“I know, but you said you wanted my dick, no? Well, here you go.” His hands rest next to my face, and his mouth crashes against mine as he finds my entrance and glides in slowly. He bites my lip, allowing me space to breathe while he grabs my leg and pushes it back, stretching me around him.
“You—”
“You feel so good.” He beats me to it. It’s like he knows what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, before I have a chance to even form the thoughts. He knows how to read me so well.
He thrusts in and out of me, slowly at first, driving deeper and deeper. I bring a hand to press over my clit,and he smiles. “I love that you know what you need and go for it. Do you want me to take over?” I shake my head as I touch the spot I know will send me over the edge quickly.
“God, I love you. Always, but like this, about to burst for me, I love you even more.”
“Teo,” I whisper.
“Let go, Daze. Fall with me.” He drives in and out, again and again, his eyes not leaving mine, dark and full of lust. I can’t hold it anymore, and as the warm feeling builds behind my belly button, I let myself explode.
“Yes, there it is.” Something flashes behind his eyes, and then I feel it. Warm liquid hits my inner walls contracting around his thickness, making me feel so full.
“Yes,” I moan, and he nods. He slows his pace as we both come down from the euphoric high, one we climbed as two but reached as one.
“Damn.” My voice is breathy, full of want and feelings. Feelings that have been buried deep down for so long. Feelings I know were reciprocated, and now, we get to share them all.
“Damn indeed,” he says, his voice low and groggy and completely spent. He gives me a quick peck on the lips before collapsing next to me and opening his arm to get me to snuggle with him.
We’re both sweaty and tired and full of love. Well, I’m full. He’s empty, I guess. I chuckle at my own thoughts, but he just hums.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, my Daisy girl. I love you too.”
“Merry Christmas.” It’s in the distance. A soft voice. A quick reminder Christmas is here again. Another year, another morning I get to wake up with—wait…Mateo!
I open my eyes, and there he is, all smiley and fresh as a daisy. Cool as a cucumber. All of it, at once.
“Normal people don’t look like that early in the morning.” My voice is so drawn-out and husky.
His chuckle reminds me instantly of all the events of the trip, and I smile to myself.
“I have something for you,” he says, piquing my interest.
“Oh yeah.” With only one eye open, I take his hand and let him help me and sit up. I’m naked and tired from being bent over more ways than one, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. I drag the blankets over my chest and wait to see what he has for me. In his hands lies a little perfectly wrapped gift.
“I didn’t bring anything. I figured we’d just wait until we got back home.”
Honestly, who brings a gift on a tropical vacation? Five days of sunscreen, sand, meddling family, and cocktails was enough for me to worry about, not showing my best friend how I felt about him. That doesn’t exactly scream wrapping paper required. We fly home tomorrow. Gifts were supposed to wait until then. At least I thought so.
“Open it.” His smile isn’t just bright, it’s blinding, and it simultaneously lights up the whole room.
I tug the green string, and cinnamon slams into my senses. It smells like their childhood kitchen, flour in the air, Mateo and Livie’s laughs echoing off tile walls, his rising above all. Inside the wax paper sits a cinnamon-and-salt ornament, I know exactly what it is, since we used to make them as kids. His dad would always help, and through the years, the tradition just kind of went away.
I turn it carefully, the texture gritty against my fingertips. These things snap if you even look at them too hard. “How did this survive in your suitcase?” I ask, but the question sticks in my throat when I notice the details: two small thumbprints pressed into a heart, the wordsOur FirstChristmas Togethercarved deep, with the years 2002 and 2025.
“Our first Christmas as kids,” he says softly, “and our first as a couple.”
My chest tightens. “When did you even make this?”
“This morning,” he says casually, like it’s normal to craft sentimental keepsakes before breakfast.
“You sleep like you’re auditioning for a coma, and I wake up with the sun. I thought maybe it could be our tradition. I’ll make you something while you rest, and then we spend the day together.”
He’s so thoughtful, so kind—so painfully correct about me and mornings. He’s sunrise and salt air; I’m blackout curtains and coffee. And somehow, he makes us fit.
