Chapter Text

Javier's pov

Javier was worried.

Really worried.

About John.

He had been… off. Weird. Not like normal John-weird — that charming, half-lazy, always-too-loud, messy-ass John. Weird in a way that made Javier’s stomach tighten whenever he thought about it. He had been weird since coming back from Dutch and Hosea’s house.

At first, Javier thought maybe John was mad. Mad that he hadn’t gone. But… no. He had to stay. Had to. His bar—his own fucking bar—was opening next week. Months of working his ass off for some shitty boss, bartending nights he hated, mornings teaching kids guitar for some cash, afternoons playing gigs no one really paid attention to. And after all that, he finally had a place of his own. His bar. His rules. His life. He couldn’t just drop everything and follow John to Dutch’s house.

He’d gotten so drunk celebrating with John when they’d finally signed the lease that he was still hungover the next day. And if John was mad about him not going, Javier was going to be pissed. But deep down, he knew that wasn’t it. John wasn’t the type to hold a grudge over something like that. Not like this.

But still. The weirdness. It had been creeping in over the past two days. Leaving early in the mornings before the sun even cracked the horizon. Coming back late, hair messy, eyes too bright and restless. Like he was running from something, or running toward something.

And talking to himself.

God, the talking to himself.

Javier had caught him twice. Once in the bathroom, muttering in low, incoherent whispers. Like he was rehearsing some speech no one else was allowed to hear. Javier had barely woken up, head fuzzy, half-dreaming of their messy sheets and the faint hum of the fridge. John’s voice, quiet and panicked, had carried through the apartment. Javier had half-smiled, thinking maybe he was dreaming, until John bolted out the door, face pale, mumbling a quick, awkward “bye” over his shoulder.

The second time was yesterday. John had been in the kitchen, pacing, mumbling under his breath again, touching something in his pocket every few steps. Javier had pretended not to notice. He’d leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him from the corner of his eye. Trying to figure out what the hell was going on.

So yeah. Worry.

That was what it was.

Very, very worry.

The kind that gnawed at your stomach, made your shoulders tense, made your hands itch to do something, anything. He tried to drown it out with loud music — obnoxiously loud, probably enough to make the neighbors bang on the walls. He needed to hear something besides the quiet. Besides the thoughts of John pacing, whispering, disappearing, leaving him behind.

He had eaten about an hour ago. Didn’t even touch dinner when it was ready. No appetite. Couldn’t focus. Didn’t want to go to bed. Not yet. Not until John was home.

So he swayed his hips to the music while washing the same goddamn dishes he’d already cleaned twice that day. Plates from lunch, mugs from breakfast, a frying pan with stubborn egg residue. Hands moving automatically under the warm water, scrubbing, rinsing, drying, stacking. His hips swayed without thinking, moving in rhythm to the music blasting in the tiny living room-kitchen combo, because movement kept the tension from settling too heavily in his chest.

Every so often, he’d glance at the clock. Nine o’clock.

Still not home.

And the worry was twisting into something else now. Something heavier. A little knot of fear mixed with… dread? Anticipation? He wasn’t sure.

All he knew was that he couldn’t stop thinking about John. About whatever was going on in his head, what he was hiding, what he might be planning. Javier tried not to imagine it, because imagining was dangerous. But his heart kept hammering every time the door creaked in the hallway. Every time he thought he heard footsteps. Every time the music thumped too loud against his chest, echoing the panic he couldn’t shake.

He hummed along to the song, though it wasn’t really a melody he was listening to. It was a distraction. A small way to keep his mind from wandering to the worst possible scenarios.

God. He wanted John here.

Wanted him to walk in, smile like nothing was wrong, laugh a little too loud, throw his bag on the floor. Wanted everything to be normal.

But normal wasn’t happening tonight.

Javier could feel it.

He just didn’t know why.

He scrubbed at the frying pan a little harder than necessary. Splash of soapy water on his fingers, streak down his wrist. He ignored it. Didn’t even notice the little burn from hot water. Didn’t care.

Because John wasn’t here.

Javier bit at his lip, picking at the chapped skin there until it stung just enough to feel something besides the tight coil in his chest.

He needed… something. Anything. A distraction.

His brain refused to stop spinning, replaying John pacing, muttering, disappearing, and now the gnawing thought that he was going to walk through the door any second.

So he made a little checklist.

Groceries. Check. That was good. A normal, simple task he could actually finish without thinking too hard. Bread, milk, eggs… maybe some cheese if he felt fancy. Couldn’t let the apartment fall apart just because John was acting like… whatever he was acting like.

Dishes. Also check. More than good. Already scrubbed twice today, sure, but doing it again meant he was moving, occupying his hands, keeping himself from imagining all the ways John might be panicking somewhere out there.

Cleaning. Meh. Could have been better, could have been worse. The countertops were wiped down. The floor vacuumed… well, half-vacuumed. But still. Better than if he hadn’t done anything. Not that he’d done much. Not really. But movement helped. At least it made the apartment look alive. Made him look alive. Made him feel alive.

But… the bathroom sink. Still leaking.

And the shower curtain. God. The bottom had somehow gotten a bit moldy. Just a little patch, but enough to be disgusting. Enough that Javier had asked John multiple times to just replace it, but John… John had folded the bottom of the curtain over and pretended it wasn’t there. Pretended the mold had disappeared if he didn’t see it.

