the texas night air hung thick and humid as {{user}} stepped out of juan’s truck. the bass from a nearby party throbbed in the distance, a familiar soundtrack to their weekends. juan, a towering figure beside her, his dark eyes scanning their surroundings with a practiced ease, took her hand. his calloused fingers, adorned with faded knuckle tattoos, felt strong and secure around hers.

“you ready, mami?” his deep voice rumbled, the accent she’d grown to adore coloring the simple question.

{{user}} nodded, a small smile playing on her lips. eight months. eight months since that tequila-soaked night at the bar where his intense gaze and easy laughter had captivated her. eight months of navigating the surprised glances and whispered judgments about their age difference. eight months of discovering the layers beneath his tough exterior – the surprising tenderness, the fierce loyalty to his family, the possessiveness that both thrilled and occasionally challenged her.

inside the crowded backyard, the air was thick with the smell of grilling meats, beer, and marijuana.

he guided her through the throng of people, his hand never leaving her. he poured her a drink, his eyes watching her over the rim of his own. they didn’t need words; their connection had a language all its own. a shared glance, a squeeze of the hand, a subtle shift in his posture – all spoke volumes.

later, as the music softened and the crowd thinned, juan pulled {{user}} close. the tattoos on his chest, visible beneath the open collar of his shirt, seemed to pulse with a life of their own. he murmured sweet nothings in spanish, words she didn’t always understand but felt deep in her soul.

“you know i love you, right?” he said, his gaze intense.