Archive of Our Own

Miguel shifted, trying to get comfortable, but his socked foot slid off the side of the bed and bumped into Eli’s shin. He thought about pulling it back — decided not to bother. Eli didn’t even flinch, just shifted too, bumping his knee lightly into Miguel’s thigh like it was all part of the same lazy, wordless conversation they’d been having all afternoon. One of Eli’s hands kept scrolling lazily through his phone; the other stayed right where it had been for hours — slung loose over Miguel’s waist, tracing random little patterns into the hem of his sweatshirt mindlessly.

The laptop — still precariously perched on a tower of textbooks — played a low-budget sci-fi thing neither of them was actually watching. The glow from the screen flickered across the room, barely competing with the hum of the heater or the steady, quiet brush of Eli’s breath against Miguel’s temple.

He let his head tilt, nudging into Eli’s chest, finding that slow, even rhythm of his heartbeat through the thin cotton of his T-shirt. Steady. Solid. The kind of sound he could fall asleep to if he wasn’t careful. Not that it’d be the worst thing.

Shifting again, he tried to fix the way the blanket had twisted around his legs. It wasn’t working. Eli ran hot — something Miguel should’ve remembered from the last time they’d spent a stretch of days like this together. Being half on top of him was basically lying on a radiator. A warm, breathing radiator that smelled like detergent and shampoo and something else Miguel couldn’t name but knew better than his own. He wasn’t planning on moving anytime soon.

It wasn’t just the heat, though. His back still ached from the five-hour drive home — a low, stubborn throb that had settled into his bones and refused to leave. Five hours on the worst stretch of I-5 was like signing up to be slow-roasted alive. No amount of sleep had been able to shake it yet. Eli’s body heat helped. Not enough to fix it. But enough to make it bearable.

He was lucky, though. He knew that. Some of his friends weren’t even home yet — Sam was still stuck in LA because the UC’s had a different system. Others had already come and gone, their breaks falling earlier or later or not at all. But he and Eli had gotten lucky; their breaks lined up just right. A little pocket of time carved out for exactly this — the quiet, the easy familiarity, the slow rhythm of being home without having to fill the silence.

Eli shifted beneath him, dragging Miguel back into the present. His hand slid lower, thumb finding the small of Miguel’s back and pressing slow, absent-minded circles into the muscle there. Light but firm. Like it was second nature. Like he knew exactly where Miguel needed it without having to be told.

Miguel exhaled, slow and heavy, the last bit of tension bleeding out of him before he could think about holding onto it. His body went slack against Eli’s, warm and loose, and he closed his eyes with a soft hum, feeling Eli’s chest rise and fall under his cheek.

The dull ache from the drive didn’t vanish, but it dimmed to something manageable under Eli’s hand. Comfort, not cure — but comfort was enough. Especially when it came without asking.

It was stupid, maybe, how much that small thing hit him. But it wasn’t about the massage.

It was about this — this easy, thoughtless closeness. The way Eli’s hand just knew. The way Miguel could lean into it, no questions, no explanations. Like breathing.

This was what made everything else worth it. The long-distance, spotty FaceTime calls, shitty dorm Wi-Fi, weekend trips planned months in advance. The uncertainty. The ache of missing each other at every waking moment.

Three years was a long time to keep choosing someone.

Miguel hadn’t been sure it would last. He hadn’t told Eli that — not back then, when they were still just kids staring down the end of high school and pretending they had it all figured out. He’d wanted to believe wanting would be enough.

But three hundred and fifty miles? It was a lot easier to ignore when you were still side by side. Not when you were lying awake in a dark dorm room at two in the morning, staring at the ceiling and wondering if wanting was enough to close the distance.

Back in high school, he couldn’t even hold a relationship together when the other person sat two rows away from him in Spanish class. The idea that they could survive two different campuses, two different lives — it hadn’t felt real.

There’d been a lot of quiet nights that first year where he’d been sure this — them — would just dissolve.

But it hadn’t.

Somehow, it hadn’t.

Eli’s thumb pressed a little firmer just above his hip, and Miguel sighed audibly in a way that he hoped conveyed all of his feelings in a way that Hawk understood.

“You’re gonna fall asleep on me,” Eli muttered, voice low and amused, but his hand didn’t stop.

Miguel hummed again, a noncommittal noise that probably sounded closer to yeah, maybe. His eyes stayed closed. It was easy to pretend, for a second, that there wasn’t anything outside this room. No Stanford. No Caltech. No thousand things pulling them apart.

He thought about saying something. Something stupid and sentimental. You’re the only thing that makes it feel like coming home, or this is the only part that makes sense, or some other shit that would sound pathetic even to himself. But, he wasn’t given much time to overthink what he wanted to say, because his mother’s voice rang through the house, clear even from behind his closed bedroom door.

“Miggy! Ven a ayudarme en la cocina, por favor!”

Miguel groaned under his breath, deep and miserable, the sound pressed into Eli’s T-shirt like it might muffle the inevitable. He didn’t move. Maybe if he stayed still long enough, the universe would forget he existed.

No such luck.

“Fuckkkkk,” he muttered finally, drawing it out like the extra syllables would delay things somehow. He pushed himself upright, untangling his legs from the blanket and Eli in one slow, reluctant movement.

