Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

She was pure like snowflakes
No one could ever stain
The memory of my angel
Could never cause me pain
Years go by, I’m lookin’ through a girly magazine
And there’s my homeroom angel on the pages in-between
My blood runs cold
My memory has just been sold
My angel is the centerfold
Angel is the centerfold

*

The last time Mirabel saw her tío Bruno, she has just turned five years old.

It was her birthday, and she was sick with excitement, dressed in a fancy white gown. Her cousin Camilo had turned five just a few weeks earlier, so she knew what to expect. The games, the gifts, the cake with six layers—and of course, the big family photo, with the birthday girl in the center.

That was the most important part, the photo. Abuela had a whole collection of them hanging in the backstairs hall. Every time a Madrigal turned five years old, the collection grew a little bigger. Another birthday, another family photo—another picture frame mounted on the wall. 

“Come, come, come!” Abuela motioned everyone towards the camera. As Mirabel took her spot in the center, her heart began to race.

“Where’s Tío Bruno?” she asked, but nobody seemed to hear. Everyone was shuffling, getting camera-ready, straightening ties and tucking in flyaway hairs. Mirabel tugged on the nearest skirt. “Abuela, where’s Tío Bruno?”

“In a minute,” her grandmother said. She was distracted with Mirabel’s sisters, arranging them between Mamá and Papá. Isabela, the oldest, stood as tall as she was able, her chin raised and hands neatly clasped. There was no need to brush her hair, no wrinkles to smooth from her blouse. Even then, Isabela was perfect, always smiling, always poised and pristine.

Mirabel was none of these things. As Abuela turned, she pulled a comb from her pocket and raked it through Mirabel’s curls.

“Tío Bruno,” she said again. “Where is he?”

“He’s here,” Abuela answered. There was little reassurance in her voice. The comb snagged on Mirabel’s hair, pulling hard against her scalp.

She scanned the crowd. To the left, Tía Pepa was wrestling with Camilo, trying to wipe the crumbs from his face. Camilo shrieked and hid behind his sister. Tío Félix let out a laugh.

“I don’t see him,” Mirabel said, panic rising in her chest. This was her photo, her birthday photo, the one that hang on the wall forever and ever. Bruno should be here. He should be in the picture.

Abuela sighed. Gripping Mirabel by the shoulders, she turned her granddaughter towards the camera.

“Look, mi vida. There’s your uncle. Give him a big smile, alright?”

Mirabel blinked, her vision blurred by a pair of lights. They stood on long poles behind the camera, cloaking everything else in shadow. She could hardly make out Bruno’s silhouette—if Bruno was even there at all. 

“Ready?” Abuela said. “Everyone, together!”

The lights flashed, and a chorus of voices rang out as one, calling their family name.

“¡La familia Madrigal!”

There must have been more after that. Gifts to open. Dinner to eat. Mirabel would have sat with her uncle, would have laughed with him and dumped her vegetables on his plate. But if she did, Mirabel doesn’t remember it. The last time she saw Tío Bruno—the last time she can remember looking for him—it was that moment, right there, printed on glossy paper and mounted in a frame. Mirabel watched her grandmother hang it on the wall, right next to Isabela’s and Luisa’s. Bruno wasn’t in their photos, either.

Next time, Mirabel told herself. Next time, we’ll take a picture. Me and him.

But by the time she turned six, he was gone.

***

More than ten years later, Mirabel stands outside an old building, trying to summon the courage to go inside.

“You got this,” she tells herself, though the sweat on her palms would suggest otherwise. She tilts her head backwards; the building isn’t very large, but it’s certainly intimidating, all brick walls and blackout windows. Standing on the street, you’d never guess the building’s true purpose—if not for the neon sign hanging above the door.

VISIONS, it says in bright, green letters. Then, in much smaller text: by Bruno.

Mirabel stares at the sign. The word VISIONS is written in capital letters, with a woman’s silhouette forming the second I. Her hips are wide; her waist, sharply tapered. Mirabel touches her own subconsciously.

“You got this,” she says again. “You got this! You just gotta… you know. You just gotta do it! No second thoughts—just go.”

She takes a deep breath. Gripping the door handle, Mirabel braces herself for a grand entrance—but the door doesn’t open.

She pulls on it again, harder this time. The door only rattles inside its frame. “Hey!” 

“Do you have an appointment?”

“Gaaah!”

Mirabel jumps back, startled by the sound of a woman’s voice. It comes crackling out of a silver callbox, barely audible through a burst of static.

“Visions is a private studio,” the voice says. “No public admittance.”

“I have an appointment!” Mirabel fumbles with the callbox, heart racing. None of the buttons are labeled, their faces worn away from years of use. She mashes several at once. “Hi! Hello? I- I have an appointment.”

The box crackles again. “Name?”

“Oh, um—Mirabel? I’m Mirabel. Bruno’s my—I mean, I’m his—” She shakes her head. “I’m the three o’clock model.”

There’s a long pause. Mirabel’s heartbeat drums in her ears. What if she’s not on the schedule? What if Bruno changed his mind? What if Mamá called him and said, On second thought, I forbid you from hiring my daughter. Mamá probably wouldn’t do that, but Mirabel’s stomach turns just thinking about it.

But then—

The door buzzes. There’s a loud clicking sound, like tumblers shifting inside a lock. Mirabel pulls on the door again, and this time, it swings open.

She steps into a large, impressive lobby, furnished with trendy little tables and mismatched chairs. The walls are mix plaster and exposed brick, the floor covered with overlapping rugs. It has a scavenged, secondhand sort of look to it, as if everything was found at a rummage sale, or rescued from the dumpster of a high-end shop. Mirabel’s eyebrows climb upwards, impressed with how well it all goes together, despite the fact that nothing matches at all.

At the far end of the room, a receptionist waves at Mirabel. She holds a phone to her ear, the old-fashioned kind with a cord and push buttons.

“Hola,” she says, not to Mirabel, but to whoever is on the other end of the call. “It’s me. Can you tell him that the three o’clock is here?”

Mirabel shuffles, afraid to interrupt. How much of her little pep-talk did the receptionist see? There’s gotta be a security camera pointed at the front door. She probably sat here and watched the whole thing.

“Yes, I understand. Just let him know. Thank you.”

Setting the phone aside, the receptionist finally looks up. “Mirabel?”

“Oh—” Mirabel flusters, struck by the sudden attention. The receptionist is very pretty, her hair pulled back and her eyeliner immaculate. “Yes, that’s me. I’m Mirabel.”

The woman smiles. “Welcome to Visions. I’m Pilar. Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea?”

“Oh, um—no, that’s okay.”

Rising from her desk, Pilar directs Mirabel to a set of chairs. “Thank you for coming early. Most of your paperwork has been approved, but there are still a few forms you need to sign. Model releases and the like—nothing you haven’t seen before.”

“Right,” Mirabel says. She doesn’t mention the fact that she hasn’t modeled since she was twelve, and back then, it was her parents who signed all the paperwork.

Pilar spreads the contracts across a low table. They’re pretty standard, just like she said, but Mirabel reads through them carefully. She wants to look professional, like she’s clever enough to scrutinize the fine print. Pilar doesn’t seem to mind. In fact, she reads through the contracts alongside Mirabel, patiently answering her questions and showing her where to sign.

“The name of your agent goes here,” Pilar says, pointing to an empty line. Mirabel shifts in her seat.

“Oh—I don’t have one.”

“Your modeling company, then. Whoever contracted you.”

“I don’t work for a modeling company,” Mirabel says. She can feel her cheeks getting hot.

Pilar blinks. “Are you… freelance?”

“Yes!” Mirabel snaps her fingers. “Yes, that’s it. Freelance. I- I’m freelance.”

She smiles awkwardly, wishing she’d thought of the word herself. Pilar doesn’t answer. She studies Mirabel’s face for a long time, her gaze discerning.

“We don’t usually…” Pilar shakes her head. “I’m sorry, but—who hired you, exactly?”

Mirabel’s flush deepens. “Well—”

Suddenly, the door behind Pilar’s desk swings open, and a strange man stumbles into the room. He must have been walking too fast, because he trips on the corner of the rug and smashes into a file cabinet.

“Ow! Shit!”

The man hisses sharply, bending down to rub at his knee. His hair is dark and wild; his clothes, frayed at the seams. He looks completely out of place in the stylish lobby, almost as if he wandered in by accident.

Mirabel startles, surprised by the sudden interruption. Pilar, however, hardly seems to notice. With little more than a glance at the newcomer, she lifts a hand to her mouth and loudly clears her throat.

The man turns, facing them at last. His eyes go straight to Mirabel.

“There you are!” he cries. A wide grin splits his face. “Wow, look at you! I mean, your mom sent pictures, but—wow! Wow!”

The man surges forward. Realization hits Mirabel like a bolt of lightning, radiating all the way down her spine.

It can’t be.

She rises from her seat, only barely remembering to stick out her hand. The man takes it eagerly.  

“Wow,” he says again. His fingers are very long; his palm, very wide. Mirabel feels dizzy. Her thoughts won’t settle.

Bruno.

It’s Bruno.

Bruno, who played dress-up in the attic.

Bruno, who built sandcastles at the park.

Bruno, who memorized the names of Mirabel’s dolls, and told her stories at bedtime.

She takes in his unshaven face, his large, expressive eyes. They’re a lot more green than she remembered; his hair, a lot more grey. His unruly curls are pulled back into a ponytail, though a few loose strands hang limp around his face. He looks disheveled but happy, smiling despite the dark circles under his eyes. Mirabel suddenly remembers how he used to stay up all night watching telenovelas, and how she would find him there in the morning, passed out on the couch.

“Hi,” she says belatedly. The word feels strange in her mouth. There should be a different one, some special greeting for people you haven’t seen in a long time. Hi just feels too normal. Too unextraordinary.

Bruno’s smile softens. For a moment, it looks like he’s going to respond, but then his eyes drop to their joined hands. “You’re very sweaty,” he observes.

Mirabel blinks. “What? …oh!”

She pulls from Bruno’s grip, hastily wiping her hands on her blouse. She laughs awkwardly. “Sorry! Sorry, that’s really gross—”

“No, it’s fine!” Bruno insists. “I shouldn’t have… You look great. Really. It’s, um… It’s good to see you!”  

“Thanks,” Mirabel says, even though he’s just being polite. She can feel the sweat under her arms; all the flyaway hairs on her head. She resists the urge to smooth them out. “It’s nice to see you, too. You look… different.”

“Do I?” Bruno looks down, taking in his worn-out clothes, the grease stains on his shirt. He never would have gotten away with such an outfit back home; Abuela would have made him change. “Yeah, I guess I do. I’m probably not as tall as you remembered, huh?”

Mirabel laughs, despite herself. No—he’s definitely not. Bruno makes a show of standing on his tip-toes, but even then, he’s only a few inches taller than Mirabel. It’s kind of funny—when she was a kid, she would have sworn he was seven feet tall.

“Oh, Pilar!” Bruno turns, as if he just noticed her. “Pilar, hey! How’s the, um… How’s the paperwork? We all set?”

Pilar is standing now, watching them with obvious amusement. Her brows arch when Bruno says her name.

“We’re all set,” she echoes. A knowing smile tugs at her lips. “Unless you’d like to introduce me to your daughter.”

Bruno sputters. “What?! Oh, no, she’s not—”

“I’m his niece,” Mirabel says quickly. Her face couldn’t possibly get any redder. “Sorry, I thought Bruno would have mentioned it.”

“I did!” Bruno cries. “Or—I meant to, at least.” He waves his hands dismissively. “Listen, it’s been a busy week.”

Pilar snorts. She looks bemused, but not surprised, as if she’s used to Bruno making unusual decisions. Crossing her arms, she says, “I thought her last name was a coincidence. I should have known you’d find some weird, new angle to exploit—”

“It’s not like that!” Bruno says. “Mirabel came to me. She’s a student at the university—fashion major, right? She wants to work in the industry someday, so… I’m helping her gain some real-world experience.”

“Right,” Mirabel says. Experience, that’s why she’s here. To gain a foothold in the fashion industry. A head start on her career.

Pilar gives him an odd look. She seems doubtful, like there has to be more to the story than simple nepotism. With a glance at Mirabel, she leans close to Bruno. “Does she know what kind of studio this is?” 

Again, Bruno flusters. “Of course she does!”

They stare at each other for a long moment, communicating through facial expressions alone. For the second time, Mirabel shuffles on the sidelines, feeling small and out of place.

In the end, though, Pilar only shrugs.

“Well, she’ll get a lot of experience here.”

***

Once the paperwork is signed and filed, Bruno leads Mirabel into the hall. She follows just a few paces behind him, footsteps soft on the concrete floor.

Bruno glances over his shoulder. “Sorry about all that. I meant to tell everyone about you. About us being related, I mean. Things have just been so crazy this week…”

“It’s okay,” Mirabel replies. Things have been pretty crazy for her, too. Between moving to the city, starting school and searching for a job, the last two months have been… a lot. “I’m just glad you found a minute to come and welcome me.”

Bruno looks surprised. “Of course! Your mom made me promise to look out for you. That was one of her big stipulations.”

He waves his hands around the last two words, emphasizing their importance. Mirabel smiles to herself. She wasn’t on the call when Mamá spoke to Bruno, but she can imagine her mother using that exact phrase. Big stipulations. Caveats and conditions. The Do’s and Don’ts of Hiring My Daughter.

She can’t imagine what Bruno would have said, though. She doesn’t know him well enough.

Mirabel used to ask about Bruno a lot, when she was little. Where he’d gone. Why he left. No one at home liked to talk about it—his absence was kind of a sore spot, the kind of thing only ever mentioned in whispers. The most that Mirabel could get out of her parents was that Bruno had left to “pursue his art.” That wasn’t a lie, exactly—but it wasn’t the whole truth, either. She didn’t learn what Bruno’s “art” really was until much, much later.

They come to an elevator. Like almost everything else, it looks a century out if date, creaking loudly as they step inside.

“So, um… How long’s it been?” Bruno asks, piling in alongside Mirabel. “Ten, eleven years?”

“Thirteen, actually,” Mirabel replies. She was five when he left, so… yeah, the math checks out.

“Thirteen?” Bruno says. “God, I’m old.”

He presses a button, and the elevator lurches. It’s definitely not the safest feeling in the world, but luckily, they don’t have to go very far. The studio only has two floors; an upstairs and a downstairs.

“I can’t believe how grown up you are,” Bruno says. “All of you! Your cousins, your sisters—oh, hey, is Isabela still living in that tiny apartment? I haven’t checked up on her since… ever.”

Mirabel shakes her head. “No, actually—we’re all living together now. Her and me and Luisa. We got a bigger place—not a lot bigger but, you know… Saves on rent.”

She shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but the truth is, she loves having something to brag about. A new apartment, a new life—it’s like, maybe if she pretends that she’s got it all figured out, things will finally start falling into place.

“Did you hear about Camilo?” she asks. “He’s in the city now, too. Theater major, over at the art school.”  

“No kidding?” Bruno’s eyebrows arch with amusement. “Yeah, that makes sense. He was always so dramatic, putting on those little plays—and you did the costumes, right?”

Mirabel startles a little. She’d completely forgotten about that. Wow… She and Camilo haven’t put on a play in years.

Bruno smiles to himself. “You loved playing dress-up. And making outfits for your dolls… I should have guessed you’d go into fashion design.”

The elevator rumbles, slowing to a halt. As the door slides open, a blast of hot air hits Mirabel in the face. The smell of sweat fills her nose; the smell of a photo studio, of slick skin and sweltering lights.

They head down another hallway, this one a lot more crowded than the first. Mirabel sticks close to Bruno, winding her way around crewmembers and wooden crates and large, industrial fans.

“Hey boss.”

A man in a simple white shirt walks by, followed by a woman in a short, silk robe. She must be another model; her feet are slippered and her hair is messily styled, as if she just rolled out of someone else’s bed. She hasn’t bothered to tie her robe in the front, giving Mirabel a good look at the outfit underneath: a lacey black bra and panties, and literally nothing else.

Mirabel flusters. Through open doorways, she can see photoshoots already in progress; photographers with their fancy cameras; tech crew managing switchboards and lights. Models in various states of undress, draped over pillows and blankets and chairs. Her heartbeat quickens at the sight of so many naked bodies, the thought of being so shamelessly exposed.

Bruno motions excitedly. “Here we are!”

They step into a large room. Here, too, the tech crew are running around, unwinding spools of wire and plugging in lights. Like Pilar, they hardly seem to notice when Bruno strides in, far too focused on their tasks.  

Mirabel hangs back, taking it all in. At the far end of the room, a raised platform creates a sort of stage, no doubt in preparation for her photoshoot. Covered in a blanket of fake grass, the stage looks something like a garden, complete with rosebushes and a charming white picket fence. A crewmember kneels before it, winding ivy through the posts.

“Hang on, hang on!” Bruno waves for the flower man’s attention. “What, um- What- What am I looking at?”

The man looks at his flowers, then back to Bruno. “Um… roses?”

“Roses?”

Bruno frowns at that, clearly distressed. The man rises, wiping his hands on his jeans.

“You don’t like roses, boss?”

“I like them fine, they’re just… They’re not what I pictured.”

Bruno folds his arms, frowning at the garden like a puzzle to be solved. The man shrugs.

“You said you wanted romance.”

“Pastoral romance,” Bruno says. “You know—rolling hills! Milk maids! Cows and sheep.”

Mirabel’s brows arch upwards. Cows and sheep?

“It should look rustic. Like a farmer’s field. There should be daisies, and- and, um—”

“Clover?” the man suggests. “Baby’s breath?”

“Yes!” Bruno snaps his fingers. “Yes, that’s perfect!”

With a slap on Bruno’s shoulder, the flower man hurries off. Bruno turns to Mirabel, smiling with relief.

“That’s Eduardo,” he says, jabbing a thumb in the other man’s direction. “He’s in charge of set design. He helps me take what I see up here,” he motions vaguely to his forehead, “and put it there.”

Bruno points out the rest of the team, telling Mirabel who they are and what they do. The man and woman in the corner are his best lighting duo—and back there is the dressing room, where she’ll meet the hair and makeup artists. Mirabel nods along, trying not to look overwhelmed.

“Is that my photographer?” She tilts her chin towards the back of the room, where a young man is sorting camera lenses. Bruno follows her gaze.

“Huh?”

“Over there. With the camera.”

“Oh!” He lets out a short, surprised laugh. “No, that’s not the photographer. I am.”

“What?”

Mirabel turns. She didn’t hear that right. She thought he said—but Bruno wouldn’t—there’s no way—

“I’m the photographer,” Bruno says again.                     

There’s a long pause. A very, very long pause.

“Is… Is that okay?” Bruno asks, and Mirabel realizes that her mouth is hanging open. She closes it quickly, but it’s too late. Bruno’s forehead knits with concern.

“Um… Y-Yeah. Yeah!” She shakes her head, clearing it of a thousand different thoughts. “That’s fine. Sorry, I didn’t—”

“Are you sure?” Bruno takes a step closer, his voice low enough not to be overheard. Mirabel finds herself intensely aware of the people moving around them, the sound of footsteps, of chairs and tripods dragging across the ground. She wets her lip.

“Yeah,” she says again. “I’m just… surprised, that’s all. I mean, I’m gonna be… you know…”

Naked. Or, mostly naked. She assumed her uncle would want to be very far away. When he came to greet her in the lobby, she thought that he was fulfilling an obligation to Mamá—not that he was gonna stay for the photoshoot.

Bruno rubs the back of his neck. “Well, yeah, but… I told your mom I’d look out for you. And I kind of thought… I dunno…” He lifts his shoulders and let them drop. “I thought you’d be more comfortable with me than a stranger.”

He looks at her sheepishly, the way someone does when they realize a mistake. “Maybe that’s weird…”

“No, I— I get it,” Mirabel says. She feels warm all over, limbs tingling with excitement. Now that the shock has worn off, she finds herself unexpectedly eager. She hadn’t realized how badly she wanted Bruno to stay, how reassuring his presence would be.

“You’re right,” she tells him. “I’d rather do this with someone I know. Even if that someone is my uncle.”

She smiles playfully, but Bruno still isn’t convinced. He opens his mouth to say something, but just then, one of the makeup artists calls out from the dressing room.

“Hey, boss? We’re ready for her.”

“In a minute!” Bruno replies. Then, with a sigh, “Listen—”

“Tío, it’s fine,” Mirabel says. She takes his hand and squeezes it. “I want it to be you! Who else could take better care of me?”

Bruno looks down at their joined hands, surprise written on his face. “W-Well… If you’re sure…”

“Of course I’m sure!” Mirabel says, already turning towards the dressing room. She shoots a grin over her shoulder. “Come on! This is gonna be fun!”

***

Half an hour later, Mirabel emerges from the dressing room. Beside a change of wardrobe, not much has been done to her; her curls hang loose, and her makeup is very lightly applied. Apparently, Bruno wanted her to look “natural”—and after seeing the outfit, she understands why.

Mirabel holds her robe closed as she pads over the stage. Bruno is already there, overseeing the final adjustments. With just a few handfuls of lavender, some white daisies and baby’s breath, Eduardo has transformed the garden into an idyllic pasture. Bruno claps him on the back, delighted.

“Mirabel, hey!” He smiles at her approach. Now that his vision is coming together, he seems to have regained his excitement. He drums on the large, expensive-looking camera hanging around his neck. “Are you ready?”

“Only if you are,” Mirabel replies.

As she pulls off her robe, heat rises to her cheeks once more. In keeping with the pasture theme, she’s dressed in black-and-white spotted underwear, with matching stockings that stretch all the way up to her knees. There’s even a headband with triangular ears and horns, and a short, tufted tail swinging between her legs.

She’s a cow. A nearly naked, lingerie-wearing cow.

“Well?” Mirabel turns in place, showing off her spotted undies, her knee-high stockings. The little tail swishes back and forth. “What do you think?”

“I think you’re perfect,” Bruno says. His eyes are very bright.

He reaches out to adjust her headband. It must have been crooked in her hair. His hands slip lower, as if to adjust her top as well—but he hesitates.

“May I?”

“Oh…” Mirabel looks down at her chest, barely covered by the spotted bra. “Y-Yeah, go ahead.” 

His touch is firm. Professional. He tugs at the thin straps around her neck, fingers ghosting over her collarbone. As he works, Bruno mutters something about the fit, the color, treating her more like a work of art than a niece.

“I, um…” Her voice is soft. She swallows and tries again. “I brought contact lenses, but the makeup team said I wouldn’t need them.”

“Hm?” Bruno looks up, as if rousing from his own thoughts. It takes a moment for Mirabel’s words to sink in. “Oh, yes! Your glasses are critical. They suit your face so well—it really completes the look.”

He takes a step backwards, framing Mirabel between his fingers. She’s wearing the same glasses she always has; green, with wide, circular lenses. Bruno smiles with one eye closed.

“You’re perfect,” he says again.

Mirabel climbs onstage. She feels very aware of her own body, of the sweat on her skin and the sway of her breasts. She settles down between the wildflowers, conscious of the fake grass brushing against her thighs.

“Oh, wow.” Bruno lifts the camera to his face and snaps a picture. Mirabel’s heart races—she wasn’t ready!

The camera clicks again, and again. Mirabel shifts around, unsure of how to pose, or what to do. How is she supposed to make a cow look sexy?

“How, um… How do you want me to…?”

“Whatever feels good,” Bruno says. The camera never leaves his face.  

Mirabel shifts again, trying out a few different poses. She tries to look sultry, like the other models. Pouty lips. Pushed-up breasts. Nothing really feels right.

“Don’t take it too seriously,” Bruno tells her. “You can moo if you want to.”

Mirabel glances upwards. The lights around Bruno are all but blinding, casting the rest of the room in shadow. She can’t see anyone else, but she can feel them out there, watching. Waiting.

“Moo?” she asks.

“Yeah, you know—”

Mirabel jumps as her uncle lets out a loud, comical moo. The sound carries, echoing through the darkened room. A few crewmembers chuckle.

Mirabel’s face gets even hotter. “I don’t—”

Bruno moos again, louder this time. It’s so ridiculous that Mirabel can’t help but laugh.

“Yeah, that’s it!” The camera clicks. “Have fun with it! You’re dressed like a cow, for fuck’s sake!”

Mirabel laughs again, her embarrassment ebbing. This is the Bruno she remembers, the silly uncle who made up stories and chased her around the park.

Things are easier after that. Or at least, a little more relaxed. Bruno makes a game of it, calling for various props. Every now and again, he gives Mirabel something new to pose with; a brass cowbell; a wooden stool and pail; a flower crown, woven with daisies. 

She gets really into it, trying out wild poses and giggling more than she should. Bruno’s playful attitude makes it easy to laugh, to mess around without fear of looking ridiculous. It almost feels like playing dress-up at home, like when she was younger and she and Bruno would put on crazy outfits and play pretend. She quickly forgets how naked she is, how many people are watching.

“Beautiful!” Bruno says, snapping picture after picture. “¡Qué hermosa! You’re doing great, just like that—”

Mirabel drapes the flower crown over her head, letting it hang lopsided in her curls. Lying down on her stomach, she props herself up on both elbows, breasts perfectly framed between her arms.

Bruno swears under his breath. He takes a step closer; Mirabel can see herself reflected in the camera lens. The shutter dilates, like a pupil. She can feel Bruno’s eyes roaming over her body, drinking her in.

“Perfect,” he whispers, and the camera clicks. The word shivers through her, tingling down her spine.

Later, when the photoshoot is over and the lights have come back on, Bruno looks over the photographs on his laptop. Mirabel stands behind him, silk robe pulled over her cow-print undies.

“Oh, wow! Is that really me?!”

Even raw and unedited, Bruno’s skill with a camera is obvious. Somehow, he made Mirabel look sweet and innocent, but alluring as well, smiling at them from a bed of flowers. It’s like she’s inviting the viewer to lie down beside her, to roll in the grass and frolic in the field, naked as the day they were born. 

“Tío, these are great!” Mirabel bounces on her toes, full of excited energy. “You made me look so hot!”

Bruno snorts. “You are hot.”

For a long moment, his compliment hangs in the air. Bruno’s eyes go wide as he realizes what he said.

