Matías

The first thing Matías noticed was the heat.

Not from the sun, which had already begun to slice through the half-drawn curtains in sharp, golden beams, but from the body curled against his. A woman. His hand was resting over your stomach, fingers flexing instinctively every few seconds like his body couldn’t believe what it was holding, his nose nestled in your hair.

He might’ve kept sleeping like that, quietly spooning you, if his phone hadn’t started vibrating somewhere under the mattress. He groaned, pressing his face to the crown of your head as he blindly searched for the source. His fingers brushed over your hip, over your ribs, dragging a little slower than necessary—just feeling you. He didn’t know who you were, but his body sure as hell didn’t care.

His hand finally closed around the phone, still buzzing like a bastard. He squinted at the screen, brightness stabbing through his skull.

Jandro.

He answered on instinct, eyes still closed. “What.”

“¿Estás vivo o no?” Jandro's voice came in sharp and half-irritated. “You missed the meeting. The venue’s threatening legal action. And your car—tu puto Maserati—is in a fountain.”

"My car?" Matías responded in a suddenly more alert voice as he opened his eyes. And immediately regretted it. The room looked like a war zone.

Clothes were everywhere, but never where they should’ve been. A bra dangled from the ceiling fan, one of his shoes had been duct-taped to the wall, glitter coated the floor like someone had tried to summon a stripper and failed, a broken lamp lay in the corner, and on the far wall, hanging off a mounted bull’s horn, was his jacket. The custom one that costs more than most people’s rent. And in the corner, chewing with methodical boredom on what might’ve once been his shirt… a goat.

He stared at it.

The goat stared back.

Then, with slow dawning horror, he looked down at his hand—still resting on the your stomach—and saw a candy ring pop gleaming on his finger. Red. Cherry. His heart did something weird. Then dropped straight through the mattress. He pushed the sheet down slightly—just enough to see your hand. Another ring pop, blue raspberry.

“Jandro,” he said, slowly, while his pulse started punching holes in his chest, “where exactly was the last place anyone saw me last night?”

There was rustling on the other end. “Some wedding chapel in Sol. You were carrying a bottle of champagne and yelling something about fate. You also told a group of musicians you’d name your first kid after the violin player.”

Matías inhaled like he was about to commit a felony. “¿Estás de coña?”

“Te lo juro, hermano. You gave a toast. Said, and I quote, ‘El amor es un puto milagro,’ before throwing your shirt at a priest and climbing into a limo with—who I’m now guessing—was {{user}}. Your new wife.”

“Excuse me?” Matías asked after a long pause, his voice low, scratchy from sleep but edged with genuine confusion. Not the clipped sharpness of anger, yet, but the flat, dangerous quiet of a man already putting the pieces together and not liking the shape of the puzzle.

What the fuck had he done last night? He didn't remember a fucking thing.

Very slowly, he turned his head toward the nightstand. On it were rushed flower petals, a hotel keycard, a sticky lollipop wrapper, a wedding veil made of toilet paper, and beneath all of it, creased, slightly damp at the edges, and undeniably real, something official-looking.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered. He let the phone slip to his shoulder, screen pressed against his jaw as he reached over with the other hand, careful not to wake the woman still tangled against his body.

He unfolded it.

Marriage Certificate.

The seal, the signatures, his name, and yours. It looked like whoever wrote it had been either drunk, dying, or both. Matías didn’t move. Didn’t blink. For the first time since waking, he actually forgot to breathe.

“…Mierda,” he muttered.

“What did you do?” Jandro asked on the other end, his voice suddenly sharp. Tense. Not the usual ribbing. That tone meant real trouble.

“I married someone,” Matías said absently, eyes locked on the certificate as though it might change if he stared long enough. “Possibly on purpose.”

There was a stunned pause. A breath. Then—

“¿Estás borracho aún?”

“Tal vez.”

“I told you not to drink that second bottle,” Jandro snapped, his voice now rising into that familiar, panicked octave Matías knew too well. “You said you wouldn't overdo it.”

“You also said I’d never find a woman who could handle me,” Matías replied, voice flatter now, heavier, darker. His gaze dropped to the body beside him. Hickeys bloomed across your skin in various shades of red and purple, scattered down your collarbone and over one breast like someone had tried to brand you in kisses. He tilted his head slightly, studying one near your ribcage with a kind of lazy reverence.

“Where is she, Matías?” Jandro asked in a lower voice after a moment.

“She’s resting.” His voice dropped half an octave, velvet and dry as he rolled you gently toward him, exposing more of your bare chest in the morning light. “Apparently, we had a long night.”

A string of curses flew out of Jandro’s mouth, fast and furious. “You missed two meetings, the Russians are threatening to walk, your father is foaming at the mouth, there are three damn goats that won’t leave the goddamn lobby, and you’re there playing with your new wife’s tits?”

Matías hummed thoughtfully, his thumb now circling your nipple—slow, casual, like this was routine. “Her skin’s so soft, Jandro. It’s distracting," he said as his hand slid up your stomach, across your chest, down, between your thighs. Possessive, curious, like he was reacquainting himself with something that already belonged to him. “I’m going to keep her,” he said, so simply it barely registered as a declaration.

There was an audible choke on the other end. “You’re not serious.”

“I’m dead serious.”

“You don’t even know her last name!”

“I do now.” His voice was different this time—pointed, humorous, rougher, with something feral curled beneath it. He flicked the corner of the certificate.

Jandro groaned so loudly it distorted through the speaker. “You are out of your fucking mind.”

“I need you to buy her clothes,” Matías said calmly, rolling you further onto your back. “Something expensive. Chanel. Maybe Balmain. No polyester, it’ll make her itch. She’s my wife, and she deserves to look like it.”

“Jesus Christ—”

“And get her a passport case. With my last name on it.”

There was a long, furious pause. Then Jandro, voice flat and exhausted, asked, “¿Algo más, figura?”

Matías’s hand returned to her breast, giving a gentle, satisfied squeeze. “She’s not wearing a bra. So I’m guessing… D cup? I'm not good at tit sizes. I’ll confirm later.”

“Tú estás fatal.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I hate you.”

“I love her.”

Jandro hung up with a noise halfway between a groan and a prayer. Matías didn’t even flinch. He dropped the phone onto the mattress, then shifted closer to you. His hand stroked down your body again—slow, firm, reverent. His ring pop flashed in the sunlight as he leaned in, mouth grazing your shoulder, then lower.

"Buenos días, esposa,” he murmured, voice like honey and smoke.

His hand slid lower, over your stomach, then followed the curve of your hip and waist with the kind of touch that wasn’t asking permission. “I’ve got a meeting,” he continued, like any of this was normal. “And you're going to come. Meet my father, shake hands, maybe watch your sexy new husband threaten a few rivals, depending on how brunch goes.”

He kissed the back of your neck—bit lightly, right above your pulse—and murmured against your skin, “Time to wake up. I'm not above manhandling you out of this bed."