Wake up the following day.

It’s quiet when you wake. No clatter of pans. No smell of breakfast.

You roll over, stretching until your joints pop. Her scent still lingers in the pillow beside you, which would be romantic if it weren’t also a reminder that she’s not in bed.

Barefoot, still half‑asleep, you pad to the window.

There she is.

She’s crouched low in the yard, hair tied back, one of your shirts draped on her frame like she stole it in her sleep. Her bare legs are streaked with dirt, mid‑shin to ankle, and she’s wrist‑deep in the soil, completely absorbed in the task.

You slide the door open. Cool morning air rolls in, earthy and sharp with the smell of turned soil and fertilizer.

She glances over her shoulder at the sound, offers a faint smile, then goes back to work.

You cross the yard and kiss the top of her head. “You start without me?”

“Could not sleep,” she says simply, her accent making the words sound softer than they are.

You actually take it in this time.

Rows of soil, dark and neatly lined. Dead grass stripped away. A makeshift garden bed pieced together from rocks and wood scavenged from your shed. Crude but solid. She’s done more in a few days than you thought possible in a month.

“You got so much done in just a few days.”

She shrugs, still working the soil. “Is only start. Need more. But…” She sits back on her heels, gestures around with both hands. “Better than nothing.”

You crouch beside her, elbows on your knees, and for a moment you just watch her. The way she moves—deliberate, unhurried, like this little patch of dirt is the most important place in the world.

“Looks good,” you say finally. “Really good.”

That gets her. The faintest pink creeps into her cheeks before she ducks her head back toward the soil. “Is only start,” she repeats, quieter this time.

You smile. “You’re beautiful.”

She presses her lips together and looks away, muttering something under her breath that sounds a lot like “stupid,” then hands you a trowel. “Help.”

You take it, deliberately letting your fingers graze hers. “Bossy. Do you like telling me what to do?”

That earns you a flicker of her eyes. She shakes her head. “No. Is your house.”

“Right,” you say, leaning in just close enough for her to feel your breath. “My house... and my Mariana.”

She doesn’t move. Doesn’t look away. The tips of her ears are pink now.

You don’t say anything else. Just dig your trowel into the dirt and start working beside her like nothing happened.

You work like that for a while.

The morning’s still cool enough to keep the sweat from running, but you can feel the damp earth sticking to your palms, the sun just beginning to warm your back.

Mariana doesn’t talk much. She doesn’t need to.

She moves like someone who’s done this her whole life, coaxing the soil into neat lines, tucking stones into place with the kind of care people usually save for setting a table. It isn’t fancy, but it’s precise. Like she’s building more than a garden. The curve of her neck when she leans forward. The slip of fabric on her shoulder, teasing just enough skin to make you wonder if she knows what it does to you. The way she bites her lip when she’s focused, oblivious to how it makes her look.

You glance at her more than the dirt. Can’t help it.

She catches you.

Just a flicker of her eyes toward yours, like she knows exactly where your attention’s been. Then she drops them back to the dirt, a tiny smile tugging at her mouth like she’s pretending she didn’t notice.

You keep working.

She shifts to grab a plank of wood, and the shirt she’s wearing pulls up, flashing the top of her thigh.

“You look too much.” she says, voice casual.

You don’t deny it. “I’m allowed to look.”

Her hands pause in the dirt for a beat too long. Then you hear her muttering 'tarado' under her breath.

You grin. “I am.”

She shakes her head, but there’s no heat in it.

After a while, you sit back on your heels, wiping sweat from your forehead with your forearm. “It’s starting to look like an actual garden.”

Mariana hums, pleased. “Will be good.”

“You’re proud of it.”

Her gaze stays on the dirt. “Maybe.”

“You should be.”

You let the quiet stretch, watching her fingers sift through the soil like she’s feeling for something buried there. Sleeves pushed up, hair sticking to her temple, smudges of dirt on her cheek she hasn’t noticed. She looks more like she belongs here than anyone you’ve ever seen.

It’s stupid, but you almost forget you were ever built for something else.