“I- I mean—! You look good in the photos, that’s all—”

He’s so flustered, Mirabel can’t help but giggle. “It’s fine, Tío. Thanks. I had a lot of fun today! This could have been really weird, but you made it great.”

A hopeful smile pulls at Bruno’s mouth.

“Glad I could help,” he tells her. “And, hey… If you ever want to do something like this again…”

Mirabel’s brows shoot upwards. “You mean, another photoshoot?!”

“Why not?” Bruno says. He doesn’t sound half as indifferent as his shrug would imply. “We could expand your portfolio. Get you in touch with other studios. Or, shit, if you just wanted another paycheck…” He searches Mirabel’s face. “Is that something you’d be interested in?”

Mirabel’s smile widens. She wants to throw her arms around Bruno, and squeeze him like when she was little. She barely holds herself back.

“Only if you’ll be my photographer,” she replies.

Chapter Text

As soon as Mirabel gets home, a tree branch smacks her in the face.

“Isa!” she cries, spitting leaves out of her mouth. “Isa, you left a Ficus in the doorway!”

She wrestles with the branches, trying to wiggle her way into the hall. After a moment, her sister’s face appears between the foliage.

“He’s just saying hi,” Isabela says. She looks annoyed, like Mirabel is the one getting in the way. Together, they shift the plant a few inches to the left, allowing Mirabel to slip inside.

Their apartment is small, and very cluttered. Between Isabela’s plants and Luisa’s exercise equipment, there’s hardly any room to sit. Mirabel drops her bag on a short end table before flopping down on the couch.

“Is that Mirabel?” Luisa’s smiling face pokes out of the kitchen. She holds an oversized cup in her equally oversized hands, its contents green and chunky. A kale smoothie, probably; her favorite post-workout snack. “Hey! How was the photoshoot?”

“Pretty good,” Mirabel says honestly. “Actually—it was pretty great. I had a lot of fun.”

Isabela settles on the arm of a chair, frowning with concern. “Was Bruno there? Did he make sure you were okay?”

Besides Mirabel, Isabela is the only one in the family with modeling experience. She knows firsthand how exploitive that world can be. Like Mamá, she was pretty wary when Mirabel wanted to model for extra cash—and like Mamá, she was relieved that Tío Bruno would be there to look out for her.

“Oh, y-yeah…” Mirabel looks away, suddenly shy. “He, um… He was the photographer, actually.”

Luisa’s mouth drops open. “But weren’t you, like… mostly naked?”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“Wasn’t it weird?”

“Not really,” Mirabel insists. “I mean, I guess it was at first, but… I dunno. He was really nice about it. We laughed a lot. I was in this, this cow bikini—” She shakes her head, smiling at the ridiculousness, “with ears and horns and everything! It could have been really awkward, but Bruno made it a game.”

It was so natural. Easy. He made her feel safe, but more than that, he made her feel… attractive. Sexy.

You are hot, he said.

“He wants to work with me again,” Mirabel says. “I think I’m gonna do it.”

Isabela and Luisa exchange a glance. Mirabel can’t remember the last time they were so interested in her life. To be fair, there’s a bit of an age gap between them; Luisa is already a college senior; Isabela, well into her second year of grad school. Mirabel’s always been then one lagging behind, the one with small, childish problems, at least compared to their own. Even now, they look at Mirabel like she’s in over her head. Like she doesn’t quite grasp what she’s in for.

“Have you talked to Mamá about it?” Isabela asks. Mirabel shakes her head.

“Not yet. But you know she won’t care. I mean, she’ll care, but—she won’t disapprove.”

“It’s not her approval you need to worry about,” Isabela says.

Mirabel stares. What does she mean? If Mamá won’t care, then Papá won’t, either. He always goes along with whatever she says.

It takes her longer than it should to realize who Isabela is talking about. But after a moment, it finally clicks into place.

“Abuela doesn’t have to know,” she says quietly. Again, she adverts her eyes.

To that, her sisters have little argument. Or, if they do, they keep it to themselves. Luisa claps Mirabel on the back, full of smiling encouragements. Isabela turns to a hibiscus plant and wordlessly waters the soil.

Later, Mirabel sits alone in her room, tapping on her laptop and picking at takeout leftovers. It’s not great—the vegetables are soggy, and the meat was bland even before it was reheated in the microwave. Mirabel frowns into the paper carton, thinking longingly of her mother’s food.

An alert pops up at the bottom of the screen. Her heart leaps. It’s a message from Bruno!

For your portfolio, the email says. Attached, a file labeled “Miramoo.” The name makes Mirabel grin.

She flips through the photos, even though she’s seen them already. She loves how playful she looks. How sweet her smile. How soft her curves. Setting the takeout container aside, she moves to her bed, laptop balanced on her stomach.

Beautiful! Yeah, just like that…

She remembers how Bruno looked when he photographed her, his face half-hidden by the camera. He was so expressive, endless praise falling from his lips. Perfect, that’s what he called her. Just thinking about it sends a fresh shiver down her spine.

She lies back in bed, settling deep into the pillows. When she closes her eyes, she can see everything so clearly. The flash of the camera. Bruno’s eager grin. His playful laugh, his words of adoration…

Mirabel rubs her knees together. She feels warm. Tingly. Just like she did this afternoon, when she was all but naked onstage. The heat pools in her lower belly, making her squirm against the mattress.

You’re perfect.

A hand slips between Mirabel’s legs. She reaches under the hem of her skirt—her panties are wet.

With a stifled moan, Mirabel touches herself, fingers sliding between her folds. She imagines herself back on that stage, her body exposed, a half-dozen lights on her bare skin. She imagines a camera, roaming everywhere, capturing every inch.

It’s… It’s not weird. That’s what she tells herself as her fingers move faster, pleasure mounting. It could be anyone, literally anyone behind that camera. She just likes being admired. Adored. Worshipped like a work of art.

The camera moves closer, drinking her in. Mirabel circles the little nub at the top of her sex. She bites down on her lip, chasing the feeling, letting it build higher and higher, faster and faster. A voice echoes in her head as she reaches her peak.

You are hot…

***

Monday morning rolls around, and as usual, Mirabel’s alarm goes off way too early.

She drags herself into the kitchen, groggy and bleary-eyed. Luckily, there’s already coffee brewing on the stove. Mirabel pours herself a steaming cup.

“Morning, sis.”

Luisa waves as she heads out the door, dressed for her morning jog. Mirabel flashes a half-hearted thumbs up. Isabela is awake, too, already showered, already gorgeous. A fresh streak of blue dye runs through her hair, matching the shadow above her eyes. Her lips are painted deep purple.

“Have you seen my jacket?” Isabela asks. Mirabel shakes her head. “No, of course you haven’t.”

She says that second part with an exasperated sigh, like she shouldn’t have bothered asking. She never expects Mirabel to do anything useful—even when she washes the dishes or helps out around the apartment, Isabela just calls that “getting in the way.”

Mirabel makes a face behind her sister’s back. Sitting down at the table, she chews on a slice of cold pizza and absently scrolls through her phone.

Isabela finds her jacket slung over the couch. It’s quite the statement piece, with metal spikes on the shoulders and sleeves. It makes her look wild and dangerous, completely different than how she used to dress at home. If she got in her car right now and drove to their quiet hometown, nobody would recognize her.

When Isabela was younger, she was something of a child star. She walked runways and posed for magazines, danced in commercials and sang on YouTube. She sold nail polish and perfumes, tween fashion and lipsticks. She was the girl everyone envied, the girl everyone wanted to be. Her quinceañera was heavily publicized; people voted online about which dress she should wear.

Looking at her now, Mirabel doesn’t see much of that sweet little girl. Not that Isabela was ever really sweet. Those spikes on her arms show more of her true self than those flowery dresses ever did.

As Isabela admires herself in the hallway mirror, her phone begins to ring. She brings it to her ear. “Hola, Mamá.”

Mirabel looks up.

“Oh, you got the flowers! That’s great! There should be a card, too. From all of us.”

Flowers? Oh, right! It’s Monday. October seventeenth.

“Yeah, Mirabel’s here. Luisa’s on her run, though. Hang on—”

Isabela comes to the table, switching her phone to speaker mode. Mirabel leans close.

“Hola, Mami!” she says loudly. “¡Feliz cumpleaños!”

“Gracias, mi vida.” Mamá’s voice echoes through the room. “I love the flowers. You girls are so thoughtful!”

“It was Luisa’s idea,” Mirabel says, feeling bad that her other sister isn’t here. “Are you doing anything special for your birthday?”

“Oh, not really. You father and I are going to dinner with Tía Pepa and Tío Félix. We’ll invite your grandmother, too, you know how lonely she gets this time of year—”

They chat for a little while, discussing birthday plans and winter holiday just two months away. Eventually, Luisa comes in, smiling and sweating. Mirabel picks at her cold pizza and allows her thoughts to drift.

October seventeenth. Mamá’s birthday—and Tía Pepa’s, too. They’re triplets, after all, along with their estranged brother. According to the stories, their father died around the same time, when Mamá and her siblings were really little. That’s probably why she’s having dinner with her mom and her sister. To celebrate, and to remember.

Mirabel taps on her phone. After saying goodbye to Mamá, she wanders back to her room, scrolling through her text messages. Near the top is her chat log with Tío Bruno.

They’ve only exchanged two messages. The first was from Mirabel, thanking him for the photos and for “the best first day of work ever.” The second was from Bruno, sent a whole day later, telling her: It was my pleasure.  

Mirabel bites her lip. It feels kind of weird to text him again, completely out of nowhere. She hasn’t wished him a happy birthday in thirteen years—surely he’s not expecting her to start now.

She hits send before she can stop herself.

¡Feliz cumpleaños, Tío!

The message pops up in a little blue box, officially sent. To her surprise, a response comes almost immediately.

Thanks, kid.

Mirabel smiles at her phone. A text isn’t as nice as a bouquet of flowers, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Her thumbs dance across the screen.

Are you doing anything to celebrate?

Not really, Bruno says. I’ve got a lot of work to do. SOMEbody is making her debut on the website soon.

If Mamá had typed that message, there would have been some sort of winking emoji tacked on at the end. Bruno’s tone is pretty clear without it, though. Mirabel’s grin widens.

Really?! That’s awesome!

She quickly adds: The debut thing, not the overworking yourself. You should do something nice for your birthday!

Tell you what— Bruno replies, I’ll pour an extra glass of wine tonight, just for you.

Mirabel paces around the room, heart thumping. After a moment, she says, That sounds like an invitation.  

For a full minute, there’s no response. Sixty whole seconds—basically a year in texting time. She wants to kick herself. Why did she say that? She probably sounds so stupid. So immature.

But then, three little dots appear in the corner. Bruno is typing a reply. They bounce up and down, then disappear, like Bruno keeps typing something and changing his mind.

Are you saying you want to come over? he asks. Mirabel finally remembers to breathe.

If you’re up for it, she says.

There’s another pause, though not as long as the first. Bruno says, Sure, why not? I haven’t cooked for anyone in ages. Come by my place around seven?

As Mirabel types her reply, he adds: Invite your sisters, too!

Mirabel smirks. I’m pretty sure they’re busy. But I’ll ask them.

That last part is definitely a lie.

***

The ride to Bruno’s apartment isn’t too bad. It’s only half an hour away by bus, and then a ten-minute walk from the nearest stop. Mirabel heads down the street with her phone in one hand and a pastry box in the other.

She’s never been to this part of downtown before. The buildings are more modern than she expected; lots of sharp angles and tall, black windows. Based on Bruno’s studio, she’d imagined him living somewhere artsy. Somewhere with exposed pipes and brick walls. You know, like a spacious loft with lots of crossbeams. Or a quiet room above a bookstore.

What she finds is a twenty-story building, smack in the middle of downtown. It looks fancy, with stone lions posted at the entrance and a doorman waiting just inside. He directs Mirabel to a private elevator, which only goes to one floor—the penthouse apartment.

Peddling smut pays well, apparently.

Inside the elevator, Mirabel smooths the wrinkles from her clothes. She regrets going casual, wearing a simple white blouse and her favorite pair of embroidered jeans. She designed them herself, little hearts and butterflies patterned up one side and her name stitched into the waistband. She runs her fingers over the needlework as the elevator glides to a stop.

With a soft ding, Mirabel finds herself in a well-lit hallway. She knocks on the only door.

“Hey, there you are!” Bruno’s smiling face appears a moment later. He’s dressed in green again—quite possibly the same outfit from the photoshoot. His dark curls hang loose, brushing the tips of his shoulders. “Come in, come in!”

He steps to the side, waving Mirabel through the door. His eyes flick down the hallway. “Your sisters couldn’t make it?”

“Nah, it’s just me tonight,” Mirabel says. “I hope that’s okay.”

“Oh, it’s fine, it’s fine…”

The penthouse apartment is massive. Mirabel steps into a living room with high ceilings and glossy floors, and an incredible view of the city. The bright lights of cars and buildings twinkle under the blackened sky, as if the streets themselves were full of stars.

“Sorry about the mess,” Bruno says, and for the first time, Mirabel notices the takeout containers on the coffee table, the dirty laundry piled on chairs. “I- I didn’t have time to clean.”

He makes a last-minute effort, hastily tossing the containers into a trashcan. It’s really obvious that he takes his work home with him; his laptop is open on a low table, next to a photo printer and several stacks of discarded pictures. He must have been buckled down for the last few days, probably trying to meet some deadline.

Mirabel smiles. “It’s okay, Tío. I’m just glad I didn’t have to wrestle a Ficus to get through the door.” She holds up the pastry box. “I brought cake!”

In the kitchen, dinner is already cooking. The whole apartment smells like braised meat and bubbling sauces, making Mirabel long for home.

“Oh my god, real food.” She slaps a hand over her heart, feigning shock. “Please tell me I’m not dreaming!”

Bruno laughs. “Been living off of instant ramen, huh?”

“Instant ramen, cold pizza…” Mirabel watches Bruno fiddle with a corkscrew, opening a bottle of wine with a loud pop. “Isabela and I don’t really cook. Luisa can, but it’s always, like, super healthy stuff. I can only stomach so much kale, you know?”

Another laugh. “Yeah, I hear you.”

He pours two glasses. But as he hands one to Mirabel, his brows come together. “Wait, how old are you again?”

“Old enough,” Mirabel says coyly. She takes the glass before he can object.

While Bruno cooks, Mirabel wanders into the living room. They chat idly about fashion school, about college life and Camilo’s upcoming play. He scored a leading role, despite being a freshman. Such is the life of a Madrigal.

Mirabel sips on her wine, looking over Bruno’s unfinished projects. There’s lots of images of people wearing lingerie, and more still of people wearing nothing at all. A bit of flush creeps into her cheeks, even though she should be used to this stuff by now.

“Oops—”

She bumps against the coffee table, making it rattle. The laptop lights up, and there, engulfing the entire screen… is a photo of Mirabel.

She stares at the image. It’s… It’s one of the spicier photos that they took. She’s bent over, her ass on full display, the little cow tail dangling between her legs. Her flush deepens. Was Bruno working on this before she came?

Bruno cranes his neck, staring out from the kitchen. “Oh! Wait, hang on—!”

He scrambles over, shutting the laptop and hiding it under a pillow. “I- I- I’m sorry, I should have put that away—”

“It’s fine!” Mirabel says. She’s blushing way too much. “Really. It’s just work. I get it.”

Bruno rubs his neck. “Well, yeah, but… It’s still kind of weird, isn’t it? I’ve been staring at your ass for five hours!”

His eyes widen as he hears his own words.

“Because of editing!” he adds. “I was editing the photo! For your feature on the website!”

“Tío, breathe!” Mirabel says. “It’s okay! I know the deal, and I’m okay with it. I promise.”

She uncovers the laptop and opens it again. Her own lewd imagine flickers to life. Bruno looks at the ceiling.

“This looks even better than before!” Mirabel encourages. “You’re a really good photographer.”

She points out some things that she noticed about his edits, like how he highlighted certain parts of her ass, and shadowed her face to make her look more sultry. Bruno slowly relaxes. Taking a step closer, he asks for her opinion about the contrast, the lighting. They fall into an easy conversation, as if they’re talking about a painting, not Mirabel’s naked body.

When dinner’s ready, they sit together on a pair of barstools, because the island counter is cleaner than his table. The food is really good—not as good as Mamá’s, but pretty damn close. Mirabel refills her plate more than once and her wine glass just as often.

“Can I ask you a question?” Bruno leans on his elbow, regarding Mirabel with a curious smile. She quirks her brow in answer. “Why did you apply at my studio?”

For some reason, that question catches her more off-guard than the photograph on his laptop. Mirabel stares at him over her glass of wine.

“I needed the cash,” she says neutrally. “College isn’t exactly free. Modeling seemed like a good way to earn some money and expand my portfolio at the same time.”

“Well, sure—” Bruno lifts his shoulders. “But why me? Why my studio? There are other places in town. Less controversial ones, anyway. Isa—Isa could have set you up with her old studio. They would have hired you for your name alone.”

Mirabel looks into her glass. “No, they wouldn’t.”

“You don’t think?”

He tilts his head, genuinely curious. Mirabel shifts on her barstool.

“I did a shoot for them once,” she admits. “When I was twelve. Isabela had aged out, and I thought… I dunno. Maybe I could follow in her footsteps.”

She would tag along sometimes, when Isabela did a photoshoot. Mirabel loved it there. The sets, the costumes, the attention… All those eyes, trained on Isabela. All those fans, adoring her every move. Mirabel would watch from the sidelines, heart aching, longing for the day she’d be the one up there, smiling for the camera.

“It went okay, I guess. I mean, everyone was nice to me. But it became clear really quickly that I wasn’t… what they were looking for.”

She flopped, basically. They’d wanted another Isabela; a perfect little princesa. What they got was frizzy-haired Mirabel, with her toothy grins and thick-rimmed glasses. Her photos from that day were never even printed. It was like it never happened. Like she wasn’t even there.

“That’s a shame,” Bruno says. There’s regret in his voice, like he feels bad for bringing it up. Mirabel shrugs.

“I thought so, too. Luckily, I have an uncle in the fashion industry.” She tries to grin. “That’s what nepotism is for, right?”

Bruno blinks, surprise flickering across his face. He reaches for the bottle of wine. “That’s not why I hired you.”

“Isn’t it?” Mirabel says. When Bruno doesn’t answer, she snorts with disbelief. “Tío, come on! I had zero references! The only reason you even looked at my application is because you recognized my name.”

“Maybe,” Bruno admits. “But that’s not why I hired you. If anything, it gave me serious pause.”

He takes a long drink, straight from the bottle. Now it’s Mirabel’s turn to look confused. If it wasn’t nepotism, then—what? A favor to Mamá? Guilt, for not being a good uncle these last ten years?

Bruno wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “I hired you because… I had a vision.”

“A what?”

Bruno chuckles. He seems part embarrassed, part amused, like he can’t believe he’s saying this out loud. “A vision. That’s how all my photographs start. I get these… I dunno. Flashes, I guess? Inspiration?”

He gestures to his forehead, like he did at the photoshoot, when he talked about pulling the things from his mind and putting it on stage.

“It’s like I can see it. The perfect picture. It sounds weird, I know—but it’s always been that way, ever since I held my first camera.

“When I saw your application,” Bruno continues, “I thought, ‘No way. She can’t work here!’ But then I looked at your reference photos, and it was like… Oh. I could see it. I could see you. And all the art we could make together.”

His voice is low. Almost confessional. Mirabel rubs her thumb against the stem of her glass, letting the words wash over her. She feels that way again, that warm, special way that Bruno’s camera made her feel.

“Whatever the reason, I’m really glad that you applied at my studio.” Bruno punctuates the sentence with a grin. “And I’m really, really glad that your parents were okay with it.”

He taps the wine bottle against Mirabel’s glass, as if toasting his own good fortune. Mirabel happily drinks that.

***

After dinner, they sit on the couch eating store-bought sheet cake and half-watching some old telenovela. Bruno eagerly explains the plot to her, which characters are sleeping together and which ones are secretly related, and who had their face altered after disappearing for two seasons.

Mirabel nods, not really following. Everything started to get fuzzy around the third episode, which is coincidentally when they opened their second bottle of wine. She looks at her phone, head swimming.

“It’s getting late,” she says. “The last bus was… fifteen minutes ago. Crap.”

She’s gonna have to call Isa. Out of all her sisters and cousins, Isabela is the only one with a car. Modeling money. You know she still gets royalties from her old ads? Spoiled, selfish little—

“You could crash here,” Bruno says. “I don’t mind. I mean, I’d offer to drive you, buuut… I don’t think I should.”

His cheeks are red, flushed from too much wine. It makes him look boyish, in a way, all slouched and content. Mirabel points at him.

“That one,” she says. “Option A. The one where I don’t have to leave.”

While Bruno searches for spare bedding, Mirabel stumbles to the bathroom. There, she takes a long drink straight from the tap, gulping down mouthfuls of water. The sink is just as cluttered as everything else in Bruno’s apartment, cups and toothpaste and old socks strew across its surface.

Her eyes land on a discarded shirt. It’s an oversized tee, perfect for sleeping in. Without much thought, Mirabel strips off her blouse and jeans, tugging the shirt over her head. It fits loose, just like she hoped it would. It smells just like her uncle.

Mirabel sways a little as she returns to the couch, sinking deep into the cushions. She can feel Bruno’s shirt riding up around her waist, showing off her legs and underwear. She doesn’t care. She feels good. Comfortable. Everything in the world is exactly right.

Behind her, Bruno makes an incredulous sound. Mirabel rolls over, and there he is, standing in the hall with a spare blanket and pillows.

“What?” she asks, flashing him a smile. He shakes his head.

“Nothing. I just wish I could photograph you.”

His voice is very soft. After a moment, though, he seems to hear himself. He giggles drunkenly. “I gotta stop saying those things…”

A rush of warmth runs through Mirabel’s body. She rubs her legs together, remembering how Bruno looked at her during the photoshoot. The same way he’s looking at her now.

“You can,” she whispers. “You can photograph me.”

Bruno moves closer. He draws right up to the side of the couch, eyes roaming over Mirabel’s body. She spreads out beneath him, dressed in nothing but his old shirt and her own white underthings.

For a long moment, they both seem to be holding their breath, waiting to see what will happen. But then Bruno covers her with the blanket.

“First rule in this business, kid. Don’t work for free.”

Chapter Text

Mirabel spends the next week anticipating her second photoshoot. She’s not sure when it’s going to be, but Bruno seemed eager to work with her again, so it probably won’t be long.

Sitting in a crowded lecture hall, Mirabel doodles in her notebook. The professor has been droning about fourth-century silk production for over an hour—which, sadly, is even less interesting than it sounds. Turns out, fashion school isn’t all catwalks and cute outfits; you gotta learn about Textile History, too.

No one is really paying attention. Neither is Mirabel, to be honest. It’s kind of funny—when she first got to college, she was excited about everything, even the boring stuff like early-morning lectures. Compared to her small hometown, it was a thrill just to be here, to buy her own books and to sit in class with people she’d never met. She listened sharply to every lesson. She took careful, detailed notes.

Now her notebook lies open, covered in lewd drawings. She keeps sketching new ideas for lingerie, things she could wear at Bruno’s studio. Mirabel grins to herself, remembering how her family never wanted to talk about Bruno’s job. It was like they were afraid of corrupting her, somehow.

Looks like their fears were right. 

As if summoned, a text message appears on Mirabel’s phone. Her smile widens when she sees who sent it.

Are you free this afternoon? her uncle asks. I know it’s last minute, but there was a cancellation. I’m kind of scrambling.  

Mirabel hesitates. She has Pattern Drafting this afternoon, a class almost as boring as this one. It feels wrong to skip on purpose, but…

Of course I’ll help! Her fingers move on their own. What time should I be there?

***

“So, are you really Bruno’s niece?”

Some hours later, Mirabel sits in front of a lighted mirror, staring at her own reflection.

She can’t see very well. Her glasses are folded up on the counter, waiting for the makeup team to finish their work. They’re going for another “natural” look, her eyes lightly shadowed, her hair tousled in an attractive way. To her surprise, they contour her bust as well, making her look more… ample than she really is. Mirabel tries not to laugh as the brushes roam over her skin.

“I thought Pilar was messing with me,” the makeup artist continues. His name is Roberto; he’s in his twenties, just a little bit older than Isabela. A golden bangle swings from his wrist as he paints Mirabel’s cheeks. “I mean, Bruno’s into some weird stuff, but—”

“Pilar wouldn’t make up something like that,” Laura says. She’s the hair stylist, currently raking product through Mirabel’s curls. Her nails are bright red, and every now and again Mirabel feels them against her scalp. “Besides, I think it’s nice. I knew that Bruno had a famous niece, but he never told me your name.”

Mirabel frowns slightly. “Oh. You’re thinking of Isabela.”

“Isabela?!” Roberto almost drops his brush. “Wait—Isabela Madrigal?! Bruno’s related to her? You’re related to her?”

Mirabel winces—though perhaps because Laura pulled too hard. “She’s my sister.”

“Oh my god!” Roberto throws up his hands, like this is too much information to handle. “I was obsessed with her when I was a kid! That commercial, where she descended from the ceiling in a shower of rose petals?” He pretends to faint. “Iconic.”

Mirabel humors him with a nod. She’s used to the way people gush about her sister; how they recount Isabela’s accomplishments, as if Mirabel doesn’t already know. She tries to be nice about—at least, until Roberto asks if she can get him Isabela’s autograph.

Mirabel makes a face, more teasing than serious. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”

To her immense relief, a blurry figure appears in the mirror. Laura tries to reign in her laughter.

“Hey,” Bruno says. The word comes out with a sigh. Like his message said, he’s been scrambling ever since Mirabel arrived, running around the set to make sure everything is just right. “How are things going over here?”

“You tell me,” Roberto replies.

The chair swivels, pointing Mirabel towards her uncle. Bruno’s quiet for a moment, arms crossed. 

“Can we get more blush here?” Bruno says, pointing to Mirabel’s chest. His fingertips almost brush her cleavage as he shows Roberto where to highlight. “And her lips should be red! Something to catch the eye!”

Mirabel holds still as they make the adjustments. Her cheeks are warm—the little hairs on her arms standing on end. She feels… tingly. Again. Why does Bruno always make her feel tingly?! It’s not like… She’s not special. Bruno probably treats all of his models this way.

