Work Text:
They’re kissing and his heart is soaring, stomach leaping, mind racing. It’s beautiful and tender and passionate and everything he could have hoped for, if he’d ever concentrated long enough before now on what he really feels for her. He wonders if she is enjoying it as much as he is, if she feels as alive as he does. It goes on just a little longer than it needs to.
But it’s nothing. Just work — they’re undercover and this is simply part of it. And he has a girlfriend.
...
She tells him her dad’s coming to visit for a long weekend. It was booked months ago, but she’s nervous and she’s been pretending to herself that it’s not happening, until suddenly it is only a few days away and she must prepare. She’s told him before that they’re very similar, the two Blakes, and yet it is their small divergences that define their relationship, making it an uneasy one. He feels for her; the differences with his own father are sometimes insurmountable. He promises that he will be there to smooth things along, giving up his Saturday and Sunday to help her. She accepts shyly and gladly.
He tells Carmen he can’t go to that gallery opening, suggests one of her arty crowd as a more interested substitute. She doesn’t seem upset. Not like she would have been in the beginning.
They take the ornithologically-inclined Blake to the nature reserve they visited for a case quite some time ago. They borrow bikes and binoculars again and they set out into the wilderness, one of them with a checklist and identification guide, the other two just enjoying spending time together without trying to solve a puzzle, hunt a suspect, prevent yet another crime. He falls off his bike again, and it’s worth it to hear her laugh. Thankfully it is not muddy today. He blames a loose spoke and they share a private look, while her father strongly expresses his doubt. He’s just like her.
Sunday comes and he drives the three of them to some lesser-known beauty spots, ones that cannot easily be reached without a car. Their visitor is thrilled to be shown the hidden Mallorca. They explore a picturesque stone village, exploding with a profusion of colourful flowers in terracotta pots. They ascend a mountain track and gasp at the view, the island laid out all round them, falling away to the deep blue sea. They take a picnic to a beautifully-remote sandy cove. The elder Blake wanders off to spot seabirds, and the pair of them share the raft of blanket and talk happily.
She tells him he has made this all so much easier for her, promises to return the favour if his father ever comes to stay. He’d like that, though he knows it should be Carmen who gets the parental introduction. Maybe he won’t have to choose. ¿Por qué no los dos?
He drops the father and daughter off at her seaside home and her dad grabs his hand, claps his back, beams like he’s welcoming him to the family. She pats his shoulder, rare physical gratitude from one who is so often reticent.
But it’s nothing. Just a friend helping another get through a dreaded family visit. He’d do it any time, for her.
...
They’re working late, much later than planned, and it’s past the time he said he’d go to Carmen. He knows he should tell her, offer his apologies, and he does, but not before the missed calls have started. He wonders why he finds the ties and courtesies of a relationship so tightly binding sometimes.
He’s not like this with his compañera. His surprising love guru. She’s made him see where he goes wrong, the ways he sabotages things, and how to do better. So he always does with her; disappointing her stings too much. He just can’t seem to make himself get it right with his girlfriend.
They finally finish and he decides it’s too late to go to Carmen now. They don’t have time for the row and the apology and the making up tonight. He suggests a quick drink instead and she nods wearily. He knows it will help her switch off and actually get the sleep she clearly needs. After a few sips of her tinto she is keen to talk, despite her tiredness. She twirls her hair round her finger, throws him a witty pun.
But it’s nothing. Just a midnight glass of wine with a friend. His girlfriend can wait, a problem for another day.
...
It’s Saturday night and it’s almost dark, as gloomy out as he is inside. Carmen has left in a tornado of tight-lipped resolve and now their relationship has an end date. He screams his pain in one deep, cleansing howl, pours a large whisky, gulps it down and sits, staring blankly. He fidgets, can’t settle. He grabs his phone, rapidly taps out a message before he can change his mind, sends it out across the city.
Max:
I was right. She finished with me. It’s over.
Miranda:
I’m coming round with gin and crisps
He smiles through his sorrow: she is coming. He will feel better than this, soon.
The waiting gets to him. His mind replays the difficult conversation, the criticisms, the blame. He weeps, shuddering, gulping for thin breaths.
A knock at the door and she is there, a ray of gold framed by the dark wood. She looks him over and there is pity in her delicate features. He knows his eyes must be red by now, and the salty tracks have tightened down his face. He is stooped with the raw misery that seeps into every limb.