The thought made Javier grit his teeth.

Fuckass cabrón that John was.

God, he loved him. But fuck, sometimes he was unbelievable.

Javier shook his head. Checked his list again. Groceries—done. Dishes—done. Cleaning—good enough.

And yet the coil in his chest tightened anyway.

The apartment felt too quiet, even with music blasting. The dishes were stacked neatly, the countertops clear, but everything seemed tense. Like the walls themselves were holding their breath.

He glanced at the clock. Nine.

Still not here.

Javier’s fingers drummed on the edge of the counter. He picked at his lip again.

The moldy shower curtain. The dripping sink. The dishes. The groceries.

He could obsess over them, could tidy, could rearrange the music, could pace the small apartment a hundred times and still not fix what really needed fixing.

John.

It wasn’t the sink. It wasn’t the mold.

It was John.

Javier just violently shut down the water tap, letting the last hot stream sizzle out with a hiss.

He grabbed the last plate, dried it in record speed, hands moving almost angrily, impatiently, as if the very act of washing dishes could burn off the coil of nerves wound tight in his chest. Every movement was sharp, jerky, precise. Scrub, rinse, dry. Stack. Done.

The music still blasted, loud and big, thumping in his chest and vibrating in the floorboards. The bass made his toes curl, made the apartment feel alive, made him feel… almost sane. Almost.

Because he didn’t hear the door open. Didn’t hear the soft click shut behind him. Didn’t hear John calling his name, not once, not twice.

He was caught up in himself, in the rhythm, in the tension, in the weird, tight knot that had settled in his stomach over the past two days.

But then — mercifully, finally — the song ended. The speakers quieted. The apartment exhaled.

And there it was.

A soft, hesitant, unmistakable voice.

“Javi…”

Dios.

John.

Home.

Alive. Standing there.

Javier’s chest seized.

He didn’t even realize he’d stopped breathing until he was sure he had to suck in air like he hadn’t in hours.

He poked his head out of the kitchen, wiping his hands quickly on a towel he barely registered was in his grip. His eyes locked on John immediately. Wide, messy hair, crumpled shirt, those socks that never matched. Every detail burned into his brain in an instant.

And… there he was. His man.

His heart stuttered.

“Hey,” Javier said, voice a little too loud, a little too bright, joy spilling out before he could stop it. He leaned against the doorframe, crossing one leg over the other, trying—failing—to look casual. Trying to look like he wasn’t relieved. Trying to look like he hadn’t been holding his breath for hours.

But his body betrayed him. His chest was tight. His stomach was fluttering. His hands twitched slightly against the doorframe.

His man. Right there. Alive. Standing in their apartment.

“You’re home,” he added softly, almost like a whisper. His eyes didn’t leave John’s. Didn’t want to. Because John was staring at him, wide-eyed, frozen somehow, and it was… off. Wrong. Freaking Javier out completely.

John wasn’t saying anything. Not a word. Just standing there, taking it all in.

And Javier’s mind went into overdrive.

Was he tired? Angry? Mad? Sick? Hurt? About what? The family trip? The bar? The dishes? The sink? The moldy shower curtain? No, no, none of that made sense.

John was just… standing there.

And Javier wanted to reach for him. Run to him. Grab him. Shake him. Ask him what the hell he was thinking. Ask him what the fuck he was doing, why he looked like he was carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

But he didn’t move.

Not yet.

Instead, he leaned a little further against the frame, tilting his head, letting a small, wide smile spread across his face. Bright, nervous, relieved, teasing, everything at once.

“Yeah,” John finally exhaled, voice tight and just a little ragged, like he’d been holding it in all day.

Javier’s eyes immediately swept over him, taking in every detail while he tried—failing, of course—to look casual instead of the nervous mess he really was.

The socks first. God. The socks. Mismatched, horrid, old, washed-out, sagging in the wrong places. One of them even had a hole in it. And through the hole—Dios—he could see John’s ugly toenail poking out slightly.

Javier almost laughed. Almost.

He wanted to point and tease. Wanted to say something dumb like, “Really? These again?” But the moment passed before he could. His fondness and disgust warred in his chest, each feeling hitting him at full force.

He shook his head slightly, half amused, half exasperated, letting the tension in his shoulders ease just a fraction. He knew he shouldn’t care about socks. He knew it wasn’t important. But… it was John. And even socks told a story about John: messy, human, imperfect, exhausted. Beautifully imperfect.

His gaze snapped back to John’s face.

And the sight didn’t ease the knot in his chest.

No.

It made it worse.

The exhaustion. The tightness around his eyes. The way his shoulders slumped a little, like he was carrying some invisible weight that Javier couldn’t see but could feel in the air between them.

“You look exhausted,” Javier said, soft, careful, trying to sound casual, like he was commenting on nothing at all.

But the words came out anyway. Truth slipped through. The worry hiding in the back of his throat, in the tense set of his jaw, in the slight tremor in his hands, it all spilled out.

John shrugged one shoulder. Just one. Like it was nothing.

“Long day,” he muttered.

But Javier didn’t need words. He could see it.

