Miles didn’t understand your hurt. He didn’t understand why you hated him being the Prowler—, didn’t understand you crying when you found out. Or your shame and disappointment when it came to his..
-Profession.
It confused him, he did this to keep you safe. He’d already lost enough, he can’t lose you. He won’t. You just didn’t get that.
Having you be mad at him, loath him, despise and detest him for being Prowler. It was easier than you dead because he wasn’t.
He would rather you hate him, than only have your memory.
So when he came home to you sleeping in his bed, waiting for him to return to you only two weeks after his initial reveal, he did nothing but lay down next to you and let your hand slowly drag into his. Interlocking your fingers in a twisted pattern of forgiveness and relief.
And he didn’t try to understand why.
—
It was warm this night, the heat of a summers Sun leaving Brooklyn a mucky kind of hot. Sweat dripping down the flesh of those still dwelling outside so late, only taking solace in the rare occasion of a breeze through their clothes.
Which is why you felt ever grateful lying in an air conditioned apartment dawned only in a pair of your lovers boxers and a ribbed white tank top.
It was the pair you bought him a while back when browsing street stalls, decorated with little cats and hearts. You thought they were funny, he was not impressed (but he was happy you were happy).
Miles had been out a lot lately. Assignments, as he called them, had been increasing in frequency as of late. Willing you more and more worried about the boy you loved, he just kept coming home injured.
Which you endearingly (aggressively) scolded him for, tones of care seeping into your monologue of being safer with his job whilst he huffed and puffed begrudgingly.
Assuring you he was nothing but careful,—
“Mami, ¿por qué iba a ser imprudente con mi vida cuando te tengo a ti para volver casa a? Alguien tiene que cuidar de ti.”
"Mami, why would I be reckless with my life when I have you to go home to? Someone has to take care of you."
A bashful murmur of “Just be more careful.” Would only reward you with a hand on your waist and the beginnings of a smile. You sighed out in boredom, draping a hand over your forehead dramatically. Spread out on Miles’ bed awaiting his return that’s seemingly taking years.
A crash outside your (boyfriends’) window alerted you out of your position, the piercing sound of metal scraping against metal grating your ears. Shooting up from your laid position, you messily shuffled off the bed, almost tripping over yourself to get to the figure struggling beyond the glass. A heavy claw dragged the window open with the apparent little strength it had left, heavy breaths and short rumbles of discomfort reaching your ears.
The neon pink of the Prowlers mask greeted you, quickening your aid in slamming open the window and catching Miles’ stumbling body from toppling through.
A husking groan sounded from your sweetheart as the mask slowly peeled back, revealing the trails of blood creeping from a cut in his lip.
“Hey, mami.”
Miles was gorgeous, he was a still picture of a painted deity in living form. The plump of his lips dripping a slow streak of burgundy did nothing to taint the sight of him, you wished it had, maybe you could be madder.
“Miles, what happened?” Your concern had outweighed your admiration, you were now fretting.
“I tripped.”
You scoffed something unbelieving, smiling despite the ache in your chest at the poor sight of him. Your emotionally stumped man.
“C’mon, baby, come inside.” Your right hand caressed the side of his face, left collecting his claw adorned fingers in yours to help him through and into his room.
He squeezed his eyes shut as he stepped over the sill, sucking in a breath and hoping you didn’t catch it.
Glancing up at you from his hunched position, you gaped back at him, unimpressed but worried.
He dropped your hands, the clasps on his gloves clicking, and the metal dropped to the ground with a dull thud. Pushing his arms back and letting his backpack fall too, he cracked his neck and winced again.
You all but pouted at him, reaching for his hurt body in discontent.
He leaned down to put his head on your shoulder, breath tickling your neck as he peppered you with light kisses, nipping your skin in just a graze. He wasn’t one to usually be so affectionate, but his guard always lowers with you, shoulders dropping and pulse quickening.
“No está tan mal, ma.”
"It's not so bad, ma."
His hand lifting from out of yours and onto your waist, circling the exposed skin between his boxers and your shirt.
His boxers,—
—,his hand twitched.
“Not that bad?” Your hushed voice bled of concern. “There’s a gash in your side!”
The simple serenity he had found buried in your neck had been ripped away from him in an instant.
You all but hauled his body to the bed, urging him to sit down against the sheets whilst he sulked grumpily behind you. Pushing against his chest and sitting him down.
You ran to his bathroom, washing your hands thoroughly before opening the cabinet under the sink, reaching back to the first aid kit you had placed here for this exact reason and towel, you rushed back to his room and shut the door behind you. “Amor, It’s just a—“ Cutting himself off, he hissed and cursed some under his breath.
“No digas que es sólo un corte.”
"Don't say it's just a cut."
“Mi sol, I have suffered worse.”
“Let me stitch you up, Miles.”
