Take Mariana out for dinner.

You’re still sprawled on the couch when Mariana peeks her head into the living room.

“You hungry?”

Bare feet. Hair pulled back. One of your hoodies swallowing her frame. You’re starting to think she likes wearing your clothes more than her own.

“Starving,” you admit. “But don’t start cooking yet. Thought I’d take you out first.”

Her brows lift. “Out?”

“Yeah. Need to grab seeds and tools for you anyway. Might as well make a night of it.”

That brightens her in an instant. “I wait for dinner then,” she says, already halfway back toward the kitchen.

You push up from the couch. “Nope. We’re going out for dinner too.”

She freezes, checking if you’re serious. You are. Her face softens, lighter, like you just handed her a gift she didn’t expect.

“You take me out.”

“Pretty sure that’s what I said.”

She bites back a grin, but it breaks through anyway.

You end up at one of your favorite spots on the east side — the kind of place that shouldn’t exist anymore but stubbornly does. Built out of an old house. Peeling paint. Hand‑lettered menu nailed to the wall. Cash only. Service with a grunt.

The only thing that matters is the food.

You watch her take it all in: the wobbly tables, the smell of grease and charred meat thick in the air.

“This is… nice,” she says, like she’s testing the word.

“It’s honest,” you tell her.

She smiles around her first bite, and you don’t need to ask if she likes it.

---

Dinner leaves you full in that way only greasy street food can. Not a food coma, but a pleasant heaviness that makes the evening air feel cooler against your skin.

The Home Depot hums under bad fluorescent lights, but Mariana’s glowing.

She heads straight for the tools like she’s on a mission. You trail behind with the cart.

She picks up a hand cultivator, turns it over in her grip, tests the weight with a flick of her wrist. Frowns. Drops it back in the bin with a sharp clack.

“No good,” she mutters.

“You test‑drive everything like that?”

She shoots you a look. “Bad balance. Break wrist.” She mimes chopping.

Fair enough.

She moves down the aisle, picks up another. Swings it lightly, nods once. That one goes in the cart.

You just push and watch her work. Practiced, efficient, no hesitation. A reminder that this was her life for the past ten years.

Then you hit the seed section, and she lights up.

Her eyes light up like you just dropped her in the middle of a candy store.

She kneels by the display, rifling through packets, muttering names in Portuguese under her breath. Tomatoes. Squash. Herbs you’ve never heard of.

“This one,” she says, handing you a packet without looking up. Then another. And another.

“Mariana,” you say, deadpan, as she gives you a fistful. “You planning to feed the whole block?”

She glances up. “No?”

You snort and toss them into the cart anyway.

By the time she’s done, you’re pushing a cart full of soil, seeds, and hand tools toward the checkout.

She walks beside you, still scanning the packets like she’s planning an empire.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you say.

Her smile is genuine. “Feels… normal.”

You don’t argue.

You just let her have that.

The drive back home is uneventful.

Mariana makes a beeline for the kitchen, unpacking the seeds on the counter one by one, arranging them like they need to be in perfect rows. Her hoodie’s slipped off one shoulder, hair loose now, falling in the way.

You lean against the doorway and watch her for a long moment, debating whether or not you should say anything before you speak.

“Mariana.”

She glances back, just enough to see you, then turns to the packets again. “Hm?”

“I’ve got a date tomorrow.”

Her hands still mid‑movement. A packet of seeds crinkles in her grip.

“With Alex,” you add. “The girl from the bar. Same night I met you.”

She sets the packet down very carefully, like it’s fragile. “Oh.”

“I’m planning to tell her about us.”

That makes her glance at you, finally. A flick of her eyes, quick. “You don’t need.”

“I do.”

She shrugs a little, though her fingers are restless against the counter’s edge. “You are young. You see... other girls.”

You step closer, the floorboards creaking under your weight. “That what you want?”

Her lips press together. She doesn’t answer. Just fiddles with the corner of a seed packet, like it suddenly needs all her attention.

“Mariana.”

She fiddles with the edge of a seed packet, doesn’t look at you. “I want you… not feel trapped.”

You take another step. “I don’t.”

This time, she doesn’t answer.

You reach the counter, close enough now to smell her shampoo — something cheap and clean that’s become hers. Your fingers brush the back of her hand where it rests on the counter. She goes very still.

“I feel safe here,” she says finally, so quiet you almost miss it.

You don’t move your hand. “So do I.”

That gets her to look at you — really look, for the first time tonight. Her eyes search yours like she’s trying to find the lie, but you don’t give her one.

The moment stretches, taut as wire. Her lips part like she might say something, then close again.

And then she makes the smallest move — just one step into your space, her hip brushing yours, her hand turning under yours so her fingers can lace lightly with yours.

It’s not much. But it’s enough.

You tilt your head toward her, slow, testing, giving her every chance to pull away.

She doesn’t.

Her eyes close as you lean in.

By the time you hit the mattress, there’s nothing tentative left.

Her hands are everywhere — your shoulders, your neck, your hair — like she can’t decide where to hold you, only that she needs to.

You roll, guiding her beneath you, pinning her there with the weight of your body. The bed creaks under the shift. She gasps, a quiet sound that’s equal parts fear and want, her thighs tightening instinctively around your hips.

