a scent he committed to memory the night you wore it on your honeymoon — makes him genuinely dizzy as he presses a kiss to your inner wrist. But he’ll manage. If you decided to curl back into his neck and close your weary eyes for proper sleep, he’d simply will the flow of his blood back into his brain and hold you right there on the couch for the rest of the night.

Thankfully, though — mercifully — you have other plans. 

You’re at his lips again with an urgency that he matches instinctually, pressing your body to his. He’s grinning against your mouth like the cat that got the canary but that little stunt with his tongue stoked the embers of lust into a full-on flame. He knows what he’s doing. No use in being too proud to finally let your husband turn you every way but loose. 

Your hands roam, squeezing appreciatively at the biceps he’s been carving from ashes and grit, at the healed scars they bore for the mantle he so proudly wore, before drifting over the tautness of his chest and abdomen. Your legs burn at the stretch as you straddle his hips in earnest, Joaquín helping you along by spreading thighs. You grind down with a shudder, swallowing the low growl it elicits from Joaquín, moving against him, unravelling terribly fast.

It’s been so long. Too long. The smallest things threaten to be your undoing. You’re overwhelmed by sensations as foreign as they are deeply familiar, things you’d missed without knowing. Like the eager press of Joaquín’s strong grip over your thighs, the cold metal of his wedding band on your skin. The indulgent way he kisses you. How delirious you feel at the amount of space his large hands occupy, how much of you they cover as he drags them over the curves of your hips and down your legs. How easily he lifts you as he stands up from the couch to move you back to the bedroom. The wonderfully disorienting juxtaposition of the sweetness he handles you with and the filthy way his mouth starts to run once enough of his blood has gone south. 

In the faint glow of your room, Joaquín lowers you down to the mattress, crawling on after you. He drops a few playful kisses at your lips until he has you smiling again, then buries his face in your tummy. 

“Ace, you have no idea how much I’ve missed making you feel good,” he sighs against you, turning to drop a trail of kisses against your ribs. “These shorts were a dirty trick. You know how I feel about them.” 

With the seven or so brain cells left knocking around in your skull, you assume he’s joking. Ever the sweetheart, he was determined to give you space when you’d emerged from your shower tonight, skin dewy, midriff and legs bared and the torturous scent of your body butter trailing after you. But you could feel the heat of his gaze raking over your body as you flitted about, filling him in on all he’d missed at work. You doubt if he’d heard shit you said. You offer a half-hearted rebuttal because you’d really had no intentions, but truthfully, when you’d realized they were the only pair of shorts left in your drawer, putting them on reminded you of the last time Joaquín had pulled them off.

His methods are similar now, bunching the fabric with your underwear to slide them down your legs and toss them aside. He wraps a hand around your ankle, kissing a path from there to your knee, trailing further and further with increasingly deliberate suction and laves of his tongue as he goes. He settles at the junction of your thigh, bending your leg over his shoulder and resting his cheek there, gazing at where you glisten before his half lidded eyes move back to your face.

“Still worried about ‘threatening my progress?’”

He’s terrible. What a terrible thing to ask. What a terrible time to ask. When you couldn’t possibly care about anything other than getting off, when his breath skates over the part of you that needs him most. You prop yourself up on your elbows, meeting the mischievous look on his face with narrowed eyes. 

“Should I be?”

Joaquín makes a show of wetting his lips, mouth settling into a self-assured grin as you swallow in response. 

“Just wondering if I could convince you to sit on my face tonight, is all.”

Your head rolls back on your shoulders and you bite back a pitiful whine. You do still have half a mind to worry, if not for the mostly-healed slipped discs in his neck then for the fact that you’d last all of 10 seconds if Joaquín wrapped his arms around your thighs to anchor you to him the way he loves to do. 

You shake your head, shifting closer to him in response and he chuckles darkly. “Next time, then.”

Joaquín wastes no time pulling you flush against his mouth by your hips, licking a slow, broad stroke up your center. Your head falls back to the pillows as you shudder against him, hand immediately flying to the fluffy mess of curls on his head. He laps at you, flattening his tongue at your opening and swirling more precisely around the sensitive bundle of nerves that has you jolting at each pass, sucking at it until you’re mewling. One thing Joaquín Torres has never minded is making a mess of you. Spurred on by your wetness, the noises he makes are obscene. He’s nearly slurping as he moans into you, testing your slick with his long fingers; first one, then another when your thighs begin to clench around his head. You tug at his hair and delight in the way he chokes out a whimper, rutting his own hips into the mattress. 