The second he sat up, he felt it — the pull in his lower back where the last of Eli’s massage hadn’t quite chased away the ache, the stiff throb from lying too long in one position. He rolled his shoulders back, shaking it off.

Behind him, the bed dipped and shifted as Eli moved too, pushing himself up with a quiet huff.

Miguel shot him a look over his shoulder. “You don’t have to come, you know.”

Eli shrugged, already sliding off the bed to stand. His hair was a mess — flattened on one side, spiking out on the other — and Miguel fought the urge to reach out and smooth it down. Eli didn’t seem to notice, or didn’t care. He just grinned, that lazy grin that made something heavy and warm settle in Miguel’s chest.

“Not like I’m doing anything better,” Eli said, and that was that.

Miguel shook his head, but he couldn’t fight the smile tugging at his mouth as he padded toward the door, socked feet nearly silent against the floorboards. Eli fell into step behind him, close enough that Miguel could feel the brush of his body heat at his back.

It wasn’t intentional — it never was with Eli. He just moved like that, sticking close without thinking, like proximity was automatic between them. Like gravity. Miguel could’ve leaned back just a little and let Eli catch him without even asking.

And honestly? He wanted to. He wanted to turn around, crawl right back into bed, and collapse onto Eli for the rest of the week — bury his face in his neck, breathe in the familiar warmth of him, and stay there until the world stopped spinning so fast. He knew Eli wouldn’t complain. He’d probably just grin that same lazy grin, haul Miguel in tighter, and let him.

But duty — and his mom — called, so he forced himself to keep moving.

The hallway was dim, the only real light spilling out from the kitchen at the end of it. The house smelled even stronger now — savory in a way that made Miguel’s stomach tighten with a sharp pang of hunger. He hadn’t realized how long it had been since he’d eaten.

Maybe that was what being home did — lulled him into forgetting all the usual stuff. Time. Hunger. Distance.

The floor creaked under Miguel’s weight — one particular board near the kitchen door that had always squeaked no matter how many times Johnny insisted he’d fix it. Laura’s toys were scattered in the hallway too, a trail of neon plastic and worn-out dolls that made him step carefully, like navigating a minefield. Eli followed without complaint, dodging a toy truck with one bare foot like he was used to it.

The kitchen was warm and bright, steam rising from a pot on the stove. His mom was at the counter, sleeves rolled up, chopping cilantro with the kind of efficient violence that made Miguel wince a little. She didn’t look up as they entered, but Miguel could tell from the way her mouth twitched that she knew exactly why it had taken him so long to get out of bed.

“You finally decided to show up, mijo y Hawk,” his mother said, glancing at them from under her lashes with a knowing smile. “I was about to come drag you both out myself.”

Miguel pressed his palms together like he was praying — or hoping whatever task she had was easy. “I’m here now, Mamá. What do you need?”

Carmen didn’t hesitate, tossing the knife down with an unsatisfying clatter and pointing toward the stove.

“The onions are done. I need you to stir the seco de pollo — don’t let it stick, okay?” she said, already reaching for a new bundle of herbs. “I already removed the chicken, but keep an eye on it. It just needs some browning.”

Nodding, Miguel stepped around her toward the stove. The pot was already simmering, thick with tomatoes and garlic and something deeper he couldn’t immediately place — cumin maybe, or achiote. It smelled incredible, a thousand miles better than the sad, overcooked pasta he usually survived on back in the Bay.

He felt, more than saw, Eli shift behind him. Not quite leaving yet.

Miguel didn’t even have to turn around to know what look was probably on his face — that familiar pinch of his eyebrows, like he was silently asking should I be doing something? followed immediately by I probably shouldn’t.

He fought a grin, eyes on the sauce, as he heard the soft scrape of Eli’s feet shuffling awkwardly over the tile. Like a kid trying to look casual about sneaking another cookie off the tray.

Smart move, honestly. The last time Eli had tried to "help" in the kitchen, he’d set an oil fire that nearly torched Johnny’s eyebrows off. Miguel hadn’t even been mad — it was hard to be mad when you were too busy laughing so hard you had to sit down while your stepdad got hosed off in the backyard, still insisting water would fix it.

Carmen, though, had banned Eli from anything more complicated than taste-testing since.

Miguel stirred the sauce carefully, scraping the bottom of the pot just like Yaya had taught him years ago, making sure nothing stuck or burned. He kept his focus low and steady, even as he could feel Eli’s presence lingering — restless and warm and a little pouty in a way that made Miguel’s chest pull tight with something embarrassingly fond.

He knew Eli wanted to be closer. Knew it in the way he hovered, a little too still, a little too quiet. If it were just the two of them, Miguel knew exactly how it would go — Eli stepping right up behind him, chin hooked over his shoulder, arms sliding around his waist like he was supervising when they both knew he just wanted an excuse to be close.

And honestly, Miguel would’ve let him. Would’ve leaned back without thinking, fit himself into Eli’s chest like he belonged there. Which, at this point, he probably did.

But his mom was here, and Eli, despite everything, was behaving. Barely. He slunk away with a quiet huff of breath that sounded suspiciously like denied affection — the kind of soft, exasperated sigh that made Miguel’s mouth twitch in spite of himself.

