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ficnation · 11 months

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Chapter 4: The Love She Holds

Series: “She” Word count: 2,7k+ Pairing: Angel Reyes x Female! Reader Warnings: 18+; mayans mc typical warnings, unwanted touch, SMUT kinda A/n: What we're all been waiting for ✨ PS. If I reread this one more time before posting I'll probably scrape it all bcs I'm never satisfied 😩 If you enjoyed reading this please reblog and let me know your thoughts!

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For the next few days, Angel can’t look you in the eyes—hell, he can’t even bring himself to leave his room when he hears you shuffling around the apartment. He waits for the sound of the lock shifting in the door before he can bring himself to stick his head out of his safe haven.

Angel knows he’s the one that fucked up this whole thing with you. He was lonely, and you were in his life for such a long ass time. You’ve never let him down—not even once. You are the sweetest person he’s ever met, yet you can still kick his ass when he’s being a dick. Falling in love with you was inevitable, but he didn’t know it would happen so fast—so soon.

The man sighs as he leans his elbows on the wooden counter, listening to the wheezing of the coffee machine as hot black liquid spurts into the mug. The sound was tickling his nerves in a certain—very annoying—way. It didn’t make him even slightly angry before the bath incident, but now he just can’t stand it—it makes his head hurt.

He slams his fist onto the counter, cursing loudly. The coffee spills over the edge of the mug and barely misses his hand.

“I should fuckin’ do something,” he murmurs to himself through clenched teeth. Since when was he afraid to go after a woman he loves? He’s never been a goddamn pussy. What changed?

You are just so different than anyone Angel’s ever been with. He doesn’t want to lose you—can’t fucking stand the thought of you walking away. He has to do something.

He drops Maverick off at Felipe’s house—gives them some abuelo-nieto time while he drives over to the bar where you work. It’s a shithole—a very suspicious one at that—yet the parking lot in front is almost full. The neon sign above the door flashes on and off when Angel slams the door of his car shut. Jesus, it’s gonna give someone a headache or a fucking seizure.

Entering this building was probably one of the worst mistakes in life—the man thinks as he’s greeted by a couple almost going at it by the entrance. The skinny blond dude has his hand down the poor girl’s skimpy skirt as she moans loudly in his ear, hips rolling into his palm. Fucking disgusting.

He was doing the same exact shit back in the day when he was dumb, reckless, and didn’t care about anyone other than himself. But now the view makes him almost gag.

The brunet pushes past the lovebirds—or rather fuckbirds—through the narrow hallway to the main area. The dimmed red lights flashing above his head and the music that makes every wall pulse with the beat make it seem like more of a club rather than a bar. He’s surprised when he takes a few more steps and a woman dressed in booty shorts with her whole tits out passes by him with a tray full of colorful shots. What the fuck is this place?

Angel looks around wildly, searching the topless women’s faces in fear he’ll recognize one of them. He pushes past the swaying bodies in the middle of the room, and then he sees you—working behind the bar.

He’s relieved when he notices that your chest is covered by one of those bralette thingies you like to wear so much. But he’s not sure whether this relief comes from not wanting the pathetic men around the bar to stare at your perfect body or not wanting to get another surprise boner in front of you.

“You didn’t tell me you’re a bartender now,” he yells through the loud music as your gaze finds him, your eyes widening in shock.

You serve one of the men at the bar a bottle of beer, popping the cap simultaneously, then you come back to Angel and squint at him, trying to find a clue as to why he turned up at your workplace and how he even knew where to find you. This bar was almost an hour's drive away from Santo Padre.

“What the hell are you doing here? I do not have time to put up with your shit right now, Angel,” you sneer at him as you lean over the bar in hopes he’ll hear you better, take the hint and retreat back to his car.

“I’m fucking sorry, alright?!” He throws his hands in the air in exasperation, almost knocking a drink out of some poor girl’s hand.

You blink once, then twice, and your eyebrows scrunch up in annoyance, “Fuck off.” You whip around and go the opposite way to serve another customer.

That’s definitely not how Angel imagined this conversation would go. He didn’t know you were that mad at him. He was a moron to think you’d accept his apology without a peep in the middle of a sea of drunk strangers. This wasn’t a goddamn telenovela.

The man sighs deeply in annoyance before following you to the other side of the bar. “Querida, can we talk? Give me five fucking minutes.”

