TW: blood, blood drinking, (does this count as blood play?/hj) this is so close to full smut that I'm going to claim it as an 18+ chapter so no minors allowed‼️


i actually hate this chapter LOL enjoy

  My hand is, just as Miguel said, unbroken but hurts enough. He bandages it carefully while mumbling under his breath at my recklessness. I pretend not to hear him, sitting on the bench and swinging my legs.

  One hand bandaged, the other arm scarred. It's been an exciting past few weeks.

  "We should go away," I say as I wait for the painkillers to kick in. Miguel moves about the kitchen, making tea for us and a hot chocolate for Rosalina. My eyes follow him like they're attached. "Go on a trip. It'll make Rosita feel better. We're overdue for a holiday, anyway."

  "That's not a bad idea," he agrees. He passes the mug to my good hand. "When?"

  "Tomorrow."

  "Tomorrow?" Miguel sends me an incredulous look. "Where are we going to find a place to stay?"

  "Mig bought me a lake house as a wedding present," I answer. Miguel's brows raise in disbelief. "It's where we always go when we want to get out of town. Rosita loves it there."

  "Of course he did," Miguel mutters and leans against the kitchen bench with a scowl. He takes an annoyed sip of his drink. "Mr. Perfect."

  I snort. "You are not jealous of your own self."

  "I'm not."

  "Uh-huh." I don't believe him for a second.

  Miguel clears his throat. "How's your hand?" he asks, an unsubtle attempt to change the subject.

  I look down at my bandage apathetically. "I dunno." I peek up at him smugly. "How's your raging boner?" 

  The look he sends me is withering. "Can you go back to being mopey? At least you weren't bent on making my life hell."

  I snicker. "Sorry."

  "No, you're not."

  I squint my eyes over my tea at him. "No, I am not."

  Miguel turns his head away with a shake of disbelief. My amusement soars. He's smug until he's grumpy, and then he's grumpy until he's whiny. He has all my favourite buttons to push.

  Rosalina joins us moments later. She shuffles into the kitchen in her fluffy pyjamas and a pout that still hasn't left her face. She ignores the hot chocolate Miguel offers her and wordlessly buries her head into his stomach instead, hiding her face away from the world. He puts the mug back onto the bench and rests his hand on her hair. 

  Miguel and I share a worried look. Getting away is definitely a good idea.

  "Hey, papita." I slide to the floor and crouch before her. She peeks one teary eye out at me. "What do you think about going to the lake for a few days? Does that sound nice?"

  She turns her head to me. "Yeah."

  "Yeah?" I grin encouragingly. I stroke a lock of her brown hair from her face.

  "Yeah." She sniffles. Her gaze drops to my new bandage. "What'd you do to your hand?"

  I tuck my bandaged hand behind my back. "Nothing. I just caught it in the fridge door."

  "Why is there a crack in the wall?"

  I can't come up with an excuse fast enough. I stare at her, mouth agape, and she puts two and two together. Rosalina peeks up at Miguel.

  "Did mom punch the wall?"  

  Miguel, still disappointed at my stupidity, nods with a purse of his lips. Rosalina's grin is tiny.

  "Metal," she says.

  I giggle at the way Miguel's face falls with incredulity. "I knew you were my daughter." I pick her up quickly, ignoring the ache of my hand, and beam at her squeal. I lug her towards the living room. "Movie time!"

  Miguel grabs a punnet of ice cream and three spoons before following after us with a long-suffering sigh.

••🕷️••

  The lake house Mig bought me is upstate and surrounded by miles of undisturbed forest. It's a cozy cabin we did up during one summer - me between jobs, him taking an extended break from his. It was the first house we actually bought and not rented. The first house that was really ours.

  It's where Miguel and I retreated to after his graduation and where we spent our honeymoon. It's where Rosalina had her first birthday, and her sixth, and her ninth and tenth. The lake house is an engrained member of the O'Hara family.

  It takes almost half a day to get there by the time we've packed and hit the road. I discreetly give Miguel directions when Rosalina isn't paying attention, and watch his face when we pull onto a secluded dirt road, shadowed by pine trees.