Roberto finishes applying her lipstick. Bruno visibly relaxes. “There. That’s better, don’t you think?”

He’s not asking the crew. He’s asking her.

Mirabel slides on her glasses. She’s dressed in a sheer babydoll nightgown, pure white and translucent. You can see every curve of her body; her white panties underneath. The makeup on her face is so natural, you’d almost think she woke up this way—except for her full, red lips. Contrasted against the angelic nightgown, the effect is devastating.

“Wow.” That’s all she can say.

Bruno grins, clearly pleased with himself. Offering Mirabel his hand, he helps her out of the makeup chair.  

This set is more elaborate than the first. It looks like a girl’s bedroom, all white and pale pink. There’s a bed with crisp, clean blankets and entirely too many pillows—and teddy bears. Lots of teddy bears. Looks like Mirabel is playing the innocent virgin.

She climbs onto the bed. Bruno immediately lifts his camera, praise falling from his lips. “Wow! Holy shit, just look at you—”

Mirabel looks over her shoulder, flashing him a teasing smile. Things are easier this time, the two of them quickly falling into step. Bruno, with his excitement and energy; Mirabel, all too happy to put on a show.

She plays her part well, like she’s an innocent little thing, shy of the camera. At one point, she sits up on her knees, rubbing the corner of her eye like she just woke up. Her glasses hang slightly askew.

“Morning, Tío,” she says.

Bruno swears under his breath, camera flashing. After a moment, though, he clears his throat.

“Let’s try something different. Can you lie back on the pillows?”

She does, and Bruno pitches the scenario: She’s a virgin trying to find the courage to touch herself for the first time.

“You don’t—I mean, obviously don’t really touch yourself, but you know… Touch your thighs! Play with the hem of your nightgown. This is all new to you…”

Mirabel plays along. Bruno raises the camera and snaps a few shots. “Yes, just like that. Perfect.”

Perfect. That word floods her with warmth. Her breath shortens; she squirms against the pillows. The camera flashes over and over.

Lying in bed like this, hearing Bruno’s praise… It’s too familiar. Too real. She’s been here before a dozen times, at least in her mind. A soft whine escapes her lips.

Bruno lowers the camera. “Do that again.”

Her heartbeat quickens. “Do what?”

“With your mouth. That look, like you, um…”

Bruno blinks several times. He looks around as if waking from a dream, seeing the world with new eyes.

“This is wrong,” he says suddenly. Mirabel sits up.

“What?”

“This is wrong,” Bruno says again. “The little girl angle! That’s not—I’ve been so stupid!”

Bruno turns from her. He snaps his fingers and suddenly five crew members appear, adjusting the lights, the camera equipment, everything. An assistant rushes forward and hands Mirabel a robe.

“Lose the teddy bears!” Bruno says. “And all the pink! No—I don’t wanna see it! It needs to be white, all white! And can we do something about these curtains?!”

Mirabel watches the crew hurry back and forth. Her heart is still fluttering—she needs to calm down. Deep breaths! Deeeeep breaths… Padding over the craft services table, she helps herself to a bottle of water and takes a long drink.

Bruno’s excitement from before is nothing compared to how he is now. He’s practically giddy, swept up in fresh inspiration. Mirabel sips on her water, amused by his exaggerated movements, the way his curls bounce around his face. She’s never seen him like this. It’s… really cute, actually.

The set is redone entirely. Everything is now soft and white, no heart-shaped pillows or teddy bears to be seen. The crew rolls in a large fan, making the curtains flutter delicately. Diffused light streams in through the fake windows, giving the illusion of a lazy morning somewhere quiet and peaceful.

“Okay, new scenario,” Bruno says, eyes shining. “Let’s call it… sex glow.”

Mirabel nearly spits out her drink. “Subtle!” she laughs.

Bruno explains the vision. She’s just had the best sex of her life. Her hair is mussed, and her nightgown—

“May I?” Bruno says, reaching to adjust her straps. She nods once, and he tugs the straps loose, making them slip down her shoulders. Mirabel shivers.

He has her lie back on the pillows, just like before. Mirabel thought she’d calmed down, but his closeness, his eager attention has her tingling all over again.

“Wow, yeah, just like that… Flutter your eyes a bit for me? And smile a little, like you have a secret.”

A secret. Yeah, that’s pretty easy to imagine. Bruno swears under his breath again.

He brings the camera closer, literally crawling into bed with her. Mirabel understand what he’s doing instantly, like she can read his mind. He’s taking on the role of her lover.

Bruno stretches out beside her, photographing Mirabel the way only a lover could, so close, so intimate. Mirabel easily plays along, not just for the camera… but for him.

This is what she wanted the other night, when she stayed at his apartment. She wanted him to photograph her just like this.

She can see her face in the camera lens. Bruno’s tongue, darting out to wet his lip. Mirabel rolls onto one side, aware of the soft blankets, the silky nightgown. Aware of her nipples, tightening under the sheer fabric; the skirt, riding up her thighs.

Another sigh escapes her. Bruno takes photo after photo. “Yeah, like that… Like you want Round Two…”

Warmth floods her veins, and she squirms. She’s getting aroused. She’s getting wet. Her body thinks this is real—but of course, Bruno think it’s only pretend. Every squirm, ever sigh, every blush is eagerly caught on camera.

“Can we pull up your skirt a little more? Show off your panties?”

No.

No, no, no.

“S-Stop,” Mirabel says breathlessly. “Tío, I wanna stop.”

She looks at him helplessly. The camera falls away at once.

“What?” He blinks at her, and for the second time, it seems as though he’s rousing from a dream. But reality takes hold soon enough. “I, uh—Oh! Of course! Of course!”

He snaps his fingers. “Hey, guys? Can we get her a robe?”

An assistant hurries over. Bruno drapes the robe around Mirabel, shielding her from view with his body. “Hey, it’s okay. We’re done. You’re safe, alright? You don’t have to do anything you don’t want.”

Mirabel nods wordlessly, letting herself hide in Bruno’s arms. She feels so small. So… stupid. Red-hot shame burns in her cheeks.

“Will you take me home?” she whispers. Bruno’s fingers thread through her hair.

“Of course I will.”

***

Bruno meets Mirabel in the parking lot. Even though she’s changed into her everyday clothes, he offers her his jacket. It’s heavy and warm, the material well-worn and comfortable. Mirabel wraps it around her shoulders.

Bruno’s car turns out to be an old, green pickup truck. After seeing his fancy apartment, Mirabel wasn’t sure what to expect, but an old junker with rust around the wheel-wells seems to suit him. He quickens his step to open the passenger’s side door.

They drive in silence. Long, awkward silence. Mirabel fiddles with the hem of her skirt, trying to think of something to say.

Bruno glances in her direction. “Hey, listen…”

“You don’t have to—”

“No, please. Let me say this.” Bruno sighs, shaking his head. “I’m… I’m old. And I’m gross. And I’ve been in this business for pretty much as long as you’ve been alive. So, I forget, sometimes, how… weird… all of this can be.”

Mirabel’s grip tightens on the jacket, hugging it around herself. “Tío…”

“I’m sorry for being weird,” he continues. “And I’m sorry for saying things. Really, really inappropriate things. I just… I don’t think.”

He knocks on his forehead, scolding himself.

“But I’ll try, okay? You’re important to me. More important than a dumb photoshoot.”

Mirabel stares at her lap. She wants to tell him why she had to stop. That she was getting way, way too into the fantasy. That she likes his weirdness, actually, and that his words follow her under the sheets and between her legs.

But she can’t. Not in a million years.

Instead, she says, “Tío, it’s okay. It wasn’t you. I promise. It was… everything else.” She shrugs beneath his jacket. “I got overwhelmed, that’s all.”

They arrive at Mirabel’s apartment. The parking lot is pretty empty; she doesn’t see Isabela’s car anywhere.

“Will you walk me inside?” Mirabel asks. She isn’t ready to say goodbye to him yet.

Luckily, there aren’t any plants waiting to attack them in the doorway—and no sisters waiting for them, either. Isabela and Luisa are gone; they have the apartment to themselves.

“Have you ever been here before?” Mirabel asks. Then she remembers that this isn’t the apartment her sisters used to live in. “I mean, not here, specifically. Have you ever come to visit your nieces?”

Bruno looks awkward, visibly shrinking as he steps through the door. He rubs his upper arm. “Uh… Once, I think. When your mom helped Isabela move in.”

“What about when Luisa came? They never invited you over?”

Bruno shrugs. “They have their own lives. I get it.”

“What about Dolores and Camilo? Do they ever call?”

His brow furrows. “What part of ‘estranged uncle’ aren’t you getting here, kid?”

“Sorry, I’m just trying to do the math. If my calculations are correct…” She pretends to think hard. “…then I must be you’re your favorite niece.”

Bruno laughs. And just like that, the awkwardness between them evaporates. Bruno loosens. He lets Mirabel take his hand.

“Come on! I want to show you my drawings!”

Mirabel’s room is usually tidy, but since she never made it to Pattern Drafting, there’s scraps of fabric and half-finished garments strewn across her floor. Bruno looks around as Mirabel digs out her notebook.

“C’mere!” She flops down on her bed, patting the spot next to her. Bruno hesitates only briefly.

“Is this for school?” he asks. The mattress sags under their shared weight.

“This? Nah. This is just for fun.”

She opens the notebook. Inside are all of her ideas for sexy outfits, the ones she doodled in class. Bruno makes a surprised sound.

“Wow! These are great!”

He flips through the pages, smiling at each new design. They’re all cute and playful, like the cow-print underwear that she wore on their first shoot. There’s a demon with a forked tail. A cat. A tiger. A maid. A cheerleader. Nothing too crazy, except for one that she must have seen in an anime—but even then, it’s obviously Mirabel wearing it, because she drew glasses on the model’s face.

Bruno admires it all. Not just the sketches, but everything she’s been working on. He becomes instantly invested, eagerly pouring over every stitch. Mirabel beams. She can’t talk about her work like this with anyone. Even Mamá gets bored after fifteen minutes. But Bruno could talk for hours.

“You have so much talent,” he says earnestly. “And your style is so unique. You’re gonna go far, kid.”

Mirabel flushes, unused to so much praise. “You really think so?”

“Of course I do! You’re a Madrigal. Everything we touch is magic.” He nudges her playfully.

Mirabel’s smile falters. A Madrigal. Right.

She looks away. Her eyes settle on the family photo sitting on her nightstand. She reaches for it.

“I guess I don’t always feel like a Madrigal,” she admits. She runs her fingers over the photograph, all the faces smiling at her in miniature.

She was never very good at being… magical, as Abuela would say. She could never be like her sisters; the popular princess; the sports star. She was always just… herself. Average grades. Average everything. No awards. No scholarships. No talent.

“I know my family loves me, but… I’ve never made them proud. Not the way my sisters do, you know?”

Beside her, Bruno lets out a dry laugh, little more than a puff of air through his nose. He takes the photo. “Yeah. Believe it or not, I know how it feels to be A Huge Disappointment.”

He frowns at the photograph, his eyes sad. Though she was young when he left, Mirabel has hazy memories of that time; memories of long, heated arguments between Bruno and his mother. Both of them shouting so loud, the house itself trembled.

Mirabel lays her head on his shoulder.

“I don’t think you’re a disappointment.”

Bruno chuckles again. Another puff of air through his nose. “Thanks, kid.”

They linger in silence for a while. Mirabel closes her eyes, enjoying the warmth. The press of his shoulder against her cheek.

“Mirabel?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry.”

She lifts her head. “For what?”

“For… For today. The photoshoot.”

Her heart sinks. “Tío, you already—”

“No. Please.” Bruno holds the photograph tight. “I told your mother I’d look out for you. I promised! The one thing she’s ever asked me for—”

“But you did! You did look out for me.”

“I pushed you!” Bruno insists. “I took it too far, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Tío…”

This isn’t good. Bruno’s tearing himself up, guilt-ridden over something that isn’t his fault.

She needs to come clean.

Mirabel grips her knees. Her room suddenly feels too small.

“Tío, I… I didn’t stop because I was uncomfortable. I stopped because…”

She closes her eyes, her whole face pinched tight with embarrassment.

“Because I was getting really, really turned on!”

Silence.

Long, lingering, unbearably awkward silence.

Mirabel risks a look at her uncle. He’s staring across the room, his eyes wide.

“…oh,” he says at last.

Mirabel draws her knees to her chest and buries her face. “I couldn’t help it!” she whines, voice muffled. “It was humiliating!”

Bruno clears his throat. “Hey, listen—”

“The worst part was giving back the panties! I tried to clean them in the bathroom, but that only made things worse! So I was like, ‘Haha, oops, I dropped them in the sink,’ but the wardrobe guy could obviously tell I was lying—”

“Mirabel, stop!” Bruno lays a hand on her shoulder. “It’s okay. It happens to everyone. Literally everyone. Especially newbies. It’s… perfectly normal.”

Mirabel groans in agony. She feels like a preteen getting The Talk.

“You should have seen me when I first moved out here! I was a mess. It was like… second puberty. I was sweaty all the time, nervous… I looked like such a creep! None of the models wanted to go near me.”

Mirabel peeks out at him. Is that true? But he’s so calm on set now. Professional.

“How’d you get over it?”

Bruno shrugs. “I mean… I don’t know if you ever ‘get over it.’ But you learn to hold it back. You learn to separate work from, uh… pleasure.”

He chuckles awkwardly. Mirabel half-smiles.

“It just takes practice,” Bruno says.

Mirabel lifts her head. Bruno’s so earnest, desperate to reassure her. And it works. She does feel better. Still embarrassed, but better.

“So… You’ll help me practice?” she says hopefully.

Bruno stares. “I… what?”

Elsewhere in the apartment, the front door opens with a thud. Mirabel jolts at the sound.

“We’re home!” Luisa says. “Mirabel, are you here?”

“Uh— Y- Yeah!” Mirabel calls back. She jumps up, hastily tugging Bruno to his feet.

Out in the living room, Isabela is looking for a spot for her new potted plant. Luisa is in the kitchen with an armful of groceries.

Isabela turns to Mirabel, smiling—but her smile wavers when she sees Bruno. She blinks with surprise. “Oh! Tío Bruno—you’re here.”

“Yeah!” Mirabel says. Bruno’s awkwardness is back; he rubs his upper arm, somehow looking shorter than before. “He drove me home from work.”

Isabela glances at her phone. The time. Work was hours ago.

“Aaand then I wanted to show him my schoolwork,” Mirabel adds. Her face is hot. Why does she feel caught out?

Isabela hmm’s. Her eyes slide between Mirabel and Bruno. “Well, it’s getting late…”

“Yeah, I should head out,” Bruno says loudly. “It, um—It was really good to see all of you. Isabela. Luisa.”

He walks backwards towards the door, bumping into a leafy plant along the way. He looks as nervous as Mirabel feels, like he was caught doing something he shouldn’t. The plant rustles indignantly.

“So, um… I’ll text you?” Mirabel asks. “About our next shoot?”

“Y-Yeah. Sure. We’ll, um… We’ll figure it out.”

Bruno’s already at the door, one foot in the hall. Mirabel calls after him.  

“Tío?”

“Yeah?”

He turns, and Mirabel hesitates. She wants to say something, but… What’s there to say? Maybe she just doesn’t want him to go.

After a beat too long, Mirabel smiles. She points to his jacket, hanging from a hook on the wall.

“Don’t forget your coat.”  

Chapter Text

As November draws near, so do midterms. Mirabel becomes so swamped with schoolwork, she doesn’t really have time for another photoshoot. The first two paid pretty well, though, so she’s good on that front.

She keeps in touch with Bruno. They text sometimes, or she sends him funny pictures; he’s not great at answering his messages, but he’ll eventually respond with a laughing emoji or a thumbs-up.

Other times, they’ll do a video call. Mirabel will be sewing, and Bruno will be editing photos, and they’ll just leave their laptops open so they can chat, or stream a telenovela, or whatever. It doesn’t matter. They just enjoy each other’s company.

“So? What do you think?”

Mirabel holds up a rainbow-colored shirt. Every piece of it is a different hue, from the red collar to the yellow buttons, to the pink and purple sleeves. It’s a little much, but that doesn’t really matter for Pattern Drafting. The professor cares more about how a garment is constructed than how it actually looks.

Bruno looks up from his work, gazing at Mirabel through the computer screen. His face brightens. “It’s very you,” he says kindly.

Mirabel frowns. “Is that a good thing?”

“It’s a great thing!”

Her frown only deepens. “I wish my classmates thought so,” she mutters. “They say my work is childish.”

Bruno sits up a little straighter. “What do your teachers say?”

For a moment, Mirabel doesn’t answer. She focuses on the rainbow-colored shirt, carefully snipping away the loose threads. Her scissors click in the silence. “That I have plenty of time to improve.”

One last snip—and the shirt is done. Mirabel shakes it out before setting it aside.

“I’m just glad that midterms are almost over. Did I tell you that Luisa and I are gonna go see Camilo’s play again?”

“Again?!” Bruno cries. “Wasn’t the first time painful enough?”

Mirabel laughs. “Hey, it’s important to support the arts! Besides, you can’t tell me you didn’t have fun.”

She grins at the laptop, remembering the opening night of Camilo’s play. Bruno was there, actually—he wasn’t going to come, but Mirabel convinced him. After about ten minutes, though, it became really obvious that she owed her uncle an apology.

The play was bad. Like, really, really bad. Only Camilo was any good; as a Madrigal, he brought a certain magic to the stage, but not even his extraordinary gift could save the awkward dialogue, his robotic costars. Mirabel pressed a hand over her mouth, trying not laugh—but then she met Bruno’s eye, and neither one of them could hold it in any longer.

They spent the whole evening like that, giggling together and whispering jokes, utterly roasting the performance. Isabela and Luisa kept shooting them looks, but Mirabel ignored them. Bruno didn’t even notice.

“You should come with us!” Mirabel says. “We could grab dinner after, hang out…”

Bruno glances at the screen, half-smiling. “Yeah… Maybe. We’ll see.” He taps at his keyboard a few times before deftly changing the subject. “Does this mean you’re ready for another gig?”

“You mean a photoshoot?” Mirabel instantly brightens.

“Sure. If you’re up for it. Your photos did great on the website, lots of positive feedback… You’ve gotten people’s attention, and now we just gotta hold it.”

Delight curls its way through Mirabel’s stomach. People liked her photos! She doesn’t really want to think about what they did with them, but… still. It’s nice to hear that she did well.

“So, what do we do next?”

“That’s up to you,” Bruno tells her. “Do you think you can handle being in the studio again?”

Oh. Good point.

“Maybe we could…” Mirabel’s hands twist in her lap. “Maybe we could practice?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… Maybe I could come over to your place, and… we could have a photoshoot? Just so I can see if I’m ready.”

Ready for those skimpy little outfits… and the effect the camera has on her…

“I know you said that we shouldn’t work for free, but…”

Bruno waves his hand dismissively. “This isn’t like that. It wouldn’t be a real session, it would just be a… a favor. For my favorite niece.”

Mirabel smiles at that. Already, she feels a little flush, excited at the thought of being photographed again. If she can hold herself together through a private session, she can handle just about anything.

She tries not think about the alternative.

***

They agree to have the photoshoot at Bruno’s apartment. His second bedroom was converted into a workspace, a sort of mini-studio. That’s how he’s able to get so much work done at home.

“I still don’t get it,” Isabela says. “Why is Tío Bruno photographing you in his spare time?”

“It’s for my portfolio,” Mirabel explains. She moves around the bedroom, throwing her clothes into a duffle bag. “Having my work professionally photographed will help me stand out. It’s a huge favor, actually.”

She can’t tell Isabela the real reason—that she needs to practice keeping calm on set. It’s way too embarrassing. She would never hear the end of it!   

Isabela leans against the doorway, arms crossed. “Yeah, but… why is he bothering? This kind of thing is beneath him.”

Mirabel prickles. “He’s helping me because I asked! That’s called being a good uncle.”

She zips up the duffle and slings it over her shoulder. Isabela blocks her from the hallway.

“Will you be home tonight?” she presses.

“Yeah. Late. Is that okay with you?”

Isabela rolls her eyes, like Mirabel’s the one with attitude. Stepping out of the way, she allows her sister to pass.

“Don’t forget an umbrella,” she says.

The words come out like a parting shot, but it turns out to be good advice. As Mirabel rides the bus downtown, the light sprinkling of rain becomes a downpour.

She runs from the bus stop to Bruno’s building, hugging the duffle bag to her chest. The clothes that she designed for school are inside, and they’re way more important than what she’s wearing now. She arrives at Bruno’s door completely drenched.

“Mirabel!” Bruno exclaims. “Oh, geeze, it’s really coming down out there, huh?”

Mirabel steps inside. Her glasses are foggy; she tries to wipe them on her shirt, but it doesn’t really help. “Hey, yeah—sorry, I’m dripping all over your floor.”

“It’s fine, it doesn’t matter. Are you okay? There’s coffee!”

He darts off towards the kitchen, like Mirabel is gravely injured, and only coffee will save her life. She smiles softly.  

“Tío, I’m fine. Really. It’s just a little rain.”

She moves into the living room, leaving her soggy shoes at the door. The rug feels soft under her bare feet.

Bruno’s apartment is a little cleaner than last time. He must be between projects—or maybe he tidied up just for her. Mirabel lays her duffle on the coffee table and tries to comb out her hair. It’s no good—she’s a mess.

“Actually, Tío, can I borrow your shower?”

Bruno looks out from the kitchen, fingers drumming against an empty mug. “Uh—yeah! Of course. Let me find some towels—” 

“Can you loan me a shirt, too? Like when I stayed the night.”

Bruno shuffles. Is he blushing?!

“Yeah… Yeah, that’s fine. I gotta finish setting up anyway.”

Mirabel rinses off in the bathroom, letting the hot water wash away Isabela’s suspicion and her classmates’ unkind words. Helping herself to Bruno’s shampoo, she emerges from the shower smelling of sandalwood. Bruno is still setting up the studio; she can hear him in the other room, mumbling to himself about lights.

Mirabel moves into the kitchen, wearing nothing but a green button-down shirt and her own panties. The shirt hangs loose on her; the sleeves dangle to her fingertips. The hem stretches down to her thighs.

She pours herself a cup of coffee and brings it the living room. It’s raining even harder than before. From this high up, Mirabel can see the lightning on the horizon; the clouds, churning on the wind. She stares out the window, awed by the view.

Behind her, Bruno sucks in a breath. Mirabel turns at the sound. “I know, right? It’s beautiful.”

“Y-Yeah,” he says softly. “Beautiful…”

Mirabel blinks. Bruno isn’t looking out the window. He’s looking at her.

Every. Single. Inch of her.

His eyes roam up her legs, all the way to the hint of skin peeking through her half-buttoned shirt. It’s not until his gaze reaches her face that they both look away.

Mirabel stares into her coffee cup. Curls of steam rise into the air.

“Do you… Do you want to photograph me… like this?”

Thunder rumbles in the distance. Bruno doesn’t speak.

“It’s, um… It’s kind of perfect, isn’t it?” Mirabel says hopefully. “The shirt? The coffee? The rain?”

Her wet hair, too. All of it. Mirabel can’t see herself but she can imagine how she’d look through a camera lens; like she’s waiting for her boyfriend to come home and ravage her.

Bruno hesitates, his fingers twitching. He wets his lip—and then he nods. “Yeah… Yeah. Can you, um…”

He crosses the room in three quick strides. A camera dangles around his neck; he was preparing for a photoshoot, after all. He digs a light meter from his pocket and holds it up to Mirabel’s face. It beeps as he takes a few readings. “Do what you did before? When you looked out the window.”

Mirabel obeys, feeling dizzy. She can hear Bruno fiddling with the camera. Then the click of the shutter.  

“Sip on your coffee?” Bruno suggests. “Wow, yeah, that’s great. With the sleeves pulled over your hands like that? Perfect.”

He circles around, getting shots of her from the front.

Mirabel tries to pretend that he isn’t there. That this is totally normal, that his voice doesn’t excite her, that her skin isn’t tingling and her nipples aren’t tightening.

It isn’t the camera.

It isn’t the costumes.

It’s him.

It was always him.

Things are different this time. Bruno still praises her, of course, but his giddy excitement is gone. Every word is spoken softly, whispered under his breath, like it’s a secret. Their secret. His and hers.

They take several shots in front of the window, trying out many different poses. But then Bruno lowers his camera. “Can we try the couch?”

Mirabel swallows thickly, taking his offered hand. Her palm is sweaty. She tries to keep herself calm, tries to even out her breathing. That’s the point of this, right? Practice?

As Mirabel gets comfortable on the couch, Bruno takes her coffee cup and sets it aside.

“How should I pose?” she asks.

“Just act natural,” he replies, holding the light meter to her cheek once more.

Natural. Right. Natural. When she’s draped over her uncle’s couch, wearing his clothes.

She leans against the cushions, and the top of her shirt slips down one shoulder, exposing the skin underneath.

“Wow…” Bruno whispers. The camera clicks. He’s close to her; closer than he’s even been during one of their shoots. The camera roams over her body, capturing it all.

Mirabel can hardly move. Hardly breathe. Her thighs clench; she’s getting wet. Why did she think she could control this? Why did she think… Why did she…

“Here, let’s…” Bruno adjusts his position. “Can you, um… Can you open your shirt a little more?”

“Like this?” Mirabel says dizzily. She slides one of the buttons through its hole, exposing a little more skin. Praise falls from Bruno’s lips as the camera clicks.

Mirabel changes her pose, sitting up to more prominently display her chest. The shirt slides down even lower; both of her shoulders are exposed now, and a great deal of her cleavage. Bruno is on his knees before her, all but worshipping Mirabel with the camera.

Fresh arousal rushes between her legs. She feels strong. Powerful. Wanted. Desired.

Bruno swears softly. “Yeah, look at me just like that.”

She sits up straighter.

And the shirt slides down to her waist.

The camera clicks. This time, the sound is deafening.

Mirabel goes rigid, frozen in place. She’s…

And he…

Oh.

Oh no.

They both react at the same time.

“I’m sorry—!”

“I didn’t mean to—!”

