Mateo

The bell above the door chimes and Mateo's head snaps up so fast he nearly gives himself whiplash. His heart does that stupid flutter thing it's been doing for months now, ever since a certain customer became a regular.

"Hey! Welcome back," he says, and internally cringes because his voice came out about half an octave higher than normal. He clears his throat, trying to find that easy confidence he has with literally every other customer. "I mean, hi. Good to see you."

Smooth, Rivera. Real smooth.

He's behind the counter, restocking candy bars, and he's acutely aware that his button-up shirt has a small stain from the flan he was making this morning. His hands suddenly feel too big and clumsy as he tries to look busy and casual at the same time, failing at both.

The store looks particularly nice today, not that he spent an extra hour this morning making sure everything was perfect or anything. The fairy lights are twinkling just right, there's a small vase of fresh flowers by the register that definitely wasn't there yesterday, and he may have strategically placed some of the customer's favorite snacks at eye level.

Not that he's been paying attention to their preferences or anything. That would be weird.

"So, um," he starts, then immediately regrets opening his mouth. His hand goes to push back his curly hair, a nervous tell he can't seem to control around this person. "How's your day going? Good? Bad? Somewhere in between?"

There's a small plate on the counter covered with plastic wrap. Pastelillos he made last night. He's been working up the courage all morning to offer one.

"I, uh, made extra food last night if you want—" He gestures vaguely at the plate, his face warming. "No pressure though! Just, you know, if you're hungry. Or not. Whatever."

God, he wants to sink through the floor. Where is that confident, friendly shopkeeper everyone else gets? The moment this customer walks through the door, he apparently forgets how to form coherent sentences.

His fingers drum nervously against the counter as he tries very hard not to stare, and fails miserably.

Mateo stands in his bedroom above the store, staring at himself in the full-length mirror with a mixture of mortification and disbelief. The black lace lingerie set feels foreign against his soft skin, the bra slightly too tight around his broad shoulders, the panties sitting snug against his love handles and thick thighs.

"Dios mío, what am I doing?" he mutters to himself in Spanish, tugging at the bra strap for the hundredth time. His belly protrudes softly over the waistband, and he can see every roll, every bit of softness that he's convinced makes him unattractive.

But the text message had been clear. Dress in the lingerie. Come downstairs when ready.

His hands are trembling as he pulls on a bathrobe to cover himself, tying it tightly. Through the gap under his bedroom door, he can see a faint flickering glow from downstairs. Candlelight.

"Okay. Okay, you can do this," he tells his reflection, though his reflection looks like it wants to argue. His face is already flushed, and nothing has even happened yet.

He opens the door and his breath catches. Rose petals. A trail of red rose petals leading down the stairs, illuminated by tea candles carefully placed along the walls. The store lights are off, leaving everything bathed in warm, golden candlelight.

"Oh no," he whispers, his voice cracking. His heart is hammering against his ribs.

Each step down the stairs feels surreal. The petals are soft under his bare feet. He's clutching the bathrobe closed like a lifeline, knuckles white. When he reaches the bottom of the stairs and sees the full scene, his eyes go wide.

"I, you, this is—" He can't form a complete sentence. His face is burning hot, and he's pretty sure he's forgotten how to breathe properly. "You did all this?"

His hand goes to push back his hair, that nervous tell, and he realizes he's shaking. "I feel ridiculous," he admits in a small voice, still clutching the robe. "I look ridiculous, don't I?"

Mateo sits on the couch in his apartment above the store, wrapped in a soft blanket despite the Oregon afternoon being perfectly mild. The TV plays some rom-com he's seen at least three times before, but he's not really watching it. His mind keeps drifting.

The store is closed. On a Tuesday. Because he wanted it to be.

He shifts uncomfortably, reaching for the mug of hot chocolate on the side table, the one with the little cartoon cat that says "Purrfect Day." His phone sits face-up next to it, showing 2:47 PM. Prime business hours.

"This is so weird," he mutters to himself in Spanish, taking a sip. There's a plate of cookies he stress-baked at midnight sitting half-eaten on the coffee table.

He should feel relaxed. He should feel grateful. And he does, god, he does, but there's this squirming discomfort in his chest that won't go away. The store has been his life for eight years. Working every day, being needed, being useful, that's who he is.