Glancing at the pan again, Miguel adjusted the flame under it, nudging the skillet of chicken with practiced hands. The heat flushed against his face, and he welcomed it, using it to mask the way his skin prickled stupidly in the places Eli had been hovering a moment ago.

It was crazy how easy it was to miss someone when they were still in the same room.

Miguel barely had time to adjust the pan again before the front door swung open with a sharp bang, hinges rattling in the frame like a warning shot. A gust of cool air followed and then the familiar scuff of sneakers against hardwood.

“¡Ya estamos aquí!” Johnny’s voice thundered down the hallway, full volume, like he thought the entire neighborhood needed to know about his arrival in choppy Spanish that Miguel had long since given up on correcting. Grocery bags crinkled under his arm, one threatening to split from the bottom.

The only reason Miguel didn’t flinch was because he was used to it. Though, Carmen’s knife paused mid-chop, a long-suffering sigh bleeding out of her behind her smile.

Behind Johnny came Robby, quieter but no less noticeable — bag tucked neatly in one hand, the other steadying a small blur of movement clinging to his side.

“Laura, slow down—” Robby started, but it was already too late.

The three-year-old streaked forward, curls flying, sneakers slapping against the floor with reckless abandon, zero hesitation because her eyes had locked in on one person. She tore through the hallway at a speed that would’ve terrified Miguel if his focus wasn’t zeroed in on this pan of chicken.

Miguel stepped instinctively to the side, keeping his elbows in so he didn’t clip her as she flew past.

“ HAWK! ” Laura shrieked, voice splitting the air, bright and sharp and delighted.

Eli didn’t even flinch. He crouched automatically, arms open wide, grinning like he’d been waiting for her.

Miguel didn’t even have to look to know how it would go. Laura adored him — had since she was a newborn squirming in his arms while Eli, half-panicked, learned how to hold her right under Yaya’s sharp-eyed supervision. She’d been too young to remember that, but it hadn’t mattered. From the moment she could pick favorites, Eli had been hers. And, surprisingly, Eli had always been good with her — patient in a way Miguel wouldn’t have expected back when they first started dating, all sharp edges and restless energy.

But with Laura? He was all soft hands and easy laughs, matching her chaos like it was second nature.

Miguel heard the soft oof as Laura barrelled into him, giggling as Eli caught her, steady and sure like he weighed nothing. A second later, her laughter burst free, high and delighted, and Eli’s low chuckle followed — familiar and fond, the kind of sound that tugged at something deep in Miguel’s chest.

“Missed you this much ,” Laura insisted, stretching her arms as far as they would go, nearly clocking Eli in the face with the enthusiasm of it.

“Whoa, that’s huge,” Eli said, playing along. His eyes were soft, crinkled at the corners with the kind of quiet, unguarded affection he never really showed anyone else. So soft it made something in Miguel want to cross the room and press his mouth to that dumb grin just to see if it would stay. “Way bigger than last time.”

His hand stilled on the spoon, the stew forgotten, because really — how was he supposed to focus on anything when this was happening a few feet away?

Eli was stretched out on the living room rug, one arm braced casually behind his head, the other steadying Laura where she clambered across his stomach like a jungle gym. His hoodie had ridden up with the motion, exposing a pale sliver of skin and the faint, sharp edge of that tattoo he’d gotten last summer — a snake, perched and ready to strike, inked low on his hip disappearing into his pants.

It wasn’t the flash of skin, or the familiar thrill of the tattoo — though, God , that definitely wasn’t helping. It was the way Eli was with her. Easy. Patient. He didn’t rush her, didn’t flinch when her sneakers jabbed into his ribs, didn’t sigh or roll his eyes or glance around like he had somewhere better to be. He just laughed, low and rough, and steadied her with both hands when she stumbled, his grip sure and careful in a way that made Miguel’s stomach ache.

But it wasn’t just the way he looked.

It was what he was doing.

Miguel had dated before. He’d had those crash-and-burn high school relationships, the ones full of messy texts and late-night doubts, the ones that felt huge until they didn’t. And none of them — none — had looked like this. Like someone lying on his living room floor, letting his little sister climb him like a mountain, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. Because he was good at it.

He watched Eli tilt his head back, grinning wide when Laura shrieked and shoved at his chest, and Miguel swore he could feel his ribs ache with how badly he wanted this — not just Eli or his body or his looks, but this. This life.

Because Eli wasn’t faking it. He wasn’t putting on some careful, sanitized version of himself to impress Miguel’s family. He wasn’t playing nice because it was expected. He was just here , rough edges and all, softening in a way Miguel didn’t think Eli even realized was happening.

The thing that really fucked with Miguel, was that it wasn’t that different from the Eli he’d first met. Not really. Strip away the hair, the tattoos, the sharp edges he'd carved for himself like armor, and underneath it was still the same kid. The one who kept his head down and spoke soft because he cared. The one who used to listen so intently to everything because he knew what it felt like when no one bothered. But here, now — in Miguel’s house, with Miguel’s family — he wasn’t hiding. He wasn’t pulling himself in tight to avoid being seen. He was stretched out, easy and open, letting himself take up space like he believed he deserved it.

And that? That hit harder than anything else. Because Eli could have stayed guarded. Instead, he sat there grinning under the weight of a three-year-old’s stubborn love, letting the quiet, soft part of himself show, like he trusted Miguel’s family to hold it safe. Like he trusted Miguel to hold it safe.