Mirabel covers herself. Bruno fumbles with the camera.

“I’ll delete that!’ he says hastily. “I- I’m sorry, it was just—it was just habit, you know?”

“It- It’s okay,” Mirabel says, holding the shirt closed. “It was an accident.”

The preview screen on Bruno’s camera lights up, casting light on his face. His eyes widen. “Oh…”

“What?”

“Uh…” Bruno shakes his head, as if clearing it. “It’s a good photo, that’s all. Doesn’t matter. I’ll—”

“Let me see.”

Bruno hesitates. Mirabel isn’t sure why she wants to look, but she holds out her hands. Bruno relents, saying nothing.

The camera is heavy. Way heavier than Mirabel thought it would be. Her heartbeat quickens, suddenly aware of how important this camera must be to him, how much trust he just placed in her hands.

She focuses on the little screen. The woman who stares back at her makes Mirabel gasp. She’s topless, yeah, but it’s her face that holds your attention. Her expression is… Powerful. Fearless. There’s an intensity in her gaze that Mirabel’s never seen in herself, a confidence she doesn’t recognize.

“That’s not me.”

Bruno makes an incredulous sound. “Of course it is.”

“No, I mean… You made me look totally different. I don’t even recognize myself.” Mirabel passes him camera. “You’re a good photographer.”

Bruno shrugs. “I didn’t do anything. This is all you, kid.”

“No, you’re… You’re the one who drew that out of me. You made me feel…” Mirabel rubs her knees together. Her underwear is still damp. “Confident, I guess.”

Bruno half-smiles. “Mirabel, I’m flattered, but… that feeling? That confidence?”

He lays his hand over her heart. His fingertips land where her shirt is open, just above her breasts. The touch sends shivers through her.

“That’s you. It came from you.” His smile softens. “All I did was take the picture.”

Mirabel doesn’t reply, letting the words settle in. His hand stays pressed to her heartbeat.

Outside, rain continues to patter against the window. The room darkens as the storm grows worse.

Bruno clears his throat. “And we’ve lost the light. Let’s call it here, yeah?”

His hand pulls away. Mirabel feels cold without it.

“Y-Yeah.”

Bruno stands. He tugs on his belt, adjusting his pants. Mirabel blinks. Hang on—is he aroused, too?!

A trickle of dampness runs down Mirabel’s thigh.

“Uh—we’re still gonna photograph my outfits for school, right?” she says in a rush. “I- I should go change!”

She hurries to the bathroom.

This is bad.

This very much not good.

Mirabel presses both hands to her chest. Her heartbeat drums inside. She needs to calm. She needs to… She needs…

She needs to touch herself. Now. Right now.

No! Stop it!

Mirabel bites her lip. She can’t do this. Not here. Not in Bruno’s bathroom. Not in his clothes! Not when he’s in the other room, waiting for her.

Mirabel’s hand slides down her belly, settling on her wet underwear. Even that small touch makes her quake. It would be so easy. She’s close, so very close…

NO!

She forces herself to stop.

Mirabel sits on the edge of the tub, breathing slowly, in and out. She can wait. When she’s home, in her own room, in her own bed, she can deal with… whatever this is. But for now, she needs to be normal. She can do that. Right?

Right.

She’s good.

She’s got this.

***

Mirabel takes a moment in the bathroom, carefully breathing until her arousal ebbs away. She changes her clothes, still feeling charged. Her arm hairs stand on end as she strips off Bruno’s long-sleeved shirt.

She’s calm enough to act normal, though. Calm enough to smile when she steps out of the bathroom, and calm enough to have fun with Bruno when he photographs her new clothes. The two of them easily fall into their usual banter, laughing and joking as Mirabel poses. Bruno’s giddiness returns; he praises everything about Mirabel’s outfits, gleefully snapping photo after photo.

Mirabel smiles, her cheeks red. She can’t wait to get home; every last one of his words is going to follow her into bed tonight.

By the time they finish, the clothes that Mirabel arrived in have fully dried. She changes for the final time and heads into the living room.

“Thank, Tío!” Mirabel says, slinging her duffle over one shoulder. “I had a lot of fun. I’ll see you next week?”

Bruno doesn’t answer. He’s staring at his phone, brows furrowed.

“Tío?”

Bruno shows her the screen. There’s a Severe Weather Warning in big, red letters. The storm has gotten worse.

Mirabel checks her phone as well. She has the same alert—and about a dozen messages from her sisters.

She calls them. Yes, she’s safe. Yes, she’s with Bruno. Yes, she’ll stay put. Yes, she’ll call if anything happens!

Mirabel hangs up with a sound of frustration. “They treat me like I’m five.”

Bruno’s mouth stretches. “I mean… at least they called.”

Oh. Right.

Mirabel tilts her head, trying to catch his eye. “I would have checked up on you, Tío.”

She smiles reassuringly. It takes a moment, but he smiles back.

“Yeah, I know.”

They gather flashlights and candles, just in case the power goes out. It seems fine for now, though, so they make some dinner. Or at least, Bruno does. Mirabel sits on the counter and watches.

“I can’t believe Julieta’s daughter doesn’t know how to cook,” Bruno teases.

“She never had time to teach me,” Mirabel shrugs. “She was pretty busy, with three of us.”

Bruno snorts. “Yeah, so was my mother. Cooking lessons were still mandatory, though.”

He rolls his eyes when he says it, and something in the air… shifts. Bruno doesn’t talk about his mother very much. Not at all, actually.

Mirabel tries to keep her tone casual. “She taught you to cook?”

He laughs. It’s not a kind sound. “Her? No. We had tutors. Lots of tutors. ‘Madrigals deserve the best! Madrigals are the best!’”

He snaps the words. Mirabel winces. She’s very familiar with that phrase.

“Sorry,” Bruno says. “I just… You know how it is. You know how she is.”

Mirabel nods, looking at her hands. “Yeah. I… I get it. My mom tried to shield us from the worst of it, but there were still… expectations.” She sighs. “We all had a Thing, you know? Something we had to be the best at. Like Isabela, with her modeling. Or Luisa with sports.”

As Mirabel talks, Bruno reaches into a cabinet above the stove and pulls out a bottle of wine. He pours two glasses.

“Oh, yeah? What was your Thing?”

Mirabel frowns, thinking of her midterms. Of her classmates’ scorn and her professors’ lukewarm encouragement.

“Still figuring that one out,” she replies.

Bruno laughs humorlessly. “Yeah. Fair enough.”

He hands her a glass and raises his own. “To figuring things out!” he says grandly.

They tap their glasses together, and Mirabel drinks deep.

***

It’s a nice night. Maybe not the night Mirabel planned, but it’s still good. Spending time with Bruno. Talking to him and watching tv. They sit together on the couch, drinking wine and crying over old telenovelas. Bruno’s seen them all before, but he acts like every twist is new.

Outside, the storm rages. Mirabel shivers; Bruno drapes a blanket over them both.

“Thanks, Tío,” she says with a smile.

Mirabel lays her head on his shoulder. Bruno gestures at the television, explaining the current plotline. Something about an aunt. Amnesia. Mirabel blinks slowly, only half listening.

What a weird day. What a long, weird, extremely confusing day.

Thank goodness for Bruno. Sometimes, it feels like he’s the only thing keeping her sane. Like, sure, yeah, being around him is confusing… The things he says, the things he makes her feel… But he’s hers, you know?

He’s the only one she can really talk to. The only one who really understands. The only one who makes her feel… all the things she feels. And she likes it. She likes feeling those things. With him.

Mirabel snuggles closer, burrowing into the blanket. She lays her head on Bruno’s chest and drapes her legs across his lap.

Bruno chuckles. There’s a hint of nervousness in his laugh. “Oh! Okay. I forgot how cuddly you are.”

Oh, right. Yeah. When she was little… Wow, she was so needy back then. Just one more squeeze! she would say.

Bruno wraps his arms around her. Mirabel sighs, feeling warm and content. She shuts her eyes, and her thoughts go quiet.

Tío. Her tío…

The next time Mirabel opens her eyes, it’s dark. The television is off; the lights, too.

And Bruno is shifting beneath her.

“Mirabel?” he says softly. “Come on, kid, let’s get you to bed.”

Mirabel clings to him. Her fingers twist in his shirt. “Wanna stay…”

“Come on,” Bruno says again.

He stands, bringing Mirabel with him. She gasps, suddenly cradled in his arms. Excitement rushes into her toes, her fingertips.

“Bruno?”

“You can have the bed. I’ll take the sofa.”

Her head swims, filling with a thousand different fantasies as her uncle carries her to bed. She’s so light in his arms; he carries her effortlessly across the threshold, like a husband with his bride.

Her breath shortens. Every feeling she held in before comes rushing back. His touch, his warmth, his scent… Everything about him washes over her—and it only gets worse when he steps into his bedroom.

He lays her on the mattress, gently, carefully, like she’s something fragile, something precious. The blankets shift, and then she’s under them, surrounded by the smell of sandalwood and sweat. For just a moment, Bruno sits on the side of the mattress, tucking her in. Mirabel trembles, remembering the photoshoot when they laid in bed together, and he photographed her like a lover.

“Tío…” she whispers.

He begins to stand.

Mirabel catches the sleeve of his shirt, clinging tight. “Stay.”

There’s a pause. Mirabel doesn’t look at his face.

“Stay,” she says again, hating the waver in her voice. The neediness. She doesn’t know how to explain it, doesn’t know how to say that she wants to be near him and that she hates it, she hates it when he’s gone.

The room is unbearably silent as Bruno brushes back her hair. His fingertips ghost along her brow. Her cheeks.

But then he pulls away. Mirabel can feel the mattress shift as he rises. The sound of his footsteps; the door, closing behind him.

She sits upright. The room is dark and empty. He’s gone. He left her all alone.

Mirabel buries her face in the pillow, muffling her moan of frustration. Her whole body is in agony, every inch of her yearning for release. She slips her hand between her legs, into her shorts, into her underwear—for the second time today, she’s unbearably, unthinkably wet.

She kicks them off, leaving herself naked beneath the waist. The sheets are soft against her thighs. Spreading her legs, Mirabel slides her fingers over her slit. Pleasure surges through her entire body. The scent of her uncle permeates everything.

She writhes against the mattress. Bruno’s mattress. Bruno’s bed. She imagines him here with her—not as model and photographer, but as lovers.

She imagines taking off her clothes for him. Imagines spreading her legs for him. Imagines his eyes, roaming over her body; the praise that would fall from his lips. She imagines him snapping a photo, but quickly setting the camera aside because he just can’t wait to fuck her.

Her fingers move faster, sliding ungracefully, circling the nub at the top of her mound. Lewd, wet sounds fill the room. Can Bruno hear her out there? Does he know what she’s doing? If she called his name right now, would he come running?

She wants to. She wants to cry his name, so he’ll know exactly who she’s thinking about.

Mirabel’s climax crashes down on her. Pleasure rips through her body, wrenching a cry from her throat. She bites the pillow to silence her scream.

Bruno…

Bruno.

She trembles, riding out the aftershocks of her orgasm. Her chest heaves—her breath is hard and fast. Her sweat soaks into the sheets.

She came. In her uncle’s bed.

She came in his bed, thinking about him. It was all she could do to stop from screaming his name.

And all she can think about… is how she can have more.

Chapter Text

Mirabel wakes to a knock on the door.

“Mirabel?” Bruno’s voice is muffled. “Are you awake?”

She sits upright. “Uh—Yeah! I’m up! Just gimme a second!”

Heart hammering, she tries to make herself presentable. Her shorts and panties are in a heap on the floor.

“It’s fine,” Bruno says through the door. “It’s just, um—your sister’s here for you.”

Mirabel drops her clothes. What?!

“Come out when you’re ready, okay?”

“O-Okay!”

Oh god. Of course her sisters would show up when she’s half-naked in Bruno’s bed! That’s just her life.

Mirabel squirms. Just the feeling of Bruno’s sheets on her ass and thighs is almost enough to get her going again. She dresses hastily; her clothes are wrinkled, and her underwear is… nasty. She’s serving up major “walk of shame” vibes today. Her cheeks are hot as she steps into the hall.

Isabela is waiting for her in the living room. Mirabel waves, trying to be normal.

“Hey! Hi. Good morning.” Yup. She definitely sounds normal. “Um, Tío—have you seen my glasses?”

Bruno’s blurry figure jumps into motion. “Yes! You, uh—You left them here.”

He brings them to her, fumbling in his haste. He’s trying to act normal, too. They’re both totally crushing it.

Isabela smiles as she comes into focus, standing across the room with Mirabel’s duffle slung across her shoulder. Mirabel winces inside; she knows that smile. The Perfect Princess Smile.

Isabela looks over the living room, at the wine glasses still sitting on the coffee table, and the empty bottle beside it. Her smile doesn’t waver. She thanks Bruno for letting Mirabel crash with him. Bruno nods wordlessly, rubbing his upper arm. He avoids Mirabel’s eye.

Her stomach twists. How much did he hear last night? At the time, she hoped he would, but in the light of day, she feels ridiculous. Why did she do that? In his bed?! Oh god…

Mirabel’s quiet as Isabela drives her home. Isabela’s quiet, too, staring out the windshield.

“So,” she says eventually. “Did you have fun?”

“Uh… yeah,” Mirabel says. “We did our photoshoot. He got some great shots of my work—”

And her tits.

“Then we had dinner and watched old telenovelas.”

“Wow. Sounds like a great night.”

Mirabel prickles. “Why are you mad?”

“I’m not mad,” Isabela says. She smiles to prove it.

“Yes, you are!” That smile might work on Abuela, but not Mirabel. “You’re acting like I got drunk and stayed out all night. There was a storm—”

“I know!” Isabela says. She takes a calming breath. “I know. You didn’t do anything wrong. I just…”

She shakes her head, unable to finish the sentence. The knots in Mirabel’s stomach tighten.

“Just what? What do you think happened?”

“Nothing! It’s just that… He’s weird, okay? He’s really, really weird, and… Maybe you shouldn’t be spending so much time with him.”

Mirabel makes a sound of disgust. What’s wrong with being weird? What’s so terrible about it? So threatening?

“You said you were glad I was working for him. You said you trusted him!”

Isabela’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. “Yeah, to look after you at work! To make sure no one took advantage of you! I didn’t know that the two of you would get so… close.”

“What’s wrong with being close to my tío?”

“You know what’s wrong with it.”

“No, I don’t!”

Mirabel grips her knees. She hasn’t done anything! Like, yeah, maybe she wanted to last night, when she was all riled up, and yeah, maybe her underwear is still gross from all those lewd thoughts about her uncle. Maybe she’s becoming weird, just like him—maybe she always was.

But that’s for her to figure out. Not Isabela.

They pull up to a stoplight. Isabela sighs, rubbing her temple—the same way their mother does when she’s upset.

“How much do you remember? About when he left?”

Mirabel shrugs. “I remember the arguments. Bruno and Abuela fighting a lot.”

“It was awful,” Isabela says earnestly. “The way they went at each other… Abuela said, ‘If you leave this house, you’re dead to me!’”

Mirabel stares at her sister. She doesn’t remember that. Were things really that bad?  

“I’m worried, that’s all,” Isabela says. “If Abuela finds out you’re working for him… It won’t end well.”

“She’s not going to find out,” Mirabel says automatically. “Mamá isn’t going to tell her. Bruno isn’t going to tell her.”

They agreed to that before Mirabel took the job. Abuela, Tía Pepa, all of her cousins—none of them know that she’s working for Bruno. Only her parents and her sisters know about it.

“So what’s the big deal? I like my job! And I like spending time with my tío. There’s no issue here.”

Isabela rubs her temple again. “Okay! …okay. I get it.”

The light turns green. Isabela glances at Mirabel as she pulls forward.

“Just… promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I promise,” Mirabel says, though the knots in her stomach don’t loosen. It doesn’t feel like she really convinced her sister—it just feels like she delayed the argument another day.

***

Mirabel doesn’t actually hear from Bruno in a while. He was always bad at responding to texts, but for two weeks, they don’t have any late-night streaming sessions, or phone calls, or anything. He says that he’s working—and maybe that’s true.

Or maybe he knows what she did in his bed.

The next time she hears from him, it’s about work. He has a new gig lined up for her.

“You know, possibly. If you want. You can say no.”

Mirabel’s heart is hammering. Of course she wants to. She’s dying to get back in the studio with him; it’s all she’s thought about for days.

“What’s the gig?”

“Well…”

Bruno tells her about an up-and-coming photographer, a minor celebrity in their field. He saw Mirabel’s photos and he wants to work with her.

Mirabel’s heart plummets. So… Bruno won’t be her photographer?

“What, um… What is he like?”

“He’s… up-and-coming,” Bruno says again. “I don’t know him personally. But his work is good—and he’s interested. This could really open some doors for you, kid.”

Right. Yeah. Open doors… Opportunities. That’s what she’s always wanted, right?

“Do you think I should do it?”

Bruno’s quiet for a long time.

“That’s not up to me. It’s up to you.”

Now it’s Mirabel’s turn to go silent. She clutches her phone; Bruno lingers on the other end, waiting. They haven’t been this close in weeks. Her heart aches.

“Will you… Will you be on set?”

Bruno makes a strange sound. “Well, that… that would be pretty unusual. Too many cooks in the kitchen, you know?”

Mirabel tries to swallow the lump in her throat. “Please, Tío?”

More silence. Mirabel hates how childish she feels.

But then… Bruno sighs.

“I’ll be there,” he promises.

***

The photoshoot takes place at Bruno’s studio. It feels good to be back there; Mirabel steps onto the set with a smile, and no small amount of relief.

Bruno is there, just like he promised, deep in conversation with the new photographer. Mirabel hangs back while the lighting crew sets up.

The new guy is pretty young, closer to Mirabel’s age than Bruno’s. The two of them are talking excitedly, obviously geeking out over their love of photography.

Bruno’s gaze flicks in Mirabel’s direction—then snaps back to her. His smile widens.

“Mirabel!” He waves her over.

“Hey, Tío,” Mirabel says, trying to match his smile. Wow—she hasn’t been this close to him since the night of the storm. Her whole body responds, longing for contact. She gives into the feeling, opening her arms for a hug.

Bruno hesitates only briefly. His arms fold around her.

It’s a quick hug. Familial. He pats her on the back when it’s over.

“Mirabel, this is Cameron. He’ll be your photographer today.”

Cameron smiles, offering Mirabel his hand. His grip is firm; his smile, charming. Mirabel’s suddenly aware of how old Bruno looks in contrast. It’s strange—usually, she doesn’t see Bruno’s age at all. But standing next to Cameron, she can’t not see it.

Cameron looks down. She’s still holding his hand.

“Oh!” Mirabel finally releases him. “Um—hi! Nice to meet you. Thanks for letting my tío be on set, I know it’s weird to have another photographer looking over your shoulder.”

Cameron chuckles. “Hey, it’s no problem. I’m actually glad I got to meet him! He’s practically a legend!”

Bruno coughs into his hand. He’s probably very aware of his age right now, too. “Thanks.”

Mirabel’s outfit today is actually kind of standard; just a typical corset and garter, with long stockings up to her thighs. Cameron might be a good photographer, but his imagination clearly isn’t as wild as Bruno’s.

“Glasses or no glasses?” she asks.

“Glasses, definitely!” Cameron says. “That’s, like… your look!”

“Exactly!” Bruno cries. “Exactly. You get it.” He looks at Mirabel, wide-eyed with excitement. “He gets it.”

Mirabel can’t help but giggle. Her uncle is excited—maybe this won’t be so bad.

She climbs onto a chaise lounge, surrounded by lights. They’re going for a boudoir look today. Bruno fades into the background with the rest of the crew. Mirabel can’t see him. Everything beyond the lights is hidden by shadows. Like they aren’t even there.

Mirabel stiffens, suddenly nervous. Stage-fright; she can’t remember how to move. How to sit. How to… anything. 

“Relax,” Cameron says. “Have fun with it!”

Right. Have fun with it.

She smiles. Awkwardly.

Cameron chuckles behind his camera. She can see his lips curve into a smirk.

“Relax,” he says again. “We’re just warming up. Everyone knows the first few shots are terrible!”

No, they’re not. Not with Bruno. It’s always effortless with him.

Mirabel glances over Cameron’s shoulder, looking for her uncle. All she can see is darkness.

The camera clicks a few times. Mirabel tries different poses, each more awkward than the last.

Cameron sighs. He lowers his camera. “This isn’t the girl I saw in Bruno’s photos.”

Heat rises into Mirabel’s cheeks. He’s right. She… She isn’t that girl. The confident one that Bruno drew out of her. The girl on his couch, in his bed.

She looks into the shadows, searching for him. But there’s nothing. No one.

And she…

It came from you.

Mirabel closes her eyes, and remembers what Bruno said. Remembers his hand on her chest, pressing above her heartbeat.

That feeling? That confidence? It came from you.

Mirabel opens her eyes again, looking right into Cameron’s.

“I’m still warming up,” she says firmly. “Let’s do this.”

Cameron blinks, caught off-guard. Then he grins.

“That’s more like it.”

He raises the camera to his face. Like magic, Mirabel feels herself relax.

She’s got this.

Cameron snaps shot after shot. “Finally! Yes. More of that.”

Mirabel changes her pose, trying to look aloof and haughty. It’s not at all how she usually acts in front of the camera, but Cameron seems to like it. He moves in and out of her periphery, camera clicking.

She rolls onto her side, propping her cheek on one hand. Her breasts are practically spilling out of the corset. Cameron moves closer; the camera clicks. Then closer, and closer still, until he’s almost touching her.

Mirabel’s breath catches. Bruno only got this close to her when she was on his couch.

She maintains her pose. Cameron shifts, searching for the perfect angle. Mirabel swallows; the camera lens feels so wide. So… invasive.

She doesn’t like it.

“Stop,” she says.

“Hang on. Just tilt your chin—”

Mirabel leans away. “You’re too close.”

“I need the shot.”

“I don’t care!”

Cameron sighs, lowering his camera. He doesn’t back away. “Calm down. I’m not even touching you.”

He says it like she’s a spoiled child. Mirabel glowers.

“I’m done,” she says, sitting up.

Cameron laughs. Like she can’t possibly be serious. “What’s the matter? You only put out for your uncle?”

Mirabel’s breath leaves her. “Excuse me?”

He laughs again. “I’m joking—”

No.

This is over.

She’s done.

Mirabel surges to her feet. Her robe is hanging off a nearby chair; she pulls it on, face red, heart pounding.

Bruno’s there in an instant. “What’s going on? What did he do?”

“Nothing—” Mirabel starts to say, but Cameron interrupts.

“Your niece can’t take a joke!” he says. Bruno steps between him and Mirabel.

“I’m done,” Mirabel says clearly. “I’m going home.”

“Don’t be like that,” Cameron says. “Come on, let’s finish the shoot—”

He grabs Mirabel’s wrist.

“Hey!”

Mirabel’s shout mixes with Bruno’s. And then—

It happens in slow-motion.

Bruno grabs Cameron by the collar, forcing him back. They stumble into one of the lights, knocking it to the floor. The bulb shatters.

“Don’t touch her!” Bruno cries.

“Hey, man—”

“Don’t touch her!”

Mirabel stands there, frozen. Everything inside of her is locked in place—even her thundering heart stops dead. She’s never seen Bruno like this. Not even when he argued with Abuela, all those years ago. This isn’t a heated argument, this is…

This is something else.

Bruno shouts something at Cameron. Mirabel can barely make it out. She can’t hear. Can’t think.

Her eyes flick to the horrified production crew. Everyone’s watching this. If phones were allowed on set, they’d be recording it, too.

Mirabel stands up straight. “Tío!”

He’s still shouting.

“Tío!”

Bruno turns to Mirabel. His expression is wild, loose curls swinging around his face.

Mirabel locks eyes with him.

“Let’s just go,” she says.

Bruno holds her gaze, his fingers still twisted in Cameron’s shirt. After a long moment, Bruno turns back to him.

“Get off my fucking set.”

He shoves Cameron away. The young man stumbles, but straightens quickly, brushing the front of his shirt.

Mirabel reaches for Bruno’s hand. He takes it; his palm is hot.

“Come on,” he says, leading her from the room.

***

Mirabel follows Bruno down the hallway, all too aware of the robe she’s wearing, the corset and garter underneath. Her stockings feel thin against the floor.

Bruno leads her to his office. She’s never been inside. As soon as the door opens, it’s obvious why.

His office is disgusting.

Like, his apartment was always pretty bad, but this is easily ten times worse. There’s empty takeout containers on his desk; dirty clothes strewn over his fraying couch. Crumbs scattered across the carpet. Half-finished projects pinned to the walls.

This is obviously where Bruno gets most of his work done. Where he bunkers down before each deadline. Mirabel can easily imagine the long nights he’d spent in here, ordering takeout and crashing on the couch. It looks like he’s slept in here recently—and for some reason, that makes her glad. He wasn’t ghosting her for the last two weeks. He really was working.

Bruno shuts the door behind them.

“Are you okay?” he says, sweeping over to Mirabel. He grips her by the shoulders, like her mother used to do when checking her for injuries. His eyes are round and wide. “What happened?”

Mirabel drops her gaze. “Nothing.”

“Mira, I was there. It wasn’t nothing. He did something. Said something. You… You don’t have to tell me, if it makes you uncomfortable, but…”

He rubs her arms. The touch is gentle and reassuring.

“Whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault.”

Mirabel nods. She knows that. She’s allowed to have boundaries, especially when on set. It’s a vulnerable position to be in; Cameron should have stopped the moment she told him to.

“The shoot wasn’t going well,” Mirabel explains. “He got frustrated, and I didn’t want to deal with him. That’s all.”

Bruno mutters, still cursing Cameron under his breath. His hands slide down Mirabel’s arms, fingers gliding along the sleeve of her robe. She shivers.

“He shouldn’t have grabbed you like that,” Bruno says, examining her wrists. Mirabel snorts.

“Yeah, I think he got the message.”

A laugh rumbles in Bruno’s throat. “Yeah. He’d better.”

With a sigh, Bruno releases Mirabel and walks over to his desk, sitting down on the edge of it. His shoulders slump; his whole body seems to deflate.

“I almost hit him,” Bruno says, sounding dizzy. “I’ve never hit anyone in my life.”