She touches his arm and that misery suffers a minor defeat. She sweeps in, lighting up his darkness, and makes herself at home in his kitchen, as if she belongs at his place. An order is shouted as he tries to follow her: sit down, rest.
She appears before him, tall glass thrust out. The liquid is strong, bitter, crisp. Stronger than he’d have made it after the whisky, but it’s from her and now it is all his. He swallows it gladly, her cool kindness.
They talk and it’s a comfort, but it’s not enough. Two gins down and there she is, sitting right beside him. She must have sensed he needs more. She seems to inhale courage and then she wraps her arms around him, fast before she can change her mind. Her head is against his chest and she must feel the thundering of his broken heart, healing already now she is here. He’s never seen her initiate a hug before; normally she won’t even accept them. This is special.
But it’s nothing. Just a hug of friendship. A show of support for a compañero in need.
...
They’ve had good times, he and Carmen, and although the breakup hurt, the pain has diminished more quickly than either of them expected. They’ve agreed after some respectful space to still be friends, still see each other. It may be awkward at first, but he wants her in his life. He knows for sure that her dad will prefer him as an amigo of his daughter’s and not a potential son-in-law.
His old friend Christian loves Joan’s bar and it’s his birthday, his choice, so a group of them sit round a table, beer laden and sticky. He’s facing the bar, waiting to see her, to test his recovery, to find out how far he’s come in the last few weeks.
Carmen appears in a blaze of red chiffon, dark curls piled up, smiling her way on to shift. His stomach clenches as he watches her from afar. The wound reopens a little. He drifts out of the conversation. He’s not feeling so merry anymore.
Under the table a small hand rests above his knee. He turns to his side and catches a reassuring smile and sympathetic hazel eyes. She has noticed what’s going on with him, as she always does, his observant partner, expert at separating herself and watching, analysing, solving.
Her gaze tells him she understands and she is there for him. He smiles back and the wound begins to close again. Her touch is hot and essential. He will feel cold and alone when it is gone.
But it’s nothing. Just some solace from a friend. No hidden meaning.
...
They scramble up and into the abandoned warehouse, chasing down a good lead. There is no time to get help, to properly clear their path, so they climb and squeeze and pry. She reaches for his hands and slips hers inside. He helps her over a tricky pile of rubble and twisted metal and she quietly thanks him. She does not let go.
His fingers tingle and he worries: will his palms get sweaty and put her off? He doesn’t want her to withdraw, but they have to let go to carry out their investigation. He feels the loss when his skin no longer joins with hers.
When they leave, he offers his hand and she accepts, pulling herself up after him with what looks like a trace of a smile as they proceed back into the light. He wonders how he can make this happen again. Not another train ride into the crushing darkness of her fears, although he is proud to have helped her with that, long ago now. He can’t think of another excuse, so he just enjoys this moment.
But it’s nothing. Just partners helping each other in difficult conditions. Balancing each other.
...
She’s giving a briefing for Inés, taking charge, laying out the background, assigning tasks, motivating their colleagues for a tedious operation. He sits in the corner, watches her in flow while he fills with warmth. She is wonderful. In control, calm, commanding. He would follow her anywhere. He realises now that she has him, if she wants him. All of him is hers. He wonders if he is in her heart in the same way. She plays her cards close to her chest; would she ever let on?
The briefing is ending and she looks to him. She’s smiling proudly, but her eyes seek his approval, his assurance that she has done as well as she thinks she has. Self-esteem is hard-won for her, despite her outwardly confident manner at work. He has seen the times she has unfairly blamed herself for anything that hasn’t gone perfectly, the times she has felt she wasn’t enough, could never be enough. He knows her fears, her anxieties, and he knows too some of the ways that help her through, build her up again. Little by little she has let him in and slowly he has been shoring up her foundations.
He nods, just enough for her to notice, but nobody else. It is a secret nod, part of the invisible thread of communication that has been spun between them. Her smile widens and she doesn’t stop looking at him, eyes sparkling.
But it’s nothing. Just her happiness at a job well done. Work is everything to her and he’s not sure he could compete if she ever did let him try.
...
He wakes to white light, beeping, and warm, stuffy air that smells of disinfectant. He’s in bed, but it’s not his. He doesn’t know where he is, and it’s too bright to open his eyes at first.
