13. Alejandro #2
I unlock the door and push it open. She steps in first, still laughing, but then her shoulders fall, unwinding. Back in her safe place. But the moment I shut the door behind us, everything shifts.
Her apartment is dim, just the soft glow of the hallway light filtering in through the windows. It smells like her—vanilla, faint citrus, a little like whatever lotion she wears that always drives me insane.
I follow her down the short hallway, past a living room that’s small but lived-in. A half-folded blanket on the couch, a mug on the end table, a book left open and facedown like she meant to come back to it. Everything here feels gentle. Familiar. Like her.
She pushes open the door to her bedroom. It's soft, cozy in a way that sings to my very soul. There’s a framed photo of her and her mom on the dresser—one I remember seeing before, back when I used to be part of this world.
I respected the hell out of that woman. I thought of her like another mother. Her death hit me hard, but I held strong for Beatriz's sake.
My eyes fall to the bed, blankets tucked, pillows fluffed. It’s all neat and warm and so completely Bee. Not the version of her she pretends to be now, but the girl I used to know. The one I’m still chasing.
But then again, this version of her—the quiet one, the guarded one—that’s who she’s had to be.
I step forward, brushing a hand down her spine. “It’s warm in here.”
She turns slightly, just enough for me to see her profile. “You can open a window if you want.”
“I wasn’t talking about the temperature,” I murmur. “It feels like you in here.”
Bee says nothing for a second, and then, “That scares me.”
I pause. “What does?”
She swallows hard. “You. This. All of it. Because every time I’ve let myself feel safe…
it gets taken away. My dad makes me feel small.
My exes made me feel like I wasn’t enough unless I gave more, did more for their sake.
And then you…” Her voice breaks. “You were the worst one. Because I loved you. I really loved you. And you left without ever telling me why.”
I step in closer, until we’re almost chest to chest, our foreheads brushing. My fingers slide under her chin again, lifting until she’s looking at me.
“I didn’t leave because you weren’t enough, Bee,” I whisper. “I left because I thought I wasn’t. I didn’t think I was good for you. And I didn’t want to drag you into the mess my life was turning into.”
It's not entirely a lie, but it isn't the whole truth either.
“You could’ve told me that,” she says, barely audible.
“I know. And I’ll regret not telling you for the rest of my life.” My fingers move to her waist, slow. “But I’m here now. And I know exactly what I want.”
She exhales shakily, blinking fast. “What if I’m not the girl you remember anymore?”
“You are.” I brush my thumb along her cheek. “She’s still in there. She just needs space to come out again.”
She stares at me like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. Like she’s bracing herself for whatever bullshit excuse I haven’t said yet. I just hold her gaze, give her nothing but truth in return. No games. No dodging.
She exhales—slow, like it’s been stuck in her chest for years—and then her fingers hook under the hem of my shirt.
Still silent.
She pulls it up, slow and careful, like she’s giving herself time to decide whether she wants to go through with this, to let me in again. Her knuckles graze my stomach, and I swear I feel it in places nowhere near my abdomen. I let her take it off, let her look at me however long she needs.
I don’t touch her until she lets me.
My hands find the straps of her sundress and slip them down one at a time.
The fabric slides over her arms like it doesn’t want to leave her skin.
I push it down her waist, then her hips, watching it puddle to the floor.
She’s standing there in a pink bra and matching panties, somehow looking both unsure and completely in control.
She’s always been both.
Her fingers go to the button on my jeans, working it open without looking down. Her eyes stay on mine, like she’s watching for a flinch. A hesitation. A lie. But I’m not moving. I’m not going anywhere.
I let the denim fall.
She lets her arms drop, just for a second. I reach around and unhook her bra, giving her time, watching her face for any flicker of fear or regret. But she just looks back at me like she’s tired of doubting. Tired of guarding every piece of herself.
I push the straps down and let the lace fall from her body. Then I drop to my knees and pull her underwear off—slow, reverent. Almost as if she’s a prayer I finally remembered how to say.
When I stand, her hands come up to my face, holding me, checking to see if I’m real. Like she’s afraid if she blinks, I’ll be gone again.