At first, he’s sure you’ll just ignore him as your eyes almost pop out of your skull—that’s how hard you roll them at his words—but then you turn to him with teary eyes. “I’m at work. I can’t. You really couldn’t wait and ambush me when I’m home?”

“It was an impulse,” he admits. Angel knew it was pretty dumb to think that if he came here, you’d drop everything, so he could explain himself and get rid of this guilt that’s been eating him alive for the past few days. “Please, querida.”

“Oh, for god’s sake,” you curse under your breath before waving over the other bartender and shouting through the noise to her that you’re taking a break.

You join Angel on the other side of the counter and tug at his kutte, leading him toward the exit. Before you can even reach the hallway, someone bumps into you, their hands grabbing at your naked waist.

“Hey there, bonita,” the man greets you. The smell of his cologne and cigarettes makes your eyes widen—you know it very well.

Angel stands there for a second, his left brow raised in annoyance and confusion because you seem to know this guy—and he really doesn’t like that thought. He pushes the stranger’s hands off your body with a sneer.

“Man, don’t fucking touch her like that.”

You catch Angel’s forearm and squeeze almost painfully, your nails digging into his inked skin. You don’t turn your head toward him even for a quarter of a second.

“The hell? We’re friends, big guy.” The man’s deep voice and graying beard confuse him even more. Since when do you fancy fucking grandpas?

“Uh, Cesar, hi,” you greet him, your voice squeaky and the upward quirk of your lips fake. The second the stranger’s gaze falls over your grip on the brunet’s arm, you release him. “Sorry, I’ve actually just finished my shift.”

“No, you fucking didn’t.” Cesar’s eyebrows and nose scrunch threateningly. Who the fuck is this guy to be talking to you like that?

You reply without missing a beat, “My kid’s got a fever. It’s an emergency.”

The old guy looks between your face and Angel’s before the grimace falls. The smirk taking its place isn’t any less threatening. “You must be the baby daddy, huh?” he asks, but his tone is clearly mocking.

You pray in your head that Angel will hold his short temper at bay. You know, one wrong word to Cesar equals a shit ton of trouble—even the satisfaction of wiping that disgusting smirk off his face wasn’t worth it.

“Mi niña hermosa. So fucking good at riding, she got herself a biker,” Cesar almost moans those words out as his hand finds your hip, fingers toying with the belt loop of your dress pants. You don’t move to slap his hand away.

Angel raises his fist to punch him, his teeth gritting against each other almost audibly. Before he can deliver that hit, you push him aside and usher him out of the door. You don’t say another word to that Cesar guy—not even a goodbye—as he slips a bill into your back pocket and slaps your ass.

Angel is fucking livid because you know how to take care of yourself, he saw you kill a man before, crush his skull with your goddamn boot, and yet you just take the disrespect in silence. It’s not like you.

Once you’re out the door and out of earshot, he explodes. “Why the fuck did you let him treat you like that?!” His voice reverberates through the night air, earning the two of you a few concerned and annoyed glances from the bystanders.

“That’s my boss. Now shut up and take me home,” you mumble, exhausted, looking around the parking lot in search of Angel’s car. “I spent an hour in the car with that dick to even get here, and now I’m going back after not even half of my shift just because you couldn’t wait to talk,” you rant, almost stumbling over your words.

When you reach the car, and he opens the door at the passenger side like always, he’s surprised to catch a glimpse of tears running down your cheeks. He joins you inside with a sigh, concerned eyes finding your head turned away from him as you stare through the side window.

“Cariño, I’m sorry,” Angel whispers, his hand reaching to push a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

You sniffle, wiping your cheeks with your bare arm. “Every single time I feel like we’re closer than ever and that maybe you feel something toward me too, you fucking push me away.”

“I know, I’m—”

You cut him off before he has a chance to apologize again, “No, I’m speaking right now. You’ve never yelled at me before. Not like that. You scared the shit out of me, and I blamed myself. Wondered what the hell I did to deserve it. But I didn’t do shit.” You throw your arms in the air, gesticulating toward him. You still refuse to meet his eyes. “You fucked up. Not me. You’re the one that’s been playing with my feelings all this time, and god forbid I try to even out the stakes.”

Angel’s now the one tearing up as his eyes widen at your words. “Querida, I didn’t mean it. I didn’t fucking mean it.” His fingers find solace in tugging on his hair in frustration. “And I never wanted you to feel like I’m playing with your feelings. I’m so sorry.”

