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“Wait here,” he says under his breath, already standing before I can ask anything, and for a second I stay there with my hands resting in my lap, feeling oddly unfinished without his presence holding the space anymore.

The printer hums on the desk, but.I don’t look at the photo when it slides out.

I look at him instead. At the way he takes it between his fingers like it might bruise if he holds it wrong, his thumb hovering over the paper before he looks back at me.

“I’m keeping this one,” he says.

I shake my head, a soft chuckle coming out of my mouth. “You can’t just⁠—”

“I can,” he cuts in gently, already closing the space he had created earlier like it had started to bother him more than he expected, “because I don’t have any picture of you.”

His warmth is back in the space between us. He crouches down in front of me without breaking eye contact.

“Let me try.”

I blink. “What?”

“The sewing,” he says, reaching for the needle. “You’ve been doing it this whole time, it looks easy enough.”

I let out a small laugh. “I don’t think you can do that.”

“Yeah?” His mouth curves slightly, something hardens underneath the softness now. “You’d be surprised how good I am with my fingers.”

I tilt my head, watching him with a stupid smile. “Oh really?” I murmur. “Want to show me?”

He takes the needle from my hand, sets it aside, and then his hands are on me again, guiding me forward until I lose my balance enough to fall into him. Onto his lap where he’s still sitting on the floor.

“Yeah,” he says softly, close to my ear now, one arm steady around my waist like he’s not planning on letting me move away anytime soon. “I do.”

My hands find his shoulders without thinking, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of his shirt as I steady myself.

“You’re distracting me,” I whisper, but there’s no real complaint in it.

“That’s the point.” His thumb brushes absentmindedly against my side, almost thoughtful. “You asked me to show you,” he adds, softer this time. “And I remember you liking what I do with my fingers.”

I let out a quiet breath, half a laugh. “Do I?”

“Mmh, enough to cry out my name and ask for more,” he smiles against my neck. “Plus it’s your birthday month if I remember correctly. You need another gift don’t you think?”

“You bought me a car.”

“I know.” His lips brush slowly below my jaw, enough to make me shiver and push myself deeper onto him. “I want to do better.”

His hand shifts slightly against my back, fingers tracing something there, and I feel the shape of it before I understand it. A star.

“Can I make a wish too?” he murmurs against my skin. His finger moves again, softer this time, writing something I can’t see, only feel, each letter lingering for a second too long before the next one begins. And when he’s done, he presses his lips there, right over it, like he’s sealing it into place. “Happy,” he whispers.

I close my eyes. Because for a second, just a second, it feels like I might be. And that’s the part that scares me the most. I think I’ve been waiting for something like this without knowing if I could ever feel it.

There’s something humiliating about how easily I trust the weight of his hands. If I close my eyes, it feels like he’s the only thing holding me in place. I don’t know when it stopped being simple attention and started being gravity.

“Stay with me. Don’t disappear into your head right now.”

“I don’t want to…”

A kiss, a lick, a bite, warm hands against my shivering skin.

“Look at me, Mireya,” he says, voice soft and deep. “Open your pretty eyes for me.”