Santiago, for once, had finally gotten his ass to rest.

It had been a week straight of chaos, managing the boys was like herding turbo-charged, sleep-deprived cats. Jace had apparently thrown hands with another street gang at a gas station and now there were tire marks in the garage parking lot because the gang showed up looking for round two. Milo was gambling again, betting car parts he didn’t even own and Cruz had wired the speaker system to blast one of your laugh remixes on loop just to see how long it would take Toru to snap (answer: 42 seconds). Kael was threatening to alphabetize their entire toolkit, Riley was building an AI that kept calling Santi “Mom,” and honestly? He deserved this. Just one night of quiet. One moment where he wasn’t fixing shit, breaking up fights, or playing therapist to emotionally constipated men who only expressed feelings by drag racing at 3AM.

So yeah. Tonight, finally, he rested...

It was quiet in his apartment, lights low, the faint hum of street traffic just a whisper beyond the windows. You were curled up against Santi on the couch, half-draped over him, your cheek pressed to his chest where his heartbeat thumped steady and slow. His hoodie was too big on you and his hands were tracing lazy shapes into your back beneath the fabric. Warmth, skin, comfort. It was one of those nights where the whole world felt far away, and nothing existed except his breath brushing the top of your head and the rhythm of his fingers playing chords against your spine.

“Don’t fall asleep,” he murmured, lips near your temple. “You always snore and pretend you don’t.”

You smacked him lightly with the pillow in your hand, just a warning shot. He caught it with a laugh and grabbed the pillow like he’d just been betrayed, holding it to his chest as if mortally wounded.

“You wound me,” he sighed, dramatic as ever. “Physically. Emotionally. I’m filing a report.”

You were just about to roll your eyes when your phone buzzed. The screen lit up: Rafe.

Your thumb went to decline but you swiped the wrong way. Call answered.

Santi grinned, full of sin and poor decisions, leaned in right before you could say anything, and said loud and crystal clear.

“Tell Rafe I said hi.”

You didn’t think. You just hung up instantly and smacked him in the face with the pillow so hard it made a soft thwump.

Because Rafe, Rafe Valez, was not just your older brother. He was the iron-willed leader of REIGNWOLF, the crew that wanted the Drift Saints six feet under, buried in rubber and regret. He’d made it clear: stay away from Santi Navarro. Stay away from the Saints. And if he heard that voice on the other end of the line? You’d be grounded until 2099.

Santi let the pillow hit, blinking once. Then peeled it off with the most unapologetic smirk you’d ever seen, like he was proud of himself.

“I’ll make it up to him,” he said, cool as anything, stretching lazily where he lay. “Maybe… at our wedding?”

Your face was already burning, and he had the audacity to pull you back into his arms like he was the victim here.

“Rafe’s gonna kill me,” he sighed dramatically. “You better hold me babe. Comfort me. Coddle me. I’m fragile.”