I stare at the lake from the window seat in the living room. Miguel showers, scrubbing the sand from his hair and probably taking care of other matters, too.
I pull my legs up to my chest and rest my forehead on my knees. Rosalina sleeps in the room over. I've showered and washed my hair. Miguel isn't upset with me. We even said 'I love you' to each other, and he hasn't been able to wipe the soft smile from his face since.
Everything should be fine. It's not.
I had stared at the marks on my neck in the bathroom mirror apathetically. The bandage over the other side is big and ugly.
I love Miguel. I do. I love him so much that it consumes me entirely - and I want to share that with him, body and soul, like how he clearly wants to do with me. I just can't seem to bring myself to. And the marks, the bite - it's all proof of what I had agreed to before it all went downhill.
It was so easy with him before; the dancing, the flirting, the teasing. It was natural, it was fun and comfortable. Then this road block popped up out of thin air and halted me completely. It shackles me. I fear that I'm all the way back in square one.
Miguel's being so patient. I don't deserve it. Not after I flirted with him the way I did the day before. Not after I initiated what happened on the beach and then reacted so fearfully towards him. He doesn't deserve that.
He's so good. He's so good to me that it's agony.
The shower stops. Footsteps walk down the hall moments later, and then Miguel enters with a towel over his hair. His shirt hangs loose on his broad frame, dipping over his collarbone. He wears the silly little rabbit slippers that Rosalina bought for him as a joke. He's not like me, riled and anxious - he's calm. He's content.
Miguel falters at my stare and smiles. Soft. For a scary-looking guy, he's always so soft.
"Hey," he hums. He stops before me on my window seat. "Scooch forward."
I shuffle across the cushion. He slips into the space behind me and drapes his arms around my stomach. His lips rest in my hair, still drying. I hesitate, before leaning back into his chest, and then my body relaxes on instinct.
"¿Como estás?" he murmurs into the back of my head.
I can't answer right away. My hands lift up and hold his instead. They're so firm, so strong and stable. There's a subtle bump of his spinnerets at the tops of his wrists. His palms are rough and calloused. I close my eyes and stifle a shiver at the reminder of how they felt on my body, of the way they traced my curves like connecting the dots between stars.
Of the way they felt like heaven, and then hell.
"Y/n?" he prompts.
"I'm fine," I mumble. I look out at the lake and watch the reflection of the moon roll across its swells. I lift one of his hands up and press a kiss to a thin, white scar on his knuckle. "Are you okay?"
Miguel exhales. The dried strands of my hair flutter. "I'm worried about you."
My eyes drop to our entwined hands. "Sorry," I whisper.
"Stop apologising," he murmurs, and kisses my hair. "You apologise too much."
I go to apologise again for apologising before stopping myself. Miguel smiles against my head, quietly amused.
"What can I do to get you to stop worrying?" I ask.
"Nothing," he answers. "There's nothing you can do to stop me from worrying. For you or Rosa."
I fall silent. I guess that is the one flaw of loving someone so entirely - the fear of losing them. We know that fear more intimately than most.
My legs unfurl from under me and I stand. I hold out my hand for Miguel to take. "I'm going to bed."
He takes my hand with a sad, sad smile. "Good idea."
Miguel rises. My eyes rise with him, locked on the gentle look upon his face. I want to reach up and grab his cheeks, I want to bring him down and kiss him. I want to kiss him so bad. But I can't. I've given him enough mixed signals for one night as is.
So, instead, I lead him to the bedroom. I don't let go of his hand as I crawl into bed. I don't let go his hand as I pull his arm around me and I definitely don't let go as he drags me back into his chest and cradles me beneath the covers.
I don't let go as I slip quickly into an exhausted sleep.
••🕷️••
It's late morning when I wake up. The bed's empty. Miguel and Rosalina's voices drift from the kitchen.
I stare at the ceiling and pull the duvet over my nose. I don't want to get up. I want to sleep until the heavy feeling in my chest disappears. I want to sleep all day. I want to sleep forever. My body tiredly aches in agreement.
I pull myself upright and shove the blankets from over my legs. I cannot sleep forever.