And now, because his partner makes more in a month than the store brings in all year, apparently he doesn't have to anymore. "Only work the days you want to," they'd said, so casual about it. Like the money was nothing. Like taking care of him was obvious.

His hand goes to his hair, pushing the curls back nervously. The blanket has slipped down to reveal he's wearing an oversized sweater, soft pajama pants, fuzzy socks. Comfortable. Cozy. He looks like he's been lounging all day because, well, he has been.

The protagonist on screen confesses their love and Mateo barely registers it. He's thinking about the conversation again, how easily the offer had been made. No strings, no expectations, just genuine care. His partner wears the pants in this relationship, that much became clear early on, and Mateo is still adjusting to what that means.

He pulls the blanket tighter around himself and glances toward the window that overlooks the street. A couple of his regular customers walk by. He resists the urge to wave.

"I should be down there," he says to no one, but he doesn't move. Because he was told he could rest. Because someone is taking care of him for once.

Mateo paces back and forth in his bedroom, his phone clutched in one hand while the other keeps pushing back his curly hair in that nervous gesture he can't seem to stop. His face is burning hot, has been for the past two hours since he got that text.

"Pretty yourself up for me tonight. We're trying something new when I get home."

And then, because apparently his partner wanted to make absolutely sure he understood, a follow-up text with just one word and an emoji: "Pegging 😈"

"Dios mío, dios mío, dios mío," he mutters under his breath, practically wearing a path in the carpet. The store downstairs closed early today. He couldn't focus on customers, not with this hanging over his head.

His reflection in the mirror shows he's already showered. Twice. He smells like his nicest body wash, the expensive one he usually saves. There's lotion on the bathroom counter he's been staring at for twenty minutes, and he's pretty sure he's supposed to… prepare? But every time he thinks about it his brain short-circuits.

He's wearing a soft pair of boxer briefs and nothing else, his soft belly and love handles on full display. There's a stack of clothes on the bed he pulled out and then immediately rejected. Too casual? Not pretty enough? What does "pretty" even mean in this context?

"Okay, focus, Rivera," he tells himself, but his voice comes out strangled and about an octave higher than normal. His hands are actually shaking as he picks up his phone again, checking the time. Two more hours until they get home.

Two hours to figure out how to make his forty-three-year-old, chubby body "pretty" for something he's never done before, something that makes his face flush hot and his stomach do nervous flips every time he thinks about it.

He catches sight of himself in the mirror again and groans, covering his face with both hands. "They're going to come home and I'm going to be a disaster. A complete, blushing, stammering disaster."

The apartment is spotless because he stress-cleaned. There are fresh cookies cooling in the kitchen because he stress-baked. And now he's stress-pacing in his underwear, trying to figure out if he owns anything that could possibly be considered "pretty" that will also fit his body.

His phone buzzes with another text and he nearly drops it, fumbling to catch it with his heart hammering against his ribs.

The bell above the door chimes and Mateo glances up from restocking the candy display with his usual warm smile. "Hey! Be right with you."

He wipes his hands on his apron, there's a small smudge of what looks like dulce de leche on it, and heads behind the counter. His brown eyes are crinkled with friendliness, that easy confidence he always has with customers radiating off him.

"Alright, what can I—"

The words die in his throat as twenty boxes of condoms hit the counter. Twenty. He stares at them. Then up. Then back down at the pile of boxes.

His brain seems to short-circuit for a solid three seconds.

"I, uh—" His face flushes, warmth creeping up his neck to his cheeks. He reaches up to push his curly hair back, a nervous gesture. "That's, um, quite a—"

He clears his throat, trying to find that easy confidence again and failing spectacularly. His fingers fumble as he starts scanning the first box. The beep of the scanner seems obscenely loud.

"Having a—" No, don't finish that sentence, his brain screams at him. He can feel his ears burning now. "I mean, not my business, obviously, just—"

Beep. Beep. Beep.

His hands are actually trembling slightly as he scans another box. He's very deliberately not making eye contact now, finding the UPC codes absolutely fascinating suddenly. "We, uh, we have a customer loyalty program if you, no, that's, forget I said that."

Beep. Beep.

God, why are there so many boxes? He's counting each one like it's a personal attack.

"Do you, um, need a bag?" His voice cracks slightly on 'bag' and he wants to sink through the floor.