The pretending. The half-smile that didn’t reach his eyes. The way he fidgeted with his hands, shifting from foot to foot. The almost imperceptible tremor in his jaw.

John was clearly bothered by something.

Something big.

Something he wasn’t ready—or maybe too scared—to say.

And Javier’s chest tightened even more, knotting like it always did when John got like this. The familiar pull of worry, mixed with that little spark of anticipation he could never quite name, simmered beneath his ribs.

He wanted to ask. He wanted to probe, tease, shake, pull John close, and demand: What the fuck is going on?

But he didn’t.

Instead, Javier waddled closer, stepping over a stray shoe. His hands lingered on the edge of the stereo as he turned the volume down, lowering the bass until the apartment felt almost… quiet. Hips swaying just a little, like some unconscious rhythm had stuck in his body, trying to make him look casual, normal, like everything was fine when it most definitely wasn’t.

He tried to force a soft smile onto his face, the kind that said, I’m fine. Really. I’m fine. I am not worried.

“How was work?” he asked, voice light, carefully casual, though it came out a little sharper than he intended. A little too loud.

He stopped a few feet away from John. Not too close. Not too far. Close enough to see everything, every little detail.

And oh god.

John had… shaven this morning? What the fuck. His jawline looked clean, smooth, sharper than usual. And the hair — he had combed it. Not that messy, greasy morning hair he always had, half asleep, half too lazy to care. No, this looked deliberate. Thought-out. Intentional.

Javier’s stomach twisted. Nausea crept in, sudden and unwelcome. His pulse jumped.

John was just… staring at him. Not blinking. Not speaking. Just staring. Wide-eyed. Like… like he was waiting for something, like something huge was about to happen and Javier had no idea what it was.

Javier’s own hair on the nape of his neck prickled. Every nerve felt alive. He almost opened his mouth to repeat the question, to buy himself a little time, to feel like he had control.

But before he could, John blurted out, voice rushing, fragile, desperate:

“I love you.”

What?

Javier blinked, hard, as if that simple, tiny phrase had broken the world in two.

Then, without warning, John lunged forward, arms wrapping around Javier’s waist. Face pressed against the side of his neck. Clinging. Desperate.

Javier froze, heart hammering. Breath caught. Fingers tingling. Every instinct screamed: wait, what? What’s happening?

Was he dying? Sick? Losing it?

Was something wrong?

Was this… a prank? A test? A breakdown?

He could feel John’s chest pressing against him, trembling slightly. The rapid heartbeat under his ribs. The warm, slightly clammy hands on his waist. The way John’s head tucked, almost burrowing, into him.

Normally, Javier would have melted. Would have pulled him in, held him, whispered, I’m here. I’m here. But this… this was different. Frantic. Uncertain. Terrifying in its intensity.

His stomach twisted tighter.

Then, just as suddenly, John tensed. Sharp. Stiff. Like he’d touched a live wire. Pulled back as if burned.

Javier stumbled slightly backward, eyes wide.

“You sure about that?” Javier tried to joke, forcing a smile that came out a little crooked, awkward. He could feel the crease between his brows already, though, betraying him. The tension coiled in his chest like a spring. He wanted to laugh, to lighten the mood, to make everything seem casual. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew he sounded a little too careful, a little too forced.

John huffed a laugh, that ridiculous, exasperated laugh he always made when he was both annoyed and amused.

The dickhead.

“Yeah,” he breathed out, finally, like it was effortless, like the words had been sitting there, waiting to escape, and when they finally did, they sounded so sure. So completely sure.

And Javier… melted a little.

Just a little.

His knees went soft in a way he didn’t entirely like, chest tightening at the same time. That laugh. That voice. That look. It was… too much. It made his fingers itch, made his heart hammer, made him feel like he’d been punched square in the stomach.

But then, just as quickly, the sureness drained away.

John tensed again. Shoulders stiff, fingers curling slightly, like he’d just realized something terrifying.

And Javier’s stomach twisted tighter.

What the fuck was happening?

He wanted to reach out, to grab John, to shake him, to tell him it was okay, whatever it was. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not while his chest felt like it was going to explode from all the conflicting emotions.

He felt a flicker of panic. Like crying. Like maybe he needed to cry just to get it out. Just to feel anything besides the knot of fear and… something else, something intense, sharp, and raw.

And then John started staring at him again.

Not casually. Not like usual. Not like when he was teasing him or rolling his eyes at some dumb comment. No, this was different. Hungry. Sharp. Searching.

Javier’s breath hitched slightly. Every nerve in his body screamed. He tried to steady himself. Tried to breathe. Tried to act like he wasn’t melting in place.

“What?” he asked, voice low, soft, carefully casual, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his mouth to hide the confusion and the panic and the sudden awareness of how much he loved this idiot.

John didn’t answer. Not a word. Not a twitch, not a shift, just stared.

And Javier’s chest squeezed harder.

He took a cautious step closer, heart hammering in his ears, pulse jumping in his throat.

“You’re staring,” he whispered, barely audible.

And in his head, he couldn’t stop himself from thinking, You’ve been doing that a lot since you came home.

He didn’t add it. Didn’t dare.

“Sorry,” John muttered, voice low, almost swallowed by the tension in the apartment. The words came out fast, clipped, like he had to get them out before they got stuck somewhere in his chest. The look that passed over his face—something between sheepish and terrified—only went halfway. Like it started to show everything John was feeling, then pulled back at the last second, scared.