From inside the house, a muffled yowl cuts through the quiet.

Fatty.

You glance toward the door. He’s parked at the glass like a furry little gargoyle, his mouth opening again in the exaggerated wail of someone who’s certain his **** by starvation is imminent.

Mariana doesn’t even look. “He’s liar,” she says in that flat way of hers. “Already eat.”

You snort. “You sure?”

She finally glances over her shoulder. “I feed before you wake. Big bowl. He finish.”

As if on cue, Fatty blinks at you. Slow. Innocent. Like he wasn’t just caught in the world’s least convincing con.

You shake your head. “He’s not even trying anymore.”

“He thinks you soft.”

“He’s not wrong.”

Fatty meows again, long and theatrical, then flops onto his side like his last meal was in the previous century.

You look back at Mariana. “You think he knows how ridiculous he looks?”

“Yes,” she says, pushing dirt into a perfect line. “He does on purpose.”

You can’t even argue.

You sit in the dirt for another minute, soaking in the sound of her humming under her breath while she works, the distant buzz of some neighbor’s lawnmower, the thud of Fatty’s paw against the glass as he performs his **** scene for an audience of two.

Mariana is a mess of contradictions—timid and bold, guarded and open, quiet but loud in all the ways that matter. And you like her better every time she gives you another piece to figure out.

Also, you’re pretty sure she knows exactly how that shirt looks on her.

The work tapers off when the sun climbs high enough to turn the dirt sticky and the tools hot to the touch.

You brush the soil from your palms and look over the garden beds. “Looks like something,” you say.

Mariana squints at it like she’s critiquing a painting. “Still messy.” she answers, but there’s a thread of satisfaction in her voice she can’t hide.

You grin and tug her toward the house. “You’re messy.”

“I am not,” she protests, glancing at her legs streaked with earth like she’s only just noticed.

“Yes, you are. You're a dirty little girl. Get in the house. We're taking a shower.” you counter, pulling her along anyway.

She tries to protest again, but you stifle her protests with a kiss and just pick her up and carry her inside.

The shower hisses to life, steam curling against the tiles, and you peel your shirt off while she perches on the closed toilet lid to untie her hair. She’s pretending to focus on her braid, but her eyes keep darting up at you through her lashes, tracking your hands as you strip.

“Stop looking,” you say, stepping under the spray.

“I not look.” she says, sounding indignant while shimmying out of your shirt.

“Lies.”

She steps in in front of you, and water beats down in steady rhythm as you work the soap into her skin, massaging her shoulders, the curve of her spine, the softness at her waist. You don’t linger where she wants you to — just enough to remind her you could.

Her breathing changes before anything else does. Shallow at first. Then deeper.

You don’t comment.

You lather her arms, her back, working downward, brushing the tops of her thighs. When your fingers graze between them, it’s barely a touch, a teasing pass that makes her hips twitch in spite of herself.

“Relax,” you murmur.

“I… am,” she says, though her voice betrays her.

You tilt her chin back and run the cloth along her throat. Her pulse flutters against your fingertips.

You crouch as you move lower, washing her calves, the arch of her foot. She shifts her weight uneasily. “Tickles,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t pull away.

Then you rise behind her, pressing your chest lightly to her back as your hands find her hips. You wash them carefully, thumbs brushing along the tender skin just above her thighs.

Her breath stutters.

“Still relaxed?” you ask, voice low at her ear.

She swallows audibly. “…Yes.”

You smirk where she can’t see it. “Sure.”

Your fingers pass between her legs again, this time a soft press of your knuckles, slow and deliberate, like you’re still only focused on cleaning her. You hear her breath catch, feel the subtle tension in her legs as she fights the urge to press against your hand.

You don’t indulge her. Not yet.

You finish washing her like that — thorough, careful, teasing her just enough to keep her simmering — until she’s pliant under your hands, quiet in that way that tells you exactly where her head is.

“You’re clean,” you murmur finally, lips brushing the shell of her ear. “But you look like you want something else.”

Her voice is barely a whisper. “…Please.”

“Please what?”