Mirabel smiles to herself. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “Wow, I guess I really am your favorite niece.”

Bruno laughs again. “Yeah. Guess so.”

There’s a beat of silence. Bruno stares off to the side, lost in his own thoughts.

But then he sighs. “Listen… I hope you won’t let him discourage you. You’re really good at this. I mean, you can quit if you want to, if- if your heart isn’t in it. But I would hate to see you give up on something you love because of one asshole. He’s not worth it.”

Mirabel’s quiet. Does she love this? She never said that she did. But… maybe it’s just that obvious.

Because she does love modeling. She loves wearing these outfits. She loves being sexy.

For him.

“If I keep doing this…” Mirabel says, her voice barely more than a whisper, “I want it to be with you.”

Bruno looks at her, surprised. “You mean…?”

“It wasn’t right with him,” Mirabel says, tilting her chin towards the door. “It wasn’t fun. Not like with you.”

Mirabel steps closer to Bruno.

“You’re my photographer. Only you.”

Bruno is silent, gripping the edge of his desk. Mirabel stands between his legs.

“I only want you.”

They’re so close. She can feel his body heat, smell his sweat. Her eyes roam over his face, looking for understanding. He knows, right? He has to. He must.

Bruno wets his lip. “Mirabel…”

She lays her hands on his thighs. He sucks in a breath. Her heartbeat pounds in her ears.

“You know what you do to me,” Mirabel whispers. It isn’t a question, but Bruno answers it like one.

“I know what I do to you,” he says, his tone equally soft.

“That night, in your bed… When I said, ‘stay.’ You knew what I was asking for.”

Bruno swallows. “Yes. I knew.”

He trembles beneath her. His knuckles are white, gripping his desk so hard, it’s like he’s afraid of falling.

“But you left,” she says.

“I didn’t want to.” Bruno shakes his head. “Leave, I mean. I wanted to stay. In that bed. With you.”

Mirabel’s throat is tight. Her head, spinning. This can’t be real. They can’t really be talking about this.

“So why didn’t you?” The words seem to come from someone else’s mouth, though the voice is her own. “Why didn’t you stay?”

Bruno tries to form words. Fails.

“Scared,” he says at last. “Scared. I was scared.”

“Why?”

She knows why.

Bruno’s fingertips glide up her arms once more. His gaze follows them, like he’s worshipping her, memorizing every inch.

“Because I’m old,” he says factually. “And I’m disgusting. And every time I think I can’t get any lower, I find a new way to mess up, a new depth of depravity to sink into.”

Mirabel looks away, even as he continues to run his fingers along her arms. Her body can’t help but respond to his touch, sending waves of warmth into her belly.

“Yeah, I get it,” she says. “Sleeping with your niece would be a new low.”

Bruno chuckles. “No, no… don’t you see? I’m not scared of reaching new lows. I’m comfortable there. I’ve made a life there. Nah, kid…”

He leans forward, bringing his mouth close to her ear. His lips brush against her cheek.

“The reason I’m so afraid, the reason I’m… shaking…”

His lips move close to hers. She can’t breathe. His breath is hot; she’s going to die from want of this.

“Is because I know you’d be my high.”

Their lips crash together.

Mirabel goes weak against him, moaning. She grips his shirt, unable to hold herself upright. But Bruno’s got her; his arms wind around her back, pulling her close.

Their mouths move together, hot and wet and heartbreakingly tender. She wants him, she wants him, but she loves him, too.

The desk rattles. Papers scatter to the floor. But all Mirabel can think about is the warmth of Bruno’s lips and the strength of his arms. She’s never been held like this. Kissed like this. Like she’s everything he wants, everything he’s waited for, the highlight of his life.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, pressing more and more kisses to her lips. “Mirabel… Tell me to stop.”

No. She won’t.

“Please,” Bruno says. His fingers twist in the back of her robe. “I’m old—”

She kisses him again.

“I’m perverted—”

And again.

“You don’t want me—”

And again.

“I want you,” Mirabel says. “I want my tío.”

Bruno whines. His lips find their way to her throat.

“I’ll pervert you,” he says, breath hot against her neck. “Make you dirty—”

“Do it,” Mirabel grins. She tilts her head, exposing more of her throat. “Ruin me.”

Bruno whines again. Mirabel’s robe slips down her shoulders, revealing her collarbone, the swell of her breasts. The corset pushes them up; they’re almost spilling out. Bruno dips his head to kiss them.

“Ruin me,” Mirabel whispers again, but the truth is, she was already weird. She always has been. That’s why she never fit in with her family. Why she couldn’t find something to excel at. It’s because she’s weird, just like her tío.

And for the first time in her life, she’s glad. She’s glad to be weird. It feels good. It feels right. Like she’s finally figuring herself out.

Bruno rises to his feet. Mirabel sways, weak-kneed.

“Whoa, easy!” Bruno laughs, holding her upright. “I just thought—the couch would be more comfortable.”

Mirabel nods, breathless. Yes. The couch. Perfect.

She stumbles towards it, dragging Bruno by the collar. He makes a startled sound. Together, they fall into the cushions, laughing.

Mirabel pulls Bruno on top of her. They’re already kissing, unable to stop. Their hands roam over each other’s bodies.

Bruno tugs Mirabel’s robe open. His eyes go wide at the sight of her corset and garter. Mirabel grins; he’s photographing her without a camera, framing the shot in his mind.

“Impossible,” he whispers. “It’s impossible, how beautiful you are.”

There it is. The words that drive her crazy, the adoration that follows her into bed. Mirabel captures his face between her hands and pulls him in for a kiss.

He gives into it, all but falling into her. Their chests press together; their hips, too. Mirabel wraps her legs around Bruno’s waist and grinds against him.

Bruno breaks the kiss. “Easy.” The word comes out beseeching. “Easy. We can’t… go all the way.”

Mirabel’s heart stops. “Ever?”

“Huh? No!” Bruno flusters. “I- I mean— Not here. In my filthy office. With my employees outside the door. Nah, kid…” He brings his lips to her throat. “If we… When we… It’ll be special.”

With that, he trails kisses up Mirabel’s neck, all the way to the tender spot behind her ear. Her eyelids flutter.

“Special?”

“Mm-hmm. I have plans.”

Plans. That word makes Mirabel whine. She writhes underneath him, squeezing her legs even tighter around his waist. She can feel his arousal inside his pants; it presses hard between her thighs.

“How long have you been thinking about this?” she asks.

“Since you fell asleep on my couch,” he admits. “The first time, remember? You wore my shirt. I wanted—”

“To photograph me.”

“Yeah.”

Bruno kisses her again. His hand slides up her belly and settles on her breast, groping it through her corset. “I told you, I’m a pervert.”

His lips return to her neck. Mirabel grins at the ceiling. Her fingers thread through Bruno’s hair.

“Did you touch yourself?” she whispers. Bruno swears under his breath. The word feels hot against her skin.

“Of course I did.”

“Me too. In your bed.”

Bruno swears again. Suddenly, his mouth is on hers once more; they exchange several hot, heavy kisses, much more rough than before.

“After you… photographed me… topless…” Mirabel’s words are spaced out, interrupted by kisses. “I was so wet—”

“Fuck, kid—”

“Wanted you—”

“I know—” Bruno lifts his looking her in the eyes. “I kept it,” he admits. “That photo. Of you— Fuck—” He braces himself against the couch, to better grind his hips into Mirabel’s. “That topless photo. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay—”

“I look at it all the time. And I touch myself—”

“Good.”

“I’m disgusting—”

“Me too.”

Mirabel grinds herself against him. Bruno grinds against her. They’re wrapped up in each other, exchanging sloppy, messy kisses, writhing on the couch like a couple of desperate teenagers. Mirabel’s unbearably wet again, soaking through her panties.

“Touch me,” she says. “Tío, touch me.”

Bruno chuckles. “Touch you where?”

His hands slides between them. They’re pressed together so tightly, there’s barely any room. But his thumb manages to find her wet underwear.

“Here?”

Mirabel nods. Yes. There.

“Use your words, kid.”

Mirabel whines in pure agony. He’s gonna make her say it? Like she isn’t begging enough already?

His thumb slips under the band of her underwear. She gasps as it slides along her slit.

“Where should I touch you?” he asks again.

“There!” Mirabel cries. “There! Please, touch me there!”

Bruno holds Mirabel’s gaze as his thumb slips inside of her.

“Shh,” he says softly. “I’ve got you.”

Mirabel closes her eyes, wrenching them tight. She can’t stand this. He toys with her too easily—far, far too easily. Bruno adjusts his position, creating more space between them. His thumb rubs along her folds before finding the little nub at the top. He rubs it firmly, in slow, smooth circles. Mirabel trembles; her whole body is on fire, every nerve alight. She slaps both hands over her mouth to stop from crying out.

Two more fingers push inside of her. He goes slow, pressing in to the knuckle. Mirabel shakes even more. Her back arches; her toes curl.

“Wow,” Bruno whispers.

Mirabel shyly peeks at him. He’s still watching her face. His brows are arched, his eyes round and full of love. Like he can’t believe she’s real.

Mirabel makes a desperate sound, muffled by her own hands. That look alone is almost enough to finish her. She clenches around Bruno’s fingers; his eyes widen.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. Mirabel isn’t sure which one of them he’s talking to. “Yeah, just like that…”

His fingers move in and out of her, while his thumb continues its diligent work. New sensations crash over Mirabel; his fingers fill and stretch her, utterly coated in her slick.

Her breath shortens. She’s close. Really close. She needs—

“Yes,” Bruno whispers. “Yes, come for me—”

She can’t help but obey.

Mirabel screams into her hands, shaking from the sheer force of her climax. Her hips snap, driving Bruno’s fingers even deeper inside. She can’t stop. It’s so good, so good—!

“That’s it,” Bruno says. His voice is low and deep. “Beautiful. So beautiful…”

Mirabel slowly comes down. Her hips stop rocking. Her arms go slack. She struggles to catch her breath; her bosom heaves inside her corset.

Bruno watches her. His fingers are still buried in her tight, wet cunt. He’s going that thing with his eyes again, framing the photo inside his mind.

Mirabel grins. So does Bruno.

His mouth opens to say something.

And that’s when a knock comes at the door.

“Hey, boss?”

“FUCK OFF,” Bruno snaps.

“I—” The muffled voice stops short. “What?”

Bruno blinks rapidly. His expression changes; his eyes dart towards the door. “I- I mean—Hang on! One second!”

His fingers pull out of Mirabel. She gasps, still sensitive down there. They both try to make themselves presentable; Mirabel closes her robe and sits upright. Bruno wipes his fingers on a discarded shirt.

He goes to the door, opening it just enough to peer into the hall. The employee can’t see Mirabel, but she runs a hand through her hair anyway, trying to make herself look normal.

Or, you know, as normal as you can be, when you can still feel your uncle’s fingers deep inside.

“Yeah? What is it?” Bruno says.

“We need to, um… address what happened. Everyone’s worried—”

“Yeah, I get it. I’ll be there in five, okay?”

Bruno closes the door. As it clicks shut, there’s a brief pause; then Bruno sighs, running both hands down his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says to Mirabel. “I have to take care of this.”

Mirabel rubs her knees together. Not the most romantic way to end things, but she doesn’t mind. She’s really happy, actually. She can’t remember the last time she felt so good.

“It’s okay,” she tells him. “Go. Be the boss.”

Bruno snorts. “Yeah, that’s me.”

He hesitates for a moment, but then he sweeps across the room and kisses Mirabel. She giggles in surprise.

“Give me an hour. I’ll drive you home?”

“That sounds perfect.”

They kiss again. And again. Mirabel clings to his shirt, unwilling to let him go.

“Please—” Bruno says, but she kisses him again. “Please, I gotta—”

More kisses.

“Kid, please—”

Mirabel laughs. “Okay, fine.”

She frees him. He stumbles back, swaying, like her kisses left him dizzy.

“I don’t know how I’m gonna focus on work,” Bruno mumbles. He shakes his head. “How do I look?”

“Like you just fingered your niece,” Mirabel teases.

“Oh, good!” Bruno says, grinning all the way out the door.

Chapter Text

Two days after the event in Bruno’s office, Mirabel opens the door to her apartment—

And gets smacked in the face by a bouquet of flowers.

“Oh, come on!” she cries, spitting petals onto the floor. “Isa! Isa, your flowers—”

“This one isn’t my fault,” Isabela says, but Mirabel seriously doubts it. She’s always collecting new plants, or receiving bouquets from admirers.

Mirabel follows her sister to the living room. Luisa is already there, sweating on her exercise bike. She smiles at their approach. “Mirabel! Did you see?”

“What? The biggest bouquet known to man?” Mirabel scoffs. “Yeah, it was kinda hard to miss.”

Isabela turns in place, looking for somewhere to set the flowers. The tables and windowsills are already crowded with houseplants, so she puts them on the couch.

“Look at the card,” she says.

Look at the…?

Wait. Hang on.

Mirabel plucks a small, white card out of the bouquet. It can’t be.

But it is.

Hey kid, the card says. A fan sent these to the studio, so I thought I’d pass them along. I hope that’s okay. –Bruno

Mirabel thumbs the signature, heart fluttering. He… He sent her flowers. No one’s ever done that before. Not like this.

Luisa jostles her by the shoulders. Mirabel didn’t even hear her get off the bike. “You have an admirer!” she teases.

An admirer. Right. That’s the cover story, at least. Mirabel smiles, cheeks red.

“Y-Yeah! That’s exciting!”

“Weird he didn’t ask you first, though,” Isabela says, lifting the card from Mirabel’s hands.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, just… fans can be weird. If they’re going to send you gifts, he should ask before sending them here.”

“Maybe he wanted to surprise me,” Mirabel says.

Isabela is quiet for a moment, but then she shrugs. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Something prickles at the back of Mirabel’s neck. She’s used to the feeling, and equally used to ignoring it. But this time, she says: “Why do you have to be like that?”

“Like what?” her sister asks.   

“Like that!” Mirabel snaps. “Always… I dunno, trying to ruin things?”

Isabela scoffs, offended. “I ruin things?”

“You know what I mean! First with my job, and now—” Mirabel groans, frustrated with herself just as much as Isabela. She doesn’t know what she’s trying to say. “Someone finally sent me flowers! Me! For, like, the first time ever. Can’t you just let me be happy about it?”

Isabela rolls her eyes. She shoves the card at Mirabel. “Whatever. Sorry for caring.”

Mirabel opens her mouth to respond, but Luisa steps between them. “Whoa, okay! Let’s all take a deeeep breath.”

Luisa demonstrates, inhaling through her nose. Mirabel doesn’t join her. Neither does Isabela.

“There! That’s better, right?” Luisa says. “Anyway—Mira, we’re super proud of you! Your job must be going well!”

“Yeah,” Mirabel says, looking right at Isabela. “Really well.”

Isabela rolls her eyes again, turning to walk from the room. Mirabel focuses her attention on Luisa.

“I’m actually going to Bruno’s on Saturday, so he can take more pictures for school.”

Luisa’s smile widens. “Hey, that’s great! He’s still helping you out, huh?” She nudges Mirabel playfully. “That’s really cool.”

Mirabel wavers, surprised by Luisa’s enthusiasm. She wasn’t expecting her sister to be so… supportive.

“Oh… Yeah?”

“Yeah!” Luisa echoes. “I just… I dunno. I think it’s cool, that you’re getting along with Tío Bruno. No one’s really had luck in that area before.”

“What do you mean?”

Luisa shrugs. “Just that… you know. How Mamá always tried to get him to come home for Christmas. Or how he wasn’t going to come to Camilo’s play until you asked. Stuff like that.”

Mirabel thumbs the card. She kind of thought that the family cut him out. But the way Luisa talks about it…

Luisa nudges her again. “So whatever you’re doing, keep it up!”

“Huh? Oh…” Mirabel shakes her head, smiling. “Right. I’ll, um… keep doing what I’m doing.”

Like getting fingered in his office.

She can definitely keep doing that.

***

The rest of the week really drags. Mirabel has two projects due on Friday, and when you add the anticipation of a private photoshoot with Bruno… yeah. She can feel the crunch.

But then, finally… finally… finally… Saturday arrives.

Bruno opens his door with a smile. “Hey! How was—”

Mirabel doesn’t let him finish. She throws her arms around his neck and kisses him.

Bruno makes a strange sound, words caught in his throat. But he catches up quickly, arms winding around Mirabel’s waist.

They stumble backwards into his apartment. Bruno kicks the door shut.

“I got your flowers,” Mirabel between kisses. Bruno hums against her lips.

“Glad you liked them.”

They kiss again, and again, pressed against the wall of the entryway. Mirabel’s breathless by the time Bruno pulls back.

“You, um…” His eyes drop down to her outfit. “You look nice.”

Mirabel smiles, smoothing her short, blue skirt. “Thank you. Made it myself.”

Bruno thumbs the hem, right where Mirabel embroidered a butterfly. Her fingertips ghost against her thighs. “I could tell.”

They separate at last. Bruno straightens his shirt; Mirabel brushes back her hair.

“A-Anyway… I was just finishing up some work. Make yourself at home!”

Mirabel follows him down the hall, bringing her duffle bag full of clothes. She drops it in the living room as Bruno disappears into his studio.

She makes herself comfortable, just like he suggested. She pours some coffee. Flops on the couch. Taps on her phone. Her thighs rub together absently; her lips still tingle from kissing him.

After a while, though, Mirabel gets bored of waiting. She pads into the studio, and finds Bruno bent over his computer, brow creased in concentration.

“Alllllmost done,” he promises.

Mirabel approaches from behind, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Her chin rests on the crook of his neck. “What are you working on?”

It’s a pointless question. She can see the photo he’s editing; some woman in lingerie and cat ears. Bruno taps his screen, concentration unbroken.

“Who’s she?” Mirabel asks. Bruno shrugs under her arms.

“Some client.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds: “Are you jealous?”

Mirabel snorts. “No. It’s just work. I get it.”

Another stretch of silence. Bruno is very still.

“Not even a little jealous?” he says hopefully.

Mirabel laughs. “Oh, is that what you want? ‘Tío, no! Stop!’” She tugs on him like a child begging for attention. “‘Don’t look at anyone but me!’”

Bruno’s laughing now, too. He leans back in his chair; Mirabel takes the opportunity to slide into his lap. His arms fold around her instantly.

“I don’t want to,” Bruno says, nuzzling Mirabel’s neck. “I don’t want to look at anyone but you.”

The words are soft, full of promise. Like he means them, really means them—like he could spend his whole life looking only at her. Mirabel squirms in his lap.

“You really missed me, huh?”

Bruno’s hand slides up her thigh, slipping dangerously beneath her skirt. Their lips find each other again; a moan rumbles in Bruno’s throat.

“Kid… you have no idea.”

Mirabel shivers as his hands roam over her body. She wants to hear more. She wants his words as much as his touch.

“How much did you miss me?” A grin tugs at her lips. “Did you touch yourself?”

Bruno groans. “You asked me that before. You really love humiliating you tío, huh?”

“Maybe a little,” Mirabel admits. “I don’t know. I like hearing it. I like knowing you think about me that way.”

She guides his hand up her thigh, placing it between her legs. Only the thin fabric of her underwear separates them.

“I think about you that way,” she whispers.

Another groan rumbles in Bruno’s throat. He brings his mouth close to her ear, whispering like a secret.

“Of course I touched myself.”

His breath is warm, making her shiver once more. “So… Was it, like, every night? Every hour?”

“Miraaaa…”

“Okay, okay!”

Mirabel giggles, plying Bruno’s neck with kisses. Encouraging him. Coaxing him. “How’d you do it? Was it in your bed? On the couch? Did you moan my name?”

Bruno shifts beneath her. “Mostly, it was in this chair.”

“Really?!”

“Yeah…”

His hand slips out from Mirabel’s skirt. She whines, feeling cold from the loss.

“One second,” Bruno says, and that same hand covers Mirabel’s eyes, hovering just above her glasses. His other hand reaches for the computer; there’s a clicking sound, and then Bruno uncovers her eyes.

“There you are,” he says.

Mirabel blinks. The photo he was working on is gone, replaced with the topless photo of his niece.

“There’s more,” Bruno says, showing Mirabel a file with her name on it. Inside, there’s every photo they ever took together. Mirabel in cow-print undies; in a sheer, white nightgown; in Bruno’s shirt, sipping coffee.

Mirabel flushes as she clicks through them. She’d forgotten how good these were. How wanton and shameless she looks—especially in the nightgown photos, when she writhed in bed for Bruno like a lover.

“I love that one,” Bruno says, looking over Mirabel’s shoulder. She’s sitting on his lap with her back pressed to his chest, his arms wrapped tight around her waist.

“I thought you were acting. All flushed like that, begging me to ravish you… But then you told me that it was real. That you— That you were aroused the whole time.” He swears softly. “That’s when you had me, kid.”

Mirabel takes his hand, guiding it once more between her legs. She’s already getting wet; her head spins from how hot this is, how sexy he makes her feel. Bruno gently moves her underwear aside and slips his fingers into her.

“I want to take more photos like that,” he confesses.

Mirabel sighs with longing. Bruno’s talented fingers glide along her inner folds, making her eyelids flutter.

“We could,” she whispers. “We could do it right now. You could take me to bed…”

“N-No, that’s not…” Bruno exhales against her neck. “That’s not what I want.”

“Then tell me,” Mirabel says. “What do you fantasize about? If you could photograph me anywhere, doing anything, what would it be?”

His wildest dream. His most depraved fantasy. She wants to know; then, maybe, they can do it.

Bruno’s hands go still. He’s quiet for a while.

“I want… I- I want…”

His voice is so soft. Timid. He presses his face to the side of her neck.

“Damnit…” he whispers.

“It’s okay,” Mirabel says. She lays her hand over Bruno’s—the one still placed between her legs. She rocks against him. “I won’t judge you, Tío. I promise. I’m just as weird as you…”

Bruno whines against her. He’s shaking again, like when they first kissed. He’s on the edge of something, teetering, inches from falling.

“I want…” Mirabel can feel him swallow. “I want to make love to you. A-And fall asleep in the same bed. And then- and- and then…”

His fingers move inside of her again; his lips press to the back of her neck. Pleasure rolls through Mirabel’s body, making her gasp.

“I’d photograph you in the shower. Getting dressed. Making coffee in my shirt…”

Mirabel writhes. She can feel his erection pressing against her back. Her head swims; she didn’t… She had no idea. His greatest dream, his wildest fantasy… is just being with her.

Of course it is. He’s been saying it all along. The flowers. The way he trembles when she’s near. What he said, right before their first kiss: I know you’ll be my high.

He’s in love with her.

Really, truly in love with her.

Bruno kisses behind her ear. “It’s silly. I know.”

“It’s not silly,” Mirabel says at once. Her fingers tighten around his hand, stopping him. “It’s not silly.”

She twists around in his lap, looking Bruno in the face. “We’ll do it. Someday. I’ll spend the night here, or… we’ll go away together. And then we’ll have the perfect morning.”

Bruno’s smile is warm and loving—but his eyes are undeniably sad. He wants to believe her. He just can’t bring himself to do it.

Still, he lifts Mirabel’s hand and kisses it. “I’d love that.”

“Maybe after finals? Or the holidays?”

Bruno nods. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He’s trying. She can tell.

Mirabel kisses his lips. “Let me go get changed. We have a photoshoot to do, remember?”

Bruno chuckles. “How could I forget?”

She climbs out of his lap, wobbly-legged from everything he did between her thighs. Bruno holds on to her arms, keeping her steady.

Once she’s alone in the bathroom, Mirabel exhales. She braces herself against the sink.

Bruno’s fantasy… She wants it, too. Right now, if she could. But it’s still early in the day, and Isabela would get suspicious if Mirabel suddenly decided to stay the night.

What she wouldn’t give for another storm.

This thing that she has with Bruno… This relationship—wait, is it a relationship? Or are they just… Well, whatever they’re doing, whatever this is—it’s delicate. Far, far more delicate than Mirabel realized.

Bruno’s given her his heart. The last thing she wants to do is break it.

Mirabel steps out of the bathroom dressed in a blue hoodie. Like the skirt she arrived in, it’s heavily embroidered, covered in squiggles and butterflies. A zipper runs down the front, so she could reveal her clothes beneath at any time—assuming she’s wearing any at all.

She returns barefoot to Bruno’s studio. He glances at her, and then double-takes. The hoodie barely reaches her thighs.

“That’s an outfit for school?”

“Oh, this?” Mirabel grins. “No, this one’s for you. …and maybe a little for me.”

Bruno looks her up and down, fiddling with the camera around his neck. “Well, um… You look great! Should we get started?”

His studio setup is simple; no more than a wooden stool against a white backdrop. Mirabel frowns.

“The stage isn’t right,” she says.

Bruno fumbles, caught off-guard. “Oh—sorry, I don’t—”

“You should photograph me in bed.”

The words come out quickly, before Mirabel can lose her nerve. Bruno goes silent at once.

They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. He knows what she’s asking for. What she’s really asking for.

Bruno swallows.

Opens his mouth.

Swallows.

Tries again.

“A-Are you sure?”

Mirabel nods. “It’s what I came for.”

Again, they hold each other’s gaze. Mirabel gets the feeling that he knew that, too.

“If you’re not ready—”

“I am,” he says at once. “I- I want… I want that.”

Mirabel lifts her arms. Her hoodie rides up, almost showing off her underwear. “Can you carry me? Like you did that night, when you put me to bed.”

Bruno chuckles. He makes a show of stretching his back, groaning like an old man. “Well—I can try.”

He lifts her with great effort, sweeping Mirabel off the floor. He sways a little; is she heavier than before? Or maybe he’s just more nervous. Mirabel wraps her arms around his neck, flushed with anticipation.

Bruno carries her to the bedroom. The air is warm and stuffy, filled with afternoon light.

Mirabel squirms as he lays her in bed. Sunshine streams through the curtains and spills across his mattress. It makes what they’re doing feel even more wrong, somehow—like the whole world can see what they’re doing, stripped bare in the light of day.

Bruno steps back, hovering at the bedside. He’s doing that thing again with his eyes, framing a photograph in his mind.

