Finally done for the day. Head home again.

The civics class that follows goes mostly in one ear and out the other. Something about the “continental unity” plan. It's a required class for all majors, a government mandated class that's barely disguised propaganda. You can barely stomach it, but you take notes, underline a few key phrases for the exam, and leave before anyone can ask you to share your “thoughts with the class.”

By the time you get home, the sun’s starting its slow fall, and warm light spills across your half-dead lawn.

You find Mariana in the backyard.

She’s barefoot in the dirt, crouched over one of the raised beds, sleeves rolled up and hair pulled back. The dirt inside has been been turned, neat furrows where there used to be weeds.

“You don’t waste time,” you call out, leaning against the porch rail.

She glances back, squinting against the light. “You should have garden.”

“I know we talked about it, but I didn't expect you to get on it so quickly.”

“I keep busy, yes.” She responds simply.

You step down into the yard. “Any idea what you’re planting?”

She shrugs. “Vegetables. Easy ones.”

“Do you want any help?”

She pats the soil with the flat of her hand, then sits back on her heels. “I used to do this. On farm.”

The way she says it makes it clear she’s talking about another life entirely.

You move to crouch beside her, balancing on the balls of your feet. “I can take you out for seeds, tools, whatever you need.”

She nods once, like that’s already decided.

“Only catch,” you add, “is you’re not allowed to cook yourself out here all day. You ever hear of sunscreen?”

She gives you a flat look. “I am fine.”

“Uh-huh.” You reach out, brushing a smudge of dirt off her forearm. “That’s what every stubborn person says before they turn red and regret their life choices.”

Her eyes flick to your hand, then back to your face. She doesn’t pull away, not right away.

Then she stands, slow and deliberate, putting just enough space between you to make it feel intentional.

“I can take sun,” she says simply.

You grin. “I’m still buying the sunscreen.”

She mutters something in Portuguese under her breath that you’re pretty sure isn’t a“thank you.”

You let her have the last word and head inside.

The shower rattles through a half-hearted stream of lukewarm water, but it’s enough to wash off the long drive. When you come back out, you notice the house smells like garlic and herbs.

Mariana’s in the kitchen, hair wrapped in a towel, apparently having used the guest bathroom to wash herself while you were doing the same. She moves with the quiet, efficient rhythm of someone used to cooking for more people than just herself.

“You didn’t have to make dinner,” you say, grabbing a glass.

She glances over her shoulder. “I want to.”

That’s that.

Dinner’s simple but good, eaten in the soft clink of forks and the low hum of the fridge.

Sated, you lean back in your chair. “Wanna watch something? Old movie, bad movie, doesn’t matter.”

She hesitates, then nods.

You throw on a pre-collapse action flick, one of those glossy, over-the-top ones where every car explodes like it’s full of C4.

“This stupid,” she says ten minutes in, watching the hero walk away from a fireball.

“Very.”

“No one live that.”

You shrug. “He’s the main character. They don’t die easy.”

She looks over at you, one brow raised, like she’s trying to puzzle something out. “Are you... main character?”

You smirk, but it’s softer now. “Nah. I’m the guy who shows up at the start of the movie, looking like he’s got it together, and then bleeds out in act two.”

She frowns a little. “Why?”

You glance at the screen, then back at her. “Too many secrets. Main characters don’t get to keep those.”

Her eyes linger on you a second longer than you’re ready for. She doesn’t press. Just shifts in place and leans in a little closer.

You end up angled toward each other, hips almost touching, the flicker from the TV washing both your faces in half-light. The room feels smaller now. Softer.

She doesn’t pull away when your arm brushes hers. Neither of you talk much, but the quiet between you isn’t empty.

And when the movie ends, you don’t move. And neither does she.

The TV bleeds into whatever autoplay has lined up next. Some half-hearted docuseries about post-storm rebuilding efforts in the Midwest. It’s background noise. Soft voices, slow pans of ruined towns.

Mariana is now curled up next to you, knees tucked up, the blanket pooled over her lap. She looks smaller than usual like that. Her hair’s come loose from its tie, dark strands falling against her cheek.

You glance over. “You like this one?”

She blinks. “What one?”

You nod toward the TV. “This cheery little disaster show.”

She huffs out a small laugh. “Everywhere like this now. Or worse. Is okay.”

“Yeah, I guess. I was wondering why you’d choose the uplifting tale of a washed-out highway in Nebraska.”

“I like… quiet,” she says, softly.

You glance at her. “Quiet’s fine. But this one’s trying real hard to make me depressed.”

Her mouth curves slightly. “You don’t like sad?”