“Fuck, Quín—“ your breath comes out in desperate little huffs as your hips buck at his attentions; he’s working his mouth against you with the same fullness and exploration he kisses you with, his fingers fucking you open in tandem. When the squelch of his fingers is audible and your moans are downright lewd, he curls them in time with a powerful suck that makes your back arch beautifully off the bed. Joaquín looks up at your body, gone to ecstasy as you coat his mouth, chin and hand, licking at you until you’re oversensitive and twitching with his palms stroking your thighs. 

Moments stretch on while your heartbeat settles back into something normal, your chest rising and falling with labored breaths. Joaquín settles back over you, wiping his wet lips with the back of his hand and smiling down at the blissed out expression on your face. 

“Talk to me, Ace,” he says, voice low. “Tell me what you need.”

In lieu of words, you pull him back to your mouth and mold your lips to his. You’re insatiable for him now. You want him as close as possible. You never want him to stop touching you. How on earth did you ever manage? What possessed you to put that distance between you in the first place? The veil over the last few weeks lifts completely as you surrender to the pure want coursing through your veins.

Reading your desperation, Joaquín dips his tongue into your mouth, eager to share the lingering taste of you. He angles your chin with a nudge of his nose, kissing your cheek, jaw and neck with soft smacks of his lips. He can’t help but smirk at the way you squirm against him, the diptych of your growing need and his measured approach painting an exciting picture in his mind. He’s having more fun than he’s willing to admit giving you a taste of the yearning he’s felt for you with the return of his strength. He won’t make you beg, but he needs to hear you. Needs you to feel satisfied and whole. 

“Anything else?” 

“I just need you,” you say, breath hitching at the press of his lips. You sound wrecked already to your own ears, but you can’t scrape together enough shame to be embarrassed. Your heart feels a fullness at Joaquín’s attentiveness and the leisurely way he’s doting on you. His hands slide easily under your shirt, already pushed indecently high from your earlier thrashing, cupping and gently squeezing your breasts. “I don’t care what you do or how you do it. I just want you.”

He’s so fond of you. He’d truly give you anything you asked for. You swoon a little at the tenderness you see in his eyes as he guides your arms above your head, tugging your shirt off so that you’re bare before him. You return the favor, hands skirting up his sides to roll his tank top up and away, running your fingers over the faint, healed scars littering his back and abdomen. You rub them affectionately, at peace with the fact that they might never go away. Joaquín doesn’t let you ruminate, capturing and lightly squeezing your hands, pressing kisses to your palms and inner wrists as he brings your arms around his neck. He makes quick work of his boxer briefs and pajama pants, propping himself up on one elbow as he works them both down his hips.

With nothing between you, Joaquín squares the delicious press of his weight over your body and takes your breasts back into his hands, kneading them and wetting each nipple with his tongue before drawing them into his mouth one by one, his teeth a teasing drag over your skin. Your breath is coming faster, hips rocking of their own accord at the flurry of sensations now that you’re skin to skin. The length of him is hot, hard and heavy between your pressed bodies and he grazes the wetness between your thighs. You move against him, trying to work the pretty tip of him closer to your folds where his affections have made you slippery all over again, whining when his hand makes its way to your hip to still your motions. 

“Joaquín, please,” you nearly sob. He bites your neck in response, muffling a moan in your skin, composure cracking as you plead for him. Thank goodness he seems to know what you’re begging for because you sure as fuck couldn't tell him. For his sake and yours he slides against you, once, twice before he dips his fingers back into you, collecting your slick to take himself in his hand with a few languid pumps. You lick your lips, moaning and rolling your hips into nothing, bringing your own hand to your breast as you watch. He closes his eyes at the sight before you can completely ruin him, working a little quicker at your quiet pleas to fill you up. His chain dangles over your face as he plants an elbow beside you, angling his thick head to rake over your opening. A shudder wracks your entire body when he finally pushes in at near glacial pace, stilling to give you time to adjust to the intrusion. You pinch your eyes closed at the stretch and the pulse of him, moaning a low hum that breaks into a gasp and loosening your grip on the sheets as he sinks into you. You bring your arms back around his neck, craving the closeness. 

“Baby,” his voice shakes, little more than a hoarse whisper. He gives you more of his weight, knowing you love the added security of being surrounded by him, covered by him and full of him. Once he’s sheathed in you he uses his free hand to bring your legs around his waist. “Shit you feel so good. So fucking good, baby.”

He takes his sweet time, rolling his hips into you with deep, slow strokes, attentive but indolent. Some other time, maybe later tonight, he’ll gladly give you hard and wild if that’s what you need. But right now, with every kiss he works into your skin, every sound he pulls from your throat and every sweet press of your bodies, he’s showing you what was left unsaid between you. The tenderness heightens every sensation with Joaquín’s determination to keep this pace. Even as he tries not to get so lost in you that he can’t finish what he’s started, his mouth runs in adoration of how good you’re taking him, how you’re his favorite place. How grateful he is to have you and to fuck you this way. 