She hesitates, searching for words, but you don’t fill the silence for her. You let it hang, let her squirm under the weight of it, until she finally exhales, “Want.”

“Turn around,” you tell her.

She does, no hesitation, though you can feel the tension in her shoulders as she faces you. Her eyes flick down immediately, then dart back up like she didn’t mean to get caught.

“Wash,” you say, handing her the bar of soap.

She lathers her hands and starts at your shoulders, the pads of her fingers careful as they work the suds down your arms, across your chest. She’s focused, deliberately so, like if she just keeps concentrating on the task, she won’t have to think about what else she wants to do with her hands.

When she reaches your stomach, she hesitates.

“Keep going.”

Her breath comes shallower as her soapy hands move lower, over your hips, brushing the tops of your thighs.

“On your knees.”

The words make her pause just long enough for you to see the little battle behind her eyes, then she sinks down obediently, knees on the slick tile, water streaming over both of you. Her hands wrap around the base of your thighs, washing you carefully, every inch of skin but deliberately avoiding the one thing you know she wants to touch.

You rest your cock against her cheek, the heat of you almost startling compared to the cooler stream of water. She freezes, lips parting just slightly as if by instinct.

You drag yourself across her lips, slow, teasing, watching her try not to move toward you.

She exhales softly, the sound almost lost in the shower.

“Want it?” you murmur.

She nods, barely, like anything more might break whatever fragile control she has left.

You brush her lips with the tip again, feeling her tremble, then pull back just enough to deny her.

“Not yet,” you say.

The words make her close her eyes, the tiniest shiver running through her.

“Finish washing me first.”

She does, hands methodical, working down your calves and feet, the whole time knowing exactly what you’re doing to her and letting you do it anyway. You let her stew in it for a beat longer. Long enough for the water to drum over both of you. Long enough for her to know she’s not in control of when this ends.

Then you press yourself back against her lips.

“Open.”

She does, mouth parting, tongue just barely peeking out, hesitant like she’s waiting for permission.

You give it to her with a slow thrust past her lips, sinking yourself into the heat of her mouth.

Her hands immediately slide up your thighs, clutching for something to hold onto as you fill her. You keep it slow at first, letting her get used to the weight of you, the way you want her to take you.

“Good,” you murmur, your hand settling against the back of her head.

The word makes her hum around you, a low, muffled sound that vibrates through your length.

You push deeper, steady, deliberate, feeling her throat yield as she adjusts. She takes it without pulling back, without complaint, only that small, **** sound in her chest betraying how badly she wants this.

You guide her rhythm with your hand, not rough, but firm enough to remind her who’s deciding how this goes. Every slow stroke in and out of her mouth is deliberate, every pause a chance to feel her breathless and pliant under you.

The tile is cool against your back, the water hot against your skin, but it’s her — the wet heat of her mouth, the way she clings to your thighs — that centers you.

You lift one foot and rest it on her thigh.

“Keep washing,” you tell her, the words quiet but cutting through the sound of the water.

Her hands tremble as she reaches for the washcloth again, blindly feeling along your calf, the side of her face pressed into your hip as she starts cleaning you one‑handed.

You guide her rhythm with the other — slow, steady strokes in and out of her mouth, just enough to make her throat work for you. Her other hand steadies your leg, fingers gripping the back of your calf, the cloth sliding over your skin in shaky circles.

It’s clumsy, and it’s perfect. The little hitch in her breath every time you press deeper. The way she keeps working at her task, even as her mouth is full, even as you take your time with her.

“You’re doing fine,” you murmur, keeping her where you want her, feeling the faint vibrations of her hum at the praise.

You glance down, watch the water bead in her hair, drip along her lashes, catch at the corners of her mouth where your length parts her lips. She’s focused — on the washcloth, on you, on being good for you — and it makes the whole thing feel slower, heavier.

You take your time. Let her keep working. Let her stay there, kneeling under the spray, wiping down your thigh like any of this is normal while you fuck her mouth like she was made for it.

You curl a hand into her wet hair, tightening your grip just enough to hold her there as you push a little deeper. She chokes softly, then adjusts, her throat yielding to you.