Javier forced himself to soften his smile a little, gently, like he was trying to reassure both of them that it was okay. But he couldn’t stop the crease deepening in his brow. Couldn’t stop the worry from leaking through, threading itself through every inch of him.

Ok. Javier was really worried now.

“You okay?” His voice was quiet, careful, but carrying the weight of everything he couldn’t say—everything he had been feeling since John walked in. His eyes never left John’s face. They were trained on him like a hawk, noting every twitch, every shift, every tiny sign that something was off.

He saw it. The way John’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. The way his fingers twitched slightly at his sides. The faint tremor in his jaw.

“Yeah,” his man croaked, voice rough, brittle. Not the confident, careless “yeah” John usually threw out. Not at all.

“You’ve been acting weird since you walked in,” Javier said quietly, voice low, just above a whisper. A statement, not a question, though it begged for honesty. He bit his lip, glancing up at John with eyes wide, worry clear as day written across every line of his face.

“I just—” John started, words faltering before they even began, lips twitching, jaw tightening.

But then he stopped.

Just? Just what? Javier wanted to scream, wanted to shake him, wanted to throw himself at John and demand: Just what? Tell me, tell me now!

Instead, he kept his voice calm, steady, as much as he could, though his chest was hammering, stomach twisting, and his hands itched to reach out and hold him.

“Talk to me,” he begged softly, words almost breaking under the weight of his worry.

He tried so hard to keep his voice steady, to hold his composure, to appear in control. But he could feel every beat of his heart in his throat, in his chest, in his temples. Could feel the panic and fear and longing all tangled together, raw and impossible to ignore.

Because he didn’t just want John to talk.

He needed him to.

Needed to know what was going on. Needed to know what John was hiding, what he was thinking, what was making him act like this.

Did John not trust Javier for fuck’s sake ?!

A beat of silence passed.

Too long. Too heavy. Javier could feel it pressing in around him, making his chest tighten and his stomach twist. Every nerve in his body was alert, waiting, humming with tension, like he could feel the seconds stretching thin.

“You’re gonna think I’m an idiot,” John finally muttered, voice small, hesitant, fragile.

Javier’s lips twitched. He couldn’t help it. The words slipped out before he could stop them:

“I already do.”

God, he almost cursed himself, but then the little smirk tugging at his mouth made it worth it. A tiny jab, yes, but also a little release, a reminder to himself that he wasn’t completely paralyzed by whatever this was.

And then… John said the next words.

“I—uh—Do we have any food left? I’m quite hungry?”

Javier’s head tilted sharply to the side. Pure confusion. His brows knitted so tightly they almost met in the middle.

…What?

I—what?

His pulse jumped. He could feel it thudding in his throat. John’s mouth was moving. Words were coming out. But… why food? Why the hell was food suddenly the thing? Javier blinked slowly, trying to process. Trying to find sense where there was none.

Finally, Javier’s own voice came out, calm, steady, though his chest was hammering like a drum:

“I-yeah… some leftovers in the fridge.”

He said it almost automatically, almost soothingly, though in truth, he didn’t really know why he answered. It wasn’t the answer John needed. It wasn’t the point of any of this. But the sound of words—simple, grounding words—was like a lifeline. Something to anchor both of them while the storm of whatever was coming swirled in the room.

And yet, even saying it, Javier felt the knot in his stomach tighten further. John’s gaze was locked on him, sharp, wide, unblinking. There was… something there. Something more than just the normal exhaustion or habit he had. Something hungry. Electric. Terrifying.

“Can you… heat them up for me?”

Javier blinked.

Blinked again.

Blinked a third time, because for a second he wanted to tell John to fuck off and do it himself. Seriously? After everything, now you want me to heat up your food? The thought made his chest tighten in irritation, but before it could escape as words, he caught himself.

No.

He couldn’t push too hard. Couldn’t risk shattering whatever fragile thread John was holding onto. Couldn’t risk scaring him more, making him retreat further into whatever weird, jittery energy he was carrying tonight.

So he held himself back.

He frowned hard instead. Sharp crease between his brows. But it wasn’t offense. Not really. It was worry, pure and simple. Deep, gnawing worry that made his stomach twist and his chest ache.

He pivoted on the ball of his foot, turning slowly, deliberately, and started walking toward the kitchen, hips swaying slightly with the rhythm that still clung from the music.

“Yeah… sure…” he hummed, voice low and even, trying to keep it casual.

But his eyes didn’t leave John.

Glancing back over his shoulder, sharp, suspicious, narrowed slightly. Every detail counted. Every twitch, every fidget, every anxious breath that escaped John’s lips.

Javier wanted to ask again. Wanted to grab him by the shoulders and say, What the hell is going on? But he didn’t. Not yet.

Because right now, John needed him to stay calm. Needed him to be steady.

And Javier could be steady.

Even as his heart hammered, even as the pit in his stomach twisted tighter with every step toward the kitchen, even as a small, panicked part of him screamed something is happening, something big is coming.

He just kept moving.

Eyes flicking back to John one last time before he reached the counter, the hum of the fridge and the faint clink of dishes filling the small apartment.

