Chapter 9: Dinner and Confessions
The smell of garlic and roasted peppers bloomed in the air as Margot unpacked the bags, revealing containers of empanadillas, tostones, and thick, marinated pork. “I got a bit of everything,” she said, tearing open a packet of utensils. “A peace offering for my high-maintenance plumbing.”
Y/n snorted, accepting a fork. “Your faucet was an easy fix. The real challenge is this,” she said, gesturing at the feast. “Where do we even start?”
They started with the pork, leaning over the coffee table. For a while, there was only the sound of satisfied chewing, the clink of a fork against cardboard. The city glittered beyond the glass, a silent film playing just for them.
“This is obscenely good,” Y/n mumbled, her mouth full.
“Told you.” Margot wiped her lips with a napkin. “So. A live-in handyman. You any good at fixing other stuff?”
“Like what?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Leaky emotions. Frayed nerves. The general disrepair of a life lived mostly in hotel rooms.” Margot’s tone was light, but her eyes were searching.
Y/n put her container down, chewing slowly. She looked at her hands, at the faint white lines of old scars across her knuckles. “I’m better with pipes and drywall. Things you can see. Measure.”
“What about things you can feel?”
The question hung there. Y/n felt the walls she usually kept so firmly in place begin to tremble. Here, in this light, with this woman who smelled of expensive perfume and cheap takeout, they felt less necessary.
“I haven’t had much practice,” Y/n said, her voice lower. “With that. The… emotional renovation stuff.” She met Margot’s gaze. “Never really had a project manager.”
Margot stilled. “Never?”
A slow shake of the head. “Dates, sure. Things that… didn’t stick. People who liked the idea of me more than the reality. Or who couldn’t handle the reality at all.” She gave a one-shouldered shrug, a practiced move to make the admission seem smaller. “It’s fine. My life is full. My sisters, my crew, my tools. It’s enough.”
Margot listened, her food forgotten. She heard the spaces between the words—the loneliness, the defensive pride. “It’s not fine,” she said softly. “It’s crap. That people were that small.”
Y/n looked away, a muscle ticking in her jaw. “Your turn. What’s the thing you’re most afraid of here?”
The shift was deliberate, and Margot acknowledged it with a slight nod. She drew a breath, staring out at the skyline. “The vultures. The guys with the long lenses. I can handle a bad review. I can’t handle…” She gestured between them. “This. Them dissecting you. Reducing whatever this is to a salacious headline. ‘Margot’s Secret Affair.’” She spat the words like poison. “They wouldn’t see you. They’d see a story. They’d hurt you. And it would be because of me.”
The fear was naked in her voice. It wasn’t about her image; it was a shield, pointed outward.
Y/n reached across the table. Her calloused palm covered Margot’s hand. “Hey. Look at me.” Margot did. “I fix things for a living. I know my worth isn’t in some tabloid. And I knew who you were when I walked in here. The risk is mine to take.”
“But I’m asking you to take it.”
“And I’m saying yes.” Y/n’s thumb stroked the inside of Margot’s wrist, feeling the rapid flutter of her pulse. “Let them try. I’ve dealt with worse than some asshole with a camera.”
The laugh that escaped Margot was part sob. She turned her hand, lacing their fingers together over the greasy bag. The connection was electric, a current running through the clutter of their half-eaten meal.
Y/n stood, pulling Margot up with her. She didn’t kiss her yet. She just looked, memorizing the storm in those blue eyes. Then she leaned in, her lips a breath away. “Stop thinking about them.”
The kiss she delivered then was a verdict. It was not soft. It was a claim, fierce and sure, her hands cradling Margot’s face, holding her there. Margot melted into it, a small, desperate sound escaping her throat as her arms wound around Y/n’s neck, fingers tangling in the short curls there.
Y/n walked her back, until the edge of the cool granite counter met Margot’s hips. In one smooth, effortless motion, Y/n lifted her, settling her onto the stone. The forgotten steak sat cooling nearby. The city hummed.
Their foreheads pressed together, breath mingling. “Is this okay?” Y/n whispered, her hands sliding under the soft wool of Margot’s sweater, finding the warm skin of her waist.
“God, yes,” Margot breathed, pulling the sweater up and over her head. The sight of her, bathed in the kitchen’s downlighting, was a punch to Y/n’s gut. So much graceful strength, so willingly offered.
Y/n kissed her again, slower now. She mapped the curve of her shoulder with her lips, the line of her collarbone. Her hands were gentle, reverent, even as they shook slightly. This was different. This was not a hidden thing or a rushed thing. This was deliberate.
Margot’s hands tugged at Y/n’s shirt, pulling it free from her jeans. She spread her palms over the hard planes of Y/n’s stomach, the powerful muscles of her back, learning a new geography. “You’re so strong,” she murmured.
“For you,” Y/n said, the words a raw scrape against Margot’s skin. “Right now, it’s all for you.”
They made love there, on the kitchen counter, with the clinical light above and the romantic darkness beyond the windows. It was not frantic, but deeply focused. A silent conversation of touch and sigh. A claiming that had nothing to do with possession and everything to do with recognition. I see you. Here I am.
After, Y/n held her, Margot’s legs still wrapped around her waist, her face buried in the curve of Y/n’s neck. They stayed like that for a long time, until the granite threatened to become uncomfortable.
Y/n finally eased back, helping Margot down. They didn’t speak. They just moved through the apartment, a silent procession to the bedroom, leaving the lights and the food and the world behind.
Under the covers, in the dark, Margot traced the tattoo on Y/n’s shoulder—a simple coqui, the Puerto Rican tree frog. “When did you get this?”
“After my abuela died. She used to tell me stories about the sound they’d make at night back home. A song you can’t hear here.”
Margot listened to the steady beat of Y/n’s heart. “I think I can hear it,” she whispered.
Y/n pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her hair. Outside, the endless city moved on, unaware. Inside, a new, fragile song had begun.