#Isaiah bradley

[marvellegends]

Captain America: Brave New World (2025) directed by Julius Onah

[scottishaccentsareawesome]

Isaiah: I sleep with a gun under my pillow.

Joaquin: I sleep with a knife.

Sam: You’re both adorable.

Joaquin: Why, what do you sleep with?

Sam:

Sam: …A grumpy little teddy bear. I sleep with an an extremely grumpy, adorable, little teddy bear.

Joaquin: What if bad guys come into your home and take you by surprise?

Sam: Then my teddy bear turns into a grizzly bear…

[newavengers]

Captain America: Brave New World (2025) — dir. Julius Onah

[itwillbethescarletwitch]

Edge of Everything

joaquin torres x fem!witch!reader

You don’t know who picked the movie, but it’s been playing for an hour and you haven’t processed a single frame of it. You’re sitting on one end of the couch, legs curled under you, a blanket thrown lazily across your lap.

Joaquin’s on the other side. Or, at least, he was.

At some point—somewhere between your third eye-roll and your fifth shared laugh—he’d ended up a lot closer.

Now his thigh is flush against yours. Warm. Steady. Comforting.

His arm is resting across the back of the couch. Not quite touching you. Just… there. The kind of closeness that feels accidental but you know damn well isn’t. His fingers graze your shoulder whenever he shifts. And he shifts a lot.

You pretend not to notice.

Your eyes flick to the TV. Some romantic subplot’s unfolding—two characters slow dancing in the rain. You feel Joaquin glance at you.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” he says under his breath.

“What?”

“The dramatic magic-wielding heroine. Only you’d bring someone back to life and scold them for making you do it.”

You snort.

“Please. You’d be the one making out with someone on a rooftop in a thunderstorm like it’s a Nicholas Sparks novel.”

He grins. Shrugs. Doesn’t deny it.

“Not denying it,” he says. “I’d make it look good.”

He reaches for the popcorn bowl in your lap. His fingers brush yours. Neither of you move.

You clear your throat. Look away.

The silence stretches—comfortable and unbearable all at once.

Then Sam walks in and stops in his tracks.

He stares for a long moment, arms crossed, head tilted like he’s tired.

“You two…”

“What?” you ask, too quickly.

“Nothing. Just—at this point, I’m assuming you share a toothbrush.”

Joaquin gives him a lazy smile.

“Only when she’s out of toothpaste.”

You elbow him hard. He huffs out a laugh, grabs his chest dramatically like you broke something.

“We’re not a thing,” you mutter, but even you hear how thin it sounds.

Sam just stares.

“Right,” he says flatly, and walks off.

Joaquin leans a little closer. His voice low, teasing.

“You sure we’re not a thing?”

Your heart stutters. Your magic simmers.

You don’t answer.

———

Your fists fly, your magic crackles, and the reinforced training dummy is begging for mercy.

You blast it with one last hit of red chaos energy and pant through a crooked grin as it sparks, smokes, and stumbles to the floor in defeat.

Joaquin’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, watching like he’s thoroughly enjoying the show. You’re sweating, breathing hard, hair clinging to your neck and forehead.

“Okay, well,” he drawls, “remind me never to piss you off in close quarters.”

You shoot him a sharp look, but your chest is still rising and falling fast. You’re flushed. Overheated. Magic humming hot in your skin.

He walks over, a towel in one hand and a water bottle in the other. You narrow your eyes.

“That for me or are you just flexing your hydration awareness?”

“Both.”

He presses the cold bottle into your hand, but instead of handing you the towel, he lifts it and gently pats the sweat from your forehead.

Your eyes flutter, caught off guard by the softness of it.

“You missed your calling,” you mutter. “Could’ve been a very aggressive spa technician.”

He grins, still toweling off the back of your neck.

“Nah. You just looked like you were seconds from combusting.”

“I am combusting. That’s kind of my whole thing.”

“Yeah, but this version looked a little less magical and a little more meltdown-on-the-mat.”

You roll your eyes and take another sip of water. He steps back—barely—and watches you like he’s memorizing something.

Then he says, quieter:

“I like when you let yourself get messy.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Messy?”

“Yeah. All powerful, untouchable chaos witch and still out here sweating like a mortal. It’s… grounding.”

You huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh. Toss the towel back at him. He catches it without looking, too busy watching your mouth.

You smirk.

“You gonna keep staring or are you gonna fight me?”

He steps closer.

“You want me to pin you down that bad?”

Your magic flickers behind your eyes. He notices.

“Careful,” you whisper.

“Always,” he murmurs.

And then you’re both just standing there, chests nearly brushing, heat rolling off your skin—and not a damn thing happens.

Because you step back first.

Because you always step back first.

———

Your room is quiet. Dim. The moonlight filters in across the edge of your bed, silver and cold.

You’re curled under a blanket, scrolling through missions and notes, pretending your chest doesn’t feel tight after today’s debrief.

The knock comes soft.

Once.

Then twice.

You don’t even have to ask who it is.

The door creaks open slowly. Joaquin peeks his head in like he’s expecting to get yelled at.

“You still up?”

You raise your phone.

“Aren’t you always?”

He grins and slips inside, closing the door behind him. His hoodie sleeves are pushed halfway up his forearms and his hair’s messy—like he’s been running a hand through it for hours.

He walks over and holds up his phone.

“I found three videos I know you’re gonna hate but laugh at anyway.”

“Only three?”

“I’m pacing myself.”

You scoot over. He climbs into bed like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Because it is.

This has become your thing. 3AM visits. Secret scrolling. Close proximity under the guise of shared memes and exhaustion. Neither of you talk about it. Neither of you have to.

You both know.

The side of his arm brushes yours as he tilts the screen toward you. Your legs stretch out beside each other, ankles nearly touching.

He plays a video.

You snort.

“I hate that you’re right.”

He glances over at you, and you’re too tired to hide the smile curling at your lips.

He shifts onto his side a little, propped on one elbow now. His face close. His breath warmer.

Your blanket is barely covering either of you. The silence stretches.

“You had a rough day,” he says softly.

You don’t respond. You don’t have to.

He watches you like you’re glass. Like he’s trying to read your mind. Like he wants to fix something.

“You can’t fix everything,” you whisper finally.

“I’m still gonna try.”

That does something dangerous to your heart. To your magic. To your restraint.

You swallow.

“Joaquin—”

“I know.” His voice is soft. Gentle. “I’m not asking for anything. Just… this.”

He shifts closer. Just enough to rest his hand lightly against yours on top of the blanket. His fingers don’t move. They just stay.

Connected. Unspoken. Real.

You both fall asleep like that. Barely touching. Dreaming the same thing.

———

Everything goes sideways in seconds.

You were supposed to move in from the north—take out the guards, secure the intel. Easy. Clean. You’ve done this a hundred times.

But someone tipped them off.

Gunfire rains from above. Chaos erupts. Sam goes aerial, shouting into the comms. Joaquin darts into cover behind a container, motioning for you to take the left flank.

You move—too fast.

That’s when the trip mine goes off.

A deafening boom explodes beside you. You don’t scream, but you do go flying.

Joaquin sees it happen.

He sprints through gunfire, bullets whizzing past his ears. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t think. He just runs.

You’re sprawled against a concrete barrier, coughing from the dust, your body buzzing with leftover magic that flared up to shield you on instinct.

“Y/N!” he shouts, dropping to his knees beside you, hands already on your arms, your face, your shoulders—checking for blood, for wounds, for broken bones.

“I’m fine,” you say quickly. Too quickly. Your voice is shaking. “I had it under control.”

You didn’t.

There’s a deep gash on your shoulder where a shard caught you. Your lip is split. Your hand is trembling.

“That mine was primed, you could’ve—”

“But I didn’t.”

Your magic pulses too hot around your fingers, unstable. You clench them into fists to make it stop. You won’t look at him.

“Y/N,” he says, lower now, more breath than sound, “you can’t keep doing this. You’re not invincible.”

You finally meet his eyes.

And the look on his face—pure terror, heartbreak, relief—it guts you.

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers. “Not like that. Not like that.”

You’re both breathing too hard. The fight is still going, but right now, this moment feels louder.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you murmur.

“You didn’t scare me,” he says. “You destroyed me.”

And you feel it—that awful, terrifying truth sitting in your throat like glass.

You almost died. And all you can think about is how it would’ve broken him.

⸻

Now she’s on the roof hours later, alone, trying to get her shit together, trying to breathe again.

———

The city is quiet.

Up here, above it all, the air is cooler. Quieter. The chaos of your thoughts doesn’t echo as loud.