“That’s it,” you murmur, voice low and steady over the hiss of the water. “Take it.”

You roll your hips slowly, savoring the slick heat of her mouth, the way she works around you while still trying to keep washing. It’s messy, deliberate, and when you glance down at her — hair plastered to her cheeks, water dripping along her jaw, lips stretched around you — it’s almost too much.

The spray of the shower hisses, warm water running in rivulets down her cheeks, mixing with the spit that slicks your cock every time you pull back. The sound is obscene — that wet glide of her mouth, the faint choked hums she makes when you push just deep enough that her throat tightens around you.

“Good,” you murmur, your voice echoing low in the tile-walled space. “Just like that.”

She keeps one hand steady on your calf, washing methodically like she’s still focused on the task, but the tremor in her other hand gives her away. She’s clutching at your thigh, nails barely digging in for balance every time you drive deeper.

You set the rhythm — slow at first, letting her adjust, letting her feel every deliberate inch of you — then faster, pushing past the point where her nose nearly brushes your stomach. She gags once, sharp and soft, but doesn’t retreat.

“Relax your throat,” you tell her, voice low.

She exhales through her nose, and you push deeper. The sound she makes is a muffled, wet little gasp, almost a ****, but she doesn’t flinch.

You set the pace, shallow at first, then deeper, harder, until the sound of her gagging echoes against the tile. Her nails scrape faintly against the wall, the only sign she’s struggling, but she doesn’t try to stop you.

The sensations stack—hot, slick pressure, the way her throat tightens each time you bottom out, the vibration of her muffled whimpers against you. You can feel her tears mixing with the shower water on your thighs, her chest heaving against your knees as you use her, steady and relentless.

You glance down. She’s looking up at you through wet lashes, eyes glassy but locked on yours. It’s the kind of look that undoes you — devoted, pliant, waiting for whatever you’ll give her next.

“That’s it,” you murmur, voice rougher than you intend. “Take it.”

She does. Gags softly when you push deeper, adjusts, then takes you again like she was made for this.

Your breathing turns harsh. You tighten your grip in her hair and hold her there, her lips flush to your base, her throat constricting around you as she chokes softly. A few beats, just long enough for her to squirm, before you let her up for air. She gasps, saliva and water slicking her chin, but doesn’t complain when you push right back in.

You use her until you can’t hold back anymore.

You pull yourself out of her mouth and sink to the shower floor. She straddles you instinctively, your cock sliding into her with a smooth, wet push, her lips parting in a soundless little gasp as you stretch her open. Her fingers clutch at your shoulders, nails biting lightly into your skin.

You stay there, buried to the hilt, forcing her to feel the weight of you.

She trembles in your lap.

“Breathe,” you murmur against her ear.

She does, shuddering, and when you finally roll your hips, she exhales a quiet, broken moan that vibrates against your neck.

The water beats down over both of you, washing away everything but the feeling of her around you, slick and hot and so tight you have to grit your teeth to keep from losing yourself too fast.

You set the pace deliberately slow — long, deep thrusts that make her gasp and press her forehead into your shoulder. Every small movement pulls another sound from her, half‑whimpers, half‑pleas, though she doesn’t say anything you can make out.

Her hands slide to your chest, bracing, but she doesn’t fight you when you grip her hips and guide her, using her body like it’s yours to take.

And she lets you.

The slap of skin is muted under the spray, but the slick sound of you filling her isn’t. Every thrust makes her whimper a little louder, makes her clutch at you tighter like she’s giving herself over piece by piece.

You press your mouth to her jaw, her neck, tasting the mix of water and skin as you keep her moving on you.

“Mine,” you mutter against her throat, quiet enough that she might think she imagined it.

She shivers like she didn’t.

The heat coils low in your spine as you push deeper, slower, making her take every inch until she’s gasping with each stroke. When you finally spill inside her, she goes limp in your arms, clinging weakly like she couldn’t hold herself up even if she tried.

You stay there, locked together on the shower floor, water running over both of you as the world outside fades completely away.