  "This looks like a place you'd take a murder victim," he whispers. I slap his arm halfheartedly.

  The actual house is only a few metres from the shore, complete with a jetty and a sandy beach. It's a classic-looking wood cabin with a fireplace and a tarpaulin-covered-dingy sitting out the front. The garden is overgrown, as it always has been. Miguel and I were never really fond of gardening.

  Rosalina's bouncing in her seat by the time we pull to a stop out the front. She opens the door and grabs her bag, before sprinting to the porch and scouring the decorative rocks for the key.

  "Wow," Miguel hums as we step out of the car. "It's so quiet out here."

  "It is." I deeply inhale. There's nothing like fresh air, and the smell of it, the freshness, makes me smile. It's a nice change of pace from the thick smog of Nueva York. "This is my favourite place in the world."  

  Miguel stares at me for a second before gazing out at the lake. It's a beautiful day, and the still water perfectly reflects the blue, almost cloudless sky. The only sound are the cicadas in the trees, the gentle breeze through the leaves, and the soft lapping of the shoreline.

  "Come on!" Rosalina whines when we take too long admiring the view. "I wanna swim!"

  "Coming, papita," I chuckle. I grab my overnight satchel and a bag of groceries from the boot and head towards the front door. The gravel crunches beneath my shoes - even that sounds loud in this tranquility.

  Rosalina dashes inside when I step up onto the porch. She dips into her room and shuts the door, eager to slip into a swim suit. She's changed before I've even managed to unpack the first bag of groceries for the next few days.

  Miguel steps aside just as Rosalina skips past him, carrying the other two bags of food. His head turns as he takes in the kitchen and living room, the brick fireplace, the furniture with sheets still flung over them. In one corner, Mig had painted up the periodic table on the wall for Rosalina. She's drawn unicorns in each box.

  "You two rebuilt this?" Miguel asks as he sets the bags down.

  I smile as I put away a bottle of milk into the fridge. "Yeah. Should've seen it when Mig first bought it. I thought he'd lost his mind."

  He huffs in quiet amusement. A top the fireplace is a line of framed photos. He stops at a family selfie and picks it up, staring at it with a complicated expression, and I pause to watch him. He sets it back down and retreats to the kitchen to help me unpack.

  My eyes follow him. "You're quieter than usual." 

  Miguel spares me a small, tentative smile as he brings out a packet of grapes. "Just thinking."

  "About?"

  "About how many memories this place must hold." He casts another look around the room. "How many I'll need to pretend to know."

  "You can always hit your head and claim amnesia." 

  Miguel snorts. I slide a box of cereal into the pantry and send him an amused smile over my shoulder.

  "Come on," I say as I throw the bags into the cupboard below the sink. I pat his arm as I pass. "Otherwise Rosita will wear herself out before we even get to the water."

  By the time Miguel and I change, Rosalina's already paddling in the shallow shore of the lake, happy as a duck. My gaze keeps drifting back to Miguel's bare, broad chest as I walk deeper into the water, follows the line of his hips that disappear beneath his blue trunks. God, he really is built like a damn truck.

  I always just assumed my Miguel was a massive fitness guru, no better than the gym rats that psych me out whenever I can be bothered to work out. It seems that swinging around the city and being Spider-Man is a far more effective regime.

  I'm not the only one staring.

  I turn my head away with heat pinching my cheeks. His gaze is almost unbearable; I can feel the heat of it gliding across my exposed skin, hotter than the sun, a slow caress of lava. How is it that he can turn me back into a blushing schoolgirl? It's not fair - I worked past that stage years ago. Mostly.

  I sink beneath the water to cool the blood that's rushed to my face. It doesn't really work.

  Rosalina's overjoyed that she's got a playmate and immediately splashes Miguel's distracted face. He splutters at the unexpected attack and turns his focus to Rosalina with a playful glare. She freezes before kicking away with a squeal.

  "Hey!" Miguel gives chase and catches her in the blink of an eye. He grabs her ankle and yanks her back towards him. She shrieks and giggles and struggles in vain as he wraps his arms around her middle, before dunking the both of them beneath the water.