You sit on the edge of the rooftop, knees drawn up, arms resting across them. Red energy flickers at your fingertips—nervous, uncertain, soft. Just enough to keep you company.

Footsteps.

You don’t have to look. You already know it’s him.

Joaquin settles beside you, legs dangling over the edge. His hoodie sleeves are bunched up again, and he smells like something familiar—clean and safe and warm.

Neither of you speak at first.

The silence is comfortable. Almost.

“You always come up here when you’re avoiding something,” he says quietly.

You smirk.

“You always follow me when I do.”

“Because I don’t like the idea of you hurting alone.”

That makes you glance at him. His jaw’s tense. His eyes are tired.

You swallow.

“I’m not hurting.”

He raises an eyebrow. He doesn’t say it, but you both know that’s a lie.

He shifts, turning toward you more. You feel the heat of him, the closeness. Your arm brushes his. You don’t move.

“You scared me today,” he says.

That makes your heart stutter.

“You got reckless. You took a hit you didn’t need to. You’re better than that.”

You glance down at your hands. The red glow pulses faintly. He reaches out and stills them—his hand gentle as it closes around yours.

Your breath catches.

“You can’t keep carrying all of it,” he says, his voice low, barely above a whisper. “Even chaos needs a break.”

You meet his gaze.

It’s a mistake.

Because he’s looking at you like you’re his whole world. Like he’s been trying not to love you for months and just… lost the fight.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

Your pulse skids. You don’t breathe.

You both lean in at the same time—slow, tentative, like testing gravity.

Your noses brush. You feel his breath fan over your lips. His hand rises to your jaw, tentative, fingers grazing your cheek like you’ll vanish if he touches you too hard.

And god—you want it. You want it so bad it aches.

You tilt your head just a little, lips parted—

And then you stop. Frozen. Half a centimeter away.

Your heart is pounding. Your magic pulses between you.

You feel his breath catch.

“Don’t,” you whisper, barely audible. “Don’t care for me like this.”

He stills.

“Too late,” he breathes.

You pull back, slowly. Like it hurts. Because it does.

“I can’t give you what you want,” you say softly. “If I do… and something happens to you… I don’t know if I could survive that.”

He searches your face like he’s trying to memorize it.

“So what, we pretend this doesn’t exist? Pretend we don’t?”

You look away.

“We keep each other alive. That’s what we do.”

He nods slowly. But you don’t miss the pain in his eyes.

“Then I’ll keep pretending. If that’s what you need.”

You don’t speak. You can’t.

Because if you do, you’ll kiss him anyway.

———

The fluorescent lights are too bright.

The chairs are too cold.

And Joaquin is sitting too damn close.

You’re trying to breathe evenly, trying not to look at him, but his leg keeps brushing yours under the table and your mind won’t stop replaying what almost happened on the rooftop five hours ago.

His hand on your cheek.

His lips almost on yours.

That look in his eyes.

“Too late,” he said.

You haven’t slept.

Across the table, Sam Wilson drops a file onto the surface with a sharp thwap.

“This one’s high priority. We’ve got intel that a black-market transport vessel is moving refined adamantium off the Atlantic coast—”

Your stomach tightens.

“They’re skimming ocean territory just outside international lines, which means we need to get in fast, quiet, and untraceable.”

You nod, silent. Joaquin shifts beside you.

“The three of us go in aerial,” Sam continues. “Y/N, you’ll hang back until we ID the exact hold. I want you on overwatch until we breach. No showing off.”

He looks pointedly at you.

You smirk faintly.

“Define showing off.”

Joaquin snorts beside you. Sam sighs.

“Just stay alive. Both of you. The council’s already breathing down our necks about Wakandan metal, and I don’t need a damn rescue op on top of it.”

He looks between the two of you—like he knows something’s up but doesn’t want to deal with it yet.

“Wings prepped for launch at 0800. No mistakes. Questions?”

Silence.

“Good. Dismissed.”

———

The wind roars in your ears.

From your perch high above the vessel, you float just outside radar range, a shimmering red shield cloaking your energy signature. Your fingers twitch, ready. Watching. Waiting.

“Red, you copy?” Joaquin’s voice cuts through your earpiece.

“Copy.”

“You sure you’re okay up there?”

“You’re the one flapping around in open air like a glowstick, Torres. Maybe Ishould be checking on you.”

You hear him laugh through the comms. It softens the anxiety in your chest—but only slightly.

Then Sam’s voice comes in, sharp:

“Vessel identified. We’re breaching from the port side.”

“On your mark,” you respond.

Joaquin zips lower, wings slicing through the sky, and just as he banks left to take position—

A flash of light.

A missile screams from the hull of the ship.

You feel it before you see it.

“Joaquin—”

But it’s too late.

The blast hits him midair. His body spirals out like a comet, wings ripped, suit malfunctioning. You scream his name into the comms as he plummets toward the ocean.

“SAM, HE’S HIT—!”

Your body surges forward on instinct, red magic roaring from your palms as you dive. You feel your heart pounding in your throat. You won’t make it in time. You won’t—

Then you do.

You catch him mid-fall, slowing his velocity with a shockwave of pure energy. His body slams into your arms hard, but not fatally.

His breathing is shallow. He’s bleeding.

“Stay with me, Joaquin. Come on—look at me, look at me—”

You don’t know if he hears you.

Sam is shouting orders. Enemies are still firing. But you’re already rising with Joaquin in your arms, flying him toward the evac route. Every pulse of magic you burn hurts now, but you don’t care.

You’re not losing him.

Not today.

———

The med bay is quiet.

Too quiet.

Machines beep in steady rhythms. IV bags hang in still air. The scent of antiseptic clings to your skin like smoke.

Joaquin’s lying motionless in the hospital bed, chest bandaged, one arm splinted, a shallow gash across his cheek. The doctors said he’d live.

But they didn’t say when he’d wake up.

You haven’t moved in hours. Just sat there, unmoving, staring at him like if you blinked, he might disappear.

Your hand is wrapped around his.

Your magic hums under your skin, wild and aching, searching for something to do—something to fix. But it can’t fix this. Not really.

And that’s what breaks you.

You finally speak, voice raw, barely above a whisper:

“When I was sixteen, my brother died.”

The words come like glass in your throat.

“I thought it was the end of my world. And it was—for a while. He was the only one who really knew me. I trusted him with everything. And then one day… he just didn’t come back.”

Your hand tightens around Joaquin’s.

“After that, I stopped letting people in. I thought… maybe if I didn’t love anyone else, it wouldn’t hurt like that again.”

You breathe out shakily. Blink away tears that sting and blur.

“And then you showed up. Loud. Relentless. So damn bright. Always sending memes at 3am. Always making me laugh when I didn’t want to. Always showing up.”

Your voice cracks.

“You made me feel again. You made me want. And it scared the hell out of me.”

You swallow hard.

“I’ve been keeping you at arm’s length because I didn’t want to lose you. Because I thought if I never let myself have you, I wouldn’t have to feel this again. But when I saw you falling out of the sky today—when I felt you slipping through my hands—”

You stop, breath hitching. The tears spill now. You don’t stop them.

“It made me realize… I don’t just want to be close to you.”

You lean forward in the chair, clutching his hand to your chest like a lifeline.

“I long to be close to you. I need it. I want everything with you, Joaquin. The stupid 3am TikToks. The rooftop mornings. The flirting. The falling asleep in each other’s beds. All of it. I want you.”

You press a trembling kiss to his knuckles.

Your forehead drops gently against his forearm. You stay there, eyes squeezed shut, letting the weight of it all sink in.

And then—

A low, hoarse voice breaks the silence:

“I knew you loved me.”

Your head snaps up.

His eyes are barely open—just enough to flash that smug little grin he always gets when he’s won something.

“You’re the worst,” you whisper through a half-sob, half-laugh.

“Nah,” he croaks, thumb brushing weakly across your hand. “You love me.”

“You were unconscious. That doesn’t count.”

“Didn’t stop you from confessing,” he murmurs, eyes falling shut again. “Gonna hold that over you forever.”

“Good. Because I’m not going anywhere.”

You shift carefully onto the edge of the bed, your fingers still laced with his, your free hand brushing his hair from his forehead. Your voice softens.

“Just… rest. Okay? I’ll be right here.”

And for the first time in a long, long time, you mean it.

———

The lights are dimmed now.

The machines are quieter.

And for the first time since the mission, he’s awake.

Really awake.

You walk in with a tray—nothing fancy, just soup, toast, and a drink. But it’s real food, and the way his face lights up when he sees it makes something in your chest ache.

“God, you’re perfect,” he mutters, trying to sit up.

“No,” you say, pushing his shoulder gently. “You are injured. Don’t be dramatic.”