And Miguel did. God, he did.

Maybe that was why, when he listened closer, he realized he wasn’t hearing Laura’s giggles the same way anymore.

It wasn’t her laughter anymore, not really. It wasn’t just this moment, this day, this borrowed piece of home. It was the echo of a kid he didn’t know yet — a kid with Eli’s crooked grin and Miguel’s messy hair, tumbling across a floor that belonged to them. The sound of sneakers on hardwood, of crayons scattered across a coffee table, of a life built piece by piece, the way real things are.

It was future noise.

And the way Eli moved — the careful surety of his hands, the soft rumble of his laugh — made it way too easy to imagine it. Too easy to picture their kid, tiny hands wrapped around Eli’s fingers, big, messy marker hearts scrawled up and down Eli’s arms, little feet kicking his stomach as they clambered onto him without a second thought.

Miguel wasn’t supposed to be thinking like this. Twenty was way too young to be losing his mind over some day — a house, a kid, a life. He was supposed to be thinking about midterms and karate and how to keep his busted old laptop running long enough to get through the quarter.

But here he was, hands slack on the edge of the stove, stew bubbling in the background, brain completely hijacked by the sight of Eli stretched out like that — like he belonged here, like he'd always belonged here — and by the wild, dizzying want twisting up in Miguel's chest until it was hard to breathe.

He could sit. He could just drop down next to them — ease down onto the floor and let Laura climb over him too, let himself soak in the ordinary miracle of it. Eli would glance over, grin at him like he always did — wide and loose, all teeth and crinkled eyes — and Laura would giggle and grab at his arm, and the three of them would just... be. Tangled up together, a mess of limbs and soft laughter, like this was already their life and not something Miguel was busy imagining into existence.

Or — and this idea flared hotter, sharper — he could drag Eli away. Fist a hand in the front of his hoodie, haul him up, steer him around the corner into the hall, out of sight of his mom and yaya and sister, and kiss him. Kiss him hard, desperate, like he could press the feeling of it into Eli’s skin, brand it there. Bite his lip, tug at the stupid strings of that hoodie, maybe push it up higher and get his hands on more of that skin, the tattoo that still looked impossibly good, better than it had any right to.

Maybe it was selfish, but he didn't want to watch Eli like this — so soft, so careful — and have to keep standing here, pretending it wasn't wrecking him from the inside out. He wanted to feel it. Wanted to own it. Wanted to tug Eli in close and bury his face in the warm curve of his neck, breathe him in, feel the hitch of his breath and the way his arms would curl around Miguel without hesitation, like they'd been made for it.

Because if he didn’t move soon, he was going to explode — just crack open, right there in his mom’s kitchen, and spill every embarrassing, reckless feeling he had out onto the floor.

He loved him. God , he loved him.

And he wanted that. He wanted that.

Not just someday — not just far-off, hypothetical. He wanted it with Eli. Wanted all of it. The messy, sticky, exhausting, beautiful chaos of it. He wanted the living room littered with toys and tiny sneakers kicked off by the door and sticky fingers and wild bedtime stories that got them scolded for being too loud. He wanted to wake up to this — to Eli laughing at seven a.m. with a kid half-sprawled across him, to coffee that always went cold, to the quiet press of Eli’s hand in his hair when he passed out on the couch.

He wanted to love Eli with the kind of reckless, unstoppable love that filled up a house and spilled out onto the porch and into the yard and through the street until–

"Miggy," his mom's voice cut through his stupor, low and amused in a way that made his stomach drop like he'd just been caught doing something he definitely shouldn't have been doing. "¿Qué estás mirando?"

Miguel's head snapped toward her so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash, the motion automatic and guilty in a way that probably gave him away immediately. His mother was leaning against the counter with one hip cocked, arms crossed over her chest, that specific eyebrow raised in the exact same way it had been when she'd found his report card shoved under his mattress sophomore year. The wooden spoon in the pan made a soft scraping sound as he stirred it too vigorously, the motion jerky and overcorrected, like he was trying to convince both of them that he'd been paying attention to his cooking duties all along.

"Nada, Mama," he said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere far from that. "Just watching the chicken."

Carmen's smile was sharp and knowing, the kind that meant she could see right through his bullshit and was enjoying every second of it. She let her gaze drift deliberately toward the living room where Eli was now making exaggerated airplane noises as he flew Laura around, her giggles echoing off the walls and mixing with the sounds of sizzling onions and the low murmur of the TV. Then she looked back at Miguel, that same smile spreading wider, more entertained, like she'd just been handed the best entertainment she'd had all week.

"You know," she started, picking up her knife to resume chopping cilantro, the blade moving in efficient, practiced strokes that spoke to years of cooking for a family, "Eli is very good with her. Very natural."

The observation was innocent enough on the surface, the kind of thing any adult might say about watching someone interact well with their child. But Miguel knew his mother, had been dealing with her particular brand of subtle interrogation his entire life. Nothing she said was ever just innocent, especially not when it came to his relationships. 

"Yeah," Miguel managed, his voice coming out slightly strangled despite his best efforts to sound normal. "He's always been good with kids." The lie sat uncomfortably on his tongue even as he said it, because the truth was he had no real basis for that claim.