  I float on my back and await the inevitable sneak attack. Rosalina and Miguel laugh in the background.  

  My smile fades as I watch the blue sky. This is the first time I've visited here without my husband, and the realisation tears at me, leaving me a ragged mess of broken parts. My heart sinks to the lake floor. It feels like something heavy sits on my chest.

  I close my eyes. Every time I think I'm getting better, I'm suddenly thrown right back into the arms of grief.

  Be easy to yourself. It hasn't even been three months yet.

  I just wish it was consistent. It'd be easier if it was consistent.

  Sometimes I'll catch Miguel's eye and he'll smile at me, and I'll be okay. Other times, though... it makes me want to claw my heart out. I'd prefer to feel nothing at all than be victim to the turbulent throes of misery.

  I cover my face with my hands. Why can't I just fool myself into thinking this Miguel is my own? But it's impossible; he's the same person to everyone else except to me. I knew him too well. There's subtle differences that's too obvious for me to ignore.

  Sometimes it'd be easier to feel nothing at all.

  A little pair of hands grab at my shoulders and pull me under the surface. I have just enough time to gulp for air. Rosalina's giggles make bubbles beneath the water as she pulls me deeper, and deeper still. The sunlight breaks with the swells. She stares at me with her father's eyes.

  Her happiness is infectious. It pulls a smile to my face and singlehandedly guides me from my grief. If I feel nothing at all, how could I enjoy moments like these? 

  Miguel's strong arms encircle the two of us. He kicks up and our heads break the surface. He and Rosalina laugh, loudly echoing in the circle of trees that surround the lake. I giggle, and Miguel presses his lips to my temple.

  If I feel nothing at all, how could I love him?

••🕷️••

  Firelight flickers against the gentle swells of the lake. The sun dips lower into twilight.  

  Miguel teaches Rosalina the waltz on the shore, sand sticking to their feet. I'm in charge of music and the blank look on his face whenever a new song plays never fails to amuse me.

  Dinner was fire-roasted kebabs. I'm full and content, and I'm watching my favourite people fool about in a sad attempt of 'dancing.' Misery has yet to claim me again.

  Rosalina falls into another fit of giggles when she stands on Miguel's foot. He dramatically winces in pain.

  "You're a terrible dancer," Rosalina comments.

  "You're mean," Miguel responds flatly. "Just like your mother."

  She laughs. I shake my head in amusement and shiver, pulling the blanket over my shoulders. It may have been a hot day, but it's still only spring. The nights are freezing. I shuffle closer to the fire and bask in its heat, continuing to watch their little show.

  Miguel's hair has dried into a messy, curly, boyish look. It's a charming look on him. My fingers twitch with the need to slide them through it.

  "This is better than the school dance," Rosalina decides. "You're not as stinky as the other boys."

  Miguel loudly snorts. "Thanks, papita."

  He dips Rosalina low, and then gets his revenge by dumping her into the surf. She caterwauls, shocked and amused as the water soaks her nearly-dry hair again.

  "I'm tapping out," Miguel says, and leaps away before Rosalina can launch a fistful of wet sand at him in retaliation. He takes the spot before the fire beside me, and the illumination causes shadows to dance upon the bare, dark skin of his abdomen. I stare, subtly, from the corner of my eyes. "You dance with her."

  I pull the blanket from my shoulders and drop it over his head. His complaint is muffled. Rosalina holds her hands up from me to take, and I haul her to her feet.

  I bow low and offer my hand. "M'lady."

  Rosalina lifts an imaginary skirt with a curtesy. "Mrs. Stinky."

  I send her a half-hearted glare. She grins innocently and slaps her hand into mine, before pulling me quickly into a routine of doing random circles. Her feet kicks up sand that sticks to my legs. Her loud, exhilarated giggling rings through the sky.

  "That isn't even dancing!" Miguel complains.

  "Bleeeh!" Rosa sticks out her tongue at him before tripping over herself and landing face-first in the sand with a yelp. I laugh so hard that my knees buckle. Miguel has tears in his eyes.