“Me? Dramatic? Never.”

But he winces anyway, clutching his ribs, and you give him a pointed look. Still, he smiles as you help settle the tray over his lap and lower the bed slightly so he can eat.

You sit in the chair beside him, watching quietly as he takes the first few bites.

“Tastes like cardboard,” he says through a mouthful.

“You’re welcome.”

For a while, the silence is companionable. He eats slowly. You sip from a bottle of water. You think maybe this is enough.

But then he pauses.

Spoon halfway to his mouth, he looks at you—soft, serious, his voice quiet.

“I didn’t know about your brother.”

You blink.

“Yeah,” you say, looking down. “Most people don’t.”

“I’m sorry.”

You just nod, a small motion. Your eyes sting again, but you won’t cry this time.

Then he does it.

With a quiet grunt, Joaquin shifts over in the bed, wincing but determined. He pats the space beside him—his palm gently tapping the blanket just once.

“Come here,” he says softly. “Please.”

You hesitate only a second before you move. Gently, carefully, you slide onto the bed beside him, sitting up straight but close enough to feel his warmth.

Your shoulder brushes his.

He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for days.

“I’ve always known I’m a hopeless romantic,” he says after a moment, staring at the ceiling like the words are carved up there.

“Ever since I was a kid. I wanted all the cheesy stuff. Dancing in the rain. Fighting over who makes the coffee. Falling asleep on someone’s shoulder. All of it.”

He turns his head to look at you.

“But with you? It’s more. It’s so much more. I want everything, Y/N.”

His voice breaks just slightly.

“I want to hold your hand when you can’t sleep. I want to hear you rant about your day. I want to spar with you even though you’ll win. I want to protect you—even if I know you could obliterate the multiverse with a blink. I want to show up. Be there. All of it.”

His fingers brush yours.

“And I want it all with you.”

You stare at him—barely breathing, barely moving.

Then, quietly, like the world is finally giving you permission to want this too, you lean in.

And so does he.

Your lips meet like a whisper.

No fire, no chaos—just warmth. Softness. The promise of something real.

He exhales into the kiss like he’s waited his whole life for it.

When you pull back, he’s still smiling.

“You’re gonna be hell on my ribs, huh?”

You laugh, forehead pressed to his.

“You’re the one who scooted over.”

“Worth it.”

You rest your hand on his chest—right over his heart—and whisper:

“You’re worth it.”

And for the first time in a long time, you let yourself believe it.

[theskyisorange]

Isaiah went from "why is this kid even here" to spending time with Joaquin willingly. Joaquin wasn't wrong when he said "he's gonna love me, bro".

[emdashbitch]

why do so many people think Bucky got the temu serum? he literally got the next best serum after Erskine's original and it was activated using radiation from the Tesseract, a literal Infinity Stone (s. Shuri & Zola; The Wakanda Files).

Alexei calling it "fancy" is probably pretty accurate compared to other super soldiers out there now, now Steve is who the fuck knows where. it's the closest to what Steve had (synthesised from Schmidt, who took the prototype of Erskine's og formula too, and since Bucky didn't turn red and skull-like it's safe to assume it's been heavily perfected since then)

you know who did get the temu serum? Bruce Banner, Alexei Shostakov, the discount Winter Soldiers, John Walker, Karli and the other Flag-Smashers (Isaiah Bradley too, possibly). with the exception of Bruce, they don't even appear to use any radiation to activate it either smh

Bucky got like... pricey competitor copycat serum, not temu serum

[therogueflame]

Me Rehúso

hi lmfao,

here is my first ever joaquín torres x reader i have been wanting to write him for such a long time and lowkey knew i was never gonna get a request for him and like idk i just love him and i love danny ramirez like so much okay bye this is so long and i actually edited it before posting and me rehuso has been on repeat i dont speak a lick of spanish i did my best i love you all sm sm sm sm sm

edit (7/7/25): i have seen a few people complain that this made them cry/sad and i’m telling you that wasn’t intentional!! it was supposed to be hopeful!!! like!!! yes the hotel door closed but the metaphorical door didn’t close and it never will!!!

📖 masterlist

🖊 ao3

🗒 wip list

🔥 discord server

WC: 8.0k

Summary: It was just a drink. Just catching up. Just a little too late to call it nothing.

Warnings: 18+, soft smut, sex (p in v), oral (f!recieving, bc danny joaquín is a munch) hurt/comfort, angst, yearning, exes to something, unresolved tension, literally who can resist a man in uniform especially when he looks like THAT?

Joaquín Torres x Fem!Reader

It’s been a while since you were back in D.C., long enough that the city feels both familiar and hollow. The air still clings the same way in summer, heavy and wet and full of car exhaust and carryout, and your body still remembers how to move through it without thinking. Your favorite coffee place is now a nail salon. Your old apartment has new curtains in the window. Everything’s a little different, just enough to remind you that you’re not supposed to be here.

You told yourself it was just a work trip. Nothing more. The kind of thing that comes with a company-paid hotel and a packed schedule and no time for nostalgia. In and out. A few handshakes, a few slide decks, then gone. That was the plan. But then Carla texted. Just a backyard thing, she said. Nothing fancy. Some old friends, some new ones, grill’s at six. You almost said no. You typed out the whole excuse before deleting it. Then you said sure. Maybe. Let me see how I feel.

You didn’t ask who’d be there. You didn’t have to.

Now the sun’s starting to dip and you’re still standing in front of the mirror in your hotel bathroom, brushing your fingers through your hair like it’ll make a difference. You’ve changed twice. You’re not dressed up, not really, but you still keep looking at yourself like you’re trying to find a version of you that won’t care if he shows up.

It ended quietly, the two of you. No real goodbye. Just a slow fade, a handful of unanswered texts, and too much space that neither of you tried hard enough to close. Maybe you were scared. Maybe he was. Maybe you thought you were doing him a favor. You told yourself if you let it go, he’d be free to move on. You told yourself it was kind.

But then the wrong song comes on in an Uber, or someone laughs like he used to, and the kindness feels like a lie. You still think about texting him sometimes. Just to see. Just to know.

You don’t know if he’ll be there tonight. You’re not sure what you’ll do if he is.

The Uber drops you two houses too early and you walk the rest of the way just to shake off the nerves. You tell yourself it’s because you need the steps, that you want to smell the jasmine creeping up the fences, not because your stomach’s doing that thing where it folds in on itself every time you think about seeing him again.

Carla’s backyard is already alive when you push open the side gate. Laughter spilling over the fence. A bluetooth speaker tucked into the windowsill playing something rhythmic and low. You step in and it’s like falling into an old dream—plastic cups, half-melted ice in coolers, the smoke of something charred and probably edible curling up into the trees. You recognize a few faces. You smile like it’s easy.

Carla pulls you into a hug almost immediately, smelling like sunscreen and perfume, a drink in one hand and her phone in the other. She says you look good. Says she missed you. Says she’s glad you came. She doesn’t mention Joaquín, which means she’s definitely thinking about it. You don’t ask. You just smile and say thanks and let yourself be folded into the scene.

Someone hands you a drink. Someone else asks where you’ve been hiding. You give vague answers. Keep it light. You stay by the edge of things, near the folding table with the snacks and the half-full bottle of tequila. You sip slowly and pretend you’re not listening for his voice. You’re fine. You’re just here for a little while. You’re not hoping for anything.

It’s easy to pretend when he isn’t there.

For now, you settle into the kind of easy conversation that doesn’t ask too much. You laugh when someone tells a bad joke. You flip through the playlist on your phone when the music hiccups. You don’t check the gate. You don’t look toward the street. You’re not waiting.

Except you are. Obviously you are.

You hear him before you see him.

Just a burst of conversation over the music, his voice cutting through in that same warm, slightly-too-loud way. There’s a laugh, too, familiar and unfiltered, like nothing’s changed, like he’s still the kind of person who laughs with his whole chest and doesn’t care who hears it.

Your spine locks. You don’t even think—just set your cup down and slip through the sliding door into the house like you’re looking for something, like you had any reason to be inside at all.

You find the bathroom at the end of the hall and close the door behind you, pressing your palms to the sink. The light overhead hums a little. The faucet drips once. Twice. Your reflection doesn’t look panicked, but your chest feels tight in that old way it used to, back when things were still fragile and good and you kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.

You don’t know what you thought would happen. That he wouldn’t come? That you could handle it if he did? You breathe in. Out. Again.

There’s a little window cracked above the mirror, and the sounds of the party filter in through the screen—muffled chatter, a cheer over something, the tail end of a beat you half-recognize. You think you hear his voice again, but it’s hard to tell. You don’t know what he looks like right now. You don’t know if he’s alone. You don’t know if he’s happy.