Which wasn't even true, really, and Miguel knew it even as the words left his mouth. He had no idea if Eli was good with kids in general — Laura was pretty much the only kid either of them spent any real time around, and she'd latched onto Eli from day one with the kind of single-minded determination that didn't give him much choice in the matter. Laura had just decided, with the unshakeable certainty that only a toddler could possess, that Eli was her person, and Eli had rolled with it because that's what Eli did.

But watching him now — the way he caught her so easily, the way he listened to her rambling explanations about her drawings — Miguel was starting to think maybe it wasn't just Laura being persistent. Eli was just naturally good at this, had some kind of instinct for it that Miguel was only now recognizing. The thought sent another flutter of heat through his chest, different from the embarrassment but just as unsettling.

“He’s become good with our family,” Carmen added, still in that same offhand tone. “Good with you, good with Laura. Very patient. Quite responsible, actually.”

Miguel blinked hard at the pot, focusing on the swirl of red and orange and the soft, bubbling sound. “Mhm,” he agreed, noncommittal, bracing for whatever was coming because she wasn’t done — he could feel it, like the tension right before a sparring match.

“Good foundation for the future.”

“Mamá,” he said, warning in his voice. It came out closer to a whine.

But his mother only smiled wider, knife tapping lightly against the cutting board as she gathered the chopped cilantro into a neat pile. “I’m just saying. It would be nice.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners — not teasing, not really. She looked genuine, like she was actually picturing it, spinning the idea out in her head already. “A big family. Maybe a few little ones running around.”

Miguel felt his face heat so fast it was almost dizzying. “Mamá,” he hissed, glancing over his shoulder like Eli might somehow hear this entire conversation from across the room over Laura’s shrieks of laughter. Luckily — or unluckily, depending on how you looked at it — Eli was too busy being used as a human tree to notice anything else.

Undeterred, Carmen went on, voice light and dreamy like she was narrating a Hallmark commercial. “Oh, imagine — little curls or big blue eyes.” She gave Miguel a sly, sideways glance. “You and Eli would make very good parents, you know.”

Miguel wanted the earth to open up under his feet. “Mamá,” he groaned, dragging the word out. “You’re not serious.”

Carmen shrugged like she had no idea what he was talking about. “Why not? You’re not getting any younger, mijo. And your babies would be so cute.”

“I’m twenty,” Miguel muttered, horrified.

“Exactly. Time flies,” she said serenely, turning back to her cilantro. “One day you’ll blink and you’ll be thirty and wondering where all the time went. Better to start thinking about these things now.”

Miguel wanted to melt into a puddle on the kitchen floor. He wanted to disappear behind the stove, into the sauce, into the fucking drywall if he had to.

He knew — knew — his mom wasn’t serious-serious. Not really. But she wasn’t not serious either, and that was worse. She was a master at this — toeing the line between teasing and terrifying, dangling the idea just close enough to make Miguel squirm without giving him a real escape.

Clearing his throat loudly, the sound coming out more like a strangled cough than anything dignified. The chicken had developed the perfect golden-brown crust, edges crispy and smelling aromatic enough, and he seized on it like a lifeline.

"The chicken's done," he announced, maybe a little too loudly out of desperation. He turned off the burner, the click of the knob sounding almost triumphant in the sudden quiet that followed. "And the stew part is ready. Should we set the table?"

Carmen's knowing smile didn't fade, but she mercifully didn't push. Instead, she nodded toward the cabinet above the sink, wiping her hands on her apron with the kind of satisfied efficiency that meant she'd accomplished exactly what she'd set out to do. "Plates are up there, mijo. Get the good ones — we have company."

Miguel practically lunged toward the cabinet, grateful for something to do with his hands that didn't involve standing still while his mother painted increasingly vivid pictures of his hypothetical domestic future. The plates were stacked neatly behind the everyday dishes, white ceramic with thin blue trim that Carmen only brought out for special occasions or when she wanted to make someone feel welcome. He counted out six — one for each of them, plus Laura's smaller plate with the cartoon dinosaurs that she insisted on using for every meal.

Behind him, he could hear the soft shuffle of movement, the kitchen reorganizing itself around the business of actually serving dinner. Carmen moved with practiced efficiency, transferring the rice to a serving bowl, adjusting the seasoning in the seco de pollo with a critical taste and a small nod of approval. 

From the living room came Laura's delighted shriek, followed by Eli's low chuckle and what sounded like the two of them collapsing onto the couch in a heap of giggles and rustling fabric. Miguel felt something in his chest loosen at the sound — not quite relief, but close. At least Eli was still safely occupied, still blissfully unaware of the conversation that had just taken place in the kitchen. Miguel wasn't sure he could handle seeing Eli's reaction to his mom's not-so-subtle hints about their future reproductive plans, especially not when his own face was probably still broadcasting his mortification to anyone who cared to look.

He set the plates on the counter with careful precision, focusing on the small, manageable task of arranging them in everyone’s seats. He'd eaten off these plates for family dinners and birthday celebrations back when it was just three. Now there were seven of them around the table, and somehow that felt both strange and perfectly natural at the same time.