You’d been so stupid. So, so stupid. Joaquín is knocking the rings out of you with every slow push of his hips, grounding you with his weight. He licks a stripe up your neck, lips finding that spot behind your ear that makes you purr, spurred on by the wanton whimpers he’s coaxing from your throat. He’s making a pitiful mess of you. Making you wonder why you didn’t just let him bend you over the counter that day he lifted you instead of burrowing into the loneliest, darkest parts of your mind. If you would have just let him split you apart like you both wanted you might have spent the last few days as thoroughly healed as you feel right now. Come to think of it, you’d never had a problem that wasn’t fixed by Joaquín folding you in half. You curse your past self as he shifts his grip to your neck, turning your face back within reach so he can lick into your mouth. He seals his swollen lips over yours in a sloppy kiss timed with his strokes, deep and unhurried, drawing muffled whimpers from you. Yeah, past-you was stupid as hell. You’re never listening to anything that dumb bitch has to say again.

Joaquín snakes his arms around your waist, pressing you against his chest as he rolls and moves to sit with his back to the headboard, pushing your thighs open to wrap your legs around him. The shift pushes him almost impossibly deeper and you choke out a sigh against his lips. You pull away only to breathe, thankful for the gift of sight and smiling dopily at Joaquín, who’s beaming bright enough to light the intimately liminal space you two have made. He’s just so fucking pretty. You bring your arms around his broad shoulders, toying with the glittering silver chain around his neck as you do. It sparkles in the pinpricks of light from the skyline shining through your bedroom window, a gorgeous contrast against the honeyed gold of his skin, dewy with exertion. You stare at each other nose to nose for a moment, saying nothing and everything at once before his warm, rough palms find their way back down to your hips, lifting and dragging you against him in a way that has your mouth falling open in a silent scream.

“Missed you so much, baby,” he manages to rasp as he urges your body into a slow grind. You shake against him, whining pathetically into his mouth so he’ll kiss you again, wet and sloppy the way you love, the way that reduces you into a pliant bundle of need. He pulls one of his strong arms around your back, uses his free hand to push your thigh open wider and cup around your bottom, determined to push every inch of himself into you. The gentle rocking he’s guiding you with is overwhelming in the best possible way, the drag of his chest against yours, the strong grip he has on you, the grit of his voice betraying how affected he is by the squeeze of you. You try to make yourself useful, meeting his movements by grinding your hips in small circles, sliding over him the best you can manage in his hold. 

He controls the pace, determined to wring you for every last drop of pleasure, but you don’t need much more as your body clenches around him. The groan he answers with is as earnest as it is primal, his head falling back and putting his gorgeous jawline on display. He’s fucking you so good. If you hadn’t exhausted the moisture in your eyes already you’d be crying again right now. He’s playing your body like a fiddle because he needs you to come first. He’ll meet you wherever you are. The promise is implicit in the way he fixes his grip, plants his feet into the mattress to fuck into you as you flutter around him, closer and closer to your release. 

“You’re so good to me,” you half pant, half whimper, hips stuttering against him. You urge them into a few more swivels, using the last of your strength to kiss Joaquín again. You’ll never have your fill of him, it seems.

The dam that breaks this time is different. For all its slow buildup, your release crashes over you, your body shuddering, hips still rocking as you cry out against his shoulder, gushing and coating his length. Joaquín isn’t far behind, loosening his hold on you to grip your hips, crashing them down to meet his thrusts. With you taken care of his pace is no longer languid as he chases his own release. As spent as you are, you still need to see him undone, for him to fill you up warm and sticky. You work your body against him, wetting your fingers to rub at the swollen bud at the apex of your thighs. You’re sensitive, twitching at each swipe, but the overstimulation feels delicious, and Joaquín’s movements falter at the pulsations. With a deafening, guttural moan, he coats your fluttering walls with his release, riding out the high with a few more lazy drags of your hips. You twitch over him, still in no hurry to be disconnected, and you both laugh, sweaty, sated and exhausted.

You ground yourself with the steadying rise and fall of Joaquín’s chest, happy and weightless enough to drift to sleep before his quiet voice rouses you, the rumble of it reverberating wherever you’re touching.

“You’ll never believe me,” he starts, “But I dreamt of you, when I was on that operating table.”

You prop your chin on his chest, brows wrought together in confusion before awareness dawns on your features.  

“I swear on my life I dreamt of you. I saw our lives together. I heard your voice. I saw our future together and I ran toward it.” He brings his eyes down to yours, his mouth tilting at the corners with a drowsy smile when he sees your pouty lips quivering. His thumb draws those comforting circles at your back. 