  Rosalina rolls onto her back. Her face is carpeted with sand, and she sends me a pitiful look as I lose my breath to giggles. She looks exhausted.

  "I don't want to dance, anymore," she says.

  I nod in understanding, still chuckling, and help her to her feet for a second time. I brush the sand from her face. "It might be time for you to have a shower and go to bed, papita."

  She doesn't argue. She gives Miguel a hug, kicks sand into him, and then races to the house before he can splutter a yell. I laugh again. Miguel shakes the sand from his shirt and huffs.

  "You've raised a tyrant," he mutters.

  "I raised a perfect little girl," I defend lightheartedly. I sit down at Miguel's side, steal this half of the blanket around him and dig my toes through the sand.

  "Blanket hog," he grunts. I grin and wrap it tighter around myself, much to his displeasure. He yanks it back and I fall into his side with a gasp.

  I freeze against him. He's gone still, too. The intimacy of our bare skin touching is electrifying, making me feel dizzy. And then each of us relax slowly, so slowly, unaccustomed to proximity; him far longer than I.

  I rest my head on his shoulder. Our arms, our hips, our thighs press against one another. The blanket is warm, but his skin is warmer. I watch the fire and feel its twin inside my heart.

  The speaker at our feet still plays old waltz songs. The water swells slowly, peacefully. Birds in the trees call to their partners. I close my eyes and snuggle my head deeper into his arm.

"You told me to tell you when I get thirsty again," Miguel says quietly.

  It takes a second to comprehend what he said. I blink. My gaze jumps to the side of his face. Firelight plays against it; conturing his sharp, strong features like a painting.

  "Yeah?" I think for a moment, and then; "oh."

  His eyes drift down to me and I tremble at the colour; the reddest of reds, the shade of my blood that he craves, the blood that's singing to him like the song of a siren. They darken at my reaction. I'm trapped in his gaze.

  The shoreline laps its rhythmic drone. The sun's gone.

  My face is still pressed against his arm, and I'm reminded of how much size he has on me. Minuscule in comparison. He could break me like a twig if he so desired, as easy as breathing.

  "Did you bring your serum?" I ask quietly.

  Miguel slowly tilts his head, and his eyes glint like a nocturnal creature in the light of the fire. Dangerous, every part of me yells.

  "What would you do if I said no?" he murmurs. At my prolonged, thoughtful silence, he drops his head closer to me. "Did you bring the spare?"

  I know what he's prompting. I could say yes, that I brought it. I could back out of this little game we're playing. But I don't want to.

  My lips part. I take a second to build my confidence. "... what would you do if I said no?"

  Miguel exhales, slow, still, staring at me. Then he hooks his arm around my waist and pulls me onto his lap, and my breath escapes me at the sudden shift of atmosphere. My knees settle on the sand at either side of his waist. His strong thighs become my seat. My hands rest on his chest, and I stare at him, stunned, until my brain catches up.

  The blanket falls, forgotten. We don't need its warmth anymore.

  I watch him, enraptured, as he drags his fingertips up my either side of neck and pushes my damp hair aside. His gaze is locked onto my pulse. It thunders beneath his focus, and my survival instincts scream in the back of my head.

  "... I'd have to feed," he murmurs. His red eyes tear from my neck and flicker to me, intensely shadowed, gauging my reaction.

  I ignore the call to flee. I tilt my chin away in invitation. I don't drop his gaze. "I'd offer," I say quietly.

  "I'd take you," he whispers before pressing his lips to my skin. 

  My eyes close on instinct as he kisses up my neck; long, slow, languid. He takes his time to savour each of them, almost sleepily, almost lazily, and it makes me sigh contently. Each kiss sends shivers racing down my spine, sends my stomach into warm knots. His hands drift down to the skin of my waist and holds me. I'm lulled into comfortable affection.

  The bite comes swiftly.