You press your fingertips to your lips. They’re dry. You should leave. You should walk out the front door and call another ride and go back to your hotel and tell Carla you weren’t feeling well. That it was nice to see everyone. That it had nothing to do with him. But you don’t.

Instead, you run cold water over your hands. You shake them off. You adjust yourself in the mirror, like that’s going to fix anything. You open the bathroom door and step back into the hallway, heartbeat loud in your ears. The house is empty, quiet in that way people’s homes get when everyone’s outside. You linger by the kitchen counter for a second, pretending to look for a napkin or something else stupid and delaying. Your hands feel weird. Too cold. Too warm. You’re not thinking, just moving.

The sliding door is half-open when you return to the backyard. You step through without looking, eyes on the ground, on the uneven concrete, on anything but what’s ahead of you. The sounds of the party rush back in all at once—music, laughter, someone yelling about overcooked burgers. You take one deep breath, steady and careful, and look up.

And he’s right there. Close. Too close. You barely register it before your shoulder brushes his chest and you jolt back a step, instinctively.

“Shit—sorry,” you say.

He blinks, startled. Then his eyes focus on you, and something flickers across his face. Recognition. Surprise. Something else behind it that you can’t name.

You haven’t seen him in six months but it still hits you like a punch how easy it is to remember everything about him in half a second. His curls are longer. He’s tanner. His shirt fits like it always did, too well. And his eyes—those eyes—are still just as warm and dangerous and annoyingly kind.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. He beats you to it.

“Hey,” he says, soft. Careful.

There’s a plastic cup in his hand and a backwards snapback on his head and he looks so much like the last summer you spent together it makes your stomach twist.

You nod once, shallow. “Hey.”

A beat passes. Then another. He doesn’t smile like he used to.  You step aside to let him through. He steps in the same direction. You both pause.

You laugh under your breath. It’s not funny.

“Sorry,” you say again, quieter.

He just shakes his head. “You don’t have to be.”

But you are. Not just for bumping into him. For all of it. 

You move to step around him again but he doesn’t quite move and you both end up doing that dumb side-to-side shuffle that makes you want to crawl into the grass and disappear. His hand brushes your arm and he pulls it back like it burned him.

“Wow,” he says. “We’re still great at this.”

You huff out something that might be a laugh. “Some things never change.”

He nods, a little too eagerly. “Yeah. Like my ability to embarrass myself instantly.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Pretty sure that was me.”

He makes a face like he’s weighing it out. “Okay, yeah, but I leaned into it with the whole—” He gestures vaguely, reenacting the world’s worst sidestep. “You know. That.”

You almost smile. He looks the same and not the same, older in a way you can’t quite define. Tired around the edges. But his voice is still warm and clumsy in the way you remember, like every word came out just a little faster than he meant it to.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say finally.

“Yeah, me neither. Carla sent me like three texts with a lot of emojis. Felt like a trap but I came anyway.” He takes a sip from his cup, then adds, “Did not realize I was walking into a... potential ex reunion arc.”

You glance down at your shoes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says too quickly. “It’s cool. I mean, I— I’m cool. Are you cool? You look... like you’re doing good.”

You look up. He’s watching you too closely, but when you meet his eyes, he glances away like he got caught.

“I’m fine,” you say. “You?”

He shrugs. “Still breathing. Still bad at parties. Still get sunburned even if I wear SPF 50, which feels like a personal attack from the sun. So. Yeah. Nothing new.”

You snort, and his eyes flick back to yours like he wants to hold onto the sound.

Another beat passes. He shifts his weight. You can tell he doesn’t know whether to keep talking or bail.

“So,” he says, tilting his cup a little. “You just visiting?”

You nod. “Work thing.”

“Ah.” He nods too, like that’s a safe word. “Short trip?”

“Four days.”

“That’s... not long.”

“Nope.”

Silence again. Not cold, just full.

He taps the side of his cup. “Cool. Well. I’ll, uh—” He gestures vaguely toward the grill. “Go stand somewhere else and say more dumb things over there now.”

You nod, but don’t move.

He takes a step back, then pauses. “It’s good to see you, by the way.”

You open your mouth, but he’s already turning.

You stay where you are for a minute after he walks away, half-wondering if you imagined the whole thing. Your hand finds your drink again. The condensation soaks into your palm and gives you something to focus on. He’s good at that, still — coming in like a wave and leaving you standing in the shallows, blinking at the water in your lungs.

The party goes on. Carla brings out skewers and people cheer like she just cured a disease. The music skips to something poppy and too fast. You sink into a patch of lawn chair conversation about travel plans and bad dates, your laugh coming a beat late every time. It’s not that you’re not present. It’s just that you know exactly where he is.

You don’t look for him, not really. But your eyes still flick to the side yard when the wind shifts. You still notice when someone tosses a beer in his direction. You still feel it when he laughs again across the lawn — quieter this time, like he’s trying not to be obvious.

He doesn’t come back over, but he doesn’t stay far either. At one point, he ends up helping someone carry drinks from the kitchen and passes right behind you. You feel the shape of him before you see him, tall and warm and barely there. You don’t turn, but your skin lights up anyway.

A while later, Carla corners you with her signature third-drink grin and a plastic cup of mystery juice.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says, and it sounds a little too loaded.

You raise an eyebrow. “It’s nice. Really.”

She hums, unconvinced. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine.”

She glances across the yard. You don’t follow her gaze.

“Right,” she says. “Well. If you’re not fine later, extra tequila’s under the table.”

Someone pulls her away before she can say anything else. You take a sip of your drink and immediately regret it. It tastes like melted candy and mistakes.

The sun sinks a little lower. The bugs start to swarm the citronella candles. There’s a soft hum of maybe-it’s-time-to-go from a few corners of the yard, but no one’s actually moving. You think about leaving. You also think about staying. You think about the way he looked at you like he didn’t know whether to smile or break. You think about that little pause before he walked away.

You don’t notice the memory at first. It just edges in under your skin, like heat from the sun you didn’t realize was still there. It’s the smell of the grill and citronella, the sound of someone laughing in a way that’s too full, too familiar, too much like then. You blink, and you’re not in Carla’s backyard anymore.

You’re back in his apartment. The lights are off except for the one over the stove, casting this soft yellow wash across the living room. It’s too warm, too quiet. The kind of quiet that’s only possible when you know someone down to their breathing.

He’s on the floor, leaning back against the couch with his legs stretched out and a bowl of half-eaten popcorn next to him. You’re stretched out behind him, sideways on the couch, one leg draped over his shoulder, the other tucked under you. He’s warm against your thigh and keeps muttering that your toes are freezing.

“You look cozy,” he said, with that dopey half-smile that made you want to hit him and kiss him at the same time.

“This is my tired hoodie.”

“You should be tired more often, then.”

He reached up and grabbed your ankle, pulling it into his lap like it belonged there. Like you belonged there.

You remember that something was playing on the tv, but not what it was. You remember his fingers absentmindedly tracing the bone of your shin while he half-watched it, more focused on whatever quiet thought was drifting through his head. You remember the shape of his knuckles, the scratch of his callus when he ran his hand along the top of your foot. You remember not needing to fill the silence.

He said, “Don’t go next weekend,” voice soft, a little joking, like it wasn’t a request.

You said, “I have to,” like it didn’t cost you anything.

He nodded. Didn’t argue. Didn’t try to guilt you or convince you or say anything dramatic. Just tilted his head back against your leg, looking up at you upside down, hair flopped over his forehead, cheeks pink from whatever he was drinking.

You said, “It’s just a trip.”

He said, “Right.”

Then he pulled your foot into his chest, pressed a kiss to your ankle like it was a habit, like it was nothing. Like he’d done it a hundred times before. But he hadn’t. That was the first time.

You remember feeling it in your throat. That awful, beautiful ache. Like if you opened your mouth, something would spill out you couldn’t take back. But you didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

Later, you’d press your face into his neck, and he’d whisper something that wasn’t quite Spanish, wasn’t quite words, and you’d fall asleep wondering if maybe it could be this easy forever. But it wasn’t.

The next weekend, you got on the plane. You told yourself it wasn’t a big deal. You told yourself it didn’t mean anything. But that was the last night that felt simple. That was the last time you let him hold you without guilt.

The memory lingers longer than it should. You feel it settle like heat behind your ribs. When you blink again, you’re back at the cookout, standing off to the side while someone fiddles with the speaker and two people argue about salsa. You’ve been staring at your drink for too long.

Across the yard, Joaquín’s still perched on the edge of the deck. He’s talking to someone but not really looking at them, like his brain’s somewhere else entirely. Like maybe it’s still in that apartment too.