Javier stood in the kitchen for a moment.

Just stood there.

Hands braced on the counter, head hanging slightly, breathing slow through his nose, trying to will the frown off his face. Trying to unclench his jaw before it locked permanently.

He was not about to get wrinkles before thirty. Especially not wrinkles carved there by John fucking Marston.

He scrubbed a hand down his face. Inhale. Exhale.

Okay. Fine. Food. That was manageable.

He turned toward the fridge and pulled it open, the light spilling over his bare feet and the tiles. Two containers. Just like he remembered.

One with creamy garlic chicken.

One with machaca.

He stared at them for a second longer than necessary.

One of those was for him tomorrow at lunch. The other, apparently, was for John now.

He pulled out the machaca.

The chicken had turned a little dry despite the sauce — he already knew that without opening it. And if John was going to be weird and tense and on the verge of either crying or exploding or whatever the hell this was, then he was at least going to eat something good.

Besides… Javier would always leave the best food for John.

Always.

Didn’t matter if John was happy, sad, furious, sulking, sick, dramatic, or being an absolute idiot. Javier would always give him the better portion. That was just how it was.

He shut the fridge with his hip and stood there holding the container for a second.

God, his heart was beating too fast.

He slid the lid off and shoved it into the microwave. Pressed the timer. One minute and thirty seconds.

The hum started. The plate inside began to spin.

And Javier just stared at it.

Watching it go in slow circles like it held the secrets of the universe. Like maybe if he focused hard enough on the rotation, on the soft mechanical whirr, he wouldn’t think about John standing in the living room.

Standing there.

Waiting.

Watching.

The microwave light flickered faintly against the cabinets.

Javier’s mind did not quiet.

It went a hundred miles an hour.

Why did he shave? Why did he comb his hair? Why did he say I love you like that? Why did he hug me like he was drowning? Why is he asking for food like he’s about to be executed? Is he sick? Did something happen at Dutch’s? Is he about to tell me something awful? Is he leaving?

His stomach dropped at that last one.

Leaving.

No.

No, no, no.

The microwave kept spinning.

The longest minute and a half of his life.

He folded his arms. Unfolded them. Ran a hand through his hair. Checked the time even though he knew exactly how much was left.

Thirty seconds.

He swallowed. His mouth was dry.

The microwave beeped, loud and abrupt, making him flinch.

He opened it immediately, as if delaying even a second would make something worse happen. Steam rose up faintly, carrying the smell of warm spices and meat. Comforting. Familiar. Normal.

He poured it onto a plate, careful not to spill any. He even arranged it a little, without thinking. Smoothed it out. Made it look… good.

Because if this was going to be some kind of disaster, at least it wouldn’t be on an empty stomach.

He grabbed a fork.

Stood there one more second.

Steeled himself.

Shoulders back. Jaw set. Face arranged into something softer, something calm, something soothing.

And then he walked back into the living room.

And he found John on his knees.

Dios.

For a split second, Javier’s brain refused to process it properly. It just glitched. Froze. Refused to load the image in front of him.

John.

On his knees.

In the middle of the living room.

The plate wobbled in his hands. “John?”

Everything inside him dropped.

Was he having a heart attack?

Was he dying?

Had he just… collapsed?

A stroke? A lung failure? A fucking aneurysm?

Javier’s mind went feral immediately. No middle ground. No rational step-by-step. Straight to catastrophic.

He moved without thinking, setting the plate down somewhere to the side — he didn’t even check where, just shoved it onto a stool, half-hanging off the edge, fork clattering loudly against porcelain. He didn’t care.

He was already stepping forward, body tensed to drop down beside him. Hands ready to grab John’s face. Shake him. Check his pulse. Yell for help even though there was no one to hear.

His chest felt tight. Too tight. His ears were ringing.

He could see it all in a horrible flash — hospital lights, sterile sheets, someone telling him he was too late.

No. No. No.

He was two steps away from fully panicking when John spoke.

“Javier. Will you…”

John’s voice gave out. Just— snapped in half mid-sentence like a twig under too much weight. He shifted on his knees, visibly uncomfortable, like the floor itself was burning him.

Javier froze.

Actually froze.

Like someone had unplugged him from the wall.

“Will you marry me?”

Uh ?

What ?

No, genuinely — what ?

Javier’s brain stopped working.

Not slowed down. Not stuttered.

Stopped.

In fact, it didn’t just stop — it packed a little suitcase, put on sunglasses, and left. Took a fucking vacation.

Poof.

Gone.

Head empty. No thoughts. Just white static and the faint sound of his own pulse in his ears.

Because—

What ?

That… that was John.

John.

John who flinched at the word future. John who treated commitment like it was a rabid animal that might bite him. John who had already left a woman and a child behind because she had asked too much of him. Too much stability. Too much presence. Too much forever.

And now he was on his knees.

In their living room.

Asking this.

What ?

It had to be a prank.

A joke.

Some sick, twisted humor that Javier didn’t even know John was capable of.

Because this was cruel.

This was mean.

Javier felt his face shift before he could control it. Brows pulling down. Lips tightening. Something sour and sharp twisting into anger.

This wasn’t fucking funny.

His heart was still racing from thinking John was dying — and now this?

Now this ridiculous, absurd—

John looked up at that exact moment.