“I live in sad,” you say dryly. “Don’t need to binge it for entertainment.”

She chuckles, shaking her head, and pulls the blanket tighter around her shoulders.

You let the silence settle, but it’s a different kind now. A little less empty. Like you’re both slowly figuring out the rhythm.

After a while, you ask, “What movies do you actually like? For future reference.”

She thinks for a long time. “Old ones,” she says finally. “Not too shiny.”

“Old like black-and-white?”

“Old like… not fake.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t think movies now feel real?”

She shrugs, her English struggling to keep up with her thoughts. “Too clean. Too happy. Or too sad. People… not like people. Robots, maybe.”

You smirk. “Robots with good teeth.”

She laughs at that. Soft, surprised.

The sound does something to you deep inside your guts.

“You?” she asks.

“I like when the ending isn’t obvious,” you say. “Something where people are messy. Like real life. But with better lighting.”

She hums in agreement.

The quiet between you stretches again, but neither of you really mind.

Half an hour later, the docuseries is still droning. You glance down to see her head leaning sideways, nestled into your shoulders. Her breathing’s gone slow, steady.

Eventually, her head finds your lap like she’s done it a hundred times. She doesn’t ask. Just settles there, cheek resting against your thigh, her body warm and small and wholly trusting.

You don’t move. Not right away.

You just look down at her. One hand hovers awkwardly for a second, then lands gently against her upper arm, thumb brushing skin just beneath the sleeve. You listen to her breathe. Slow and steady.

She murmurs something in Portuguese, barely audible. You don’t catch it. Might’ve been your name. Might’ve been someone else’s.

Your fingers keep tracing idle shapes across her arm, and then brush her hair back from her eyes. Not possessive, just present.

You sit there in the quiet, one hand on her hair, trying to be good. Trying not to think about how easy it would be to tilt her chin up and close the last inch between you.

The thing inside you wants to. It doesn’t know what good looks like.

But you know better.

So you stay still, listening to her breathing even out as she drifts away.

And you keep your hand where it is, resting lightly on her hair like a man who’s pretending the quiet is enough. Sitting there, letting her warmth settle into you. The quiet hum of the TV mask the way your pulse has started to climb.

Then she shifts.

It’s small at first. Her fingers uncurling from your knee, brushing higher, just grazing the inside of your thigh. You can feel her nails through the denim. Testing.

Your breath hitches.

She feels it.

Her hand lingers longer this time, her fingertips dragging slowly up the fabric of your jeans, almost idle. But there’s nothing idle about it. Her breathing changes too. Slower now, measured, like she’s listening for yours.

You keep still.

Her cheek turns against your lap, angling toward you. A warm exhale through the fabric, deliberate this time, a little heavier than before.

Your hand in her hair pauses, then moves. Slowly, deliberately. Sweeping it back from her face, thumb grazing the line of her cheek. She leans into it, the faintest sound escaping her throat.

The quiet is alive now.

She inches lower on your lap, her body shifting, settling more between your legs, her head angled just so. You can feel her breath where it shouldn’t be, hot through the thin fabric.

Your fingers tighten slightly in her hair. Not pulling. Just guiding her into place, permission more than insistence.

Her hand moves again, slow but sure, dragging up your thigh, stopping just short of where you’re aching for her to go. You let out a low breath, rough and unsteady.

She hears it.

Another small sound leaves her. A hum, soft and deliberate. The vibration of it carries through you, making your skin feel too tight.

You lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling like that will help, like it’ll keep you from moving. From taking.

Her fingers toy with your belt now, methodical and maddening, each small tug drawing the moment out until it feels like time doesn’t exist outside of this.

You curse under your breath when she finally undoes it, quiet, hoarse.

You don’t push.

When her lips finally touch you, it’s featherlight. An experiment, not a promise. She pulls back almost immediately, glancing up at you as if she’s waiting for some sign she hasn’t gone too far.

You meet her gaze, hand sliding gently through her hair.

That’s enough.

She tries again, this time staying.

Your fingers stay tangled in her hair. Her lips part with a shaky exhale, her tongue darting out tentatively to taste you first, like she’s testing the sensation. When she finally closes her mouth over you, it’s cautious, her movements unsure but achingly soft, her breath hitching as if she’s surprised by her own boldness.

Her free hand hovers near your hip, fingers trembling before they finally settle, barely touching, her palm warm through the fabric of your shirt. There’s no teasing scrape of nails, no confident roaming. Just the faint press of her fingertips, like she’s reassuring herself this is real.