I'm hit with the smell of a cooked breakfast as I pad down the hallway. Miguel's at the stove, frying bacon and eggs and teaching Rosalina, who stands beside him and watches. They both look up when I enter the room.
"Good morning!" Rosalina chimes. She dashes towards me and tackles me into a hug. I squeeze her back and kiss her head. The weight in my chest halves in size.
"Morning, papita," I respond warmly. "How'd you sleep?"
"Good!" she replies. "Dad's teaching me to cook breakfast!"
I peek up at Miguel. He watches from the side of his eyes, paying half attention to us, half to breakfast. The mid-morning sun that filters through the window outlines him in gold.
"Exciting," I say to my daughter with as much weary enthusiasm I can muster. "If you practise enough then soon you'll be the best chef ever."
Rosalina's eyes glint with her usual determination. She spins on her socks and returns to Miguel's side before insisting on holding the spatula. He relinquishes it with an amused smirk and steps back towards me.
He leans against the kitchen island and crosses his arms. "Hey," he greets. His eyes squint when he smiles.
"Hi." My own smile is small. My gaze drops to the floor. "I overslept."
Miguel shrugs. "I've got things covered. You needed the rest."
My hands fold in front of my legs. "Thanks." I don't tell him that my sleep didn't leave me feeling all that rejuvenated.
His stare lingers for moment, silent, and it's as though he knows anyway. It's only broken when Rosalina calls for him to check that she's cooking the eggs right. I sigh, long and slow and quiet, as Miguel gives advice in the background.
We eat at the dining table. I can't find the energy to engage in the conversation, so I listen to Rosalina tell Miguel about the snail she found at school whom she named Albert. She had built him a home with walls of sticks and a leaf for the roof during recess, but it was swept away overnight.
She's not sure where Albert went. Miguel insists that Albert is off on a daring adventure.
When we finish eating and the table is cleared and cleaned, Rosalina escapes to the beach to collect shells and rocks. It's colder than yesterday, so retreat to my room and grab a hoodie to slip over my pyjamas. I can't quite be bothered to change into a proper outfit.
I make cups of tea for myself and Miguel. His has a spoonful of sugar and steeps for less time than mine.
He's sitting on the edge of the porch watching Rosalina when I step out onto it. The wood creaks beneath my slippers as I cross towards him, and he glances at me as I take my seat at his side. He grabs the tea from my outstretched hand with a 'thanks.'
We watch Rosalina dart across the beach and dig her hands through the sand as she collects a small haul of shells and rocks. She'll occasionally stumble up to us with her arms full of nature's trinkets and dump them beside us. She makes us promise to watch over her small stack of treasure vigilantly.
I pull my legs up to cross them. My knee rests on his thigh, and he lays his hand on it and rubs circles with his thumb. It's a soothing sensation that calms me.
The sky's cloudy. My tea has long been drained. It's been half an hour and we have yet to speak.
"What are you thinking about?" I ask quietly.
Miguel glances at me before returning his gaze to Rosalina. She picks up a small rock and holds it to the sky for inspection. She throws over her shoulder, unpleased.
"I'm not really thinking," he admits. "Just reminiscing."
"About?"
"Y/n," he answers. I turn my gaze to the gravel beneath my slippers as a complicated feeling arises inside me. "Sometimes I think I'm finally over it, and then I'll wake up in a cold sweat, and it feels like it's that first day without her all over again."
He must not have slept that well, either. I wonder what dead-me would think of the way I treat her Miguel. Would she understand my hesitation? If she really is me, then I'd like to think that she would.
Maybe she'd hate me.
"You think you get used to the feeling of them not being around anymore, but you never really do," Miguel softly continues. His thumb's paused its circles over my knee.
I slide my fingers through his and squeeze. "People dying fucking sucks."
Miguel's smile is curt. He drops his head with an amused huff. "Damn right," he says.
I stare at the side of his face as his humour fades back into contemplative woe. His mind is heavy. I can see it turning slow, lumbering circles.
"What else is bothering you?" I ask.