He glances up. Your eyes meet.  Neither of you looks away this time.

It happens gradually. The party thins out—people trickle off in twos and threes, hugging Carla goodbye, grabbing last slices of watermelon or half-frozen drinks from the cooler. The sky fades into that soft blue-gray that means the streetlights will flicker on soon. Someone starts collecting trash bags, and someone else is curled up in a chair scrolling through their phone with the dazed expression of someone who’s emotionally tapped out.

You drift toward the steps of the deck at some point without thinking. The music’s low now, something mellow. Joaquín’s nearby again, close enough to feel, but he doesn’t say anything.. Just stands beside you in a kind of companionable silence, the two of you watching someone struggle to relight a citronella candle like it’s the most interesting thing in the world.

Eventually, he speaks. Quietly. “I forgot how weird parties get when they start ending.”

You hum. “Everything smells like charcoal and sweat and regret.”

“That’s the real summer scent,” he says, grinning. “Should bottle it.”

You finally look at him. His hair’s a little messier now. There’s a smudge of something—maybe dirt, maybe barbecue sauce—near the collar of his shirt. His cup’s empty. He’s rolling it between his palms like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands.

You tilt your head. “You always this awkward or is it just me?”

He laughs under his breath. “Oh, I’m always awkward. You’re just the one I can’t pretend around.”

You don’t answer right away. He shifts beside you, then gestures vaguely toward the house.

“You heading out soon?” he asks. “Or...?”

You shrug. “Hotel’s not far. I’ll probably order bad room service and pass out.”

“Solid plan.”

You glance at him. “You?”

He shrugs too. “Thought about going home. Then I remembered I live alone and my fridge is sad.”

You smile, tired but real. “So what’re you gonna do instead?”

He hesitates, just a second too long. Then—

“I mean... if you wanted...” He clears his throat. Starts again. “We could grab a drink or something. Like... like old friends catching up. No pressure.”

You raise an eyebrow. “At ten thirty at night?”

He scratches the back of his neck, sheepish. “The best friend catch-up hour. You know. When the truth comes out and everything tastes like cheap whiskey.”

You study him, and he looks nervous in that familiar way he used to get right before saying something too honest. You can tell he’s trying to play it off like nothing. You can also tell it isn’t nothing. You take a breath.

“I’m at the Selwyn,” you say.

He perks up, like he didn’t expect that to work. “Oh, they have a bar, right?”

You nod. “Until midnight.”

He smiles, bright and crooked. “Plenty of time for bad decisions.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re just catching up.”

“Right,” he says, bumping your shoulder gently as you both turn toward the gate. “That’s exactly what I meant.”

“I’ll drive you,” he says before you can even open the app. Like it’s nothing. Like you didn’t used to sit in his passenger seat with your bare feet on the dash, arguing over playlists and sharing fries out of a greasy paper bag. His keys are already in his hand.

You hesitate, just a second too long. “Sure,” you say.

He grins, trying to play it cool. “Besides, I cleaned my car recently. Well. I threw out the empty protein bar wrappers. Same difference.”

You follow him down the driveway. His car is exactly the same—black Honda, scuffed on the side, faintly dented from something he once swore wasn’t his fault. You slide into the passenger seat and feel your body instinctively relax into old muscle memory. The door shuts. The quiet settles in.

Then he starts the engine. And the universe laughs in your face.

The first few notes hit—clean, unmistakable, loud enough to be cruel.

Me Rehúso.

Your heart jumps into your throat. His hand freezes halfway to the volume knob. His thumb hovers like he’s going to skip it. He doesn’t. You stare out the window.

“I swear I wasn’t trying to be dramatic,” he mumbles.

You keep your voice even. “Didn’t say you were.”

The song keeps playing. You don’t speak. Neither of you move to turn it off.

That chorus hits like a sucker punch. ”Me rehúso a darte un último beso,” I refuse to give you one last kiss... The kind of lyric that would’ve made you both laugh six months ago. Now it just sits there in the air, crackling. He drums his fingers against the wheel, trying to be casual. You sit stiff in your seat and wonder if he feels it too—that pull in your chest like something snapping back into place and tearing a little as it does. You wonder if he skipped this song on purpose for weeks after you left.

By the time it fades, neither of you has said a word. But it’s louder than anything either of you could’ve said out loud. Joaquín clears his throat, glancing sideways like he wants to break the silence.

“Well,” he says, aiming for levity. “That wasn’t emotionally catastrophic or anything.”

You breathe out a quiet laugh. “Your playlist’s still ridiculous.”

“Yeah, but it slaps, unfortunately.”

You fall into silence again. This one is easier. Not light, but... familiar. Like slipping back into clothes you’d left behind, still warm from the last time you wore them. The drive isn’t long, but it feels like a hundred miles and no time at all. When he pulls into the parking lot of your hotel, he parks without asking. Turns the key. Lets the quiet settle again.

“You sure you’re up for this?” you ask, your hand on the door handle.

He shrugs. “Only panicking a little.”

You look at him. He looks at you. That same crooked grin.

“Let’s go,” you say.

He nods. “Catching up. Strictly platonic.”

“Totally.”

The Selwyn’s lobby is quiet, sleek in that generic boutique hotel way. Modern art you don’t understand on the walls. A bowl of apples no one’s touched. The bar’s tucked just off to the right, low-lit and mostly empty, a few couples nursing nightcaps and a lone businessman half-asleep over a bourbon. You lead the way without speaking.

He follows, hands shoved in his pockets, doing that nervous scan of the room like he’s checking for exits but not planning to use them. You pick a booth near the back. Leather seat, warm lamp overhead. It’s too intimate to be neutral. Neither of you moves to sit across from the other. You both slide into the same side, a little too close. Neither of you comments on it.

The bartender comes over, eyes flicking between you both like he’s trying to figure out what kind of night this is.

“Two whiskeys,” Joaquín says, before you can answer. Then he glances at you. “That okay?”

You nod. “Perfect.”

The moment he walks away, Joaquín exhales like he’s been holding it in since the car. “Well. Here we are.”

You smile. “Just two old friends. At a hotel. At eleven o’clock at night.”

He grins. “Nothing suspicious about that.”

You both look straight ahead for a second, not speaking. The tension has shifted—it’s quieter now. Less sharp. More like gravity.

“I missed this,” he says eventually.

You turn to him. “What part?”

He shrugs. “All of it. You. Talking. Sitting next to you and saying dumb shit until you laugh.”

You look down at your hands. “I didn’t think you’d want to talk to me again.”

“I didn’t either.”

You glance up.

“I was pissed,” he says, not hiding it. “You just disappeared. No warning. Just—gone. I didn’t know if I did something or if it was just easier that way for you.”

“It wasn’t easy,” you say. “I just didn’t know how to say goodbye.”

He nods. “Yeah. Well. Guess we’re both great at that.”

The drinks arrive. You each take one, clink glasses without ceremony.

“To bad decisions,” he says.

You raise your eyebrows. “This is a bad decision?”

He smirks. “I think it might be.”

You both drink.

The whiskey burns a little. Just enough.

You settle into the silence again, but this one’s warmer. You can feel the heat of his thigh pressed against yours. He hasn’t moved. Neither have you.

“I thought about texting you,” he says, voice lower now.

“Why didn’t you?”

“I didn’t want to be a maybe.”

That lands. It sinks in and sits heavy in your stomach. You set your glass down. Turn toward him fully.

“We were never a maybe.”

He looks at you then, really looks, and something shifts in his expression. Like he’s trying not to hope and failing miserably at it. “Okay,” he says softly. “So what are we now?”

You don’t answer. Instead, your knee bumps his, and you leave it there.

He glances at your mouth, just for a second. It’s quick, but you both notice.

The second drink comes faster than the first. Neither of you says anything, but the meaning is clear. Just one more. Just an excuse to keep sitting here a little longer.

The bar’s quiet around you, some indie playlist humming overhead, glasses clinking behind the counter, but none of it really registers. It’s just the booth, the shared warmth between you, and the way the whiskey makes your skin feel too soft for your bones.

You’re both leaned in now, legs angled toward each other. His arm is stretched behind you across the booth, not quite touching you but close enough to feel. His knee keeps bumping yours. It’s not accidental anymore.

He’s talking with his hands. Always has. One of them knocks his glass a little too hard and he mutters a low “shit” before catching it. You laugh and he grins, sheepish.

“Okay, so maybe I’m a little drunk,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Little?”

“Tipsy,” he corrects, lifting his hand in mock defense. “Buzzed. Whiskey-charmed. Still within the range of plausible deniability.”

