Chapter Text
It’s fairly late when you finally get back to your apartment, fumbling with your bag slipping down your shoulder, your phone clutched in your free hand. The stairs have your breath a little uneven as you talk to your friend.
“-like, fine, if you’ve changed your mind, you don’t wanna go out with me, but at least let me know?” You reason, and you can hear her hum in agreement absentmindedly over the line, the sound of her chopping something for dinner in the background. “Like, answer my text, let me know you’re not dead in a ditch and you changed your mind, fuckin’ fine!”
“And how long did you end up waiting for him?” She quizzes, her voice muffled as she fiddles with something.
“Twenty-five minutes,” you say, slightly evasively. The light in your hallway is flickering, bouncing between bright flashes and total darkness and you blink, dazzled. That’s why you don’t see the lock until you reach out to the door handle, where it’s been neatly carved in a near-perfect circle, popped through, leaving a little peephole through the wood. The door is still ajar.
“I’m gonna have to call you back,” you say resignedly, and she picks up on your sudden change of mood, asks you how you are. You stuff your now-useless keys back into your bag and soothe her, hanging up once she sounds less suspicious. You nudge the door open fully, and hang your bag on the hook beside it. The apartment is dark, and you push the door back into its jamb, letting it stick there. The curtains are open, and you can’t hear anything. You toe off your shoes, stretching your feet as you remove them. When you pad into your living area, you’re so quiet nobody else would hear you, but him. He’s in total darkness, leaning up against your window and looking out. You flick on the light. He flinches, scrunching his eyes closed quickly and you don’t feel guilty.
“You broke my door,” you say as you make your way into the kitchen. There’s a small chunk of wood from your door on the floor that you step over, like he’d clawed it out and tossed it away. There’s a bottle of tequila in the fridge, and it’s sharply cold on your already-chilled hand when you take it out. He rubs a hand over his eyes, the heel of his hand scuffing over his nose. You pluck two short glasses out of the cabinet, knock a healthy pour into each.
“I wouldn’t have had to, but you changed the locks,” he says, with a tone of reason.
“Yeah,” you agree. “Because you wouldn’t give back the key.” You hold out the chilled glass to him, but he puts his palm up at it, silently refusing. You pour his into yours with a shrug, dropping the empty glass onto your coffee table with a clatter. He picks it up, slides a coaster under it just in time to catch the condensation dripping down the side.
“I need to have a key,” he says. “What if there was an emergency?”
You look at him, one eyebrow raised, then lift your glass and use it to point at the large window he’s standing beside. He scowls, one of his huge shoulders moving in a shrug.
“No, you’re right,” you say, digging into your pocket. You drag out your phone, unlock it and lift it to your ear. His watch rings, a bright buzzy sound, the band letting out a hologram of colourful, fluttering music notes. “Answer your fucking phone.”
He answers with a single tap, and your voice comes out from the watch, tinny and out of sync.
“Miguel, I’m having an emergency,” you say into the phone and he head drops, his shoulders slump like he’s overcome with exhaustion. “My ex broke into my apartment and he won’t fuckin’ leave.”
He hangs up with a quick gesture, leaving a dial tone buzzing in your ear. “That’s cute, you’re real cute,” he says. He casts a deliberate glance over you, from your hair to your socked feet. “Speaking of, how was your date?”
You’re halfway through a glug of tequila, cold against your teeth when he speaks, and you drag it away from your mouth, your eyes slitted. “How’d you know about that?”
“He didn’t show, huh?” Miguel says, with sympathy and your heart beats faster in your chest, sending a rush of heat over your body.
“Did you fucking do something to him?” You demand and he rolls his eyes, leaning back against the wall and showing you his empty palms, as though that could convince you he’s not dangerous.
“Did he hurt your feelings?” Miguel asks, instead of answering you, his face downturned with mock sympathy. “Leave you sittin’ there all alone?”
“Fuck you,” you say, but he’s right. You swallow back another glug of tequila, and suddenly your glass is empty.
“He was no good, mi vida,” he says. His reflection in the lit-up glass is huge and dark, all red glare and blue from his suit. “Trust me.”
Your eyes feel hot, and your cheeks are burning with the alcohol. You flex your socked toes into the carpet, your breath caught in your chest. Maybe he’s right. He’s usually right about things like this.
“He’s alive, he’s fine,” Miguel soothes, and your mouth downturns as you try to squash down the urge to go to him. “You don’t need to worry.”
“Well - yeah, it sucked sitting there,” you bite out and he’s on you before you even see him move. He’s so tall and broad, but he moves so swift and wraps his arms around you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever known. Your eyes are burning, finally feeling the embarrassment of sitting at that bar while the waitstaff got more and more irritated at you, and humiliation when that changed to pity as they realised you’d been stood up. He’s so tall he has to hunch over to get a tight, all-encompassing grip on you and your face slots right back into his chest like it always does. He smells like gasoline and coffee, like he always does. His heart is beating just a little too fast, like it always does.
“You have to fix my fuckin’ door,” you say, muffled and nearly indistinct from where you’ve buried your face in his chest. His slow nod moves his whole body, and you along with it. “Now. I’m not going to sleep with it like that.”
“I’ll protect you,” he promises, and you sigh heavily against him in response, your damp breath misting on the panel of his suit.
“Yeah,” you say, muted. “I believe you.”
You already have your phone in your hand to text the local handyman whose number you saved the first time. You tap out a text to him, and Miguel doesn’t even seem to notice, too absorbed in running his hand over your hair. He responds really quickly, thankfully, and you tuck your phone away.
The watch vibrates at the back of your head, irritating you to an inordinate degree, and then you hear Lyla’s peppy voice. He shakes his wrist, jerks his arm forward quickly to silence her, but he draws back anyway. His big hands come down to cup your face, his gloves soft and staticky against your cheeks.
“I have to go,” he says.
“So, you lied,” you point out.
“I didn’t mean to, mi vida. Something’s wrong-”
“It always is,” you agree. “Fuck off, then. I already have someone coming to fix the door.”
“So, you didn’t believe me,” he says.
“You lied first.”
“You can’t be mad at me for something and then do the same thing!”
“Of course I can!”
“How?”
“Hypocrisy! Welcome to Earth.”
He doesn’t answer for a moment, and then his eyes turn skyward like he’s begging for patience.
“Are you gonna give me the key, this time?” He presses and your hand comes up to grip his chin, to stare into his red eyes. He looks so exhausted, harsh lines of black under his eyes, his cheekbones hard. His lips are chapped.
“We’ll see,” you allow.
“You changed your perfume,” he says, and Lyla pops up again with a twinkling sound, her tiny figure visibly irritated. He swipes her away again without looking. His nose is wrinkled a little, the scent must be so strong to him.
“You don’t like it?”
“I liked the other one better. The one that smelled like the woods,” he says. He pulls back, tapping something into his watch without looking. You preferred the other one, too. He steps back, cups a hand around your face and then opens your window.
“It’s expensive. As is a new door,” you say.
“I’ll take care of it,” he promises, and then turns and dives through your window. There’s a knock at your broken door, and the force pushes it open, revealing the handyman on the other side.