Miguel expels a breath. He stares hard at the gravel. "I really don't want to screw things up with you."
My brows furrow. "You're not screwing anything up, Miguito. You've been so good to me."
"Last night-"
"Was a mistake." I cut in. I can't meet his eyes when they turn to me. "It was my mistake."
"Last night," he repeats firmly, "I should've put a stop to things."
"Everything's better in retrospective," I remind in a murmur. I drag the toe of my slipper through the gravel, cutting out a single stone from the rest. I balance it on the fabric tip. "I should've stopped, I shouldn't have kissed you like I did, I should've made us go inside and called it a night before anything happened." I pull our entwined hands to my lap and fiddle with his fingers. "You can torture yourself with what you should've done, Mig, but it doesn't change anything."
He sighs. He's probably tortured himself with things he should've done ever since Y/n died. Just like I've done since Mig. And it really is torture.
I lean into Miguel's side. Rosalina wades through the surf and picks up a branch smoothened by the elements. Beneath my hoodie the bite on my neck aches, but only slightly.
"I liked last night," I whisper, an attempt of reassurance, a truth either way. "I liked it until we went a little too far and I freaked out. So don't kick yourself too much."
I feel Miguel shift as he looks down at me. I stroke my thumb over his index finger.
"You liked it?"
My head tilts back to send him a small, amused smile. His uncertainty is endearing, though entirely unneeded. He watches me with wide eyes and a knot between his brows.
"Of course I did. You're you." I squeeze his hand. "And you drive me crazy."
The knot relaxes. A small, flustered grin makes its way onto his face. My eyes fall bashfully.
"And... you know, we are on a porch..." My cheeks grow warm. "It's not raining but we can pretend it is, right?"
Miguel tilts his head. And then, after it clicks, his grin vanishes in understanding.
"I think I'll be okay if it's just a kiss," I murmur. I peek up at him. "I'd like to try. Can we try?"
Miguel has to take a moment to comprehend the offer I'm putting forward. His stare never wavers, stuck on me. He nods wordlessly.
I lift my free hand to hold his jaw, and he leans into my palm instinctively. He follows as I guide him down toward me, and then stops just before my head.
He holds his breath. I'm holding mine. His hand tightens in my own with nervousness, with anticipation. I feel like I'm having my very first kiss all over again.
I look him in the eyes. His gaze is already on mine like I'm the only thing in the world worth watching. My thumb brushes along his cheekbone and down to his jaw. The gap between our lips is infinitesimal, and tingles with phantom touch.
"I love you," I remind softly, and all that breath he's been holding releases. Miguel swallows the remaining space between us and kisses me.
The first thing my heart does is burst into flutters. This type of kiss is all sweetness and warm blankets, and it's so gentle that I grow teary. My stomach rolls itself into emotional tangles. I'm enveloped with love.
It's short, but not chaste. When Miguel pulls away to gauge the look on my face, my heartbeat's already thundering in my ears. I pull him back down for another soft kiss. He returns it readily, his eagerness a careful, caring thing. His hand that isn't already locked in mine comes up to cradle the back of my head.
I part to catch my breath. Miguel rests his forehead on mine. Our panting is quiet.
"Are you okay?" His voice catches.
I contemplate for a moment and truly take the time to asses myself. I'm relieved when no sense of regret lingers. Just love. So much love.
"I'm good," I answer, a touch woozy from the way my head spins. "Are you?"
"I'm great," Miguel breathes. I smile. "Can I have another?"
At my nod he doesn't waste time. He kisses me again, and then again, and again and again and again.
And, for the first time since I lost my Miguel, I really am feeling good.
••🕷️••
In the afternoon the clouds part, so we pack a lunch and head up river to a waterfall that Mig, Rosita and I used to frequent.
Rosalina charges ahead, taking the lead and getting distracted every few minutes by an interesting looking bug or a new baby tree she hasn't seen before. Miguel carries a basket of food. I carry the picnic blanket. Between us, our hands are entwined.