"Silverware's in the drawer now," Carmen said, not looking up from ladling rice into the serving bowl. Her voice was back to its normal tone, no trace of the teasing lilt that had been there moments before. She wasn't done with this conversation — he knew that much. She was just giving him a reprieve, letting him catch his breath before the next round.

Miguel pulled the drawer open, quickly gathering six sets of cold silverware, and tried to convince himself that the flush was finally fading from his face. By the time they all sat down to eat, hopefully, he'd look normal again. 

“¡Estamos listas!” Carmen called, loud enough to carry through the house. It was the kind of call that brooked no argument — not from Johnny, not from Robby, not from even the most distracted toddler.

Sure enough, there was a thump and a scuffle from the living room, a flurry of movement that Miguel didn’t even have to see to know: Laura scrambling off Eli’s stomach, Eli groaning in exaggerated pain like he’d just been mortally wounded, and then both of them making their way toward the kitchen, trailing the sounds of their laughter behind them.

Miguel grabbed the last of the silverware and moved to set the table, arranging plates and napkins with methodical care, letting the motions steady him. It was almost enough to keep him from staring — almost. He still caught himself glancing up as Eli rounded the corner, Laura’s hand tucked confidently in his, leading him toward the table like she owned the place and he was just lucky to be allowed along for the ride.

Eli was a mess — the stickers mostly peeled off now, but a few stubborn ones still clung to the spikes in defiance. His hoodie was rumpled, his cheeks pink from exertion, his grin loose and easy. He looked... good. Unfairly good. The kind of good that made Miguel’s brain short-circuit for a few seconds too long.

“Sit, sit,” Carmen said, herding them all toward the table with a few pointed gestures. Robby and Johnny filed in from the other side of the house, Johnny already sniffing appreciatively, Robby giving a small smile that was as close to eager as he got.

Eli moved to sit, Laura tugging at his sleeve to guide him to the chair right next to her booster seat — her preferred spot, naturally. 

It wasn’t a new thing. Laura had been hilariously, aggressively territorial over Eli ever since she figured out she could be. And honestly? Miguel didn’t really mind. It was funny the way she’d glare when he got too close, tiny fists curled against her sides like she was ready to throw hands with her own brother for daring to exist within his boyfriend’s personal space.

One night a few months ago, when they were all crammed onto the couch watching some animated movie she loved, Miguel had tried to tease her — dramatic, exaggerated, sitting himself on Eli’s lap like some romcom idiot, just to see her reaction.

He didn’t even get fully settled before she squealed, launched herself at them, and pushed Miguel out of the way so she could clamber up and plop herself right across Eli’s thighs like it was her rightful throne. Eli just laughed, all easy and fond, settling her with one arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. Miguel, for his part, had ended up squashed into the armrest, pretending to be upset as Laura shot him the world’s most smug, three-year-old death glare.

It was ridiculous. It was adorable. And Miguel was maybe a little obsessed with all of it — the dumb, stupid, unfair way Eli was just good with her. Good with all of it.

Good with them.

He hovered for a second, one hand braced on the back of a chair. He could feel the pull of it — the table, the dinner, the normalcy. But the hum under his skin hadn’t faded. Watching Eli sit there, elbow on the table, head tilted slightly as he eagerly listened to Yaya talk about her bingo night while letting Laura play with his fingers — it made something restless and sharp rattle around inside Miguel, a feeling too big to fit in his chest neatly.

He knew that feeling. He didn’t like it, but he knew it.

Impulse.

Bad decisions.

The same stubborn, reckless part of his brain that had once convinced him to hop into a car with Eli and drive three hours to the beach at two in the morning during finals week — just because they could — was the same part that was itching now, clawing at him to do something before he got swallowed whole by the weight of wanting.

Before he could think too much about it, Miguel straightened, stepping back from the table like he’d just remembered something critical.

“Hey,” he said, too loud, too quick. “Forgot — uh. I need Eli’s help with something. In my room.”

His mom gave him a look over her shoulder — a look that said she very much did not believe him, but also very much wasn’t about to stop him.

Johnny barely blinked, already occupied with stabbing a fork into a piece of chicken. Robby, sitting next to him, raised an eyebrow but said nothing, because Robby was smart like that even if he would probably take the shit out of Miguel for it later.

Cutting to Miguel, Eli’s eyes were curious but unbothered. He shrugged, pushing his chair back with a scrape. “Yeah, sure.”

Laura made a noise of protest, tiny and insistent, but Eli leaned down and said something low to her — a promise to be right back, maybe — and she settled, albeit with a small, dramatic sigh that would’ve made Yaya scold her if she wasn’t busy setting dishes on the table.

Miguel didn’t wait for any more questions. He was already backing toward the hallway, motioning for Eli to follow, heart hammering somewhere dangerously high in his chest. He could feel eyes on his back — his mother, definitely, probably Robby — but he didn’t care. Or at least he pretended he didn’t.

The moment they were out of the kitchen’s line of sight, Miguel’s fingers closed around the sleeve of Eli’s hoodie and tugged, more forceful than it needed to be. Eli made a small noise in the back of his throat but didn’t resist, letting himself be pulled down the hallway, steps falling into rhythm like they always did. Miguel barely registered the family photos on the walls, vision tunneling toward getting Eli into his room.

