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The first time you actually stayed the night with Ortega, it was because you’d been too exhausted to get off his couch. He’d made you dinner, and afterwards, you’d pillowed your head in his lap while he turned on a movie. You hadn’t paid much attention to the story. Ortega had buried his fingers into your curls, pushing his fingers into your scalp. You hadn’t even mentioned the intense headache you’d had. He had guessed on his own.
The small circles he was rubbing into your scalp felt heavenly. You’d had the headache for several days, and you could feel the tension dropping with every stroke of Ortega’s fingers. Your eyelids dropped closed. It felt so good to just be able to relax. To just be able to breathe. Your mind was wonderfully blank, focused entirely on Ortega’s work.
Ortega, the asshole, must have turned down the volume on the TV, because one second you were totally awake, and the next you were fighting to stay conscious. Ortega’s fingers slowed, moving instead to stroke over your hair.
“Lewis? Are you still awake?” The question was barely a whisper. You open your eyes groggily, Ortega’s face a blur above yours. You try to clear your eyes, to wake up a little, but all you can manage are a few owlish blinks.
You try to respond, but can only manage a half grunt, half groan noise. Control over your body feels slippery and heavy. You try to bring your hand up to rub your face, the effort making you yawn.
Ortega smiles fondly at you, helping sit you upright. You had been comfortably warm, and feel a little chilled now that you’ve moved.
“Ye-“ you have to break into another yawn, “I’m up.”
Ortega looks at you doubtfully. You feel distantly irritated, and, getting to your feet, “I’m fine.”
You stretch your arms upwards, feeling your binder shift against your ribs, and are promptly struck by a dizzy spell. You collapse back onto the couch, blood rushing fuzzily in your ears, distantly aware of Ortega’s hands against your face, of his voice saying… something.
“-rive you home, or you stay here. Ok? Lewis?” Ortega's words come into slow focus. You roll them over in your head. You obviously aren’t ok to get home on your own, there's no denying that. You also really don’t want Ortega anywhere near your shitty apartment.
You sink back into the couch cushions with a huff. Ortega gives a soft laugh. You let your eyes fall shut again, and your breath evens back out easily..
You don’t remember exactly when you actually fell asleep that night. You vaguely recall Ortega lifting you, carrying you into his bedroom, setting you carefully on the mattress. It was probably a testament to how tired you were that you didn’t struggle or complain. Or maybe it was a testament to how close you had been letting Ortega recently.
Either way, it didn’t matter. One moment, you were warm and cushioned against Ortega's chest, and the next, you are falling.
The glass shatters under your weight. Your foot catches the window ledge, bringing you horizontal. Your stomach twists, feeling all at once weightless and crushed by the gravity that is dragging you down, down, down. The wind tears at your already torn suit. Glass, shimmering and glinting in the light, follows you down. The moments it took to hit the ground keep stretching, seconds turned to hours. You are caught in the moment of when you first went out the window. Your hands, too slow, grasp at air. You hear screaming. Screaming. Distant. Distorted. You hear Ortega, your hands clasp around something and-
You jerk upright, your scream cutting off suddenly. Your hands are fisted tightly in Ortega’s shirt, twisting the fabric in a way that you will later reflect probably hurts. His own hands, which had been on your shoulders, rise to cup your cheeks. They’re wet, both with tears and with sweat.
You’re shaking. Your sweater and hair are damp with sweat, and the airflow in the room feels freezing against your flushed skin.
Ortega is still saying something, trying to catch your eyes. His thumbs swept over your cheeks, and it’s all too much to keep in, then. You sob once, twice, before being drawn into Ortega’s embrace.
He lets you cry against his chest, murmuring a mix of nonsense English and Spanish. One of his hands strokes your hair.
When you calm down enough, down to just trembling with the occasional hitch in your breath, Ortega pulls back slightly and asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”
You hesitate before responding, “I, uh. I was falling.”
Immediate understanding alights on Ortega’s face, softening his concern into something gentler.
“Oh, Lewis…”
You swing your legs over the side of the bed, bracing yourself to stagger uptight. Ortega follows behind you as you head to the bathroom, hovering in the doorway as you run the tap and splash your face with the icy water. The headache is back. Your ribs ache.
You stare into your reflection, catch eyes with Ortega. You sigh, try to run your hand through your mop of tangled and sweaty curls, turn to face him.
“I… think I should leave.” You don’t meet his eyes, the shame is starting to creep in now that you’ve calmed. What an absolute disaster of a night.
“You don’t have to,” Ortega says, because of course he does, he’s too kind for his own good.
“But I should.” You say, more firm. You push away from the bathroom counter and head towards the front door. It takes a second for you to untangle your ratty laces, and you don’t notice Ortega putting his much nicer shoes on beside you until he grabs his keys and they rattle. You give him a look.
“It’s four am in Los Diablos, Lewis. I’m driving you home.” You don’t even try to argue.
The ride passes in relative silence, only broken by you giving directions every so often. It spoke volumes that you didn’t even bother giving him a fake address. You were letting a lot of things slip like that recently.
Ortega came to a stop in front of your building, and you turned to look at him.
“Hey..” the word came out softer than you intended it to, but Ortega still turned to meet your eyes. You bring a hand up to cup his cheek, and lean in and kiss him chastely before moving to get out of the car.
“I… Thank you.” You mean it as you say it, mustering an exhausted smile before heading into the building.
Just as you get to your door, your phone chimes, signaling a text. You smile a little as you read it. It’s from Ortega, and reads “I love you too”.