She pulls back too soon, her lips glistening, her lashes fluttering as she gathers herself. A quiet, flustered sound escapes her when she notices you watching, but she doesn’t stop. This time, she presses forward with more determination, her mouth sinking down just a little farther, her tongue curling experimentally along your length.

You feel the tension in her shoulders, the way her breath comes quick and shallow through her nose.

Her thighs shift restlessly. When your thumb strokes her cheek, she whimpers, the vibration traveling straight to your gut.

Every soft sound she makes, every nervous flick of her tongue, only makes the heat coil tighter in your stomach. The TV light catches the flush creeping down her neck, the way she bites her lip between strokes, as if she’s still learning how much she can take.

You don’t push. You just let her explore, her shyness intoxicating, her every hesitant movement driving you closer to the edge.

Her fingers finally wander from your hip, skating down to grip your thigh as she takes you deeper, her lips stretching around you with a muffled whine. The sound sends a shudder through you. No longer tentative but hungry, she drags her tongue along the length of you on the next stroke, sucking lightly on the tip before plunging back down, her nose brushing your stomach.

Your grip tightens in her hair, just enough to make her gasp, and the vibration of it ripples through your cock. She moans around you, the wet heat of her mouth impossibly tight as she loses herself in the rhythm, her free hand slipping under your shirt to claw at your abs.

When she pulls off to catch her breath, spit-slick and panting, her lips are swollen, her pupils blown wide. She doesn’t hesitate this time. Just leans in again, licking a slow, filthy stripe from base to tip before swallowing you whole, her throat fluttering as she fights her own reflexes. Her thighs press together, restless, but she won’t stop. She's too lost in the taste of you, the way your hips jerk when she hollows her cheeks.

The credits have long since ended. The faint glare of the screen casting shadows across her flushed skin, the **** rise and fall of her chest. You can feel her building pleasure in every ragged inhale, every time her fingers dig harder into your skin.

She doesn’t ask. She doesn’t need to. Her movements turn messy, urgent. Her lips sealing tight, her tongue working in rough, **** circles. The sounds are obscene now, wet and unapologetic, and when your thighs tense, she doesn’t pull away. Just grips you harder, takes you deeper, her throat open and waiting.

The pulse in your gut tightens, your hips lifting off the couch as she swallows around you. Her throat works in short, greedy swallows, her nails biting into your thigh. You don’t warn her. She doesn’t expect it.

Her eyes snap up to yours just as you come, her lips still stretched tight, her fingers digging in like she’s afraid you’ll slip away. The heat spills down her throat, her lashes fluttering as she gulps, her tongue pressing insistently against the underside to coax out every last drop. She doesn’t pull back until you’re spent, until her breath shudders against your oversensitive skin.

When she finally pulls back, it’s slow... like breaking the spell that would cost her something.

She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, gaze flickering between your face and the state she’s left you in, caught between satisfaction and a flicker of uncertainty.

You slide your hand from her hair to her jaw, cupping it gently, your thumb brushing the corner of her swollen mouth. She leans into the touch, exhales softly against your skin, and for a long, quiet moment, just stays there, eyes lowered, breathing shallow, as if waiting for you to pull away or close the distance.

You don’t do either.

Your fingers trace along the line of her cheek, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, slow and deliberate. She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move.

The TV drones on, some half-forgotten voice narrating something about reconstruction.

But here, in this small, dim room, the world feels very far away.

She’s resting against you, her breath slow and uneven, head still near your thigh. Her hair spills across your lap in dark waves. You can feel the warmth of her skin even through the fabric of your shirt.

Neither of you speaks. The silence doesn’t need filling.

Your hand drifts down, brushing her hair away from her face. She tilts her head slightly at the touch, eyes closed, the faintest ghost of a smile on her lips. You trace your thumb along her jaw, down to her throat, feeling the steady pulse beneath her skin.

“Hey,” you murmur.

Her lashes flutter, but she doesn’t open her eyes. Just hums softly in response.

“You should sleep,” you say.

She exhales through her nose, slow and content. “You make me tired,” she whispers.

You smile. “That’s a good thing?”

“Maybe.”

She shifts, pressing her cheek against your thigh again before slowly pushing herself up. Her hair’s a mess, her lips still swollen, her expression half-dream, half-shy.

She leans in, places a small kiss on your stomach, just above your waistband. “Goodnight,” she murmurs.

You touch her cheek, brushing your thumb over her skin. “Goodnight, Mariana.”

She stands, quiet, gathering the hem of her shirt as she walks toward her room. Her footsteps fade down the hall, and a moment later, you hear the soft creak of the bedroom door.

You sit there for a while longer, just breathing, your heartbeat finally slowing to something human again. The scent of her lingers in the air.