“I’ve got it,” he says. “You’re, um… It’s a lazy afternoon. You took a shower and—you didn’t even bother getting dressed.”

He has her lounge in bed, propped on the pillows like she’s bored. He even gives her a book to read—the kind with a shirtless guy on the cover and a woman swooning in his arms.

Bruno shuffles at the bedside, snapping photos. Praise falls from his lips as Mirabel poses, trying to pretend he’s not there.

It’s impossible, though. His voice is inescapable, working its magic on Mirabel’s body. Every time the camera clicks, she gets a little more flushed, a little more wet.

“This… This book is pretty spicy,” Mirabel says, determined to stay in character. “It’s making me blush.”

The camera clicks.

“You can always unzip your hoodie,” Bruno suggests. “If- If you’re getting too warm.”

Mirabel grins. “Yeah. Maybe that’ll help.”

She sets the book aside and sits up, relaxing into the pillows. Bruno sits on the foot of the bed, poised to capture Mirabel as the zipper slides to her navel.

She’s wearing a bright, green bra underneath, the same color as her glasses. Mirabel parts her hoodie so that Bruno can get a good look.

He snaps a photo. “Did you—Did you make that? For me?”

Mirabel toys with the butterfly-shaped clasp in the center of her bra. “It’s your favorite color.”

“Damnit, it.” Bruno lowers the camera and adjusts his pants. Then he makes a show of slapping his face, as if forcing himself to focus. “Okay, okay! So—you’re enjoying your book!”

“Really enjoying it.” Mirabel rubs her knees together teasingly. “I’m so wet.”

Bruno slaps himself again.

“So, maybe, um… Maybe you play with yourself a little. Slowly,” Bruno adds. “Slowly. You have all afternoon.”

Mirabel slides her hand into her hoodie, out of Bruno’s view. Her breath grows shorter; she’s never been photographed touching herself. Her fingers slip inside.

The camera clicks, and Mirabel gasps. A rush of arousal surges through her. Bruno can’t even see what she’s doing between her legs, but the simple fact that he’s capturing her flushed face, her parted lips—it’s too much. She’s already coming undone.

“Slow,” Bruno says again. “That’s it… Good girl…”

Mirabel whines. The mattress shifts as Bruno adjusts his angle, taking photo after photo.

“Beautiful.”

Click.

“Perfect.”

Click.

“Yeah, just like that—”

Mirabel opens her mouth in a wanton moan. Bruno captures it all.

He slides up the mattress again. He’s between Mirabel’s legs now, hovering over her. Through a haze of pleasure, she can see him grinning under his camera.

“Slow,” he repeats. “Don’t come yet. You’ve waited a long time for this… You want to make it last.”

Mirabel nods, breathless.

Trembling, she grasps her zipper. Her fingers are wet with slick. She stares right into the camera as she pulls the zipper down, and her hoodie falls all the way open.

Bruno swears loudly.

“Kid—what the fuck are those?!”

Mirabel runs her fingertips over the hole in her crotchless panties.

“Do you like them?”

Bruno swears again. His camera clicks.

“Fuck— Shit—” His camera clicks again and again. “Wait—what did you say?”

“Do you like them?”

More swears. More pictures. Mirabel spreads her legs, giving him a perfect view of her wet, dripping cunt.

The panties are green, just like her bra, with an identical little butterfly perched at the top. Mirabel’s whole face is burning, pleased with Bruno’s reaction.

He photographs her shamelessly. Not that he had much shame before, but now—it’s like something in him snapped. He tells Mirabel to touch herself. To open her bra. Pinch her nipples. Moan and arch her back.

“What happened to ‘slow’?” Mirabel teases, one hand between her legs, the other on her breast.

“That was before you started playing dirty.”

Mirabel spreads her wet folds, toying with herself. Pleasure washes over her in waves, tingling down her fingertips and toes. Her eyes roll back; the camera keeps clicking.

“What…” Mirabel’s voice is soft, breathless with pleasure. “What do I have to do to get you to touch me?”

The mattress dips are Bruno sits up on his knees, camera poised. Mirabel tries to meet his gaze through the lens, but she can only see her own reflection, open-mouthed and desperate.

“Come for me,” Bruno says. His voice is low and seductive. “Come for me, and I’ll touch you.”

Mirabel closes her eyes. She wants him so bad, she can’t stand it. Her fingers move rapidly, making wet, obscene noises.

“That’s it,” Bruno says. “Almost there…”

Pleasure tightens inside of Mirabel’s lower belly.

“Almost there…”

The camera clicks.

And the pleasure snaps.

Mirabel cries out. Her climax hits so hard and fast, it almost hurts. Her eyes wrench tight; her thoughts slam to a halt. For a moment, there’s nothing but the pleasure in her veins and the warmth in her bones.

She came.

For him.

For his voice.

For his camera.

Mirabel whimpers as the pleasure ebbs away. She can still hear the shutter clicking.

“Tío… You promised…”

There’s a chuckle. The clicking stops.

And then warm lips press against her own.

“That was wonderful,” Bruno whispers. “You did so good for me, Mira. You were perfect.”

Mirabel whines when he kisses her again. She tugs on his shirt, fumbling with the buttons.

“You promised.”

Another chuckle. “I know. Hang on.”

Mirabel watches Bruno draw back. He sets his camera aside and begins to undress. His fingers tremble; there’s a noticeable bulge in his pants.

Bruno opens a button. Then another. His hands are shaking so much. He turns from Mirabel to undo the rest; she frowns when she hears him fumbling with his belt buckle.

“Wait.” She sits up, grasping his arm. “I want to see.”

Bruno glances over his shoulder. He hesitates for a long moment.

Mirabel smiles. “It’s okay. You’ve seen me. Let me see you.”

She tugs on his arm. He slowly turns, guided by her gentle hands. His shirt is open; Mirabel can see a hint of his bare chest. She grips the fabric and helps it slide down his shoulders, before crumpling on the floor.

Bruno’s hands twist. He’s fighting the urge to cover himself—an impulse Mirabel understands well.

“You’re beautiful,” she says, drinking in his lithe frame, his smattering of chest hair. Bruno half-smiles.

“Let’s not get carried away.”

“But you are!”

Mirabel reaches for his belt. It clicks softly as she tugs it away.

With slow, gentle hands, she undresses her uncle completely. Inch by inch, his body is revealed to her. The afternoon light leaves no mysteries, nothing concealed.

“I like this,” Mirabel says, running a hand through his chest hair. “and I like these.”

She takes his hands—his wonderful, talented hands—and kisses them.

“And I really, really like this.”

Bruno moans as she grasps his cock and gives it a hard, firm stroke.

“I like you. I want you. I want—” Another stroke. “—my tío—to fuck me.”

Bruno catches her wrist. He laughs breathlessly. “Okay, okay! Damnit, kid, you’re killing me.”

Grinning, Mirabel removes her hoodie and bra, tossing them aside. Bruno stops her before she can take off the panties, though.

“Really? You wanna do it with them on?”

“Yeah.” Bruno stares between her legs hungrily. “I really like them.”

Mirabel climbs up the bed again, lying back on the pillows. Then she grips her legs behind her knees and holds herself open, displaying her wet cunt.

Bruno swears. “Killing me,” he says again.

Bruno fumbles with his nightstand, drawing out a condom. Mirabel watches him roll it down his length, before crawling into bed. She trembles with anticipation.

Finally.

Finally.

He brings the head of his cock to her entrance, perfectly framed by her crotchless panties. He pushes inside, slowly at first, but then he sinks in all at once.

Mirabel gasps at the sudden stretch, the uncomfortable fullness.

“S-Sorry,” Bruno says.

“It’s okay—”

“I tried to—”

“I know. Just give me a second.”

Mirabel closes her eyes, adjusting to the stretch. Warm lips press to her brow. Her cheeks. Her lips.

“Tell me this is okay,” Bruno whispers.

Mirabel nods. Her thighs are shaking. She doesn’t think she can hold herself open like this for very long.

“Tell me this is okay,” Bruno says again. “Please. I need…”

“It’s okay.” Mirabel opens her eyes, looking right into Bruno’s. She wraps her legs around his waist. “I’m okay.”

Mirabel rolls her hips, coaxing him into motion. They set a gentle pace, grinding against each other. Bruno’s cock slides out to the tip before pushing back in.

“Keep saying it. Please.” Bruno’s breath is hot against Mirabel’s lips, begging between kisses. “Keep telling me it’s okay.”

“It’s okay,” Mirabel promises. “It’s okay. It’s—ah—”

Bruno’s lips are lower now, pressing between her breasts. The room is so warm, almost oppressively so; sunlight falls over their bodies like a fine sheen of sweat.

“It’s wonderful. Perfect. Tío—!”

Mirabel cries out as he thrusts harder.

Every one of Mirabel’s words makes Bruno kiss her harder, fuck her faster. She moans them out, loving it, needed it.

“I love this,” she says, clinging to him. “Love it—Tío—Love it when when you touch me, when you kiss me—”

Bruno does both.

“Love it when you praise me—”

“Beautiful, fuck—”

“Love it when you photograph me. When you’re near me. Want you all the time, need you—”

Bruno lifts himself up, gripping the headboard. The motion practically folds Mirabel in half, allowing his cock to drive even deeper inside. Mirabel wails.

“Love it, love it, love it—”

“Yes, tell me—”

“Love it when you fuck me!” Mirabel cries. She’s on fire. Melting. Her skin is slick; she can hardly breathe.

“Love it when you come in me—”

“Fuck, kid—”

“Come in me.”

“Shit—”

With on hand gripping the headboard, Bruno reaches between them and finds the top of Mirabel’s mound. He rubs her there, thumb sliding, flicking, messy and clumsy and so, so good.

It doesn’t take long for Mirabel to fall apart.

She cries out, digging her nails into Bruno’s back. She hears him hiss; feels her insides tighten around his cock. He fucks Mirabel all through her climax, leaving her weak and shaking.

She has no bones. No strength. And yet she clings to him, arms around his shoulders, legs around his waist.

She’s her old self again. The girl who always wanted one more squeeze.

Bruno groans above her. There’s a throbbing sensation between her legs, then a flood of warmth. Mirabel sighs with contentment.

“See? I knew I would love it.”

A laugh rumbles in Bruno’s throat. He’s bowed above Mirabel, shaking just as much as she is.

He kisses her before drawing out slowly. Only then does Mirabel release him, and let herself go slack.

There’s a shuffling sound as Bruno tends to the practical things, discarding his condom and getting cleaned up. The mattress sags when he returns to it.

“Here.” His arms slides under Mirabel, easing her up. “I brought water. You should drink.”

Mirabel smiles as he brings the cup to her lips. “Thank you, Tío.”

She drinks slowly, cool water sliding down her throat. Bruno watches her with half-lidded eyes.

“Say it again,” he says softly. “Please.”

For some reason, Mirabel’s heart twinges. She cups his face.

“I loved it. I promise.” She brings their lips together. “I’ll tell you as many times as you need.”

Bruno closes his eyes and inhales deeply. He says nothing as Mirabel kisses his brow and cheeks.

“We’re going to go away together,” she promises. “And we’re going to have the perfect morning. You can photograph me waking up—”

“Mirabel…”

“Taking a shower—”

“Mira.”

“Whatever you want.”

He silences her with his lips. The kiss is slow and tender.

When it breaks, Bruno sighs, pressing their forehead together. His skin is just as warm and slick as hers.

“Can we just… lie here for a while?” Bruno follows the question with a laugh. “You wore me out, kid.”

Mirabel nods. She isn’t tired, but lying in bed with him sounds nice. They climb up the bed once more, lying back on sweaty sweets. Bruno curls into Mirabel; his head rests above her heartbeat.

“Oh, wait a second!”

Giggling, Mirabel reaches for the book that Bruno gave her. It got lost in the pillows, somehow.

“How ‘bout I read to you?” she says. Bruno laughs again, cuddling closer.

“Go ahead.”

Mirabel smiles. For the rest of the afternoon, she strokes Bruno’s hair, telling him a story of forbidden romance; a love that could never be.

Chapter Text

November goes by in a blur. And before Mirabel can blink, half of December is gone as well. It’s like being caught in a river, continuously pushed downstream. It’s all she can do just to keep her head above the water.

School goes as well as it always does. Despite her best efforts, Mirabel’s grades are frustratingly average. Good enough to get by, but not enough to stand out. She really wanted to finish her first semester with something impressive, something she could brag about during the winter holidays. Her only hope now are the final exams; maybe if she does well enough, she can turn some of those B’s into A’s.

Luckily, work is a lot more fun. People actually seem to like her there. Bruno’s crew is really cool, especially Laura and Roberto, who are the closet to Mirabel in age. They’re still, like, ten years older than her, but she doesn’t mind being viewed as the “little sister.” She’s been one her whole life.

“Mira!” Roberto says one day, after a particularly long photoshoot. “Pssst, hey! C’mere!”

He and Laura are crowded around the dressing room door, peering out onto the set. As Mirabel moves closer, they pull her to the side, half-hiding behind the doorframe.

“Wha—hey!” Mirabel cries. She has slippers on her feet and her robe tied shut, still wearing her costume from the photoshoot. “What’s going on?”

“Shh. Just look.”

Mirabel follows their gaze. Beyond the door, the tech crew are shuffling around, breaking down props and storing equipment. Besides that, there’s only Bruno and Eduardo, chatting lightly near the stage.

“Do they seem different to you?” Roberto asks. Mirabel squints behind her glasses.

“Not really. Why?”

Laura snorts. “Roberto thinks they’re fucking.”

A jolt runs down Mirabel’s spine.

“I didn’t say that!” Roberto insists. “I said, ‘Bruno’s fucking somebody.’ You’re the one who mentioned Eduardo.”

Mirabel stares at them. She can’t think. She doesn’t— Why would they—

“Oh my god, I think we broke her,” Laura says. Mirabel shakes her head.

“Sorry, I… I just never really thought about my uncle’s love life.” The lie tastes strange in her mouth. Ducking low, she leans around the doorway, as if to steal another look at Bruno. “What makes you think he’s seeing someone?”

“It’s basic math,” Roberto replies. “I’ve been watching him closely; he’s at least eighty percent happier, and thirty percent less horny. Conclusion: He’s getting laid.”

Mirabel smirks. “Math, huh?”

“Yeah. Math. Gay math.”

Out on set, Bruno laughs at something Eduardo said. Roberto’s right: He does look happier. His eyes are brighter; his laugh, easy and light. Mirabel allows herself a tiny smile, pleased to think that she had something to do with it.

“Eduardo’s known him the longest,” Laura muses. “Pilar said they met at some other studio, before Bruno started his own.”

Mirabel hmm’s, like she’s invested in the mystery. “Yeah, but… Eduardo’s married.”

“Always room for one more,” Roberto says suggestively.

As Laura smothers a laugh, Bruno finally looks in their direction. They scramble away from the door, giggling.

“So!” Roberto blithely changes the subject. “Drinks tonight? Mirabel? Drinks?”

“Oh—I can’t,” Mirabel says. Her cheeks are hot, flushed from all their gossip. “Finals start on Monday. I have to study.”

“Boo! Studying isn’t fun. Drinking is fun!”

Mirabel laughs. “Yeah, you got a point there.”

She flops in front of the lighted mirror, helping herself to the makeup wipes. Her arms are sore from the photoshoot, aching from holding so many poses. No one told her how physically demanding this job would be—and that’s when she’s not trying to seduce the photographer.

“I am so ready for the holidays,” she says.

Roberto frowns in the mirror. “Ugh, not me. My parents’ house is a nightmare. They’ve spent years bugging me to get an education, but apparently, cosmetology school doesn’t count.”

“You can come over to my place,” Laura says, helping Mirabel comb out her hair. “You’ll have to deal with my sister’s kids, but the food is always good.”

Mirabel smiles to herself. It’s really nice, how the people here take care of each other. Like how Eduardo’s husband comes to visit sometimes, always bringing extra snacks for the tech crew. Or how Pilar’s car got a flat tire one day, and a bunch of them stayed late to help her fix it. In a lot of ways, it reminds Mirabel of her small hometown. The community. The togetherness.

She wonders what they would say, if she told them she was sleeping with Bruno. Well, you know, besides the obvious, horrified reaction. She can imagine that part perfectly; the part where they assume something horrible happened, some gross abuse of power. He’s her employer, her uncle, he’s three times her age—Mirabel can hear all the arguments, all the extremely valid criticisms.

But after all of that, if she could convince them that she wants this, that she cares about Bruno—then what would they say? It’s hard to know. It’s hard to even guess.

She waves goodbye to Laura and Roberto in the parking lot, where Bruno is waiting to drive her home. They’re gonna grab some dinner at his place first, though—one last date before she buckles down for finals.

“Great shoot today!” Bruno says, fingers drumming on the steering wheel. He’s still keyed up, brimming with post-work adrenaline. It makes Mirabel smile. “You were so fucking hot, I could hardly stand it.”

Mirabel giggles. So much for “thirty percent less horny.”

Bruno flips his turn signal, pulling onto a familiar road. His apartment building looms in the distance, visible through festive lights and wreaths strung from streetlamps.

Mirabel’s smile softens, watching the lights go by. She loves this time of year; the music, the decorations, the palpable Christmas cheer. Right now, Abuela will be opening her home to the neighborhood, hosting parties, giving gifts. Mamá will be baking day and night, and the whole house will smell like toasted sugar. The streets themselves will be filled with candles, spilling over porches and out into the night.

She really is looking forward to it. The warmth of her mother’s kitchen. The familiarity of her childhood bed.

Except…

She glances at her uncle. He’s still talking about their photoshoot, saying he’ll try to have the pictures online before the new year. He catches Mirabel’s eye.

“What?” he says. Mirabel blinks, caught off-guard.

“Hm?”

“You’re looking at me funny.”

“O-Oh.” She quickly drops her gaze. “Sorry.”

“What’s wrong?”  

“Nothing. I’m fine.”

“You sure?” Bruno asks. “You’ve, um… You’ve been kinda quiet. Everything okay?”

Heat rises into Mirabel’s face. “It’s really nothing. It’s just… you know.” She lifts her shoulders. “Finals are coming up.”

A crease appears between Bruno’s brows. “Do you need to go study?”

“No, that’s not…” Mirabel shakes her head. “I was thinking about what happens… after.”

“After?” Bruno echoes. He’s not following. Mirabel sighs.

“After finals, I get a break from school. And my mom wants me to come home, so…”

Realization washes over Bruno’s face. “Ah. I see.”

He falls silent, staring out the windshield. Mirabel can hear the rush of traffic, the low rumble of Bruno’s engine. They haven’t really talked about this—about the winter holidays or Mirabel’s upcoming break from school. It must be a family trait—they’re both really, really good at not talking about things.

“Did she invite you?” Mirabel asks. After a moment, Bruno nods.

“Yeah. She did.”

He adds nothing more, letting his tone answer the obvious question. He declined Mamá’s invitation, just like he does every year.

Mirabel stares at her lap. It’s only been six weeks since she and Bruno got together—six weeks, and already she’s over-attached, clinging to him like she did when she was little. His hands, his voice have become so familiar to her. She doesn’t know how she’ll survive the holidays without it.

“It’s going to suck, not seeing you all the time,” she says at last. Bruno gives her a half-smile.

“We can still text,” he offers. “Or chat on the phone. I’ll try to be better about answering.”

Mirabel’s mouth tugs upwards, trying to return his grin. It’s hard, though. She knows what she wants to ask him, but she’s afraid of what he’ll say.

Bruno reaches across the seat, searching for Mirabel’s hand. She lets him take it, squeezing tight.

They spend the rest of the drive in silence.

***

Back at Bruno’s apartment, everything is blissfully normal. They eat dinner in front of the television, a blanket draped over their laps. On the screen, a gameshow host asks a long series of trivia questions. Bruno shouts the answers and Mirabel can’t tell if he’s really smart or if he’s seen this episode too many times.

She lays with her head on Bruno’s chest, enjoying his warmth, his laughter. This is her favorite part of the week. This, right here.

Her phone lets out a little ding. Bruno glances over. “Your sisters?”

“No, it’s… Tía Pepa.” Mirabel taps on the screen, and a photo pops up. “Oh, hey! Toñito!”

For years, Mirabel was the youngest Madrigal. But around the time she turned ten, little Antonio came along, surprising just about everyone. Camilo became an older brother, and Mirabel, as good as a sister.

Antonio smiles in Mirabel’s palm, dressed in an adorable white suit. He’s probably getting dragged off to some party, and Abuela expects him to look his best.

Someone can’t wait to see you! Tía Pepa says.

Mirabel tilts her phone, letting Bruno see. He half-smiles. “Very cute.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Mirabel beams. She misses him so much. She misses everybody—her parents, her crazy aunt and uncle, even her stern-faced grandmother.  

Can’t wait to see you, too! Mirabel replies.

“Have you ever met Antonio?” she asks, still tapping at the screen. Bruno shifts beneath her.

“No. Afraid not.”

“That’s a shame,” Mirabel says, though she’s not at all surprised. Bruno hasn’t been home in over a decade, and it was unlikely that Antonio had ever been to the city. “I think you’d like him.”

“I like all of my sobrinos,” Bruno says. He gives Mirabel a little squeeze. “Some more than others.”

Mirabel turns her head, so she can better see his face. He’s staring at the television, his expression neutral. His shoulders, perfectly square.

“Tío?” Mirabel hopes she sounds casual. “What are you doing for Christmas?”

Bruno lifts a shoulder. His eyes don’t leave the television. “You’re looking at it.”

“Really? You don’t visit Eduardo, or… I dunno, grab drinks with the crew?”

Another shrug. “They have their own lives.”

Mirabel is quiet. His answer shouldn’t surprise her, but it does. She can’t imagine that Eduardo wouldn’t invite him for Christmas, or Pilar, or any of the other people who clearly adore him. He must have rejected their invitations, the same way he always rejects Mamá. A strange sense of longing wells in Mirabel’s chest.

“Tío Bruno?” she says carefully. Her heart beats very fast. It’s now or never. “Do you want to come with me for Christmas?” 

Bruno’s answer comes right away. “Eh, I’m good. Thanks, though.”

He squeezes her knee before standing up and heading towards the kitchen. “You want anything?”

Mirabel blinks, alone on the couch.

Wait.

That’s it?!

She twists around, leaning over the back of the couch. “You didn’t even think about it!”

Bruno shrugs. He’s at the counter that divides the kitchen from the living room, pouring himself a glass of wine. “I don’t need to. Home and I, you know… We don’t mix.”

Mirabel slides over the back of the couch and walks to the bar. “But don’t you want to spend the holidays with me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then you should at least consider it for half a second.”

Bruno sighs. Setting his glass on the counter, he closes his eyes.

“Alright, I’m picturing it. I’m picturing myself driving home… pulling up to the house…”

From anybody else, this would sound really condescending. But from Bruno it sounds oddly serious, like he can actually see everything in his mind, the future playing out in his head.

Bruno’s quiet for a long time. Probably too long, actually. Mirabel crosses her arms, impatient.

Finally, Bruno opens his eyes. “Nope. It ends in disaster. Trust me.”

“Tío…”

“I’m sorry!” Bruno says. He really does sound it. “I just… I can’t, okay? I can’t.”

Mirabel leans on the counter. “I don’t understand. I mean, I know you and Abuela don’t really get along, but what about the rest of us? Your sisters, your sobrinos—you’ve never even met Antonio.”

Bruno’s silent. He stares at his wineglass, thumbing the stem.

“It’s not just Abuela,” he says at last. “My sisters and I… We don’t always get along, either. There’s so much history, kid. More than you’ll ever know.”

“But my mom invites you every year! She wouldn’t do that if she didn’t want you there.”

“Your mom—” Bruno stops himself, rubbing a hand down his face. When he starts again, his tone is soft. “Your mom wants to fix everything. She always has, even when we were kids. She was the peacemaker.”

He glances at Mirabel, half smiling. “You take after her, I guess.”

Mirabel leans away from the counter, taken aback. She never thought she had much in common with her mom. Like—at all, really. Mamá was always more like Isabela—the role model, the golden child. She did everything right—medical school, marriage, kids—all while getting a home-cooked meal on the table every night. Bruno saying that Mirabel takes after her…

She doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“I love my family,” Bruno says. “I just don’t know how to… how to…”

“How to fit in?” Mirabel offers.

Bruno nods. Yeah. That’s it.

“It’s the same for me,” Mirabel says. Like him, her voice is soft. “Every time I’m home, it’s like… I don’t know. It’s a struggle, every day, trying to figure out what to do, how to act, where to stand. I don’t fit in their perfect picture, you know?”

She grips the counter. Her knuckles go white.

“I wasn’t in the picture,” she says.

Bruno’s brows come together. “What?”

“The family photo,” Mirabel explains. When Bruno still looks confused, she sighs. “You know those family portraits? The ones Abuela hangs in the backstairs hall?”

The ones that Bruno disappeared from. Mirabel’s last memory of her favorite uncle.  

“We took one when Antonio turned five. The family gathered around the camera, just like always—but they didn’t wait for me. No one noticed that I wasn’t there.”

She was in the other room, trying to help with… something. Decorations, maybe. Or the cake. It doesn’t matter—all she remembers is walking into the foyer, and realizing that the photo had already been taken.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. The family, all happy and smiling. The crowd, shifting around her. The sinking realization that like Bruno before her, she’d been erased from the picture, like she didn’t even matter, like she was never even here.

Across the counter, her uncle sighs. “I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to be treated that way.”

Mirabel wipes her face. Her glasses shift from the movement. “That’s why I want you there. You… You get me. You see me.”

Maybe that’s why she wanted to be a model. Why she loves being photographed so much. Bruno sees her. Wants her. Values her.

Bruno would have noticed her absence.

Bruno would have made them wait.

She sniffles, smiling hopefully. “Family weirdos gotta stick together, right?”

Bruno’s quiet for a long time. He doesn’t look at Mirabel.

But after a while, he says, “Okay.”

Mirabel’s heartbeat quickens. “Really?”

“Yes. Really. I’ll…” Bruno closes his eyes and inhales through his nose. “I’ll go home for Christmas.”

Mirabel squeals with excitement, instantly cheered. She darts around the counter and throws her arms around him. “Oh, Tío! Thank you! Thank you, thank you!”