“There’s not a doubt in my mind that’s what brought me back to life. And I was scared, too, baby. But there’s nothing on this earth scarier to me than the thought of not being with you. I know I’m not in a position to promise you I’ll never put myself in danger again. But I can promise you that I’ll always do everything in my power to come back to you, Ace. I mean it. My heart is literally beating for you. That’s how much I love you.”

You believe him wholeheartedly, answering his declaration with a squeeze of your arms. Determined not to cry anymore tonight, you kiss his chest, finding his hand to thread your fingers together.

“I believe you. And I love you, too, Quín. More than you could ever know.”

You both let the moment take its space, contented to lay and breathe against one another before Joaquín finally moves to sit up, separating your bodies only to swing his legs from the side of your bed and bridal carry you to your en suite bathroom.

Once he’s started the shower, your eyes meet in the quickly fogging mirror. Because you know all too well that your husband is incapable of being serious for longer than necessary, you turn to eye him warily.

“What are you thinking?”

“Wha—“ he feigns offense, bringing his hand to his chest. “Nothing! I just wanted to ask you if this means I’m not in trouble anymore.”

“Joaquín, you were never in trouble.”

“Damn, really?" He can hardly even keep a straight face. "‘Cause I was kinda hoping you’d punish me a little.”

You shriek with laughter, doubling over at his ridiculousness for so long that soon enough you’re both gasping for breath. As you wipe your eyes of the fresh tears thankfully brought on by mirth, you’re newly grateful for the room healing has made in your heart. 

[yuzuandme]

This song wasn't the inspo but it is pretty relevant

[to0omi-deactivated20250808]

[luna-azzurra]

Writing characters who don’t know they’re in love

(PS: but literally everyone else does and is so tired)

These characters aren’t clueless, no, they’re not walking around like, “love? never heard of her.” They know something’s going on, they just won’t admit it (not to themselves, not to anyone.) Maybe they’re scared of messing it up, or maybe they think the other person doesn’t feel the same. Maybe they’ve stuffed the feeling so deep even a NASA rover couldn’t dig it out.

Whatever the reason, they’re not avoiding the truth as much as they’re…rebranding it. Calling it “friendship” while giving each other their only jacket and dreaming about each other’s voices like it’s totally normal behavior.

ꕤ They don’t realize it’s love, but they notice everything else. They clock every mood shift, every absence, every little thing. They definitely  know when something’s off.

⇢ “You changed your hair.” ⇢ “You looked upset earlier.” ⇢ “You didn’t text me back and I panicked.” ⇢ “You weren’t at lunch and it felt weird.” ⇢ “Are you cold?” hands over jacket without a second thought

They don’t say “I love you,” but their actions scream it constantly.

ꕤ they get weird when someone else gets close They’re not jealous. No, how dare you think something like that… they’re just keeping an eye out. For safety... Or whatever."

⇢ “Who was that?” ⇢ “Oh, you’re hanging out with them again?” ⇢ “I just think it’s interesting how you never cancel on them.”

They don’t say it, but they hate the idea of being replaced. It stings more than they’re ready to admit.

ꕤ they make excuses to be around each other.

Literally inventing reasons to be in the same space.

⇢ “Wanna study together? I’m struggling with this topic.” (They’re not.) ⇢ “Oh, I was just in the area.” (They weren’t.) ⇢ “You forgot this.” (It’s a single pen.)

They’d rather lie badly than admit, “I just wanted to see you.”

ꕤ  Their friends are so over it Everyone around them is either rooting for them or trying not to scream.

⇢ “You’re in love with them.” ⇢ “That’s not friendship, and you know it.” ⇢ “You made them soup. FUCKING SOUP. Just say you’re married already.” ⇢ “If I have to hear you talk about them one more time, I’m charging rent.”

Friends are the Greek chorus of this situation, like, brutally honest and endlessly tired.

ꕤ  There’s always a moment they almost figure it out That one soft, unspoken beat where the truth almost breaks through.

⇢ Watching them laugh like it’s the first time. ⇢ Seeing them cry and wanting to fix it more than anything. ⇢ Realizing no one else makes them feel like this. ⇢ Thinking, God, they’re beautiful.

Then they blink, panic a little, and go, “Huh. Weird.” And move on. Like absolute fools.

ꕤ  When it finally hits, it’s not cute, it’s catastrophic. Suddenly everything makes sense and feels like too much.

⇢ Flashbacks. ⇢ Internal screaming. ⇢ “Oh no.” ⇢ “OH MY GOD.” ⇢ “Has it always been this obvious??” ⇢ “Wait. Everyone knew?!”

Yes. Everyone. The friends, the neighbor’s cat. You were the only two who didn’t get the memo...