It all comes back to him in a lurching rush: the confrontation, the explosive bang of the shot he’d hoped wouldn’t come, the jerk as the speeding metal tunnels through his body, the fall, slow, slow, reaching for her, gripping her shirt hem in his fist as he goes down, down, flat on his back with a winding thud. The ground is cold and rough and his blood spills over it, a hot, spreading lake of life seeping away too fast. He hears her cry out, feels her hand on his face as the darkness closes in and he is gone.
She’s still by his side now. She’s asleep in the chair next to him, a thin blanket over her as she rests with her head slumped against the back of the padded seat. She’s holding his hand. He won’t move until it is absolutely necessary.
Eventually he has to have water. He can’t get it himself. He needs her. He squeezes her palm gently until she stirs and her eyes flutter open. She sees he’s awake and she is pure joy. He’s going to be ok.
“Oh, Max,” she sobs, so much more emotional than he’s used to hearing her. The tears stream their way over her pale skin as he tells her he’s ok, really, just sore and thirsty.
She leaps up and rushes to get him the drink he needs. It’s tepid and bland, but it is from her and he drains it quickly, grateful for the restoration she has brought him.
She sits down and takes his hand again, lacing her slim fingers into his. She looks at him intensely. She’s happy, but she’s still worried. Suddenly she pulls his hand up to her lips and presses a tender kiss against the knuckles, her eyes shut tight. It’s unexpected and unlike her. He’s in her heart, somehow.
But it’s nothing. Just an officer relieved her partner didn’t die in the line of duty. She’d never have forgiven herself for that, even though none of it had been her fault.
...
He’s been discharged and she is waiting in the corridor, smiling sweetly, encouraging his progress. He hobbles over and she grabs his bag, doing anything she can to make this easier on him. Slowly they make their way to the exit and the next stage of his recovery. He stumbles and she’s under his arm in a flash, supporting him, shoring him up.
She drives him back to his place, taking care with his precious BMW, parking it ever so cautiously for his sake — he has enough to worry about. She helps him out and up, and wincing he wonders why he chose a place with so many stairs; the house he found her by the sea would be far better right now.
She unlocks the door with her spare key and tells him to help her pack his bags again. She insists he is coming to stay with her. She has heard the grimace of agony and the sharp intakes of breath at getting here, and her little house with its three storeys is the best she can practically offer him. She will give up her privacy, her valued space for him.
She welcomes him in, clears a drawer in the bedroom for him, makes them both English tea. He tells her that they are not in a café trying to make a waiter understand now: she made it and it’s Welsh tea. Her smile lights up and she slips some biscuits on to a plate for him. She’s been to a German supermarket and got his favourites.
Quickly it’s early evening and he’s tired, so very tired. The healing is exhausting. She helps him upstairs, hangs about on the balcony looking out to sea while he changes into his T-shirt and pyjama bottoms. She comes back in when he raps his knuckles against the glass door and holds his hand while he lowers himself painfully into her bed. She waits while he gets as comfortable as he can. She looks like she’s calculating something, deciding what to do. She rapidly kisses his forehead and then she is gone.
But it’s nothing. Just a goodnight gesture from a friend. She’s happy he’s on the mend and glad to be of use, that’s all.
...
He wakes up and looks at the clock. He’s slept thirteen hours. He needed it — he feels a little stronger than yesterday. Tomorrow will be even better, he’s sure of it, now he’s here in her sanctuary. Best of all though is the warmth at his back. She is in bed with him, holding him. They hadn’t discussed where she would sleep; he had assumed she would insist on taking the sofa and he’s so very glad she didn’t. He doesn’t know how long they’ve been like this, but he does know that he’ll be her little spoon for as long as she wants him, fitting her curve, complementing her perfectly.
But it’s nothing. Just an unconscious cuddle. She’ll probably be embarrassed to wake and find herself like this.
...
He’s doing well, improving every day. Each morning he wakes to the delightful discovery that she is holding him again. In sleep she can show she needs him close. They don’t talk about it. He doesn’t want it to end and he’s scared mentioning it will shame her out of her affection.
She has nursed him attentively. He is usually the caring one and it’s both lovely and confusing to see her take on his role. He knows that he is lucky; she wouldn’t do this for many people. Only him? Probably. He’s the exception in her life, the anomaly that has snuck past her defences, has changed her, helped her grow. And she him.
