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“Babe, can you help me with something?” You called out, grunting as you dragged an impossibly heavy box through the doorway.
Ace was on the couch, a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth, completely unbothered. “Eh? Sure, wha’s up, baby?” He called back, words muffled around a mouthful.
“I got a new book shelf—they just dropped it at the door.” Another grunt, heels digging into the floor. “Can you help me bring it in?”
He was up before you finished the sentence. His footsteps crossed the room quickly and his hands found your back, steadying you. “Let me get that. You relax.”
You push the box back up with another grunt, stepping aside to let him take over, watching him grip the box with the easy confidence of someone who moved heavy things for a living.
It came in.
It came in, and then it slipped, and then it hit the floor with a thud that rattled the walls—
A thud with his toe under it.
“PORRA!”
“Ace—!” You rushed over, hands hovering uselessly. “Are you okay?”
He wasn’t listening. He had his foot wrenched up, gripping it with both hands, hopping on one leg like it was going to help anything. His face was scrunched, red like a tomato, breath coming in shaft and ragged between his teeth—as if he’d spontaneously burst into flames at any time.
“Porra—ai,ai,ai—filho da—” a sharp inhale, “—merda,merda,merda—” another, “—caralho—”
Just—Streams of it. Breathless and hissing, one curse bleeding into the next like he couldn't get them out fast enough.
You stood there with your hand still raised.
“…Are you okay?”
“Não—! Esse caixa DA MERDA—” his voice cracked on it, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, still hopping still gripping his foot. “—filho da puta, caralho, ai, ai—”
You didn’t understand a word of what he said. You didn’t need to. You grabbed his arm anyway, steering him back toward the couch while he was still mid-curse, and he let your hobbling dramatically and hissing through his teeth.
“Sit. Let me see.”
He dropped onto the couch, finally releasing his foot, and you crouched in front of him. Nothing broken, thank Nika. Just a red, angry-looking toe.
You looked up at him. He was still wincing, chest heaving, tears clinging stubbornly to his lashes.
“…You good?”
“Fuuuuuuck no,” he replied, head shaking.
You bit the inside of your cheek.
“The box got you pretty bad, huh?”
“Esse caixa,” he snarled, “ees a menace.”
There it was—that little tilt curling under his words, the accent unmistakably thicker than usual, not quite shaken off yet. You’ve heard it before, very rare moments when he was half-asleep, waking up from a narcolepsy episode, or very emotional, English coming just slightly elsewhere.
You didn’t say anything. But something in his face must have shifted because he looked at you, then looked at you a little more carefully.
“What.”
“Nothing.”
“You’re smiling.”
“I’m not.”
“Nes.”
“Im concerned,” you started, feigning innocence. “Very concerned. About your toe.”
“And why is that?”
“I…heard you say some things. Dunno what it meant but sounded bad.”
He snorted, a smile growing on his face. “You should learn Portuguese then,” he replied, the warm lilt still there, unhurried. “Maybe then you’d know if it was bad or not.”
You shook your head, dropping your chin to hide the stupid smile pulling at your mouth.
His hand found you anyway—a knuckle under your chin, tilting it up with ease, and suddenly—suddenly you had nowhere to hide.
He looked at you for a moment. His eyes darting to your lips, your eyes, your hair. His eyes on you.
“Você é tão linda assim,” he murmured, thumb brushing your jaw. “Sabe disso?”
You had no idea what he said. You knew how he was looking at you. His face soft, his touch reverent.
“Fico louco te vendo assim, tão perto de mim.”
“Ace—”
“Hmmm?” Innocent. Completely. Innocent.
Your face was warm. He watch it happen, the color climb your cheeks, and said nothing, just let his thumb trace along your jaw like he had all the time in the world.
“Você não imagina o que passa pela minha cabeça agora.”
“I know you’re saying something horrible,” you managed.
He tilted his head, his jaw opening slightly. “Horrible? Bom, meu amor, you’d just have to learn to find out,” he smiled.
“Don’t.”
“Gostosa,” he said, like it was nothing, like your face wasnt on fire by something horrible he definitely didn’t say,
His smile grew wider—slow, warm and terrible—and closed the distance, kissing yiu soft and easy, one hand still cradling your jaw.
When he pulled back, his eyes were bright with it.
You laughed despite yourself, still red still warm and went in for another kiss.
He chuckled coming back in, low and satisfied.
Menace.