I couldn't stop sighing, over and over, until finally, Miguel—who was sitting on my bed—groaned.
"Could you please stop making that stupid noise? You're annoying me…"
"You're being so mean!" I whined. "And I can't help it, y'know… I'm disappointed. I really thought she'd gotten better. I was excited to talk to her." I stared at the floor, hugging my knees.
"Why would you think that?" Miguel asked, glancing over.
"I don't know. Wishful thinking? Or just plain stupidity." I let out another sigh. "I just… I thought she actually cared about me. And deep down—super deep down—I still wished she and my dad could be together again, but… I give up. It's impossible."
He stayed silent for a long moment before asking quietly, "Does that kind of thing happen often?"
I raised an eyebrow. "What kind of thing?"
"The men. In your mom's house. Do they often come on to you?"
I flailed, panicking slightly at his tone.
"Oh—uh, sometimes. But it's usually a misunderstanding, and I can settle it easily. During my depressed years, it didn't happen at all," I added quickly.
He exhaled sharply. "Don't try to make the situation seem better than it is. You shouldn't be visiting if the men around her can't even show basic decency toward her daughter."
I reached out to rub his shoulders, trying to calm him, but he shrugged my hands off.
"It bothers me," he muttered. "The thought of you being here alone, in this kind of place... with people who don't respect you. And your mother just... lets it happen."
"But nothing serious happened, so please don't worry," I said gently, turning away when I sensed his jaw tighten again.
He stayed quiet, then shifted the topic. "I know how you feel—about giving up, I mean. It's awful, but I've been there."
I sat beside him, hesitant but curious. "Do you want to talk about it?"
He hummed, then shook his head. "Not really… Just know it's not your fault. You can't control other people's choices. Only your own. And if you're struggling, I'm here. I mean that."
I placed my hand on top of his. "Thank you," I whispered, looking down at my feet to hide the flush in my cheeks.
A few quiet seconds passed before he gently intertwined our fingers.
"Sometimes… when I touch you, you run. Is it because you hate it?" His voice was careful, almost guarded. "At first, I thought you were just shy. But earlier, with that guy—your reaction was the same. I just… want to be sure."
So that's what was eating at him.
"No! It's not that at all!" I turned toward him quickly. "When you touch me, it's like—like this massive jolt of electricity shoots through me and my body just—freaks out. I lose control of my legs and have to run off and cool down."
His brow lifted slightly, still unsure.
"I swear it's a good thing!" I added quickly. "I like it when you touch me. I'm happy. I've been so alone for so long that I panic around anyone else, but you're different. When it's you… I don't want it to end. I just wish my heart wasn't always racing so much."
Miguel chuckled softly and leaned in, brushing his lips over mine.
"That's a relief," he murmured. "I wouldn't want to make you uncomfortable. I don't want to be selfish."
I cupped his cheeks. "On the contrary… you're my safe place."
He exhaled, deeply, almost as if he'd been holding that breath for ages.
"If you really mean that," he said, his voice lowering, "then don't run from me this time."
Our eyes met—and in that split second, his eyes flashed crimson.
"I—I won't," I whispered, even though my chest was tight with nerves.
He kissed me again, this time deeper, and I closed my eyes, trying to breathe through the rush of sensation.
"I've never been with a virgin before," he said against my lips, his tone husky. "But I'll take care of you. I'll make sure it hurts as little as possible."
Wait—what?!
"Is that even possible?" I asked, blinking up at him.
He gave me a puzzled look. "What do you mean?"
"I mean… are you… can you have sex?"
He blinked, then snorted softly. "Oh. Yeah. My—uh, equipment works just fine, if that's what you're asking."
My face went up in flames. "How would you know?!"
He smirked. "Trust me. I'd have noticed a long time ago if something was wrong with—"
"Shut up!" I slapped a hand over his mouth. He laughed and licked my palm, making me recoil instantly.
"I'm way more experienced than you," he whispered, eyes gleaming. "So follow my lead, Lemon."
"...Much more?" The jealousy hit like a wave, unexpected and bitter. Just the idea of him with others before me made my stomach twist.
"I think now's not the best time," I muttered, rolling over and sulking. Maybe I didn't run, but I could definitely delay his plans.
Miguel smirked and leaned over me.
"Are you seriously jealous right now?" he teased, pinning me gently beneath him. "That's adorable."
His grip on my wrists was gentle but firm. My breath hitched as he kissed me again—deeper, longer, until I was dizzy.
"Do you really want me to stop here?" he asked, his voice like velvet and smoke.
I bit my lip, then wrapped my arms around his neck.
"Of course not… idiot."
My heart was racing, but I wasn't afraid anymore. I was burning.
We undressed each other slowly—nervously at first, but with growing confidence—and soon, we were tangled in one another. He said he had no sense of touch, no physical pleasure. But the sounds he made told a different story. Each sigh, each sharp inhale, each murmured word felt like music.
He knew exactly how to make me feel good—how to guide my body, ease the sting, and heighten the bliss. Part of me wanted to be mad at how effortlessly he handled me. But mostly, I was grateful.
At some point during the night, I realized something strange: his breath, usually cold, had started to warm. And maybe it was just my imagination, but as we lay tangled together afterward, his body felt warmer too.
That night, I dreamed we were back at my apartment.
Miguel was cooking ribs and vegetables in the oven, humming to himself while I watched from the couch. We chatted about silly things—weather, tea, what to watch next. After dinner, he scooped me up and carried me to bed, and we made love again… in the space we'd shared for so many quiet days.
It was the first sexual dream I'd ever had that didn't turn into a nightmare. No cold sweat, no screaming—just peace. Joy. A warmth that wrapped around my heart and held it close.
I instinctively snuggled closer to him in my sleep, holding on to that dream. That vision of a quiet, sweet future.
And I hoped with everything in me… that one day, it would become real.