You turn away from him again, biting your lip to keep the sobs inside. “Please, just drive me home, Angel.” The desperation in your voice is heartbreaking.

So he does what you ask of him and drives you home in silence. He doesn’t have it in him to try again when you’re already struggling, trying to keep the whimpers from wrecking your body. And when you pull up in front of your apartment building with a heavy heart, he lets you jump out of the car and rush to the door.

He stays in his seat, trying to recollect himself—it doesn’t help, he still hates himself for making you feel this way. It takes a while for him to get inside the apartment, he dreads that when he walks in, you’ll tell him to take his shit and get out of your life.

Angel knows he fucked up, and you were right; he played with your feelings—played with his own too. He slept in your bed almost every night, cuddled with you, kissed your forehead and told you ‘goodnight’ and ‘good morning’. How was it any different from how he’d treat Nails, Luisa, or any other woman he loved? Minus the sex. And when you challenged that unspoken boundary—on purpose or not—he chickened out and treated you like a plague. What the hell was wrong with him?

The apartment is swallowed in darkness when he enters it. You’re nowhere to be seen, and he figures out you’ve probably shut yourself inside your room, maybe even locked the door, so he wouldn’t be able to come in. He wouldn’t blame you.

He sits on the couch in the gloom and stares into the void. He’ll wait for you to come to him once you’re ready—he’ll sit here for hours if he has to. Angel needs to fix this, tell you what’s really been on his mind the past couple of days—tell you how much you mean to him, how much he loves you, and how fucking terrifying it is.

Three hours pass, and he’s almost dozed off on the couch, his head tilted forward, his back slumped, and his eyelids drooping with every second. The wooden floor creaks underneath your footsteps, waking him up completely. The sleepiness evaporates into thin air as he straightens up and finds your frame in the darkness.

You switch on one of the lamps in the corner of the room. Its warm glow takes over its surroundings, but not overwhelmingly so. Angel squints a little as your frame drops onto the couch beside him. You sniffle softly before leaning your head on his shoulder.

His heart shatters just a little bit more, and his voice carries it, breaking in the middle of the sentence, “I’m sorry, cariño.”

You don’t acknowledge his apology—you don’t really need to. Your next words are all the forgiveness he could ever want.

“I love you, Angel,” you mumble against his arm. It’s a quiet confession, yet it echoes in his mind like a mantra.

He feels your tears soaking into the sleeve of his shirt. The man blinks in shock once, or twice, then pulls you into his lap and presses a gentle kiss against your forehead.

“You know I love you too, right? More than any woman I’ve ever loved,” he admits, and it pains him, but it’s the truth.

He loved Luisa and Stephanie, but those feelings pale in comparison to what he feels for you. Angel never experienced this overwhelming want to protect someone from the whole goddamn world—the pure need to spend every single minute of his life with them and care about them more than he’s ever cared about himself. He feels that for you—like he could throw himself into a burning fire if someone promised him his sacrifice would give you and Maverick safety for the rest of your lives.

You straighten up in his arms and cradle his jaw in your palms. When your eyes meet, you see that burning fire in them. He doesn’t need to say anything else—you understand him without words.

Your lips press against his tentatively at first, tasting the love and longing. But Angel has a different idea. He pulls you flush against his chest, hands tangling in your hair as he deepens the kiss. His tongue grazes the plush of your lips, and you part them for him without a second thought.

That night, he fucks you on the couch in the middle of your living room, your back pressed against the cushions as he slides inside you with a guttural groan. It’s sweet and needy. The desire you harbored for each other finally released into the world—he’s far past feeling guilty, and sorry for a woman that’s long gone.

Your moans reverberate through the room, and all he can think about is how perfectly he fits inside you—like you were made just for him. One look into your eyes, and he knows you’re thinking the same thing.

Your nails bite into the bare skin of his back, and the pain is so lovely—he could get drunk on it. He pushes deeper and deeper until you’re a whimpering, clenching mess beneath him. It’s a picture that burns into his brain, he’ll never be able to get it out—not that he’ll ever want to.

When he spills inside you with a groan, you pull him flush against your naked frame, cradling his face in your palms and leaving sweet pecks anywhere you can reach.

He’s addicted already, he’ll never be able to give you away now—not a chance in the world. Angel’s love for you is burned into his heart permanently.

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