You tip your glass toward him. “Sure.”

“You?”

You sip. “Comfortably reckless.”

He laughs, and it’s that real laugh, the one that fills his chest. The one you haven’t heard in too long. He tips his head back, curls falling over his forehead, and for a second you forget how to breathe.

“You always did drink whiskey too fast,” you say.

“You always stole mine when you thought I wasn’t looking.”

“I wasn’t trying to hide it.”

The words slip out before you can stop them. He goes quiet, eyes settling on you with a different kind of focus now. He’s still smiling, but it’s softer, smaller.

“I remember that,” he says. “All of it.”

You don’t move. The air between you is tight.

“You used to do this thing,” he continues, “where you’d swirl the ice in my glass with your finger and act like it wasn’t the most distracting thing in the world.”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

“You definitely did. And it worked. Every time.”

You lean in a little, just enough to make him feel it. “You’re easy to distract.”

“I was in love with you,” he says, too fast, too loose.

It lands between you like a dropped glass.

He blinks. “Shit. That sounded cooler in my head.”

You swallow. “Was?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Looks down at the table. When he speaks again, it’s quieter. “You didn’t give me a lot of space to keep saying it.”

You look at him, really look. He’s flushed from the whiskey, eyes a little glassy, but his expression is wide open. Honest in the way only tipsy people get when they’ve been waiting too long to say something. You don’t reach for your glass this time. You reach for his hand. You brush your fingers over the back of it, slow. Gentle. He doesn’t pull away.

“You know,” you say, “I still think about that night. The one before I left.”

His eyes flick to yours. “The peanut butter dinner?”

“The one where you kissed my ankle like it meant something.”

“It did.”

“I know.”

The silence now is thick. Not awkward. Not empty. Just full. He turns his hand over beneath yours, lets your fingers slide together. His palm is warm and steady.

“So,” he says, barely above a whisper. “What are we doing right now?”

You shake your head, half-laughing, half-something else. “Catching up, remember?”

He leans in, slow and careful. His shoulder brushes yours. His voice is right at your ear now.

“This doesn’t feel like catching up.”

You don’t pull away. You press your leg against his under the table. You feel his breath stutter.

“It’s not,” you say.

He shifts toward you, hand tightening in yours. There’s a question in his eyes. You could stop this. You could pull back.

You’re so close you can feel the moment tipping forward. One more second and his mouth will be on yours. You know exactly how it’ll feel — warm and familiar, a little clumsy, a little desperate. You want it. God, you want it. But it’s too much, too fast, too easy to fall back into something that once shattered you so quietly it didn’t even make a sound.

You pull your hand away. Slow. Gentle.

He freezes. You don’t look at him right away. You take a breath instead. Your voice is soft when it comes.

“I can’t.”

It’s not sharp. It’s not final. It’s just honest.

His face shifts — not hurt, exactly. Just something quieter. A flicker of understanding. Maybe disappointment. Maybe relief. Maybe both.

He nods, slowly. “Okay.”

You glance around the bar like you’ve just remembered where you are. The lights feel too low. The space too small.

“I should go up,” you say.

“Yeah. Yeah, of course.”

You stand, and he follows without question. Neither of you says much as you cross the lobby. You’re sobering up, not from the drinks but from the tension, from the weight of how close you came to doing something you wouldn’t be able to take back.

The elevator ride is quiet. The kind of quiet that hums under your skin, thick with all the things you didn’t say downstairs and the weight of the moment you pulled away. He didn’t argue. He didn’t push. He just nodded, like he understood. But you can feel him beside you now — his body still turned slightly toward yours, hands in his pockets like they’re keeping him grounded.

You reach your floor and step into the hallway, carpet soft under your shoes, air humming faintly with recycled chill. You walk ahead, both of you a little unsteady, a little too aware of each other. He stays close but doesn’t touch you. Not once.

When you stop outside your door, you turn toward him and smile, barely.

“You didn’t have to walk me all the way.”

“Old habits,” he says.

There’s a pause. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other. You know that move. You remember him doing it when he wasn’t sure if he should kiss you that first time. He looked just like this. Nervous. Hopeful. A little in over his head.

And still, you don’t move.

“I should go in,” you say softly.

“Yeah,” he says. “You probably should.”

You look at him.

He looks at you.

It’s nothing and everything all at once. That ache that’s been stretching all night tightens until you can’t take it anymore.

And then you kiss him. You don’t think. You just lean in and grab the front of his jacket and pull him down to you and his mouth meets yours like it’s still been waiting this whole time. It’s not soft. It’s not neat. It’s relief. All heat and breath and too much all at once, like if you stop it’ll disappear again. His hands find your waist and you stumble back into the door. He laughs against your mouth, breathless.

“You said you couldn’t.”

“I lied,” you murmur, kissing him again.

It’s messy. Familiar. A little dizzying. His thumb traces the edge of your jaw like he forgot what your skin felt like. Your hands are in his hair before you realize it, tugging him closer, closer.

He breaks the kiss long enough to whisper, “Tell me to go.”

You don’t. You just kiss him harder.

He makes this low sound against your mouth that you remember too well, and suddenly you're fumbling with the keycard, trying to get the door open while he's still kissing you, his hands braced against the wall on either side of your head. The card reader beeps angrily. You try again, breathless, and he's laughing into your neck.

"You're shaking," he says, not teasing. Just noticing.

"Shut up," you breathe, and the door finally gives.

You stumble backward into the room, pulling him with you. The door swings shut behind him with a soft click that sounds too loud in the sudden quiet. The only light comes from the city through the window, casting everything in amber and shadow. You can see his face now, flushed and a little stunned, like he can't quite believe this is happening either.

"Are you sure?" he asks, voice rough.

You don't answer with words. Instead, you step closer, close enough that your chest brushes his, and reach up to trace the line of his jaw with your fingertip. His eyes flutter closed at the touch.

"I missed you," you whisper. "I missed this."

He opens his eyes, searching your face in the dim light. "I never stopped missing you."

This time when you kiss him, it's slower. Deeper. Like you're both trying to memorize something you lost. His hands slide up your back, pulling you against him, and you can feel his heartbeat through his shirt. Fast. Unsteady. Like yours.

You walk him backward toward the bed, lips still locked, hands roaming over familiar territory that feels both foreign and like coming home. When the backs of his knees hit the mattress, he sits down hard, pulling you with him so you're straddling his lap, your dress riding up your thighs. His hands find your hips, steadying you, and you can feel the heat of his palms through the thin fabric.

"God," he breathes, looking up at you like he's seeing something he thought he'd lost forever. "You're so beautiful."

You lean down to kiss him again, slower this time, savoring the taste of whiskey on his tongue and the way his breath catches when you bite his lower lip gently. His hands slide up your sides, thumbs tracing the curve of your ribs, and you arch into his touch.

His fingers find the zipper at the back of your dress, hovering there in silent question. You nod against his mouth, and he slowly pulls it down, the sound cutting through the quiet room. The cool air hits your skin, raising goosebumps along your spine. You shiver, and he pulls back to look at you, his eyes dark and serious.

"We don't have to—"

You press your finger to his lips. "I want to."

The words hang between you, heavy with meaning beyond this moment. You're not just talking about tonight. You both know it.

He kisses your fingertip, then your palm, then your wrist, his eyes never leaving yours. You feel something unravel inside you—that tight knot of regret and longing you've been carrying for months.

Your dress slips from your shoulders, and his breath catches. His hands are reverent as they trace your skin, like he's relearning a map he once knew by heart. You tug at his shirt, impatient now, and he helps you pull it over his head. His chest is familiar—that same constellation of freckles, that same scar near his collarbone from when he fell off his bike at twelve. You touch it, remembering the story he told you once, laughing in bed on a Sunday morning.

"You remember?" he asks, watching your fingers.

"Everything," you whisper.

He pulls you closer, his mouth finding the hollow of your throat, and you close your eyes against the rush of sensation. It's too much and not enough all at once. His hands slide up your back, unhooking your bra with practiced ease, and you laugh softly against his hair.

"Still got it," he murmurs, grinning against your skin.

"Some skills never fade," you whisper back, and then his mouth is on your breast and you can't think anymore, just feel—his tongue, his teeth, the scrape of his stubble against your sensitive skin. Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groans against you.

You rock against him, feeling him hard beneath you, and his hands tighten on your hips. There's an urgency building between you now, months of distance collapsing into this single point of contact. He flips you suddenly, pressing you into the mattress, his weight a welcome anchor. His lips trace a path down your stomach, and you arch up, wanting more, wanting everything.

"Joaquín," you breathe, and he looks up at you, eyes dark and hungry.