You turned back, shooting him an exasperated look while you threw the towel. Miles catching it without much effort and putting it under him. Flipping open the latch on the kit you sat yourself next to his bed, knees underneath you and digging harshly into the scuffed wood. You grabbed everything you assume you’d need, setting it on the open lid of the kit and focusing back on Miles.
“You look good like this, mami.”
You choked slightly, glaring up at him.
“Take off your jacket, Morales.”
"Sabes, si querías que me desnudara..."
"You know, if you wanted me to undress..."
“One more word.”
“Understood.”
He groaned as he did. Jacket falling off his shoulders and onto the bed, he pushed it to the floor beside you and spread his knees. You shuffled closer between them, lifting his shirt enough to see the damage on his torso and sighed shakily when figuring he was right.
It was just a graze, but a damn deep one. On the right of his torso, falling just under his ribcage was a thin, deep gash.
“What were you cut with, Papi?”
His stomach clenched as you prodded around, checking the wound for any signs of oncoming infection and signalling for him to take his shirt off.
“A knife, probably.”
Despite the weary of the situation, a smug look adorned his face. You poked his stomach, him wincing.
“Figures.”
You hid your smile.
He slipped his shirt over his head, grimacing at the pull of his wound. You took it from him and set it aside, getting an unopened bottle of water from the kit and pouring it over the cut. The water ran through the blood, trickling down his abs and soaking the waist band of his pants, he tipped his head back, groaning lowly in pain.
“Mami, entiendo que estés enojada, but please be gentle.”
"Mami, I understand that you're angry, but please be gentle."
He gazed down at you lazily, the drawl of his accent coating his voice syrupy in light of his injury. He looked downright sinful, braids draping lazily and shoulders dropped. Leaning back on his palms with his legs spread.
“I am gentle.”
“Sure.”
You focus returned to his wound, grabbing a clean hand towel and patting his cut dry, gently.
The occasional hiss or moan would interrupt you, but other than that Miles stayed relatively quiet. Watching you work as you fixed him.
“There, all done.”
“Not gonna kiss it better?”
You huffed, amused as you started to put everything back where it belonged. You could change the sheets and dispose of the hand-towels tomorrow, right now he just wanted you.
Miles grabbed your waist as you stood, hands slipping behind you to shove you forward into him. He buried his face into your stomach and sighed. You giggled lightly, the lack of a smile on his face tagged with the need for your touch was something no one but you could get used to. Your hand slowly trailed up his bare back, nails scratching lightly at his skin. He shivered, tightening his hold on you further.
“Lay down, baby.”
He whispered your name, “Chiquita, you take such good care of me.”
Humming, you unhooked his arms from you and pushed him to lie back by the tips of your fingers.
“Gon’ spoil you after this.”
You grabbed the towel, surprisingly dry and dropped it to the floor with the other discarded items.
“You already spoil me, Papi.”
Miles kicked off his shoes, sparing you a glance and a hum at the endearment.
“‘S’cause you deserve it.”
He unbuckled his belt, threading it out through the loops and threw it to land somewhere. You dragged the corner of the quilt back up to the both of you, stopping halfway. Miles sighed in annoyance, huffing at his pant button and cursing it as he fumbled to pull his pants down.
You giggled, “Need help, baby?” He scoffed lightheartedly. “I got it.”
“Mhm.” He eventually did get it, pulling his pants off and over his legs, coughing slightly at the wind crushing his cut had caused him.
“C’mere mami.” He grabbed your thighs, dragging you on top of him. “Mm—“ “Shh, it don’t hurt.” You let yourself relax slightly, mostly leaning on your need as not to hurt him.
The stars in his eyes as he looked up at you, he sighed quietly.
“It’s hot baby, we’re gonna get all sweaty.”
“Hopefully.”
“Miles.”
You rolled your eyes in a laugh, hooking your arms around his neck and leaning down to kiss his forehead. “Mm, there. Now you’re all better.”
He rubbed shapes into your thighs, loving the proximity. The way your breaths mingled and skin stuck together.
He thanked the Moon and the Stars for letting him keep you, begged every day to anyone out there that could hear him to tether your souls and kill him have he ever lose you. Would kill a million men to keep you safe, and he’d already had a running start.
He cleansed himself of his sins with your love, showering in the light you provided for him, and watched the blood of any man drip from his fingertips and into the rivers you’d created in his veins. Letting it mix with his own and beat by the tone of his heart. Which only ever raced for you. Only beat for you. He could only live for you, your love and acceptance.
Of which Miles would never understand why you loved him, and he would never try to.
“Much.”
He laid down, you following. Lying your head on his chest and listening to his breathing stutter at the contact.
It was late now, far later than a healthy time to finally sleep. But nothing could break the bubble of ease that now seemed to suffocate him. Lulling him into a slumber with his love against his heart.