And he must have seen it.

The anger. The confusion. The hurt.

Because Javier watched his eyes falter. Actually falter. Like something fragile inside him cracked.

John’s gaze dropped immediately.

And then he reached into his pocket.

Slow. Hesitant.

And pulled something out.

A small box.

No.

No.

Hell no.

Fuck off.

Please don’t.

What the fuck.

“I got this ring… Take it. Please.”

He sounded small.

Not John-small in a dramatic way. Not sarcastic. Not guarded.

Just… small.

Like he’d already decided Javier was going to say no.

Like he was bracing for impact.

Oh Dios.

Was he really serious?

“It would make me very happy if you would… Would marry me.”

His voice wavered on the second would. Barely there. Like he wasn’t even sure he had the right to ask.

And that’s when it hit Javier.

Oh my God.

He was serious.

This wasn’t a joke.

This wasn’t a prank.

This wasn’t John being cruel.

This was John being terrified.

Terrified and exposed and completely, devastatingly sincere.

And suddenly Javier’s anger had nowhere to go. It just dissolved. Slid off him like water.

Leaving behind something much heavier.

Something trembling.

Javier didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t breathe properly, either, if he was being honest.

He just stood there.

Frozen.

Eyes wide, heart pounding so hard it felt like it was shaking his ribs from the inside.

Silent.

Waiting.

Waiting for John to finish. For the punchline. For the “just kidding.” For the awkward laugh. For something to make this less real.

Because surely he wasn’t done. Surely there was more. Surely this wasn’t the whole speech.

John swallowed. His fingers tightened around the little box like it might float away if he didn’t grip it hard enough.

“If you think this is dumb, I’m sorry, I—”

Oh.

Oh no.

Javier felt something inside him snap.

He was going to carve his name into the fucking man’s back. Slowly. Lovingly. With his teeth if necessary.

John had no fucking idea what he was getting into.

No idea who he was proposing to.

No idea how close Javier was to either kissing him senseless or shaking him violently for even thinking this was dumb.

And hell — the fucking ring was beautiful, too.

Of course it was.

Of course John, the man who pretended not to care about aesthetics, had somehow picked something perfect. Simple but elegant. Not flashy. Not ridiculous. Just… right. It glinted under the dim apartment lights, catching in a way that made Javier’s stomach drop even further.

Goddamnit.

“It’s… it’s alright.”

Javier barely registered the words at first. They sounded far away. Muffled.

Like he was underwater.

Oh.

Oh, oh, oh.

John thought he was being rejected.

Javier’s brain, which had been on vacation ten seconds ago, came crashing back into his skull at full speed.

“It’s alright,” John repeated, even quieter this time.

His shoulders had slumped. Just slightly. But enough.

He looked…

Pathetic.

Not in a cruel way.

In a vulnerable way.

In a I just handed you my entire heart and you’re not taking it way.

And Javier felt something feral rise up in his chest.

He was going to make this man regret ever thinking he would walk away.

“It’s fine.”

John started to move.

Started to stand up.

Started to close the box.

And that was it.

That was absolutely the fuck not happening.

Javier didn’t think.

Did not analyze.

Did not weigh options.

He just launched.

Full body. Zero hesitation. Pure instinct.

Geronimo.

He threw himself at John, arms wrapping around him with enough force to knock the breath out of both of them. The box went flying somewhere — Javier did not care, he trusted the universe to keep track of it — and John stumbled backward with a startled noise as Javier collided into him.

They almost fell. Actually, they did fall — just not elegantly. Half-collapsed onto the rug in a mess of limbs and startled curses and air being punched out of lungs.

Javier clung to him.

Clung.

Like if he let go even a little, John might disappear. Like this might rewind itself. Like this was some fragile, impossible thing that needed to be held together by sheer force of grip.

And he kissed his man senseless.

His man.

His fiancé.

Oh my God.

He was engaged.

Engaged.

Javier almost laughed into John’s mouth at the sheer absurdity of it. At the insanity. At the fact that this was happening in their slightly messy living room with the microwave probably still humming faintly in the background.

His John.

John’s lips were warm and chapped under his own, slightly trembling still. Not in rejection. Not in hesitation. In shock. In relief. In something big and overwhelming and very, very John.

Javier softened for half a second. Just half.

Then he deepened the kiss again.

Ran his tongue slowly across John’s lower lip, tasting salt and nervous breath and something distinctly him. He felt the exact moment John melted. The exact second the tension in his shoulders shifted from bracing-for-impact to holding-on-for-dear-life.

And then John finally wrapped his arms around him properly.

One hand fisting into the back of Javier’s shirt so hard the fabric stretched. The other grabbing his waist roughly, like he needed proof that Javier was real and solid and not some hallucination brought on by stress.

Good.

Grip him.

Hold him.

Understand what you just did.

John pulled back slightly, lips parting, breath uneven. “Jav—”

Ugh.

The audacity.

Javier immediately leaned back in and kissed him harder, cutting him off without mercy. If John thought he was about to interrupt this with some insecure nonsense like “you don’t have to” or “are you sure,” he had another thing coming.

He bit lightly at John’s lower lip, not enough to hurt, just enough to shut him up properly.

His fiancé.

God.