She’s bought him Bierocks, sobrasada, Rohwurst schnittfest. She’s let all the things she can’t stand into her home for him. They’re part of the package and she accepts them at last, even if she won’t try them yet. She’s been to his apartment and brought him his favourite blanket and some of his books: Agatha Christie, Ernest Hemingway, Life and Food in the Basque Country. He is touched. She’s building a home with him, even if it is temporary.
But it’s nothing. Just a good friend helping him recover. She knows how to ensure his comfort.
...
She’s brought his mail from home, along with more T-shirts and underwear, and the hair gel he’d forgotten. One envelope stands out in the pile. It is very smart indeed. He tears it open and pulls out a gold-edged card. It’s an invitation for the wedding of his first love.
He’s always made a point of trying to stay friendly after a breakup, if he can — he can’t stand anyone thinking badly of him. This ex-girlfriend’s parents have a luxurious holiday home near Alcúdia and the wedding will be there, a place he recalls well. It was his first holiday abroad without his family and he remembers it fondly, the long days in and out of the pool and the tapas at twilight, drinking the abundant, cheap wine freely.
He frowns as he wonders if he should go. He doesn’t know his ex that well anymore. He’s changed a lot since those days, grown up. Especially in the years he’s known his compañera. He’s always had a problem with full commitment and responsibility — it’s part of the reason for things going awry with Carmen. But he knows now and he wants to be better. He’s ready for a mature relationship, perhaps even marriage, and not with a rash, stupid proposal like he offered Carmen. Maybe if he goes to this wedding he’ll feel inspired to make a decision about where his life is going, instead of drifting along like the years aren’t stacking up.
She sees his expression, asks him if something’s wrong. She offers to be his plus one. He swells with happiness and the suggestion becomes reality. The boxes are ticked: number of guests, chicken or fish? How proud he will be to have her by his side. His date.
But it’s nothing. Just a friend accompanying another friend. She will make sure he isn’t lonely.
...
It’s been a month now since that dreadful day the drugs bust went wrong and the bullet found him. He’s back at work, passed fit but warned not to do anything strenuous yet. Suits him. Inés keeps the pair of them on light duties and it means hours at their desks, chatting and laughing quietly over the never-ending paperwork. He doesn’t care that this isn’t the varied excitement he joined the police for; he’s just happy to be alive and to be with her. He’s learnt that the joy isn’t always in the big events, often it’s in the daily details, the just getting on with life, together. It’s there in the everyday kindnesses and it’s in the easy silences she’s shown him he doesn’t have to fill. That’s how the love seeps in.
Today she’s telling him she has a surprise to get him through the mound of reports making their demands on him. She slides a small white box across to his desk. He opens it: treats from Carmela’s. He beams up at her. She is already smiling at him, thrilled that he is pleased with her gift. He plucks a creme patisserie-filled pastry out. It is from her and he devours it, this love she has presented him.
But it’s nothing. Just a few delights from the pastelería he favours. They’ve never tasted so sweet.
...
They’re not talking. It’s been forty-eight hours of torture since she stormed off on Friday afternoon, told him to take the weekend to figure out how to fix his stupid mistake. He wants to see her, but he’s not sure she wants to see him. He can’t go into the office in the morning not knowing how it will be between them. He hates that sort of tension. He needs to get along with everyone, to be liked.
He types his olive branch.
Max:
I’m sorry. I’ll put it right first thing tomorrow. I should have listened to you.
It’s been a while since their last big fight. They’ve had a few in their partnership, mostly in the early months when he acted impulsively or ignored her experience and greater respect for procedure. They’ve got through them all though and they’re stronger for it. In the difficult times they’ve seen each other’s strengths and weaknesses, all of the light and all of the dark, and it’s brought them closer, to the point that they don’t even need to have the fight now. Not often anyway. That’s what makes this one cut so deep.
He waits for her reply, trying to read a supposedly-gripping crime novel, but his eyes flicker back to his indifferent phone every few seconds. He hopes she’s not ignoring him. It’s one of the worst things she can do to him. Ten minutes of unabsorbed storytelling later she accepts his approach.
Miranda:
You’re forgiven. Just bloody well make sure you DO fix it in the morning, ok?
Max:
Of course! You got it. Compañeros?
Miranda:
Compañeros x
He stares at that kiss for too long, tracing his thumb over its stark black cross standing out on his screen, trying to decipher it.
But it’s nothing. Just a casual way to end a message. Lots of British people do it, though he knows she is not usually one of them.
...