He wasn’t thinking, not in a way that was useful or careful or even particularly smart. His mind was still tangled up in the image of Eli stretched out on the living room floor, laughing like he had nowhere else to be but here, like he belonged in a way that Miguel hadn’t let himself believe in before today. It wasn’t just affection or attraction or even the easy comfort of being back home. It was the future — sudden and real and so startlingly vivid Miguel felt like he couldn’t breathe around it.

The door to his room clicked shut behind them, and Miguel moved without thinking. He backed Eli into it, crowding into his space, the familiar give of Eli’s body under his hands sending a hot rush of relief through him. His grip shifted, sliding up from the sleeve to Eli’s shoulder, then the warm stretch of skin at his neck, fingers curling there, grounding himself against something he could hold onto.

Eli’s back hit the door with a dull thud. He sucked in a startled breath, confusion flashing across his face — but only for a second. Miguel didn’t give him a chance to ask questions. He surged up and kissed him hard. Desperate in a way that didn’t bother hiding itself.

There was no hesitation, no slow build. Just teeth and lips and Miguel’s breath stuttering against Eli’s mouth. For a heartbeat, Eli froze — a quiet, startled noise caught between them — but then he was there, fingers tangling in Miguel’s curls, tugging him closer.

Miguel groaned low in his throat, the sound breaking out of him thoughtlessly. His hands slid down Eli’s sides, thumbs catching the warm hem of his hoodie, skimming the thin cotton of his T-shirt underneath. The heat of him was a steady thrum against Miguel’s palms.

Gripping Eli’s hips harder than he meant to, Miguel chased that feeling of closeness like it might be enough to quiet the noise in his head — the relentless, messy spin of future and family and the sudden, dizzying weight of wanting. Not just wanting Eli here, now, but wanting all of it. 

Their bodies slotted together and Miguel pressed harder, mouth trailing down the rough line of Eli’s jaw, catching the faint scrape of stubble under his lips. Eli’s breath hitched, his fingers tightening in Miguel’s hair, pulling just enough to make Miguel's knees tremble, desperate to chase that feeling down.

Miguel’s hands moved higher, skating up Eli’s ribs, spreading flat against his chest where he could feel the rapid, uneven thud of his heart. Eli’s hands were moving too, sliding from his hair down the line of his back, fingertips skimming the waistband of his jeans and slipping low enough to make Miguel gasp into his mouth — sharp and helpless and unguarded.

The sound he made was humiliating in its honesty, but Miguel couldn’t bring himself to care. He was too far gone on Eli, on the shape of a future he hadn’t even realized he wanted until it was standing right in front of him, destroying him without even trying.

And then, just as quickly, Eli stilled.

Miguel felt the shift instantly — the way Eli’s hands went from hungry to steady, holding him down instead of pulling him in. Miguel pulled back a fraction, just enough to see him, blinking hard, breathing rough against the too-small space between them.

Eli’s mouth was red and slick, his spikes flattened and sticking up at odd angles from where Laura had tugged at them, and there was still a cute glittery dinosaur clinging stubbornly to the sleeve of his hoodie. His hands stayed where they were at Miguel’s waist, firm but not insistent, fingers flexing once, like he wasn’t sure if he should let go.

“Miguel,” Eli said, voice low and rough.

His thumbs rubbed slow circles against Miguel’s hips and his voice was pitched low, rough around the edges with restraint Miguel wasn’t sure he shared.

“Look,” Eli muttered, mouth tugging into a crooked half-grin, “If you want to go down on me right now, I’m not gonna stop you, but your mom is literally—”

“Do you want kids?”

Eli blinked like he hadn’t heard him right. His brows pinched, mouth falling open just slightly, breath still coming fast from where they’d been pressed so close a moment ago.

“What?”

Fuck.

Miguel’s face went hot, but it wasn’t just embarrassment now — it was a bit of panic, deep and mean, curling under his ribs and squeezing tight. For a second, it was all he could do to stay standing, the sudden fear that he’d assumed too much about what they both wanted out of this.

“I—” he started, then stopped, dragging a breath in through his nose. He could feel Eli’s eyes on him, heavy and expectant. Miguel wished Hawk could just read his mind. “I was just—” Another breath. “You were really good with Laura, and it was... I don’t know. It was confusing.”

Eli’s brow furrowed, the corner of his mouth twitching like he couldn’t quite decide if he wanted to laugh or not.

“Confusing,” he echoed, voice pitched carefully neutral in that way it did when he was acting like he didn't understand something just so he could fuck with Miguel.

“Yeah,” Miguel said, fast and stupid after what felt like too long. “Like—you were playing with her and it was... It was really hot, okay? And not just, like, hot-hot. Like, domestic future shit, and it was—it is confusing. And I was thinking about kids and, I don’t know, living with you and like—” He bit the inside of his cheek, realizing too late that he was spiraling. “Forget it.”

There was a beat of silence, long enough for Miguel to think maybe he’d really messed this up. Maybe Eli didn't want that type of life. Maybe Eli didn't want that type of life with him. Maybe— 

“Wait. Wait. Are you telling me you have baby fever?”

Miguel’s head snapped up, scandalized. “No,” he hissed, horrified by how high and defensive it came out but a bit relieved that Eli’s eyes were filled with only soft amusement and smugness. “It’s not—” He scowled, pushing at Eli’s chest, but not actually trying to move him. “I was thinking about the future. About... you. Us. Stuff.”