  A quiet cry slips from me before I can chomp down on my lip. Miguel's fangs sheathe into my flesh, and the hands at my waist pull me deeper into his lap, a prisoner, and the skin of his chest is hot, addictive. An absurd, feverish mix of pain and pleasure sends tingles to my scalp. Everything lower than my lungs instantly grows tense.

  There's no more dodging the truth; this is something I am very, very into. 

  Miguel drinks long, slow, languid drags. The low, relieved moan that crawls from his throat is like thunder in my ears, tinder to the fire in my belly, and I whimper in response. I subconsciously rock my hips against him, and his hands react, snatching at me eagerly to help keep my rhythm. I raise my arms before I can't and rest them on his shoulders.

  The paralysis quickly stiffens my limbs, a numbing sensation that floods from my neck. Miguel keeps on drinking, keeps on rolling my hips against his with his bruising grip. My eyes flutter shut, and then I can't open them again. But that's okay. That's perfect, really, because my loss of sight just makes everything I'm feeling all the more potent. And it feels so good. 

  Miguel releases my throat, and the throbbing, deep ache of pain that remains brings tears to my eyes. I feel him rest his forehead on my shoulder and try in vain to catch his breath. I'm gasping too, chasing air.

  We stay entwined like this until feeling and movement returns to my body. I drop my head on top of Miguel's and sigh.

  "I did bring my serum," he says quietly.

  I bite my lip to keep myself from snorting. "I know, baby."

  "Good..." Miguel murmurs under his breath. He pulls his head back and I smile at the look of bliss on his face. "I just- I wanted to make sure."

  Warmth slips a line down my neck and over my collarbone. Miguel's foggy gaze tracks it before he leans forward and drags his tongue up the stripe it left. I wince when he brushes over the punctures, exhale sharp with pain. I shift, and he clamps his iron-like grip onto my thighs and pins me in place.

  "Mierda," Miguel gasps and bows his head, sounding almost in pain. "Deja de moverte."

  I still as asked, alarmed, before realising that something unmistakable is pressed against my thigh.

  I lose my breath all over again. My skins bursts into flames, and my insides do, too. Miguel tries to catch his breath and fails every time.

  I bring his head up to me. His gaze is unfocused, on the cusp of euphoria, and he tries so hard to sharpen his attention to my face. He's lost. He sinks his head into my palms like I'm the heaven he's chasing.

  His lips are still wet with my blood. I drag my thumb across his bottom lip, enraptured by the way it folds beneath my touch. His breath is scorching on my hand. Then, without breaking eye contact, I lift my thumb to my mouth and taste it.

  Miguel freezes. Then he utters my name with such sinful longing that there's no other choice for me than to dip forward and kiss him.

  I've kissed Miguel before, but that was nothing like this. That was quick and chaste and unwanted, driven by the incessant request of my daughter. That took us both by surprise. That unfurled our already tentative bond.

  This is not that kiss.

  This kiss scorches my veins like he's lightning personified, frying me until I'm frazzled. This kiss is a tidal wave that I'm swept away upon into the nether. This kiss is the cosmic rewriting of my body and soul - this kiss kills and reanimates me, and it makes me see the heaven he craves.

  Miguel chases my kiss like he's starving, like he'd overdose on it and die happy. He brings me tighter into his chest, squeezes me like he'll lose me. His mouth tastes of blood. It doesn't put me off like I thought it would.

  My hands tangle in his hair, breathless. There's already so little clothing between us.

  Miguel turns us over and lays me out on the sand. His mouth returns to my neck, kissing it, sucking, marking my skin like its an instinct he succumbs to. My lashes flutter with pleasure. My nails dig into his shoulders. His name slips repeatedly from my lips like worship. 

  His hand slides beneath my bikini top. My body archs into his caress, and my head bends back. I see the stars. I'm thrown into memory.

  "Andromeda?" I ask, my arm pointed at a starry cluster. The cabin behind us is half-demolished. Beside it, fluttering in the gentle breeze, sits a tent. Before us flickers a fire.

  Miguel runs his thumb over my nipple. An exhale slips through my lips.

  "That's right," Miguel whispers into my temple. He sits behind me with his arms around my waist and watches as I move my finger to the next cluster.