“Mariana,” you murmur, breaking the kiss long enough to look at her.

Her breath stutters. Hoodie bunched around her ribs, shorts already low on her hips. She nods, tiny, like saying yes costs her more than she knows how to give.

Your hand finds her jaw, tilts her chin up until she has **** but to look at you. “Say it.”

“Yes,” she whispers.

“Good girl.”

She shivers. You feel it all the way through her.

You kiss her again, slower this time — deliberate, claiming — letting her feel every ounce of the restraint you’re holding back. She clutches at you like she’s trying to disappear under your skin.

Clothes fall away in hurried, clumsy movements, scattered across the floor until nothing separates you but heat and skin.

You don’t rush. You let the weight of you settle on her, let her feel exactly how little control she has.

“Breathe,” you murmur.

She exhales like she’s been holding it for minutes.

When you push into her, it’s slow, inexorable — every inch deliberate — until her back arches and her hands twist into the sheets. Her gaze flickers away.

“Eyes on me,” you say, sharper this time.

Her head snaps back, obeying instinctively. You hold her there with your stare, forcing her to stay in it.

“Good.”

A shiver wracks her. Every thrust pulls another sound from her—whimpers, breathy pleas in her native tongue, the slick slap of skin when you angle deeper. She arches into you, yielding completely, her toes curling in the sheets as you drive her open.

When the first real cry tears free, you swallow it with your mouth, your hand fisting in her hair to hold her still. She shakes apart beneath you, but her eyes never close—drowning in yours, wrecked and gorgeous, as you fuck her through it.

“Please,” she breathes, barely audible.

“Please what?” you ask, low against her ear.

She can’t form it. Just whimpers, surrender written in every line of her body.

Her breath comes in ragged bursts, her chest flushed, her legs trembling where they cling to you. When you press your thumb against her clit, she jerks, a broken sob escaping her.

"Look at me," you remind her, your voice rough.

Her lashes flutter, but she fights to keep her gaze fixed on yours—dazed, pleading, utterly at your mercy. The sight alone makes your next thrust harder, sharper, forcing another choked moan from her lips.

She’s close. You can feel it in the way her body clenches around you, in the way her breath hitches with every movement. You don’t ease up. Instead, you lean closer, your lips brushing her ear as you whisper,

"Let me hear it."

And she does.

Her climax hits like a shuddering wave—her back arches violently off the bed, thighs clamping around your hips as a hoarse cry rips from her chest. You don’t slow, driving into her through every spasm, watching the pleasure twist her face, the way her lips part around gasps she can’t control. Her cunt pulses around you, impossibly tight, slick heat flooding where your cock is buried deep.

“Fuck,” you grit out, the sensation almost too much.

Her fingers dig crescents into your skin, her body shaking as you pin her wrists above her head, holding her there, owning every twitch and gasp.

She’s still pulsing around you when you lean close, your breath hot against her ear. “Not done.”

You roll your hips again—slow, punishing—and she whines, oversensitive but pliant, her legs falling wider. The slide is filthy now, her arousal coating your cock, every thrust dragging another wrecked sound from her.

“Please—” she chokes out, but you cut her off with a sharp thrust, smothering her moan with your mouth.

She tastes ****. Perfect.

You swallow her whimpers, your tongue claiming her mouth with the same ruthless rhythm as your hips. She arches beneath you, her body still quivering from the first climax, but you don’t ease up—each thrust is deliberate, deep, forcing another fractured noise from her lips.

Her cunt is molten around you, clenching in uneven spasms as you drag her toward another peak. You can feel it building—the way her breath hitches, the shudder that runs through her as you grind against that sweet spot inside her. Sweat slicks between your chests, her nipples hard against your skin, her thighs trembling where they bracket your hips.

“You take it so well,” you mutter against her throat, teeth grazing her pulse. A ragged moan escapes her, her hips jerking up to meet yours. The bed creaks with the **** of it, the sound drowned out by the wet slap of flesh.

Her next scream is muffled against your shoulder, her teeth sinking in as she comes again, her back bowing off the mattress, her body milking you with every thrust.

“Fuck, I'm going to-” you snarl, your control fraying.

Her answer is a broken sob, her legs locking around you as you drive into her one last time, before you rip your cock from her depths at the last possible second, and spill your seed on her thighs with a groan. She whimpers at the loss, trembling, her fingers still tangled in your hair like she doesn’t want to let you go, like her body hasn’t caught up to the fact that it’s over.

When it’s finally done, she covers her face with one hand, the other clinging to your shoulder as though you’re the only thing keeping her anchored to the world.

You don’t move off her. Just watch.

When she lowers her hand, her gaze finds yours. No shame. Just quiet. And something softer, almost reverent.

You brush your thumb along her cheek. She leans into it without thinking.

“Você é… perigoso,” she whispers, voice low and scratchy.

You smirk, leaning closer. “So are you.”

Her hand drifts to your chest, resting over your heart like she’s claiming proof you’re real.

You stay like that — her tracing invisible shapes across your skin, you memorizing the way she feels when she finally lets go — until the world outside doesn’t matter.

For now, that’s enough.