"Otra vez," he whispers.

You say his name once more, quieter this time, like a secret you’re not ready to share with the world. His eyes fall shut as though he’s holding the sound within himself, letting it resonate in the hollow spaces where loneliness used to cling. As his hands find their way to the waistband of your underwear, they tremble, a delicate dance of anticipation and reverence. You lift your hips slightly, a silent invitation for him to continue, to explore uncharted territories that still remember the map of his touch. The fabric is gone in a heartbeat, lost somewhere in the chaos of desire that swirls around you both.

His lips trace a slow pilgrimage along your skin, starting at the curve of your hip bone before journeying inward to the sensitive haven of your inner thigh. Each kiss is deliberate, an act of devotion that speaks volumes louder than words ever could. You’re quivering beneath him now, every nerve alive with sensation, and your hands clutch the hotel sheets as though grounding yourself against an oncoming storm.

When his mouth finally finds its destination, it’s like a homecoming. You arch off the bed with a breathy gasp that breaks through the room’s stillness and wraps itself around you both. He moves with an intimate knowledge of you, every motion recalling memories of nights past when only the moon bore witness to passion unfolding between whispered promises and dreams half-spoken.

The rhythm he adopts is one learned long ago but never forgotten, seamless in its execution as though no time has passed since last he worshipped at this altar. His touch is gentle yet insistent—the perfect paradox—exactly as you need it. Your fingers entwine into his hair once more for anchor and connection both; he hums against you—a low sound that vibrates through your core and ignites every part of you all over again.

The sense of nearing completion builds inside you rapidly—too rapidly—as if months apart have condensed into this singular moment of intensity threatening to spill over without warning. Waves crest within your belly, hot and urgent in their sweep toward release.

"Wait," you breathe out urgently, yet soft enough not to break what threads hold this tapestry together just yet. Tugging at his shoulders slightly with desperate urgency tinged by longing unspoken but always present there beneath everything else clouding these precious moments shared tonight after too long apart. "Come here."

He kisses his way back up your body, mouth finding yours again. You can taste yourself on his lips, and it makes you dizzy with want. Your hands fumble with his belt, and he helps you, kicking off his jeans until there's nothing between you but skin and heat and six months of longing. He hovers above you, braced on his forearms, looking down at your face like he's searching for something.

"You okay?" he whispers.

You nod, reaching up to brush his hair from his forehead. "More than okay."

In the soft shadows of the room, he enters you, and you both exhale sharply, as though surfacing from the depths of an ocean where breath had been a distant memory. The sensation is one of rediscovery, a familiar yet long-forgotten dance. Stillness enfolds you as he pauses, his forehead resting gently against yours. You can feel the ragged ebb and flow of his breath matching your own. This dance—this intimate choreography—is etched into your bodies, even if time and distance tried to erase it from your minds.

Wrapping your legs around his waist, you draw him deeper into the space that feels both foreign and unmistakably home. His groan reverberates through the stillness, your name a sacred chant murmured against the warmth of your neck. His movements begin in slow, deliberate strokes, each one held with the weight of potential farewells lingering in unspoken words. It’s cautious yet intense—a savoring of moments that feel fleeting.

Your fingers dig into the solid expanse of his shoulders, an encouragement driven by urgency that pulses under your skin. As he hones his rhythm, it transforms gradually—a measured tempo building to something more urgent and alive. The room captures the symphony created by your intermingled breaths and soft exclamations of pleasure; tender whispers punctuate every shared heartbeat.

“Mírame.” he murmurs softly, and you oblige by opening your eyes. What you find in his gaze transcends physical intimacy—a vulnerability laid bare beneath the depth of those dark irises. There’s something exchanged between you in that shared look; a silent acknowledgment binding hearts entwined not just by touch but by something deeper—a promise unspoken yet understood.

As he moves within you with growing intensity, everything coalesces into a crescendo orchestrated by longing rekindled after months apart. This moment stretches beyond time—each motion weaving threads back together until they form one seamless tapestry, rich with color and meaning.

You unravel beneath him then, as pleasure overwhelms your senses like waves crashing upon the shore—leaving you trembling in its aftermath—a mosaic remade anew with each crescendo reached. It's only heartbeats later that he too succumbs; whispers woven with devotion spill from his lips—your name uttered like prayerful benediction—as he collapses against you under comforting weight rather than burdened heaviness reminding once distant souls they are home again.

For a long time, neither of you speaks. The only sound is your breathing gradually slowing, his heart pounding against yours. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your shoulder, and you press your face into his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him—soap and something distinctly warm that you could never quite name but always recognized. 

The sheets are tangled beneath you and one of your legs is still hooked loosely around his, the weight of him grounding you in a way nothing else ever really has. He shifts just enough to ease some of the pressure from your ribs, but he doesn’t pull away. He just rests his forehead against your temple and exhales, long and shaky.

You could fall asleep like this. You think maybe you will. His fingers keep moving, slow and aimless, brushing the slope of your shoulder like he’s memorizing it all over again. Your name leaves his lips again, softer now, like it doesn’t have to be anything more than sound.

You whisper, “You okay?”

He nods. Doesn’t speak for a moment. Then, “Yeah. I just… missed this.”

You close your eyes. That ache settles in your chest again, but it’s quieter now. Less sharp. He missed you. You missed him. Maybe that’s enough for tonight.

You shift just enough to look at him. His eyes are already on you, sleep-soft and open in that way only Joaquín can be when he’s let his guard down completely. You brush his hair back from his forehead. He leans into the touch without thinking.

“I don’t want to leave,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to.”

That’s it. No big promises. No next steps.

He nods again, relief flickering through his features so fast it almost doesn’t register. Then he dips his head and presses a kiss to your collarbone—slow, tender, like punctuation. He pulls the blanket up over both of you and shifts to lie beside you properly, one arm curling beneath your neck, the other resting across your stomach. You curl into him like you never left.

Outside, the city keeps humming, but in here it’s still.

Eventually, his breathing evens out. You listen to it until yours matches. He’s heavy against you, solid and warm, and you feel the weight of everything that just passed between you start to settle. You let your eyes fall shut, just for a moment.

Sleep takes you slowly. Quietly. With him still holding you.

You wake before the sun’s fully up, the room washed in a soft, blue-grey hush. For a second, you don’t know what stirred you—until Joaquín shifts beside you, mumbling something half-asleep into the pillow. His leg slides against yours, warm and lazy, and he tucks his face into the curve of your neck like he never left it.

You smile before you can stop yourself.

“Your hair’s in my mouth,” he mumbles, voice gravelly and ridiculous.

You laugh, quiet and raspy. “You drooled on my arm.”

He lifts his head, barely squinting at you with a slow, stupid grin. “Worth it.”

You hum, brushing your fingertips along his side. His skin is warm, soft in places and still humming with leftover heat. You could stay like this for hours, wrapped up in his breath and that dopey smile, but he glances at the clock and winces.

“I have to go soon,” he says, voice soft. “Work.”

You nod, even though you want to pretend this room doesn’t exist outside of this moment. He leans in and kisses your shoulder. Then your jaw. Then your mouth—slow, unhurried, like he’s still not ready to leave either.

When he finally pulls back, he gives you this look. Gentle. Unspoken.

He doesn’t say thank you, or I’ll call you, or what happens now?

He just says, “You made last night feel like home again.”

And somehow, that’s the thing that gets you. You swallow around the ache building in your throat and try to smile. He kisses you one more time, then slips out of bed and pulls his shirt back on in the grey morning light. You stay where you are, curled in warm sheets, watching him tie his shoes with one knee on the floor like he’s done this in a hundred quiet mornings—only he hasn’t. Not like this. Not since you left.

He glances over his shoulder before opening the door. “Sleep a little more,” he says. “I’ll see you.”

You nod. He doesn’t push it further. He just gives you one last, crooked smile and slips out into the hallway. The door clicks shut behind him. And you’re left sitting up in bed, hair a mess, covers pooled around your waist, staring at the door like it might open again.

You don’t know what happens next. But for the first time in a long time, it doesn’t scare you.

[ex0rin]

Yeah, that's my new wallpaper. Look at that. Sam, Joaquín, & Isaiah | CA: Brave New World

[usoppshoneydew]

Yes I loved that bucky made a cameo just to tell his husband that he looked good, and give him soft reassurance, and tell him he loves him, yes yes.

But Sam's relationships with Joaquin and Isaiah were really the highlight of the movie for me.