Despite my mood when I woke and my lack of substantial sleep, there's a skip in my step. Miguel seems more carefree, too, pointing out birds to me that his sharper vision catches. I make a joke about him drinking their blood like those massive spiders in Australia. He rolls his eyes and calls me unfunny, which we both know is blatantly untrue. I'm hilarious.
When we reach the waterfall I lay out the blanket while Miguel rifles through the food we brought to start on making lunch. Rosalina sits on one of the big boulders that border the swimming hole and kicks off her sandals.
"Dad? Can you plait my hair?" Rosalina calls. "It kept getting in my face yesterday."
Miguel freezes. The look he sends me is one of terror. I'm confused for a second before immediately grinning in amusement. He never learnt how to plait hair.
"Dad's making lunch at the moment, papita." I come to his rescue, and he sends me a relieved smile. I clamber onto the rock to braid my daughter's hair in his stead.
When her hair is secured, Rosalina leaps off the boulder and into the water. The crash of the waterfall creates a steady background noise. Rosita's giggles are the sweetest harmonies.
I sit beside Miguel and cross my legs, helping make the sandwiches we're having for lunch. I butter the bread while he slices lettuce and cheese. We work in comfortable tandem.
At one point he takes his finger and places it at the bottom of my chin. He turns my face to his and steals a quick kiss. I melt into a puddle. I have to take a moment to remould myself back into human form, and all the while Miguel returns to his task, smirking.
I wish I had a pillow so I could scream into it.
Rosalina clambers out of the water when lunch is ready. After eating, we wander the surrounding forest while waiting for our food to digest. Rosalina writes our names out of sticks - except that Miguel and I are simply 'dad' and 'mom.'
We return to the waterfall, and Rosalina dives headfirst into the water without hesitation. Miguel and I pause to shed our outer layers from over our swim clothes before joining her in the cold water. She splashes us immediately and declares a game of tag.
I try my best to focus on playing with her, but it's hard to keep my attention streamlined when Miguel begins to grow clingy. I'll get tagged and then he'll wrap his arms around me and litter my cheek with kisses. I coast on the waves of his affection.
"Dad!" Rosalina complains when he does it for the third time. "You can't touch her! You'll become it!"
"Oh, no," he says. "I guess I'm it." He kisses the bandage on my neck. "Now you're it, again." He gives me another. I bite my cheek to keep from laughing at the way Rosalina's face twists with frustration. "Whoops-" and another kiss "I just can't seem to stop-?"
Rosalina splashes the both of us with a huff. "You're so boring!" And then the game of tag comes to an abrupt end.
Miguel isn't upset. He squeezes his arms around me tighter and buries his face against the marks on my neck that he gave me the night before.
"You're insatiable," I say with a snicker.
"I know what I like," he attests.
"Insatiable."
"Maybe." He turns my head and kisses me softly. "Can you blame me?"
With the way Miguel looks at me, with the way I want to kiss him until I can't breathe, I guess I can't blame him at all.
••🕷️••
"No, no, no, Miguel!" Lyla scolds as she hovers behind me. "You can't just swap which way the braids go. You started over, so go over."
"I'm trying," he grunts. "This is confusing."
"You watch over the entire multiverse and you think plaiting hair is confusing," Lyla says monotonously. "You really are a man."
"You know, your lack of encouragement actually isn't helping," Miguel shoots back snarkily. "It actually just makes me feel worse."
It's late and our last night at the lake house. I sit on the bed and read my book that's laying open on my lap. Behind me is Miguel, attempting his best effort at braiding my hair. I'm practise for Rosalina.
"You're doing great," I offer. He's not even yanking any strands. It feels nice, and I'm struggling to keep my eyes open.
"Thank you," Miguel says, before leaning over my shoulder to kiss my cheek. "See, Lyla? It's not hard to be nice."
"She's only nice to you because she's in love with you."
"That's true," I hum, and turn the page. Miguel huffs. I blink slow and sluggish. "Are you almost done?"
"No," Miguel grumbles and gently guides his fingers through the style to unwind it. "I'm starting again."
It's the fifth time he's started over. I'm getting sleepy, and he's started plaiting again, and it feels so nice. My head nods as I try my best to stay awake.