  "Orion," I say confidently. Miguel moves my hair from my neck and presses a soft kiss to my skin. "He's got the belt."  My finger turns northwest. "And that's Taurus." South. "And Lepus."

  Hands run down my sides and linger over the thin strap of my bottoms. He slips his palm beneath my knee and hoists it over his hip.

  I can't look away from the stars.

  "Mi cariño es muy lista," he hums. He presses another kiss to my neck, and then to the curve of my jaw. His arms tighten around my waist. He doesn't care about the stars, anymore. "... eres tan suave. Mi vida." He pecks the rim of my ear. "Mi amor."

  I turn my head to catch his next kiss with my lips.

  My hand falls to my mouth. I find myself suddenly unable to breathe, and Miguel's touch isn't a pleasant fire, anymore. It's poison.

  What am I doing?

  "Stop- stop, stop!" Terror surges through me and I shove at his shoulder. Miguel reels back, wide eyes snapping to my face in shock. His hand hastily recoils.

  I stare at him, panicked as a deer in headlights. I can't breathe over this massive cinder block that's emerged out of nowhere inside of my chest, and I grapple for oxygen, but it never comes.

  "Y/n-" Miguel brings his hand towards my cheek and stops when I lean away. His face crumples at my frightened expression. "Y/n, cariño, you're okay. I'm not going to hurt you."

  "I know," I manage to choke out. I can't find the words or the air or the fucking composure to explain that I'm not afraid of him - I'm afraid of us. Of what we do together. Of what we were so close to doing. Of how I thought I was ready for it and was sorely, sorely mistaken.

  Miguel shakes his head gently like he can't quite understand. I can't understand, either. I can't understand why I reacted to viscerally towards him, like I was a rabbit caught in the claws of a fox. I can't understand why fear still runs a course thick and vivid through me.

  I know him. I trust him. Why am I so afraid?

  "I'm sorry," I whisper. My face falls with realisation at how painful my denial must be. "Mig, I'm so sorry- I thought I was okay, I thought I was ready-" My panic bubbles into despair, tightens my throat until I really can't breathe. "But I'm not, I'm not-"

  Miguel exhales deeply as he tries to catch his breath. I curl into myself. My chest pangs with regret, guilt, grief, regret, regret. It turns my head in torrents. It churns my stomach with nausea. I hold my hand over my mouth and it grows wet, collecting my tears.

  "Y/n." My gaze flickers back to Miguel, and he smiles at me reassuringly. "You're not ready. That's okay."

  My hand drops. "I wanted to, I really did," I weakly insist. "I was doing so well. I thought I was ready."

  Miguel sits away from me and crosses his legs. He pulls the blanket over his lap. I close my eyes in shame.

  "But you're not ready," he says gently. "We moved too fast. I understand. Trust me - I understand." He looks around us. "This place reminds you of him."

  I nod feebly. I feel like the worst person alive - we were having such a nice day, such a wonderful night, and then I had to go and ruin everything. I glance at Miguel and find him already watching me in worry.

  He holds up his arm, an unspoken question.

  I shuffle across the sand until I'm beside him, and I lean against his chest. His arm carefully rests across my shoulders.

  "Are you angry at me?" I ask quietly. "Tell me the truth."

  "Are you kidding?" Miguel asks softly. "Do you see what you've given me?"

  I sniffle. "Blue balls."

  Miguel chuckles. "Other than that, amor." He releases a breath and looks out at the water. "I'd always wanted to be a father. I'd always wanted to be with you. It doesn't matter how long it takes for you to be ready, or if you ever are at all. I'm just happy to be in your life."

  My throat grows thick again. I wrap my arms around him and press my head into his chest. "I love you."

  His gasp is barely audible, just a quiet, stunned suck of air. He has to take a moment before his arms are pulling me into him and he's digging his face into my hair. "I love you," he grounds out rawly. "I love you."
 
  I hold him back just as tight; relieved by his understanding, still feeling guilty despite it. I close my eyes and sink into his hold.

  I love you. I don't regret that, at least. I don't regret saying that to him.