He could feel John’s breath hitch. Could feel the faint tremor still running through him. Could feel the adrenaline.

And then—

John ripped his head away.

Actually ripped it away.

“Javier?”

Ugh.

Fucking annoying cabrón.

Javier glared at him, breath heavy, lips a little swollen already.

Ugh.  

“Shut up, John! Shut up!” Javier scolded, breathless and overwhelmed and absolutely not interested in any more interruptions. He tried to dive back in for another kiss, determined to silence whatever insecure spiral was about to tumble out of John’s mouth.

But John turned his head away again.

“Shit, the ring—”

“John—what are you—” Javier started, already frowning, already annoyed at being denied access to his own fiancé’s mouth.

And then he was physically jolted from where he’d been straddling John’s legs.

John twisted under him like a man possessed, half-contorting, half-diving sideways, reaching an arm blindly under the couch.

Javier demanded, shifting back to keep from falling, watching in disbelief as John practically flattened himself against the floor.

There was a moment of scraping. A muttered curse. The sound of fingers knocking against wood.

Then—

“Got it,” John whispered triumphantly.

Triumphantly.

Like he had just wrestled it from a dragon’s hoard instead of accidentally launching it across their living room.

Javier stared down at him, equal parts exasperated and fond. “What are you doing?”

He leaned back over him again, breath ghosting over John’s ear. He resisted — barely — the urge to bite at the lobe just to punish him for the interruption.

John didn’t answer.

He just held out the little brown ring box again.

Like before.

But this time there was no uncertainty about what it meant.

His eyes were wide. Open. Pleading in a way John almost never allowed himself to be. Desperate, even — but not in a pathetic way. In a hopeful way. In a please-don’t-let-me-have-misread-this way.

He looked like a dog offering its favorite bone. Not because it was commanded to. But because it wanted to share something precious. Something it loved. Hoping — praying — it would be accepted.

Javier’s chest rose and fell a little too fast.

He huffed softly, a sound tangled somewhere between exasperation and disbelief and something dangerously close to tears.

Still.

He reached out. Slowly. Carefully.

Like he was approaching something fragile. Something sacred.

His fingers brushed the velvet of the box. Soft. Solid. Real.

He took it from John’s hands, feeling the faint tremor still there in his fiancé’s fingers.

Fiancé.

God.

He flipped the box open fully this time. No rushing. No chaos. Just the quiet click of the hinge and the soft glow of gold under the apartment light.

He pulled the ring free from the little blue cushion. Turned it between his fingers.

The band was warm already from John’s grip. The gold smooth but not overly polished. There were small carved lines along the sides — subtle, deliberate. Not flashy. Not obnoxious. Just detailed enough to show thought. Care.

Dios.

It was beautiful.

It wasn’t just beautiful because of how it looked. It was beautiful because John had chosen it. John had stood somewhere — probably anxious as hell — and decided this was the one. Decided this was what Javier deserved.

Javier glanced up at him.

And for a split second, something sharp and panicked flickered through him.

Because this was real.

Not a kiss. Not a joke. Not a heat-of-the-moment thing.

A ring.

A promise.

A future that stretched past next week, past the bar opening, past the next argument about laundry or moldy shower curtains.

Marriage.

Well.

There we go.

He inhaled slowly. Steadying himself.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he slid the ring onto his finger.

It fit.

Perfectly.

Of course it did.

Javier felt something inside him settle and explode all at once. A laugh bubbled up in his chest but got stuck halfway because his throat felt too tight.

Then John sprung up and kissed Javier again.

There was no hesitation this time.

He just surged forward like something inside him had finally snapped loose — one hand coming up to cradle the back of Javier’s neck, the other sliding firm against his waist, pulling him close enough that there was no space left between them at all.

And this time, it was Javier who melted.

Actually melted.

All the sharp edges, the sarcastic comments, the mockery, the dramatic scolding — gone. Dissolved the second John’s mouth pressed against his with that desperate certainty.

John kissed like a man who had almost lost something.

It was hungry, yes — but not careless. Not rough in the way of anger. Rough in the way of relief. His grip tightened at Javier’s back, fingers flexing like he needed to make sure he was solid. Real. Staying.

Javier exhaled into the kiss, the sound soft and unguarded. His hands slid up John’s chest, over the familiar lines of muscle and fabric, up to his shoulders, clutching there for a second before one of them threaded into his hair.

Still freshly combed.

Dios.

“You really shaved,” Javier murmured against his lips, breath warm and amused and wrecked all at once.

John huffed something that might have been a laugh, but it turned into a low sound when Javier tilted his head and deepened the kiss again.

The ring felt strange on his finger. Not heavy. Just… present. A quiet reminder with every movement of his hand as it slid down John’s chest, over his ribs, settling at his hip.

Fiancé.

The word pulsed through him like heat.

John’s mouth moved slower now. Less frantic. More deliberate. His thumb traced along Javier’s jaw, then down his neck, leaving a trail of warmth that made Javier’s breath catch.

It shifted.

From shock.

To heat.

To something softer and deeper and almost unbearably tender.

John pulled back just enough to look at him. Really look at him.

His eyes weren’t wild anymore. They were open. Bright. Almost disbelieving.

“You said yes,” John whispered, like he was still confirming it with reality.