He saunters back from lunch carrying two takeaway coffees. He hands her a milky cupful with a wide smile. She sends back a weaker one. He’s sorted out the problem he caused earlier that day as promised, but she needs a little longer to fully trust him again. She’s still hurting.
The week ends in tiring dullness; no big cases where they can hare off all over the island for them yet. They shut their computers down, prepare to leave, and she’s giving him a look he can’t interpret. She’s hesitating, working herself up to something.
“Do you want to go for a drink? Maybe pizza after?” she asks nervously.
He grins. Everything is right again.
But it’s nothing. Just a bite to eat with a colleague. They’ll chat, repair, part as friends again.
...
His leg bounces as they wait for the appointed hour. This is an important operation, weeks in the planning. A lot rides on it and Inés has made it clear she expects certain things from them. Failure is not amongst them. This has to go right. Mistakes mean danger.
He’s made four puns in the last twenty minutes and now he’s singing a trashy German pop song.
“It’s ok to be afraid,” she tells him from experience. “Stay sharp and we’ll get what we need.”
He nods distractedly.
She touches his wrist. “You’ve got your bulletproof vest,” she adds quietly. She understands his anxiety and his cheery distraction tactics are transparent to her. He feels seen. Her fingertips are hot on his clammy skin and he is grounded. They are trained, briefed, ready. They are a team. They can do this, together.
But it’s nothing. Just being a good partner. Professional, obviously.
...
The wedding in Alcúdia is beautiful. The sun shines, the wine flows, and the love abounds. By the time the meal is over they’ve given up correcting people who assume they’re a couple. The answer to how long they’ve been together isn’t an awkward denial now, it’s whatever number seems amusing at the time. The backstory gets more fantastical at every questioning and they delight in their private game. He offers the exotic-dancer-turned-web-designer tale he came up with on their first case and she makes him a dodgy-dealer from Düsseldorf, for old times’ sake.
Before the party gets into full swing, he watches the newlyweds swaying to the song they have chosen just for them. They radiate devotion and he wants that for himself. He wants all of this: the commitment, the intimacy, the years of love and life ahead, and of course the big celebration with all their loved ones.
He sees her across the table, turned sideways in her chair to observe. He wants her. She is radiant today. He’s told her more than once since they set off from Palma how beautiful she looks, but she hasn’t known how to react. She deals with that kind of compliment by trying to pretend it either hasn’t been voiced or simply isn’t true. He wishes she could see herself the way he sees her. It would be the biggest self-esteem boost he could ever offer her.
She swivels to look at him, as if she has sensed his gaze. She smiles, jerks her head and holds her hand out to him. Tonight she will dance with him, copying his carefree moves instead of standing back and wrinkling her nose as she did when they first met. It’s a surprise, but he doesn’t need asking twice.
They edge onto the dance floor and he wonders why his knees are fizzing and a lump has appeared in his throat. The song changes immediately. It’s up tempo now and they don’t get their slow dance. They do hold hands briefly when he occasionally twirls her and every time she spins back before him again he thinks he sees something in her eyes. It’s been there before, now and then, but it’s particularly strong tonight. Curiosity? An invitation?
But it’s nothing. Just two friends dancing tipsily at a wedding. He’ll need a much clearer sign.
...
It’s another night away at the insistence of Inés, stuck there until they can solve the latest case that threatens the island’s international profile, and with it the tourism that sustains the economy. It’s another night booked into whatever modest rooms they could find at the last minute during a small-town fiesta.
They go for dinner. This time he buys her the rose. She accepts the crimson flower with a blush creeping into her cheeks, glancing coyly at him as she thanks him. She hasn’t even tried to protest that they’re just friends. He wonders if this is progress in their relationship or just an example of how she’s calmed down a bit since the last time.
It’s Cazador revisited and reworked. A chance to get it right this time. He asks her if she remembers that case, that night. She does and her dimples appear. The air is electric, thick. A shout cuts through it: another dance in the street. It’s not the paso doble this time and there will be no stamping to clumsily put a foot in it.
She resists again, but not as much as last time; she wants it, she’s just too shy to make it obvious and there hasn’t been enough wine to drown all her inhibitions, like at the wedding. He pulls her after him, the current surging through their palms. They take up a spot near the edge of the small crowd. Nobody will crash into them tonight, not if they can help it.