She plants kiss after kiss on his cheek. “It’s gonna be great, you’ll see!”

“Yeah, okay—”

“There’ll be games, and lights, and music—”

“And mass,” Bruno grumbles. “And passive-aggressive comments.”

“And presents!”

“‘Oh, Bruno, why aren’t you married?’” he says in falsetto.

Mirabel kisses him on the lips. Bruno’s arms wrap around her waist. “Just… promise me that I can leave, if things get bad.”

“They won’t!” Mirabel promises. She wiggles in his arms, all but bursting with excitement. “It’s going to be the perfect Christmas.”

Bruno frowns, but says no more.

Chapter Text

By the time they’re ready to head home, Isabela is in a horrible mood.

She hates leaving her plants behind. She doesn’t trust their neighbor to water them properly, or to rotate them so they get even sunlight. Plus, she has to wash all of the dye out of her hair, to make herself “presentable” for Abuela.

Mirabel doesn’t know why her sister puts up with it. Well, okay, she kind of gets it. If all Mirabel had to do to impress Abuela was put on a nice dress, Mirabel would probably do it, too.

It’s early in the morning. While Luisa loads their luggage into the car, Isabela looks over their little sister, arms crossed.

“Remind me why you’re not coming with us?”

Mirabel shuffles. “Tío Bruno said he’d drive me.”

“Yeah, but why did you say yes? I’ve seen his truck. There are springs poking out of the seats.”

“I’ll be fine. It’s only a three-hour drive. Besides, it wouldn’t be fair to leave Tío Bruno all alone. Even Camilo is carpooling!”

Isabela rolls her eyes. “It’s Bruno. He doesn’t mind being alone.”

Well… sure. But three hours is a long time; long enough to convince yourself that you don’t want to see your mother, actually. 

Mirabel huffs. “It’s already decided. Don’t worry about me, okay? I’m not a kid anymore.”

“Fine. Whatever. Don’t forget to lock up.”

Luisa waves as they pull out of the driveway. At last, Mirabel is alone.

Inside the apartment, she tosses her clothes into an open suitcase. Bruno is working today, so he won’t pick her up until the afternoon. Mirabel spends the extra time packing up, and making a list of all the awesome things that she and Bruno can do together when they’re home. You know, just in case he has second thoughts.

She turns about the room, making sure she got everything. Her newest outfit hangs over a chair—a white blouse with a matching blue skirt, both covered in colorful embroidery. She made it for her fashion design class, actually—her final project, her last chance to truly impress her classmates.

It went about as well as you’d think.

Simplistic, they called it. Unfocused. Messy.

Like someone took a crayon to your blouse.

Yeah, that last one hurt a little.

With a sigh, Mirabel stuffs the outfit into her bag. At least she did well enough on her Textile History final. She officially knows more about pre-industrial looms than any reasonable person should.

Finally, a knock comes at the door. Mirabel puts on her brightest smile and answers it.

“Hey, Tío—oh.”

Mirabel stops short. Her eyes widen, looking Bruno up and down.

He looks terrible.

Like, not his usual “I’ve been wearing this shirt for three days” terrible. Or even “I’ll sleep after I hit this deadline” terrible. No, he looks…

…gross.

Bruno shuffles on the doormat. “Hey, kid. Ready to go?”

Mirabel blinks several times. “Uh… yeah. I mean, I’m ready. Are you?”

 “What do you mean?”

She snorts in disbelief. “Seriously? Do I need to get you a mirror?”

“What?” He looks down at himself. “This is me.”

“Tío, no. Come on. You’re seeing the family for the first time in a decade. You can at least put on a clean shirt.”

Bruno runs a hand through his greasy hair. “Trust me, kid. It won’t make a difference.”

Mirabel frowns. He’s not even trying. This is exactly why she wanted to drive with him.

She changes tactics.

“What about me, Tío? Don’t you want to look nice for me?”

Bruno shuffles again. “I’m doing all of this for you,” he mumbles. “I’m going home for you. I’m going to see my mother, for you. I spent a week cramming at work, for you.” He stuffs his hands inside his pockets. “I’m tired, okay? I’m tired, and I’m- I’m sorry that I didn’t have time for a shower, but I’m doing my best here. Alright? This is my best.”

Mirabel softens, reaching for him. It’s obvious now just how exhausted he is, how wracked with anxiety.

The last week must have been awful for him, trying to square everything at work, while also worrying about the family reunion. He probably hasn’t slept in days.

“I’m sorry,” Mirabel says, pulling him close. He smells like sweat and dirty laundry. “This is really hard. I get it.”

Bruno lets Mirabel pull him into a hug. He loosens a little.

“Thanks,” he says, not looking at her. Then, with a sigh: “Listen, I got a duffle full of clothes in the truck. I’ll change before we get there, okay?”

“Well…” Mirabel’s mouth stretches apologetically. “That’s a start…”

Bruno groans. “You really gonna make me go home and bathe?”

“Of course not!” Mirabel grins. “I’ve got a perfectly good shower right here.”

She tugs Bruno inside the apartment. He stumbles after her.

“Wait—what?”

“We’ll get you cleaned up, and then we’ll head out!”

“We?”

Bruno looks strange, standing in Isabela’s very pink, very flowery bathroom. The contrast between his dirty clothes and the floral-print shower curtain is almost comical. He shrinks into himself, gripping his upper arm, like he’s afraid to touch anything.

“You sure this is okay?”

Mirabel waves her hand. “We’re fine. My sisters left hours ago. We’re not gonna get caught.”

Bruno’s eyes roam over the bathroom. The plush, pink towels. “I dunno. Feels weird to use your sister’s things.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Mirabel insists. “They’re never gonna know.”

She reaches into the shower and turns it on, letting the water run until it gets hot. As steam fills the air, Mirabel helps Bruno undress, leaving his clothes in a heap on the floor.

“Go on,” she says, tilting her chin towards the shower. “I’ll be right there.”

Bruno doesn’t argue. As he disappears behind the flower-print curtain, Mirabel helps herself to Isabela’s fancy soaps and lavender-scented shampoo. She grabs a loofa, too; you know, nice things. Soft things. Things so often missing from Bruno’s life.

After stripping down, Mirabel finally joins him in the shower.

Bruno’s leaning against the wall, letting the water run over his body. His back is to Mirabel; his head, bowed.

Mirabel works the soap into a lather, and begins scrubbing Bruno’s back. He flinches at the touch.

“It’s okay,” Mirabel says. Her voice echoes ever slightly. “Just enjoy it.”

Bruno doesn’t say anything. For a long time, all Mirabel can hear is the pulse of the water and the thrum of her own heartbeat. She scrubs between Bruno’s shoulders, down his arms and lower back. The soap runs in rivulets down his legs, pooling at their feet.

“Turn around,” she says.

He does. Mirabel can’t help but stare. She’s seen him naked before, but something about the water highlights the jut of his hipbones, the prominence of his ribs. With wet curls sticking to his face and droplets beading from the ends of his hair, her uncle looks particularly vulnerable. Like something cold and wet brought in from the rain.

Without a word, Mirabel washes his chest. His neck. He doesn’t look Mirabel in the eye. But as she starts to lather his hair, his arms wind around her waist. Bruno pulls Mirabel close, pressing his wet, soapy body against hers.

“Tell me it’s gonna be okay,” Bruno says. She hardly hears him over the running water.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

“Tell me… you’ll still want me, afterwards.”

“Of course I will.”

“You’re gonna hear things,” Bruno says. “Stories, gossip… about me. About curses and dead fish.”

“I—what?”

“Nothing. I was a weird kid. I’ve always been… really, really weird.”

Mirabel threads her fingers through his hair. Everything smells like lavender. “Tío, I know. We’ve been through this. I like how weird you are.”

She kisses him. Slowly. Sweetly. Their naked bodies press together, turned soft by the clouds of steam. Mirabel can feel his hands on her back, his chest hair on her breasts—and his hard cock against her belly.

Mirabel smiles against Bruno’s lips. When the kiss breaks, she takes a step backwards, and continues washing his hair. Bruno closes his eyes as her fingertips massage into his scalp.

Mirabel lets her eyes drop to his cock. It twitches every now and again, flushed and red with arousal. He’s been hard for some time, possibly since she undressed him.

She brushes back his soapy hair, letting the water rinse him clean. “Feeling better?”

“Mm,” Bruno hums. His eyes are still closed, savoring the gentle treatment.

Grinning to herself, Mirabel trails her hand down his chest and wraps it around his dick.

Bruno’s eyes pop open. “O-Oh! Hi.”

“Hi,” Mirabel echoes, stroking him idly. His cock pulses inside her fist. “You know, as excited as I am to go home, I’m really going to miss this.”

Bruno nods, already short of breath. “Yeah. Gonna be a long few weeks.”

Mirabel kisses him again. His mouth is soft from the heat of the shower, lips slightly swollen. Everything is warm, everything is wet; damp curls dangle around Mirabel’s face and stick against her neck.

“Tell me what you need,” she says. “Please. I want to make you feel good.”

“You do,” Bruno says. “I- I mean, you already have. This— All of this— Needed it so bad, shit—”

Bruno’s eyes roll back. Mirabel has been stroking him all this time, dragging her fist up and down his length and rubbing her thumb against the tip.

Mirabel smiles. “It’s okay. You can want this. You’re allowed to want this. You’re allowed to want good things.”

Bruno swears again. Mirabel kisses his jaw; his beard is rougher than usual.

“You’re allowed to need help,” she continues, kissing down his throat. “You’re allowed to need care and attention.”

Bruno makes a weak sound.

Mirabel presses her lips to his chest, his stomach, sinking lower and lower until she’s on her knees before him. Bruno sucks a breath through his teeth.

“Fuck, kid…”

Mirabel grins. Everything is fuzzy without her glasses, especially through the clouds of steam. But she can just make out Bruno’s eager expression, his wide, lust-filled eyes.

She lays a hand on Bruno’s hip. The other grips his cock. She strokes him again, watching rivulets of water run down his chest and drip between his legs. Bruno braces himself against the shower wall, protecting Mirabel from the spray.

Mirabel brings her mouth close to his cock, dragging her tongue along the underside. The effect it has on Bruno is profound. His cock pulses, his thighs twitch; and a hand suddenly tangles itself in Mirabel’s hair.

“Plea… Please…”

Mirabel watches his face contort.

“Please… put it in your mouth…”

Her smile widens. For a so-called pervert, he struggles to ask for the simplest things.

Despite Bruno’s request, Mirabel continues to lap at his dick with her tongue. He tastes different. Clean. Not at all like his usual salt and sweat. Water drips into her mouth as she sucks on his balls.

Bruno keens, like he’s being tortured. His eyes screw shut. “Shit— Fuck—”

“That mouth of yours,” Mirabel teases, looking up from between Bruno’s legs. “You’re gonna have to watch it at home.”

He grits his teeth. Shakes his head. “Don’t wanna talk about home.”

Mirabel nuzzles the patch of hair at the base of his cock. She loves this. Loves watching him come undone.

“What do you want?”

“Your mouth, please—”

“Here?” Mirabel kisses his thigh. Bruno swears again; his palm slams against the wall.

“Mirabel, please—”

“Don’t ask. Tell me.”

That does it.

The hand in Mirabel’s hair tightens, pulling hard enough to hurt. He tilts her head back, looking her in the eye.

“I want you to suck my cock.”

Fuck yes.

With a hum of satisfaction, Mirabel closes her mouth around his cockhead and lets him slide to the back of her throat.

It’s a lot, taking him all at once like that. Mirabel almost gags. But his cock is smooth and wet, and it slides easily along her tongue. Good thing, too, because after all that teasing, Bruno isn’t messing around.

His hips snap. His cockhead bumps against the back of her throat. Both hands are in her hair now, holding Mirabel still as he fucks her face.

Mirabel’s head spins. Her pussy aches. She hollows her cheeks, bobs her head; this is what she wanted. This is exactly what she wanted. To make him feel good. To make him forget all his cares and worries.

Bruno slows down, letting Mirabel set the pace. She hums in gratitude.

Sitting up on her knees, Mirabel grips Bruno by the waist. Her fingers dig into the tender flesh as she swallows him over and over. Somewhere far away, he whispers a litany of praise.

“Fuck, yes, just like that—”

Mirabel doubles her efforts. She takes him deep down her throat, burying her nose in his wet patch of hair. She can barely breathe, but she’ll take everything he has. Every inch of cock. Every drop of cum.

But suddenly, Bruno pulls her off. His cock slides from her mouth with a wet pop.

Mirabel whines. “Tío…”

“Up,” he says, tugging Mirabel by the arm. His tone leaves no room for argument. “On your feet.”

As soon as she stands, Bruno’s mouth is on her mouth, kissing her hungrily. Mirabel wonders dizzily if he can taste his own cock on her lips, or if the water washes it all away.

They stumble backwards, feet sliding against the shower floor. Mirabel giggles, or tries to, before Bruno cuts her off with another kiss. He presses her hard against the wall.

“Wanna fuck you—”

“Yes—”

“Right here—”

“Please—”

A moment later, Bruno’s cock is inside of her. Mirabel arches and moans, hooking a leg around his waist. Bruno thrusts up into her.

“I want you to feel this later,” he growls. “Tonight, when we’re at home. When you’re smiling and pretending to be normal. I want you to feel me inside of you.”

Mirabel shivers. “Tío…”

He answers with another hard thrust, fucking Mirabel against the shower wall. She cries out in pleasure.

“When you’re lying in bed, and you can’t have me, I want you to think about this.” Bruno snaps his hips, bites her neck. “I want you to ache.”

“I will,” Mirabel promises. “I will, I will—”

Every slam of Bruno’s cock sends sparks up Mirabel’s spine, a dizzying mixture of pleasure and pain. Her eyes roll back; she can see lights behind her eyelids. The heat of the shower has her lightheaded, swimming in a haze of bliss.

“Tío…”

Her breasts bounce as he slams into her again. Her back slides against the wall. She’s so close—and so is he. Mirabel can feel his cock throbbing inside of her.

“Tío,” she says breathlessly. “Cum inside me. Wanna feel it.”

Bruno presses his mouth to hers. She whines into the kiss.

“Please,” Mirabel says. The word barely gets out before Bruno kisses her again. “Mm- Tío- cum in me—”

That’s all she wants. All she’s asking for. She wants to feel him inside—his warmth, his release. She wants to know that she made him feel good.

Bruno answers with three rough, uneven thrusts—enough to send Mirabel spiraling over the edge. She clings to him as she rides out the aftershocks; he never stops thrusting into her.

But then—he pulls out, leaving Mirabel suddenly empty. It feels strange; her pussy clenches around nothing.

Bruno takes himself in hand, fisting his cock desperately. He cums hard a second later, splattering Mirabel with release. She gasps in surprise when it hits her belly.

“Tío…”

He goes still against her, forehead dropping to Mirabel’s shoulder. He heaves for breath, legs shaking.

Mirabel whines. All around them, the steam is swirling away. The water is staring to go cold.

“Tío… I wanted it inside.”

“Hm?” Bruno raises his head. “Oh… Sorry.”

“Didn’t you hear me ask?”

Bruno says nothing, still shaking from his climax. He pulls away from Mirabel. Reaching for a washcloth, he starts to clean them up.

“Sorry,” he says again, keeping his eyes on his work. “I was lost in it, I guess. Not really thinking.”

Mirabel is quiet, letting him run the washcloth over her chest.

“You could have, you know,” she says at last.

“Could have what?”

“Cum in me. I’ve been on the pill since we… started all this.”

Bruno’s gaze flicks to Mirabel’s face. After a while, he says, “Fair enough. We’ll plan better next time, yeah?”

He reaches for the spigot, turning off the water. The room sounds oddly quiet.

Mirabel sighs. She wants to be angry with him, but right now… She just doesn’t have the heart. This was for him, after all. His desires. His needs. Whatever she’s feeling, she shoves down with a smile.

“Yeah, next time,” Mirabel says, wrapping her arms around him. She kisses his cheek. “Are you feeling better?”

“Yeah,” Bruno says, smiling gratefully. He returns Mirabel’s embrace. “Lots better. I really needed this, kid.”

“Good. That’s all I wanted.”

Mirabel tugs him out of the shower and dries him off with Isabela’s fluffy pink towels. His curls stick out as they dry.

After they change into clean clothes, Bruno finds his car keys and tosses them to Mirabel.

“Think you can drive, kid? Your cranky old tío needs a nap.”

“No way!” Mirabel laughs. “I’ll drive, but you’re not allowed to sleep. I’m not spending three hours in the car with no one to talk to.”

Bruno wrinkles his nose, but his eyes are playful. He presses a kiss to Mirabel’s forehead.

“You know, I…”

Bruno stops himself short. His brows come together, like he’s thinking hard about what he wants to say.

But he shakes his head. “Nothing. Nevermind.”

Mirabel half-smile. She thinks she gets it. Taking Bruno’s hand, she pulls him towards the door.

“Come on. Let’s go home.”

Chapter Text

Bruno actually does end up napping on the way home. Curled up in the passenger’s seat of his rusty old truck, he leans on the window and closes his eyes, leaving Mirabel to drive in silence.

Isabela was right about his car. The seats are frayed and full of holes; the steering wheel, peeling.

Mirabel shifts uncomfortably. The driver’s seat has a dip worn into the middle, so deep she’s practically falling into it.

She glances at Bruno. “Tío?”

He grunts in reply.

“Why do you still drive this old truck?”

Bruno cracks open one eye. “What, the Rat Mobile? She’s a classic!”

“Tío, she’s a piece of junk.”

“What?! No!” Bruno sits up, laying his hands on the dashboard. “Don’t listen to her, baby girl. She doesn’t know you like I do.”

Mirabel shakes her head. “I’m being serious. You make good money—you don’t have to drive a car held together with tape.”

“But I like my car held together with tape,” Bruno says. “We’ve been through a lot. I’m not just gonna toss her aside.”

Mirabel adjusts her grip on the steering wheel. Bits of plastic flake off on her palms. “So, it’s like, a nostalgia thing?”

“I… I dunno. Maybe. Why does it matter?”

Mirabel shrugs. “I guess it doesn’t.”

Bruno frowns, unconvinced by her answer. “You think I should get a new car?”

“No! Well, I mean… I don’t know.” Mirabel sighs. What is she trying to say? “You have a nice apartment. And your studio equipment isn’t cheap. I guess I was just wondering why you put up with a busted engine and springs poking into your ass.”

Bruno doesn’t answer for a while. His expression is difficult to read, especially when Mirabel is trying to pay attention to the road.

“I dunno,” he says at last. “I just… I dunno. I’ve never really thought about it.”

Mirabel glances at him again. She shifts in her seat, feeling oddly guilty. She didn’t… She wasn’t trying to make him feel bad.

“I want you to be happy, that’s all,” Mirabel says.

“I don’t need a new car to be happy,” Bruno replies.

Yeah, okay. Fair enough.

Mirabel lets Bruno nap for the rest of the drive. Outside her window, the buildings gradually fade away, turning into miles and miles of farmland. Mountains loom on the horizon, and soon, Mirabel’s driving down the dirt road that leads to her childhood home.

At last, she can see it: La Casa Madrigal, perched on top of a hill. She pulls up as close as she can, coming to stop on a small patch of dirt. A few cars are already parked here; Mamá’s and Isabela’s, among others.

Mirabel turns off the engine. It rattles in gratitude. “Tío? We’re here.”

Bruno stirs. “Huh? Oh. Oh…”

He leans forward, casting his gaze up the hill. The house is a fair distance away, framed through the windshield like a postcard.

His shoulders sag. “Wow. It looks… exactly the same.”

“Is that a bad thing?” Mirabel asks.

“I dunno,” Bruno replies. “It’s just… it’s been thirteen years. I thought… I mean, look at you.” He gestures to Mirabel, but doesn’t take his eyes off the house. “I thought it would be different. But it’s like a photograph. Frozen in time.”

Mirabel studies the house. He’s right. It hasn’t changed at all, not since the day she was born. The whole town is kind of like that; frozen in time.

It doesn’t bother her, though. In a way, she kinda likes it. It’s… comforting. Something she can rely on.

Mirabel nudges him playfully. “Come on. Let’s go inside!”

As Mirabel and Bruno head towards the house, the front door opens. Mamá emerges, her arms open wide.

“There you are!”

Mamá meets them on the footpath, half-way between the house and the driveway. She pulls her daughter into a hug, making Mirabel drop her luggage.

“I missed you!” she says, squashing Mirabel’s face between her hands. “My baby, my little girl—”

“Mamá—”

“You’ve grown so much!”

“Mamáaaaa!”

Ignoring Mirabel’s protests, Mamá covers her face in kisses. Mirabel squirms inside her grasp.

“Okay, okay! I missed you too!”

Mirabel stumbles backwards. Her cheeks burn; her glasses hang askew. Clearing her throat, she says, “Where’s Papi?”

“Oh, your father took Luisa into town. Just grabbing a few things—they’ll be back for dinner.” Mamá casts her gaze over Mirabel’s shoulder. Bruno lingers down the path, slouched.

Mamá softens. Stepping forward, she opens her arms for another hug. “Bruno. Welcome home.”

She pulls her brother close. Bruno doesn’t return the hug, but he doesn’t pull away, either.

“You look good!” Mamá says. Bruno chuckles.

“Liar.”

“No, I mean it! You seem happier.”

The corner of Bruno’s mouth pulls upwards. He rubs his upper arm. “Yeah, well—I guess I am.”

“Good. I’m glad.” Sliding an arm around Bruno’s shoulder, she turns his attention to Mirabel. “Now. About this job.”

Bruno instantly turns ten different shades of red. Mirabel’s heart races.

“It- It’s fine—” she starts to say, but Mamá holds up a hand.

“I just want to make sure that you’re taking care of my little girl,” she says. Bruno’s eyes are pointed firmly at the ground.

“Are you looking out for her?” Mamá presses.

“Y-Yes.”

“Keeping her safe?”

“Yes. Very safe. The most safe.”

Mirabel watches him squirm. Her face is on fire. She can still feel what they did in the shower, just a few hours ago.

“Good,” Mamá says, smiling. “That’s all I need to know.”

At that moment, a shout splits the air. Mirabel jolts, turning towards the sound.

Tía Pepa comes running out of the house, blowing right past Mirabel to throw her arms around Bruno. He staggers, nearly falling over.

“Hermanitoooo!” Pepa wails. “Is it really you?!”

“Y-Yeah! It’s me.”

Pepa wails again, overcome with emotion. When she pulls back, she grips Bruno tight by the arms.

“I want you to know,” she says seriously, looking him deep in the eye, “that the past is in the past. Whatever happened, happened.”

Bruno’s mouth stretches. “Um… thanks. I guess.”

“I mean it!” Pepa says earnestly. “I’m done carrying around old grudges! It’s over. It’s done.”

Mirabel raises an eyebrow. “Old grudges?”

Pepa waves her hand dismissively. “We don’t need to talk about it.”

There’s a long pause. Pepa’s lips move as she struggles against herself.

“But—”

Bruno buries his face in his hands.

“It was my wedding day. Everything was perfect. But then Félix said—”

Mamá tries to interrupt. “We don’t have to—”

“Félix said, ‘Bruno, here, take these matches and light the votives!’ It was the only thing we asked him to do—”

“You started a fire?!” Mirabel cries.

“IT WAS AN ACCIDENT!” Bruno wails. His face is very red.

Pepa continues. “The sprinklers go off. Water everywhere. My dress was soaked. Everyone was soaked! The fire department rolled in—”

“No one got hurt,” Bruno mumbles.

Mirabel nods sympathetically. It takes every ounce of strength not to laugh.

“But what matters is, it’s over,” Pepa says. Her smile looks plastered on. “What’s done is done.”

“What’s done is done,” Bruno echoes. He doesn’t bother to smile at all.

Pepa turns to Mirabel. “You should have seen Abuela. She was—”

Then, as if summoned, a voice says Bruno’s name. Everyone turns to look.

Mirabel’s grandmother stands in the doorway, her hands neatly clasped. She wears a stiff, maroon dress, and her silver hair is pulled into bun. Bruno shrinks behind his sisters.

“Hola, Mamá,” he says.

Abuela’s eyes roam over him, snagging on every hole, every wrinkle in his clothes. Mirabel shuffles; for some reason, an excuse rises in her throat.

“It was a long drive!” she says quickly.

Abuela looks at Mirabel, arching a brow. Heat rushes to Mirabel’s face.

“It- It was a long drive,” she says again. Her gaze drops; she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “That’s why we’re— Why we’re kinda messy.”

Mamá’s hand settles on Mirabel’s shoulder. It makes her feel like a child.

Abuela doesn’t say anything. She hasn’t spoken at all since she said Bruno’s name. Her gaze finds him once more.

She opens her arms.

“Hug your mother,” Abuela says. There’s little warmth in the request.

Bruno hesitates, lingering between his sisters. Mirabel holds her breath. What happens if he refuses?

Mamá nudges her brother. He shoots her a look; Pepa is staring very intensely at her own feet.

But finally, Bruno moves forward. He folds his arms around Abuela and pulls back just as quickly.

“You look thin,” Abuela says.

“I… I guess.”

“Have you been eating properly?”

“Not really.”

Abuela almost smiles. “Well, at least I didn’t raise a liar.”

She clasps her hands together, signaling a change in subject. “Mirabel.”

Mirabel’s heart jumps into her throat. “Y-Yes?”

“Welcome home.”

Relief floods her at once. “Oh! Thanks, I’m really glad to—”

A horn blares in the distance.

The sound startles everybody. Down the hill, a convertible pulls into the driveway, blasting music. Camilo lounges in the back seat, wearing sunglasses and a carefree smile, already acting like a move star. 

Pepa squeals. “¡Mi bebe!”

She takes off down the footpath, eager to see her son.

And just like that, Mirabel is forgotten.

As usual.

More people come out of the house, drawn by the noise of Camilo’s arrival. His father, his siblings all come out to the porch—Isabela, too. They say their polite hellos to Bruno—well, except for Antonio, who hides behind Tío Félix.

“Tío Bruno,” Isabela says, nodding once. She’s in full Golden Child mode, face passive, hands clasped. Bruno makes an incredulous sound.

“Wait, Isa—is that you?”