Eli’s grin widened, cocky and just on the wrong side of affectionate. He wasn’t letting this go — Miguel could tell by the way his eyebrows arched, like he was already filing this moment away to pull out later, probably when Miguel was least prepared to deal with it.

Groaning under his breath, Miguel pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes like that could somehow undo the last thirty seconds of his life.

He didn’t know what was worse — that it was baby fever, or that it wasn’t even just about kids, really. It was about Eli. About all the soft pieces of the future Miguel hadn’t let himself want until now — grocery runs, hands steady on his back when he came home wrecked from a long day. Nothing big or flashy. Just him. Here.

And fine, maybe that was embarrassing, but he wasn’t about to stand here and say it.

Instead, Miguel let out a frustrated noise that wasn’t quite a word and crowded forward, burying his face in the side of Eli’s neck, his breath hot against the skin there. Eli didn’t move, just stood solid and unbothered, like he knew exactly what Miguel was doing and was smart enough not to call him on it.

He breathed him in — detergent, the faint lingering scent of the garlic from earlier, and underneath that, just Eli. Calming in a way that made Miguel’s chest ache if he thought about it too hard.

“You’re such an asshole,” Miguel muttered into Eli’s neck, but it didn’t have any real bite.

Eli’s hand slid up the back of Miguel’s sweatshirt, fingers curling loosely in the fabric. “You’re the one who brought up kids,” he said, voice low and maddeningly amused.

He pulled in a shaky breath, stubbornly refusing to lift his head. He could feel the vibration of Eli’s voice against his cheek and the way his thumb stroked a lazy line along the ridge of his spine in a way that would be calming if Miguel’s face wasn’t burning.

“I mean I’m kind of into that.”

Miguel’s head shot up so fast he almost knocked into Eli’s chin, and for a second he just stared, heart hammering against his ribs like it wanted out. Eli looked... normal. Calm, even. His face was open, unguarded in that way he only ever was with Miguel, like the thought didn’t even occur to him to be nervous about it.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, then opened it, struggling to land on a single coherent word. Eli didn’t rush him. He just stood there, hand still warm and steady at the small of Miguel’s back.

“What—” Miguel started, then stopped because he didn’t even know how to ask the question without sounding like an idiot. “What do you mean you’re into that?”

Eli huffed out a breath that was almost a laugh, the corners of his mouth curling up in that easy, lopsided grin that Miguel had stopped pretending didn’t do things to him. He shrugged, loose and unbothered, like this wasn’t the kind of thing that was supposed to require fanfare or nerves or anything even close to hesitation.

“I mean,” Eli said, voice slow, careful like he was trying to make sure Miguel really heard him, “I’ve already decided. You’re it for me.” His hand slid a little higher, palm flattening against Miguel like he was trying to press his body into him. “So... yeah. Kids, future, all that domestic shit? I’m into it. I wanna do it with you.” His smile softened then, the bravado slipping into something quieter. “Why would that be weird?”

Miguel blinked, stunned in a way he couldn’t hide if he tried. It wasn’t just the words — it was how easy they were for Eli. How true they sounded. Like he wasn’t laying out a gamble or a guess. Like he wasn’t afraid of it at all. Like he’d known for a while, maybe longer than Miguel had even let himself imagine it.

The thing was, Miguel loved Eli. He loved him in ways that were messy and complicated and sometimes frustrating as hell. He loved him in the late nights on FaceTime when Eli fell asleep with the phone still balanced on his chest, in the way Eli always stole the covers but left his body heat behind like an apology. He loved him in the way Eli looked at Laura like she was the best thing he’d ever seen, like she wasn’t just Miguel’s family — she was theirs.

And he knew Eli loved him back. Had known it in a hundred quiet ways long before either of them ever said it out loud. But this — this casual certainty, this already decided — it hit him somewhere permanent.

Miguel pressed his hand flat against Eli’s chest, right over his heart, feeling the solid, steady beat under his palm. Eli didn’t flinch or pull away. He just let him. Let him hold on. Let him feel it.

He opened his mouth to say something — anything — but all that came out was a breath, shaky and half-formed. So instead he leaned in, slow this time, pressing his forehead against Eli’s like it was the only thing in the world that made sense.

“Okay,” Miguel said, voice rough and quiet, not sure what he was agreeing to exactly — just knowing that it didn’t matter. He was already in. He’d been in for a long time.

Eli smiled, small and soft, and Miguel could feel it against his skin.

“Okay,” Eli echoed, like a promise, like a future already unfolding between them in a way that felt inevitable. 

Before Miguel could even breathe out another word, a sharp knock rattled the door, followed by Johnny’s voice, way too loud and way too smug: “You two done in there? We're waiting! And keep your pants on — family house!”

Groaning, Miguel dropped his forehead against Eli’s, hearing the low rumble of Eli’s laughter under his skin. Neither of them moved, like if they stayed quiet long enough Johnny might just give up.

“C’mon,” Eli muttered, brushing a quick kiss against Miguel’s temple. “Before he actually busts the door down.”

Miguel sighed but let Eli pull him up, their hands brushing as they moved — small, quiet, but final. He didn’t bother hiding his grin.