We don’t say anything.
We don’t need to.
I push my briefs down, kick them away, and now there’s nothing between us. Nothing left to hide behind.
She steps in, our foreheads touching, her fingers curling into my chest like holding me isn’t enough—like she wants to crawl inside my ribcage and stay there.
I get it.
I feel the same.
My hands grip her hips, grounding us both as we just stand there and breathe together for a moment.
She whispers my name like it’s something important. Like I didn’t break her once. Like she’s still choosing me anyway. She reaches for my face, palm against my cheek.
“I want you,” she whispers. “But more than that—I want to stop being afraid.”
I press my hand over hers, sealing it against my skin. “Then let me be the one to show you there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
And when I kiss her again, it’s not with hunger. It’s with every ounce of my being, every piece of me that has loved her through the years. With everything I’ve carried for her.
She clutches at me like she’s falling. And I hold her like she’s the only thing keeping me standing.
We’re not just touching. We’re trying to piece ourselves back together. And we don’t rush.
Her hands press against my chest, like she’s memorizing the way I feel beneath her palms. My hands slide up her back, down again to the curve of her hips, anchoring her to me.
Her skin’s warm, flushed, and soft enough to make me forget how to think.
I press a kiss to her jaw, her neck, the spot behind her ear that always made her sigh.
She still sighs.
And this time, I don’t pull away. I kiss her until she moans—quiet, like it escapes without permission.
Like she’s feeling too much to hold it in.
Her arms wrap around my shoulders, fingers threading through my hair, trying to hold the moment in place. We stumble back until her knees hit the edge of the bed, and I catch her before she falls.
She grins into my mouth.
I smile too. I can’t help it. Not when it’s her.
I lower her to the mattress, slow and careful like I’m laying her down on something sacred. She pulls me down with her, legs parting to cradle me. Her thighs frame my hips, and the second our bodies line up, every thought I had vanishes.
Only her.
Only this.
Her lips find my neck, my shoulder, anywhere she can reach. I dip my head and kiss her collarbone, her chest, my hand smoothing down her side. She arches, hips lifting, eyes locking on mine again.
And we just… look at each other.
No shame.
No fear.
Just heat. Trust. That old ache that never went away and something new blooming on top of it—something whole.
I push in slowly.
She gasps, mouth falling open, hands tightening around my back. My mind blanks at the feel of her—tight, warm, perfect as we move in sync, slow, savoring it all.
She wraps her legs around me, drawing me in deeper, and I groan against her neck. Her fingers dig into my shoulders, trying to hold herself together. I kiss her, deep and open-mouthed, swallowing her moans like they belong to me.
They do.
Every inch of her does.
We move slow, hips grinding instead of thrusting, wanting to feel everything.
Bee’s hand comes up to cup my face. Her thumb brushes under my eye, gentle and steady, and I swear something in my chest splinters. She looks at me like I’m worth loving. Like she’s choosing me—not because of the past, but in spite of it.
And I can’t stop kissing her.
Her lips. Her cheek. The corner of her mouth. Her jaw. I kiss every part of her like I’m trying to speak the things I can’t say out loud.
She’s trembling beneath me as I roll my hips again and again. I press my forehead to hers, our noses brushing.
“I’ve got you,” I whisper.
She nods, tears in her lashes that never fall. “I know.”
Her voice is soft but full of something unbreakable.
I reach between us, finding where she needs me most, and circle my fingers there in time with each slow thrust. Her thighs tense. Her nails press into my back hard enough to leave marks.
“Right there,” she gasps.
I don’t stop.
She comes with a soft cry, hips jerking up into mine, face turned into my neck as I ride her through it—slow, deep strokes that draw it out until she’s panting against my skin.
I follow soon after, burying myself in her one last time, moaning low and quiet into her shoulder as I come apart.
We don’t move right away. We just breathe together.
Her arms stay wrapped around me, fingers tracing circles on my back like she’s calming herself down. Like she’s reminding herself this is real.
I kiss her temple, then the edge of her mouth, and settle in close.
She doesn’t let go.
Neither do I.
I'll never let go again.