"I think she's falling asleep, Miguel," Lyla comments.
"N'am not," I mumble. I force my eyes open and try to focus my vision on the page. "I'm wide awake."
"Convincing," Lyla says.
"Why'd you make your AI so rude?" I mutter.
"I modelled her after your attitude," Miguel drawls dryly.
"Really?" I blink slow again. He tugs gently on a few of my locks and slips it around another. "Wow. I am so mean to you."
"You are," he says unhappily.
"We are," Lyla agrees.
"But you still modelled her after me." I grin tiredly. "Are you into being bullied, Miguel? Just kidding, I already know. You are."
He responds by yanking my head back by my half-braided hair, and I gasp. I stare up at his grumpy face with wide eyes. I'm suddenly not so sleepy.
"You wanna repeat that, mi vida?" he hums lowly.
Speechless, I shiver. Lyla slaps her hands over her eyes and then peeks between her fingers.
Miguel's dark expression curls with a smirk. He pushes my head back up and I teeter, stunned stupid. He resumes braiding my hair as if nothing happened.
Holy shit.
Holy shit?
I stare dumbly at the book on my lap as Miguel continues plaiting. The words blur. His fingers brushing against the back of my neck sends tingles down my chest. His smug aura is practically tangible.
I grow antsy. I ball my hands together and clench them tightly.
"How's this?" Miguel asks Lyla.
"It looks terrible," she replies. "Do it again."
Miguel groans and undoes my hair. I can't take it. I shove the book off my lap and turn to kiss him before he can get started on his sixth attempt. His yelp of surprise is muffled.
"Whoa! Ew!" Lyla abruptly disappears.
Miguel doesn't stay stunned for long. He pulls me onto his lap and grins into the kiss. All thoughts of hair-plaiting and sleep is long forgotten. His smugness grows tenfold.
"Did you like that?" he asks.
"No," I whimper. But I did. This has been a weekend full of self-discovery.
Miguel isn't so easily fooled. "Liar," he whispers against my lips. "Who's insatiable, now?"
I'd tell him to shut up, but my mouth is already occupied, and I'd rather use it to kiss him. And I do. For another ten seconds.
"No- okay-" I push him back and hang my head. "No more. I'm really tired."
Miguel chuckles, unperturbed by the shortness of our heavy kisses. He's just happy to have them.
"You look tired," he says. "Those bags look a mile deep."
I press my hand over his mouth and send him a shitty, exhausted glare. "You are so rude. I'm going to tell Peter you're into being bullied, and he's gonna love it, and he's gonna tease you so badly."
Miguel pulls my hand from over his mouth with an irritated frown. "Why must he know every detail of our relationship?"
"Because he's my best friend," I say, and rest my head on his shoulder. "And best friends tell each stuff."
He can tell I'm beginning to slip. My eyes close. I slump further into him, and now he's holding up my entire weight. He does so easily.
"What kind of stuff?" Miguel asks.
"Y'know..." I slur, "stuff."
"It's a wonder you graduated with your degree," he mumbles, and I hit him weakly on the chest. He pulls me with him as he slides beneath the covers. "Why'd you have to be friends with Peter? Why couldn't it be Jess?"
"I am friends with Jess," I argue. "I'm just best friends with Peter. There's a difference." I shuffle beneath the duvet until I'm comfortable. Who needs a pillow when Miguel's chest is right there? I'll never need a pillow again. "Who's your best friend?"
"I don't have a best friend."
I scoff. "Don't be so macho. Everyone has a best friend." When Miguel still doesn't reply, I sigh. "Fine. Who's your closest friend?"
He falters for a long, few seconds. So long, in fact, that I think he's not going to answer. My head lulls. I'm almost asleep when Miguel finally mutters his reluctant answer;
"... Peter."
I tiredly grin. "You're such a hypocrite."
"Shut up," Miguel mutters. "Go to sleep already, you mean, mean woman."
I giggle softly and snuggle deeper into his chest. "You're so cute, Miguito. My cute little hypocrite."
I fall asleep to the sound of him grumbling under his breath.