Javier rolled his eyes, but the fondness in them was impossible to hide. “I put the ring on, didn’t I?”

John’s gaze dropped immediately to his hand. To the gold band now resting there. His throat worked as he swallowed.

And then he leaned down and pressed a kiss — slow, reverent — to Javier’s knuckles.

Javier’s stomach flipped.

“Don’t get all sentimental on me,” he muttered, but his voice had lost its bite. Completely.

John smirked faintly, that familiar crooked thing, but it softened almost instantly. His forehead rested against Javier’s. Their noses brushed. Breath mingled.

“I love you,” John said again.

Javier felt it all the way down to his bones.

He slid his hands under John’s shirt this time, palms flattening against warm skin, feeling the way John inhaled sharply at the contact. Hyper-aware.

“You scared the hell out of me,” Javier admitted quietly, thumbs tracing slow lines along his back. “Thought you were dying. Then thought you were insane.”

John huffed. “Might still be.”

“Definitely are.”

But Javier leaned in again, softer now. Slower. Kissing him like he had all the time in the world. Like this wasn’t something fragile that might break, but something solid and chosen.

Chosen.

The kiss deepened again, but it wasn’t frantic anymore. It was warm. Lingering. Lips brushing, parting, coming back together like they were relearning each other under this new light.

John’s hands wandered too — not greedy, not rushed. Just mapping. Familiar touches made new by the promise that now sat between them. His fingers slipped under Javier’s waistband briefly, then settled at his hips instead, squeezing gently, grounding.

Javier let out a quiet sound he didn’t bother swallowing. He pressed closer, chest to chest, feeling John’s heartbeat against his own. Fast. Strong.

Still here.

Still his.

He broke the kiss only to press his mouth to John’s jaw, then his cheek, then the corner of his lips again. “You’re unbelievable,” he whispered.

John smiled against his skin. “You’re engaged.”

Javier snorted softly. “So are you, cabrón.”

They both stilled for a second at that.

Letting it settle.

Engaged.

John’s hand slid up to cup the back of his head again, holding him there gently, like something precious.

John didn’t pull away this time.

Neither did Javier.

They stayed there for a long second — foreheads touching, breath shared, hands still mapped across each other like they were relearning familiar territory under new rules.

Engaged.

The word hadn’t lost its heat yet. If anything, it was spreading.

Javier tilted his head slightly and kissed him again. Slower at first. Testing. Feeling the way John responded immediately — the way his grip tightened at Javier’s waist, the way his breath deepened.

There.

That.

The softness shifted. Not gone. Never gone. Just… deepened.

Javier’s fingers slid higher under John’s shirt this time, palms flattening properly against warm skin. He traced up the line of his spine, nails barely grazing. Not scratching. Just enough to make John inhale sharply through his nose.

“Careful,” John muttered against his mouth, voice already lower.

Javier smirked faintly. “You careful.”

John’s hand slipped from his waist to the small of his back, pressing him closer. Firm. Possessive in that quiet way John had when he wasn’t thinking too hard about it. The kind of grip that said mine without needing to say the word.

Javier felt the ring shift slightly on his finger as he curled his hand into John’s shirt again. The metal brushed against John’s collarbone when he leaned in.

John noticed.

His eyes flicked down. Then back up.

Something darkened there.

“You really put it on,” John murmured, almost to himself.

“Was I supposed to throw it at you?” Javier shot back softly, though his voice was losing its sharpness the more John’s thumb traced slow circles against his lower back.

John leaned in and kissed him again, deeper now. His mouth moved with confidence this time, with the steady certainty of someone who had already been given the answer he needed.

Javier let himself sink into it. Let himself feel the weight of John’s body, the warmth of him, the steady pressure of his hands. He shifted slightly where he straddled him, adjusting his knees against the floor — and the movement made them both very aware of exactly how close they were.

John’s breath stuttered.

Javier noticed that too.

“Oh?” he murmured softly against his lips.

John huffed a quiet, half-embarrassed sound. “Don’t start.”

“Start what?” Javier asked innocently, even as he deliberately rolled his hips just slightly — not enough to be crude. Just enough to remind.

John’s hands tightened reflexively at his waist.

“Javi.”

There it was again. That warning tone that was more plea than threat.

Javier smiled against his mouth, softer now. He leaned down and pressed a slow kiss to John’s jaw, then along the curve of his neck. Felt the pulse there. Fast.

He let his lips linger there longer than necessary. Not biting. Not marking. Just breathing him in.

“I thought you were dying ten minutes ago,” Javier murmured quietly against his skin. “Now you’re proposing and looking at me like that.”

“Like what?” John asked, though his fingers were already sliding under Javier’s shirt now too.

“Like you just won something,” Javier replied, pulling back just enough to look at him.

John’s mouth twitched. “I did.”

That did something to Javier’s stomach.

He leaned back in immediately, kissing him harder again

John’s hands roamed more confidently now, palms warm against Javier’s sides, thumbs brushing over skin just above his waistband. Not pushing further. Just lingering. Teasing the line.

Javier shivered slightly.

He slid one hand up into John’s hair again and tugged gently, tilting his head back just enough to claim his mouth properly. Slow. Deep. Unhurried.

The ring pressed faintly against John’s cheek when Javier cupped his face.

His fiancé’s cheek.