The dance proceeds even better than last time. Cazador was the prototype and this is the polished article. They move together smoothly, as if they have practised these steps. They are synchronised, one entity. Until he absolutely has to stop and marvel at her again, checking that this is real. She pauses when she notices him staring motionlessly at her. They are drawn together as before, their lips opposing magnets that must meet. He’s trembling slightly as her lips brush his, feather-light, but before he can respond she’s pushing herself back, his chest a bumper.
She reminds him they are there to work and he knows she’s right. Apart from his sense of duty, he will never not be scared of Inés. Sighing, he follows her back upstairs to their separate rooms. They go their own ways wordlessly. He doesn’t know what to say anyway; he can’t process what has just happened. He doesn’t know what it all means. It was a kiss and yet not a kiss. For an hour or more, he works quietly and distractedly as the fiesta ebbs and flows in the narrow street below. His mind whirls.
She calls his name, drawing him on to his balcony. Just like in Cazador, they face each other in the cool night air, scented with cooking and the distinctive acrid pyrotechnics that accompany so many of the celebrations here. They talk about the case and what they have each learned tonight. They have some promising lines of enquiry to pursue in the morning. They can report in to Inés without trepidation.
The conversation falters and they say goodnight. They both go back into their rooms, but he isn’t ready for this to be it. Whatever this is. It hasn’t ended with what occurred during the dance this evening, yet it hasn’t really started either. He rushes back onto the balcony, hoping she will have done the same.
She’s there, apprehension on her face. Her fingers are twiddling anxiously. She must be wondering what happens next too. They hold each other’s gaze for a few beats longer than seems just friendly.
He clears his throat. “Shall I come to your room? We can talk a bit more.” He doesn’t specify business or pleasure.
“Not about the case,” she says. She offers no alternative.
“Are you feeling ok?” he teases. His pulse has quickened at the possibilities.
“Some things are much more important than work,” she tells him meaningfully. He needed to hear that. Maybe there’s a chance.
He swallows hard. “I’ll come over then.”
She nods, flashes him a lopsided smile and they both disappear again.
He wonders how many nothings make a something.
...
She’s already opened the door when he gets there. She stands in the middle of the room, suppressing a smile as if showing her excitement about where the night could lead is forbidden. He steps out of the dim corridor and into the soft glow of her room. He stops a pace in front of her and they search each other’s eyes, seeking reciprocation, permission, passion. They don’t say anything. Both of them know that it was never really over when she stopped their kiss and they don’t need words to say it. They can talk later.
Their shared gaze is fiery and it speaks the confession they need to exchange, the one the flutter of her lips in the street has already begun to confirm. It’s not nothing. None of it has ever been nothing.
He’s not sure when it started, this fall, but he knows now that it must have been long ago because he’s in so deep already, floating blissfully ever downwards into this endless chasm of love. This is love. He is sure, no doubts. Pure and simple, true love.
The distance between them vanishes and his hands encircle her tiny waist. Her arms reach up to his shoulders and she pulls herself up on to the balls of her feet. They look at one another, eyes shining. She tips her face up to meet his and he angles his neck down, resting his forehead against hers. She nuzzles her nose against his.
“It’s time,” she whispers.
Their desire spills over and they are kissing again. This time it is real and it is perfect. Third time lucky, he thinks. It’s been a long road, but they are here at last. They’ve seen each other through so much: being taken hostage, held at gun point, dangled off cliffs, almost choked, actually shot... This is their ultimate reward for all the trials they’ve got through together.
Her fingers toy with the ends of his dark curls and his hands drop over her hips, pulling her closer. They trace each other through their clothes, learning and rejoicing. The intensity builds and soon she’s tearing at his shirt, his belt, his zip, like this can’t happen quickly enough after all the waiting, and it’s then that he knows how long she has wanted him, how badly, how fiercely. It’s been there from the start, this inescapable attraction. How much time they have wasted in denial. No more. She doesn’t need to say it, because he knows this isn’t mere lust for her. They are in love.
He undresses her too and they press their soft skin together as their union has its beginnings in the gentle exploration of fingertips and palms on bodies they have each imagined in detail so many times over the three years they have known each other. His arms have never felt more full and holding someone has never felt so important and so right.
He wants this for the rest of his days. He’s found his media naranja, his other half, the counterpoint of his soul. He is sunshine, tenderness, culture; she is introspection, logic, practicality. They are the pieces the other has been missing. Each of them would have been fine on their own, but this is better: the yin and the yang slotting together and becoming a perfect whole.
All the nothings have come to something. Together, they have everything.