Sam still having a close relationship with Isaiah and training with him, the way Isaiah looks out for him and tells him to leave him behind, the hug and the cute little old guy "thank you Sam" after he kept his promise and got him out hbkufddd

Sam's relationship with Joaquin too. I already liked their few interactions in tfatws but to see them spend so much time together in this movie was wonderful. Like their banter and dialogue was so cute, from Joaquin talking about snacks for the road to the meaningful chat they had in the hospital( the antman joke,and Joaquin's face when Sam suddenly started telling him how to do his special move)

Isaiah and Joaquin's relationship too! If I don't get more of this duo I'm gonna combust. Joaquin running his mouth and then tearing off Isaiah's screen protector, he was such an irritating young dude at first but they were still bonding by the time they were in the limo. Isaiah asking Joaquin to send him the selfie they took was adorable and the way he was coming back from visiting him in the hospital??? I love them so much, this trio😭😭😭😭

[monikanarnia]

Captain America: Brave New World

[joaquin-thefalcon]

[barneswilsonrogers]

That's Isaiah Bradley. The-THE Isaiah Bradley? CAPTAIN AMERICA: BRAVE NEW WORLD dir. Julius Onah

[mikeymagee]

Sam Wilson: Double Consciousness

One thing I love about Black superheroes is that they all (in their own ways) celebrate different aspects of the Black experience.

T'challa, in the first Black Panther film represented Afro-futurism and Pan-Africanism.

Shuri, in Wakanda Forever, represented Black grief and the pain of loss.

Luke Cage represented African American pride and resilience

Tyrone from Cloak and Dagger represented the fear of living as a Black person in a white dominated space.

Miles Morales in Into the Spider-Verse, represented the creation of an individual identity (he even uses his graffiti skills to paint his own Spiderman suit). Each hero represented a specific aspect of the Black experience.

But Sam Wilson has always occupied a specific space that (until this moment) had yet to be filled. Sam Wilson, as an African American man, and as an African American Captain America, represents double consciousness.

(Potential Spoilers after the cut)

Double Consciousness, in this context, is a term that was coined by WEB Du Bois in his book The Souls of Black Folk in which he states that:

"It is a peculiar sensation, this double-consciousness, this sense of always looking at one's self through the eyes of others, of measuring one's soul by the tape of a world that looks on in amused contempt and pity. One ever feels his two-ness,—an American, a Negro; two souls, two thoughts, two unreconciled strivings; two warring ideals in one dark body, whose dogged strength alone keeps it from being torn asunder. The history of the American Negro is the history of this strife – this longing to attain self-conscious manhood, to merge his double self into a better and truer self. In this merging he wishes neither of the older selves to be lost. He does not wish to Africanize America, for America has too much to teach the world and Africa. He wouldn't bleach his Negro blood in a flood of white Americanism, for he knows that Negro blood has a message for the world. He simply wishes to make it possible for a man to be both a Negro and an American without being cursed and spit upon by his fellows, without having the doors of opportunity closed roughly in his face"

In essence, to be a Black American is to be a creature of two warring worlds, and it also means that the Black American must be ever aware at the fact that every move we make is not only going to be used to judge our character, but also the character of every other Black American. And Sam Wilson is aware of that fact.

In both The Falcon and the Winter Soldier, Sam brings up the fact that he knows the world is watching him and hating him simply for being a Black man who represents the United States. When Sam is juxtaposed against Isaiah Bradley, another Black Captain America who the country abandoned, Sam is reminded of how this country has always treated Black men and women.

And, sadly enough, Sam could also be looking at his own future. During Brave New World, Sam is ever honorable, ever compassionate and ever empathetic to everyone around him (even when their actions do not warrant Sam's kindness). Because, once again, Sam is aware that his actions (whether negative or positive) will have a greater impact on more than just himself. And that kind of pressure can lead to bitterness. It can wear a body down.

Sam states:

"Because if I’m not on point, I feel like I’ve let down everyone who is fighting for a seat at that table.”

Isaiah Bradley has always had a rocky relationship with the US, just like all African Americans have, So it makes sense to me that Sam Wilson may also be thinking about Isaiah each time he picks up the shield. When African Americans create something (be it a movie, or a tv show, or a play) that centers on the Black experience, there is an added pressure to overperform to prove the validity of the project and the validity of Black narratives. When The Wiz, a film that was originally going to be seen as "The First Black Classic" bombed in 1978, many Hollywood producers and film historians credited that film's failure as the reason why Black-led franchises are/were seen as box office poison for so long. Even with the success of 2018's Black Panther film, there are still people who're gun shy about centering Black narratives in the mainstream. So, if Sam Wilson were to fail as being Captain America, or if Sam Wilson were to represent himself in a way that is less admirable, it would have an effect on Isaiah's legacy, it would have an effect on Joaquin, it would have an effect on (potentially) Isaiah's grandson.

And even still, during the prison scenes in BNW, when Isaiah is locked away and Sam comes to visit him, Isaiah states:

"The last thing I want is for any of this ugliness to touch you."

Within the MCU Isaiah and Sam's stories are linked. Not just through the fact that Sam brought Isaiah's story out into the light, but also because they are both Black men who have held the mantel of Captain America, and whether they like it or not, their destinies with that legacy are intertwined. One will affect the other. They are each other's keeper.

Sam Wilson, rather through happenstance or fate, is the embodiment of Double Consciousness. Luke Cage, in both his comic book series and his Netflix show, was free to exist as a person outside of the white gaze. He could be angry, sad, fearful, etc, and not have to worry about how his actions would affect the larger community outside of Harlem. Sam Wilson does not have the luxury. So, when Sam is faced with a microaggression (such as being called "Son" by Ross), he is forced to hold his tongue. Sam Wilson is expected to react with kindness and decorum in the midst danger or disrespect, not because he can't fight back, but because he knows how the weight of his actions will affect those who look like him.

And Sam Wilson, a Black man without the soldier serum, is still expected to do everything that Steve Rogers (and to a lesser extent John Walker) do. Sam Wilson must do twice as much work with half as many resources. And if that's not the embodiment of the African American experience, I'm not sure what is. Many African American genres of music were created out of necessity and transferring what knowledge we could salvage onto new instruments. In short, African Americans had to improvise with the tools they were already given and create something new. Jazz and Blues was created because Black slaves were not allowed to use drums, so those rhythmic patterns were transposed onto guitars and horns.

Sam is expected to carry a large amount of physical labor (simply fighting as a human being without the serum clearly takes a toll). But he's also expected to do a lot of emotional labor as well. Through BNW Sam acts more as an ambassador for the US than a soldier. It is canon that in the MCU Sam speaks English, Spanish, Arabic and Japanese and he uses those skills to extend diplomacy to other nations and other people. In BNW, it was Sam who was responsible for deescalating international tensions with Japan, and it was Sam who managed to avoid a war through peaceful negotiation rather than war mongering (as Ross wanted to do). Even during the fight with Red Hulk, Sam had to resort to other means to achieve results (something that Steve or John Walker would've just brute forced their way through). Even while Sam was being shot at in the air, he never lost his cool because (like many African Americans) he is not afforded that privilege. John Walker, in TFATWS is allowed to murder and stain the shield with blood, but no one would ever say that white men like Walker are the problem with America. Yet Sam (and Isaiah) are far too familiar with the fact that a Black man screwing up will result in the judgement of everything that is associated with Blackness and Black people. So, they must find solutions without the use of violence. Sam must be diplomatic when the easier solution would be violence. Sam must be able to communicate with others on their own turf or in their own language during tense situations (like when he spoke Japanese to the fighter pilots).

Sam Wilson does not have the serum, but he does have wings. So, he adapted. Sam Wilson does not have the super strength needed to work the shield the same way Steve does, so Sam adapted and improvised. Just like Jazz music, Sam Wilson turned a perceived fault into a creative strength. He had to use his linguistic skills, his counseling skills, his flight capabilities, psychology and his boundless optimism to do the impossible.

A very hurting thing for Black Americans - to feel that we can't love our enemies. People forget what a great tradition we have as African-Americans in the practice of forgiveness and compassion. And if we neglect that tradition, we suffer.

-Bell Hooks

The fact of the matter remains, Sam Wilson embodies so many aspects of the African American experience, even when he doesn't mean to. Compassion. Improvisation. And the constant idea that this country can choose its better angels. In a way, Sam Wilson occupies a space that Luke Cage, T'challa, Shuri, and even Erik Killmonger cannot. It is a piece of the African American experience that takes a slug in the face and still gets right back up. The Black American tradition of making the impossible a reality through nothing but sheer force of will. Steve Rogers might have been the one to say the words "I can do this all day," but Sam Wilson lives them.

And he comes from a centuries old tradition of people who have been living them.

[theskyisorange]

Joaquin Torres' wallpaper btw, if you even care

[ghost-sin]

Wolf