Isabela glances at Abuela. Luckily, just about everyone is watching Camilo, craning to get a better look at his friend’s car.

Bruno laughs again. “Wow! I didn’t even recognize you without all the— the—”

Oh no.

“All the color! The hair dye! And the—”

Don’t say it.

“—and the spikes!”

Abuela turns at that. Isabela’s eyes are almost bulging out of her head.

“Spikes?” Abuela says.

Mirabel forces a laugh. “W-Wow! What a weird joke, Tío!”

Abuela looks at Isabela, who quickly schools her face into one of confusion.

“Anyway—” Mirabel grabs Bruno’s arm with one hand, and her luggage with the other. “We should probably go unpack! See you at dinner!”

She pulls Bruno into the house.

Once they’re alone in a quiet hallway, Mirabel pinches Bruno’s shoulder.

“Ow! What did I do?!”

“What do you mean, ‘What did I do’?!” Mirabel hisses. “You just called out Isabela in front of Abuela!”

Bruno rubs his shoulder. “What are you talking about?”

“Abuela doesn’t know how Isabela dresses at school.”

“So?”

“So?!” There’s no way he’s this oblivious. “You can’t just spill her secrets like that! Especially when she hasn’t told anyone about my job.”

“It’s hair dye,” Bruno says. “I didn’t know it was a secret.”

“Yeah, well…” Mirabel crosses her arms. She can’t believe that she’s defending Isabela. It makes her feel gross. “Now you do.”

They linger in silence for a while. The sounds from outside echo around them, voices muffled. Bruno casts his gaze down the hallway, at all the framed photos on the walls. A decade’s worth of Christmases and birthdays that he wasn’t here to see.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles.

“It’s okay,” Mirabel says. She doesn’t want to be mad at him. Doesn’t want to argue. “You didn’t know.”

She reaches for him. Bruno lets Mirabel wrap her arms around his waist.

“This is awkward for both of us,” she says. “There’s bound to be hiccups along the way.”

Bruno nods. “Yeah. I know.”

Mirabel studies his face. The worry lines, the creases, the arch of his brows. She wants to kiss him. She wants to massage her thumbs into his temples and rub away the stress.

But they’re not in his apartment. She needs to be… careful.

“Should we go unpack?” she asks softly. Bruno nods again.

“Yeah. That’s a good idea.”

Pulling away, Mirabel offers Bruno her hand. To her great relief, he takes it, and they head upstairs together.

***

When Mirabel wakes up the next morning, she reaches automatically for her phone. Of course, there’s no new messages; almost everyone she knows was at dinner last night.

It wasn’t… entirely awkward. Actually, most of it was pretty normal. Sitting at the table, listening to her sisters and cousins brag about their grades, their trophies, their stand-out performances… It was just like being a kid again.

“What about you, Mirabel?” asked Mamá, after everyone else was done. “How was your first semester of school?”

Mirabel shrugged. “I did okay.”

“Just okay?” her mother pressed. “I don’t believe that! You were always so passionate about sewing. Always making those little outfits!”

Mirabel’s face began to heat. “Yeah, well… ‘Little outfits’ don’t get you very far in fashion school.”

At the head of the table, Abuela was silent, watching Mirabel carefully. Mirabel squirmed in her seat, wishing she had something to brag about.

…besides her modeling job, of course.

For his part, Bruno spent the whole meal staring at his plate, not really talking or eating. When dinner was done, he went upstairs alone, while Mirabel was roped into games with her parents and sisters.

It was a very, very long night.

Now, lying in bed, Mirabel drags a hand down her face.

She can do this.

She can do this!

Climbing out of bed, Mirabel dresses quickly. Though she can smell breakfast cooking downstairs, she heads for the sitting room.

To her surprise, she finds Antonio there, lingering just outside the door. A yellow cat winds around Antonio’s feet, nuzzling at his ankles.

The cat jumps at Mirabel’s approach, but Antonio doesn’t seem to notice. He cracks the door to the sitting room, standing up on his toes to look inside.

Mirabel draws up behind him, peering over Antonio’s head.

“What are we looking for?” she stage-whispers.

Antonio jolts, clearly startled, but his scream catches in his throat. He waves Mirabel back.

“Shh!”

“Why?” Mirabel lowers her voice even more. “Is it a game? Hide-and-seek?”

Antonio shakes his head. “I’m supposed to wake him for breakfast.”

“Who? Bruno?”

Her cousin nods.

“Then let’s go wake him,” Mirabel says, taking a step towards the door. Again, Antonio waves her away.

“No. Don’t.”

“Why not?”

Antonio doesn’t answer. A smile tugs at Mirabel’s lips.

“Toñito… Are you scared of Bruno?”

His silence tells her everything.

“You don’t need to be scared,” Mirabel says, sinking down to Antonio’s height. “He’s really nice. I know Camilo likes to tell crazy stories, but I promise, none of them are true.”

Antonio doesn’t say anything. He scoops his cat off the floor and nuzzles its fur.

“Come on.” Mirabel stands up, offering Antonio her hand. “We’ll go together.”

The sitting room is dark and musty; not too many people use it these days. There’s a few bookshelves, some potted plants that could really use Isabela’s attention, and a TV so old it has a VCR plugged into it.

The television flickers in the darkness. Bruno must have fallen asleep watching it. He’s sprawled across the world’s oldest couch, snoring.

Antonio shrinks behind Mirabel.

“Tío.” Mirabel shakes him gently. “Tío, wake up.”

Bruno stirs, making all sorts of ugly, old-man noises. He blinks hard. “Mirabel?”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling. “It’s me.”

Bruno stares up at her, bleary eyed. It takes him a moment, but then his expression softens.

“Mirabel… I had the worst dream.”

He cups her face. Then, with a sigh of relief, he pulls her down for a kiss.

“Oh!”

Mirabel turns her head just in time. Bruno’s kiss lands on her ear.

“Tío, we’re home!” she says, heart racing. “We’re at Abuela’s house, remember?”

Bruno catches on pretty quickly. The two of them separate like the wrong ends of a magnet, flying to opposite sides of the couch.

Antonio watches them silently. His cat watches them, too.

“Um—good morning,” Bruno says. “Thanks for, um… Thanks for waking me.”

“No problem,” Mirabel says. Her face is burning. At least it was only Antonio who saw that. He won’t ask too many questions.

“Toñito—” Mirabel finds a smile. “Wasn’t there, um—wasn’t there something you want to tell Bruno?”

Antonio’s quiet for a moment. But then his gaze slides to Bruno. “Breakfast is ready,” he says softly.

“Oh. Uh—thanks.”

Again, Antonio is silent. He stares at Bruno, making him shift uncomfortably.

“Was there something else?” Bruno asks. Antonio looks at the floor.

“…I’m sorry.”

Bruno looks baffled. He turns to Mirabel, but she’s just as confused.

“For what?”

“I…” Antonio shuffles. He’s so unlike his brother. “I’m sorry I stole your room.”

Oh.

Ohhh. That’s what he’s worried about?

Mirabel doesn’t remember when Bruno left. She remembers the arguments beforehand, and the silence after—but the packing up, the leaving, that’s all a huge blank spot in her mind. He was there, and then he wasn’t.

What she does remember is how Abuela declared his room “off-limits.”

She remembers making a game of it with Camilo. Daring each other to sneak inside. She remembers the thrill of being somewhere she wasn’t supposed to, and poking through the things Bruno left behind.

His room was, like… her secret place. Her hideaway from the rest of the world.

All of that changed when Antonio was born. Bruno’s room became a nursery, and all of his old things disappeared.

Bruno waves his hand. “Hey, no worries! I wasn’t using it.”

“But… you have to sleep on the couch because…”

“Have to? More like get to!” Bruno says with a grin. “I mean, look at this place! Eh? Bathroom-adjacent! Plus—” He gestures at the television. “Free entertainment!”

Antonio frowns, unconvinced. His cat slides out of his arms and hits the floor with a soft thump.

“I’m fine,” Bruno insists. “Besides, I’m glad someone cool is using my room.”

Antonio’s brows climb upwards. Mirabel’s pretty sure no one has ever called him “cool” before.

“I have a bunkbed,” he says hopefully. “It’s like a treehouse. Do you wanna see?”

“A bunkbed?! Wow, I mean—we gotta see that! Right?” Bruno looks at Mirabel, smiling. She returns his grin.

Bruno surges to his feet. He’s still wearing the same outfit from yesterday. Mirabel gets the feeling that he’s not going to change his clothes.

They’re halfway to Antonio’s room when Isabela comes down the hall.

“There you are!” she says. “Breakfast is ready. Abuela said—”

“One minute! I have to see a bunkbed!” Bruno says.

He breezes past Isabela, leaving her stunned. No one ever outright ignores her—except maybe Camilo, and even he ends to listen when she invokes Abuela’s name.

Mirabel smiles apologetically. “Sorry. Antonio was really excited to—”

“Just make it quick,” Isabela says, clearly unamused.

Isabela turns to leave, but then she stops. Looking over her shoulder, she says, “Did you…?”

Her brow furrows, like she’s working out a puzzle.

“Did you use my shampoo?”

Mirabel’s heart skips a beat. Warmth floods her belly, recalling yesterday afternoon.

“Uh—yeah! I did. Sorry.”

Mirabel tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. It smells unmistakably of lavender. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

Isabela’s quiet. But she turns away soon enough.

“Just ask next time.”

Mirabel says nothing as her sister walks away.

Chapter Text

As the days pass, being home starts to feel less like a vacation, and more like running a marathon.

There’s just so much to do; so many traditions to uphold. As “pillars of the community,” the Madrigals are expected to be everywhere, helping everyone. Almost every night, Mirabel finds herself in a different house, playing the part of the dutiful granddaughter.

It’s easier with Bruno there—in some ways, at least. It’s nice to have someone she can laugh with, someone who smiles when she comes near. Someone she doesn’t disappoint with every breath.

Even then, it’s obvious how uncomfortable Bruno is. Mirabel’s used to being overlooked, but when Bruno enters a room, laughter dies, and whispers start.

“Isn’t he the one who killed your fish?”

“I heard he burned down a church. On his sister’s wedding day!”

“Weird guy. Too many rats.”

“Rats?” Mirabel says, arching a brow at Bruno. It’s late afternoon, and people are filtering in and out of Abuela’s house, getting things ready for tonight’s party. Bruno and Mirabel are helping by staying out of the way.

Bruno snorts. “Yeah. I had a whole ‘Willard’ phase.”

“Who’s Willard?”

“Old movie. Don’t worry about it.” Bruno quickly changes the subject. “Did you ever meet my rats? I don’t remember.”

“Before my time,” Mirabel says. “Though, that does explain the hamster wheel in your closet.”

“The—what?”

“Oh.” Mirabel laughs awkwardly. “Right, yeah—I used to, um… sneak into your room. After you left.” She can feel heat creeping into her face.

“Wait, so you…” Bruno blinks a few times, putting it all together. “You went through my old things? As a kid? Geeze, I…” Bruno rubs his neck. “I hope you didn’t find anything weird.”

“The hamster wheel was a head-scratcher,” Mirabel teases. “But it was mostly, like… I dunno. Old clothes and stuff.”

Bruno breathes a sigh of relief. “Good. I’ve already perverted you enough. I don’t need to retroactively pervert you.”

Mirabel laughs. He worries too much.

“I wonder where your stuff is now,” she muses. Across the room, Abuela is giving instructions to two men with arms full of decorations. Bruno folds his arms, watching them.

“Burned, probably.”

“What? No!” Mirabel says. “Abuela wouldn’t do that.”

Bruno gives her a doubtful look.

“Tío, she saves everything. And I mean everything. That’s probably where you get it from.”

Bruno makes a face. “How dare you.”

“Come on,” Mirabel says, tugging on his arm. “Let’s check the attic.”

“Why? I haven’t been missing that hamster wheel.”

She laughs again. “It’ll be fun!’

Though the attic is cluttered and much too hot, Mirabel shivers as she steps inside. Everything is still and quiet; a sharp contrast to all the excitement downstairs. The dust in the air, the sunlight streaming through the window; it all seems oddly magical, tucked away like a secret.

Bruno isn’t quite so charmed.

“These boxes aren’t labeled,” he grumbles.

“That’s part of the fun!” Mirabel says, moving deeper inside. “We’re brave explorers! Who knows what we’ll discover?”

She opens a box, and finds it inexplicably filled with hats. Giggling, she plops one on Bruno’s head.

“Do you remember when we would play dress-up together?” she asks.

Being home like this, with Bruno—it’s awakening old memories, things long forgotten. “You were always making up new characters.”

Bruno half-smiles. “Yeah. I remember.”

After a pause, he pulls the hat down over his eyes.

“I’m Hernando, and I’m scared of nothing!” he cries. The room fills with Mirabel’s laughter.

They spend quite some time digging through the boxes, discovering things Mirabel hasn’t thought about in years. Like her first sewing machine. And her accordion. She plays a few wheezy notes.

“Wait, here were go!” Mirabel holds up a promising box. She recognizes the clothes inside—that unmistakable shade of green. “These are yours, right?”

Paydirt. The next three boxes are filled with Bruno’s old books and trophies. Photography awards. Newspaper clippings with his name in the headline.

“Wow.” Mirabel looks over the old newspapers; young Bruno, smiling awkwardly. “You were kind of a big deal, huh?”

“Yeah, some, uh—some of my work got national attention.” Bruno looks just as awkward as his photo. “Definitely a big deal, in our small town.”

“I can imagine.”

She can imagine it really, really well. Everyone fawning over the extraordinary Madrigal, calling him magical. Calling him blessed.

Mirabel sighs. Putting the newspaper away, she turns her attention to an unopened box. Unlike the others, this one is heavily taped.

While Mirabel wrestles with the unopened box, Bruno looks over his old awards. His gaze is distant, lost in his own world.

Why is this boxed sealed shut? None of the others were taped up like this. It’s like Abuela didn’t want anyone to get inside.

Finally, Mirabel rips it open.

…and a dozen dirty magazines spill out.

That gets Bruno’s attention.

“Ah,” he says, taking in the magazines. A naked woman stares up at him from the floor. “That would be my porno collection.”

“Oh my god!” Mirabel’s laughing so hard, she can’t breathe. “Why did Abuela keep these?!”

“Very good question,” Bruno says, kneeling down to clean up. There’s no point though; Mirabel pretty much destroyed the box.

“What else is in here?” she says gleefully, joining Bruno on the floor. There’s not just magazines, but videos, too. And toys. And handcuffs.

“Yeah, laugh it up!”

“I’m sorry!” Mirabel cries, though she isn’t, not even a little. She’s dizzy from laughing. “It’s just—can you imagine Abuela packing all of these things? Did she wear gloves?!”

“Well, I mean—that’s better than her enjoying them, isn’t it?”

Mirabel screams with laughter.

She digs to the bottom of the box, eager to see what else it contains. To her great surprise, she finds an old camera—and a cigar box, of all things.

She reaches for the camera first. Bruno’s gaze goes soft.

“Wow. Haven’t seen that in forever. They probably don’t even make film for it anymore.”

“Looks like you got extra!” Mirabel says, finding several unused rolls. “You think it’s still good?”

Bruno shrugs. “Eh. Depends. Film technically has an expiration date, but you know…”

He trails off, fiddling with the old camera. Mirabel turns her attention to the cigar box. Pulling it into her lap, she runs her fingers over the lid. It’s easy to imagine a teenaged Bruno hiding these from his mother. Or maybe not hiding them. Maybe he used to go around reeking of smoke, just to piss her off.

Mirabel opens the lid.

And it…

It does not contain cigars.

Bruno looks over at Mirabel. His hand shoots out.

“Nope.”

“Wait, hang on!” Mirabel says.

“No, please—”

Mirabel twists away, holding the cigar box out of reach. Bruno’s not a tall man, but his arms are long—he knocks the box from her hands. It hits the floor, and dozens of photographs spill out.

Bruno groans, covering his face. But there’s no hiding from Mirabel.

She lifts the nearest photo, heart racing. It shows Bruno in his teens—twenty, at the most. All gangly limbs and awkward proportions; a face that hasn’t quite grown into his nose.

And he is very, very naked.

Not just naked, but… on display. His cock is erect—and something’s tied around his balls. It’s hard to make out; the photo is grainy and overexposed. An amateur’s work.

All of the photos are like that. Shocking. Sexy. A little uncomfortable. Mirabel’s heart beats even faster.

“Bruno…”

“I know!” he cries, dragging both hands down his face. “They’re awful.”

“What? No! These are amazing.”

“Please. I was an insufferable art kid trying to shock people. Just look at this—”

Bruno makes a face at his younger self, bent over with a whip in his ass. “I was so… What do you call it? You know…”

Bruno does something weird with his shoulders. Like he’s wincing.

“Cringe?” Mirabel offers. A smile tugs at her lips. “Are you trying to say ‘cringe?’”

“Yeah! I was cringe.”

“I don’t care,” Mirabel says, hugging the photo to her chest. “I love them.”

“Well, at least someone does,” Bruno mutters.

He gathers up the photos, placing them back in the cigar box. But he doesn’t stop Mirabel from looking through them. She admires each picture, fascinated.

She’s never seen Bruno like this. Bold. Confident. Unafraid to be seen. Not at all like the Bruno who turns away when he undresses.

In one photo, Bruno is naked, holding a long-stemmed flower. His grip is delicate; his face, open and vulnerable. He stares straight ahead, right into Mirabel’s eyes. Like he’s asking for something—mercy, maybe. Acceptance. Understanding.

He wants to be seen.

He wants to be heard.

He’s saying something with this photo. Something Mirabel knows all too well. Her heart aches with longing.

“You should take more photos like this,” she says softly.

Bruno snorts. “What? Nudes?”

“No, I mean… photos that say something. Photos that… tell me what you’re thinking.”

Bruno makes a doubtful face. “I’m pretty sure I was thinking, ‘Wow, I’d really like to see someone naked.’”

“I’m being serious,” Mirabel says earnestly. She shows him the picture with the long-stemmed flower. “This photo… I can’t tell you how many times I’ve felt this way.”

Bruno looks at the photo. They’re sitting together on the attic floor, thighs and shoulders touching. They haven’t been this close in days.

Bruno swallows. His throat bobs. “Like what, exactly?”

“Like… Like no one would ever see me,” Mirabel explains. “At least, not completely. It’s like… you’re begging someone to see you. Everything that you are. Not just your name, or… or who you’re supposed to be. But… you. All of you.”

Bruno’s quiet, staring at the photo in Mirabel’s hand. She cups his cheek. His facial hair is rough against her palm.

“I wish I could have known you back then. We could have helped each other.”

Bruno smiles at that. His cheek rounds out under her hand.

“I would’ve been terrified of you,” he says.

“Me?” Mirabel laughs.

“Yes! I told you, I used to be a mess! A sweaty, awkward mess. I never would’ve had the courage to photograph you. Or even talk to you. And if you’d even thought about kissing me—”

“Oh, I one-hundred percent would have tried to kiss you,” Mirabel teases.

“And I one-hundred percent would have run away.”

Mirabel leans closer. Their noses brush together.

“What about now?” she says. “You feel like running?”

Bruno hums thoughtfully. Mirabel can feel his breath against her lips.

“Well… there are people downstairs.”

“Practically the whole town,” she agrees.

They kiss anyway.

It’s such a relief, kissing him. Like releasing a long-held breath, or lying down after a very long day. Mirabel surrenders to it, melting against him in the heat of the attic.

Again and again, their lips come together, soft kisses becoming wet and messy. Mirabel tugs on his shirt buttons.

“What- What are you doing?” Bruno asks, barely forming the words between kisses.

“I dunno,” Mirabel says. She really doesn’t. She just— She wants to see him.

She wants to see him.

“Take this off. Please.”

Bruno obeys, helping Mirabel remove his shirt. It quickly crumples to the floor.

Mirabel’s eyes roam over him, taking in his bare chest. He’s not as lean as the boy in the photo, and he has a lot more hair—but his large, round eyes are just the same, asking for mercy.

Asking for love.

Mirabel smiles, kissing him again. “You’re beautiful.”

Bruno chuckles against her lips. “You don’t have to flatter me to get into my pants.”

“I mean it. You’re beautiful.”

Bruno doesn’t answer. He never does, when she tells him sweet things.

“I wish you could see what I see,” Mirabel says, pressing kisses to his brow and cheeks. “I wish I had your gift.”

Bruno shifts against the attic floor. “What do you mean?”

“You take such beautiful photos of me. You make me see myself… differently.”

Like that topless photo. How powerful she looked. Like she was someone else entirely.

“I wish I could give that to you.”

Bruno’s quiet for a long time. But after a while, he meets Mirabel’s eye.

“Okay.”

He says nothing else. Mirabel blinks with confusion. “O-Okay?”

Bruno nods, placing his old camera in Mirabel’s hands. He remains silent as he rises from the floor.

Mirabel’s heartbeat quickens. “Wait—really?”

Bruno crosses the room, winding his way around cardboard boxes until he comes to an old armchair in the corner. A white sheet protects it from moths and sun damage. Dust swirls into the air as Bruno pulls it aside.

“I want you to photograph me,” he says. “Show me what you see.”

Mirabel follows him, heart pounding. Her gaze drops to the camera in her hands. Suddenly, it seems like a foreign object.

“I… I don’t know how to…”

Bruno steps close, still shirtless. He places his hands over Mirabel’s, holding the camera between them.

“This is how you focus,” he says, showing her how to adjust the lens. “And this lever here—that’s how you wind the film.”

“Old school,” Mirabel says softly, all too aware of their closeness, his bare chest.

“Very old school. I won’t be able to develop them until we get home.”

He tells her some other things, like how the various numbers along the lens control the depth of field, the shutter speed. Mirabel nods along. It’s a lot to take in.

“Sound good?”

“Y-Yeah…” she says doubtfully. These photos are gonna be terrible. “I just, um… Are you sure you want to do this?” She glances at the door. “I mean, there are people downstairs.”

Though she dismissed it easily before, the threat of getting caught suddenly feels very real. Bruno nods, humming thoughtfully.

“Yeah… We’d better barricade the door.”

Without another word, he brushes past Mirabel and starts pushing boxes across the floor. Mirabel laughs incredulously.

“You’re serious?!”

“If you are,” Bruno replies. Mirabel hesitates for only a moment.

“Yeah. I am.”

Grunting with effort, the two of them make a neat pile of boxes in front of the attic door. That should stop anyone from coming in—even Luisa.

Bruno wipes his hands on his pants. “So… Where do you want me?”

“Um… the chair, I guess,” Mirabel says.

“You sure? You’re the photographer,” Bruno reminds her. “You get to choose the set. The props. The costume. Everything. It’s your vision.”

Mirabel’s quiet, letting the possibilities wash over her. She could ask for just about anything… And he’d probably do it.

“Go to the chair.”

Mirabel doesn’t ask. She tells Bruno what to do. It’s oddly satisfying, saying what she wants—and even more satisfying to watch him obey.

Bruno falls easily into the high-backed chair, sinking deep into the faded cushions. It all but swallows him, framing Bruno’s body between the armrests.

He props himself on his elbow. There are holes worn into the fabric, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“What’s my motivation?” he asks.

“Huh?”

“My motivation! What’s the scene? How should I act?”

“O-Oh…”

Right. Yeah. He always comes up with a scene, when Mirabel is the model. It’s not just about posing a certain way, or wearing a certain outfit; it’s about embodying a character.

“You, um… You… just got home from work?” Mirabel suggests. That sounds boring and stupid, but Bruno gives her an encouraging nod. “A-And I guess, you… you’re watching tv?”

Bruno falls into character at once, his gaze dropping to a television that doesn’t exist. His shoulders slump; his face smooth out. But there’s still a bit of tension in his posture, like he hasn’t quite shaken off the worries of the day.

Crap. He’s really good at this.

Mirabel, on the other hand… has no idea what she’s doing.

She brings the camera to her face. Everything looks different through the camera lens, like she’s viewing the attic through a keyhole. She moves around, trying to find a good angle.

It’s kinda stressful, shooting with film. When she uses her phone, she can spam the camera button all she likes, but with film, she only gets thirty frames. That doesn’t leave a lot of room for error.

Mirabel tilts her head. No—the angle is all wrong. She dips down—it looks even worse.

“This is hard,” she says, changing angles again. Bruno glances in her direction.

“Don’t overthink it,” he says. He sounds distracted, like he’s really invested in his telenovela.

Mirabel moves around, still searching. The attic is weirdly quiet, save the creak of the floorboards. Discomfort prickles down the back of her neck. She doesn’t like this—the silence. They always talk during their photoshoots, helping each other build the scene.

She clears her throat. “What’s happening on your show?”

“Forbidden love!” he says instantly. Mirabel laughs.

“Oh, of course!”

Bruno gestures to the imaginary television, explaining the complicated plot. Mirabel zooms in on his face; his wide, eager eyes.

She snaps a picture.

Bruno glances at the sound of the shutter, but he quickly schools himself back into character. Mirabel’s heart races as she winds the film.

“Do you think they’ll end up together?” Mirabel asks. “The forbidden lovers—will everything turn out okay?”

“I sure hope so,” Bruno says.

With a heavy sigh, he leans back in his chair. His gaze is distant, dreamy—a smile tugs at his lips. Flyaway curls tumble across his face.

Mirabel’s breath catches.

That’s it.

That, right there.

The curls around his face. The dreamy look in his eye. His bare shoulders, lit by the afternoon sun.

He’s breathtaking.

Beautiful.

She lifts the camera to her eye, eager to capture it. She snaps two, three pictures in a row.

“Wow…”

She doesn’t mean to say it. It just sort of… slips out. The sound gets Bruno’s attention.

“Y-Yeah?” he says, shifting a little. Mirabel nods behind the camera.

“Yeah. Just like that.”

Bruno turns back to the tv, trying a few recumbent poses. He slides lower into the chair.

“Yeah, I like that,” Mirabel says. “When your hair falls into your face—perfect.”

She moves around him, camera clicking. It’s easier now. Bruno follows her instructions perfectly, letting the dark curls spill over his brow.

“Yes. Perfect.”

She lets herself say it over and over, telling Bruno how beautiful he is, how incredible. This is what she wanted—what she asked for. The chance to worship him with the camera. To make him feel loved and seen.

Mirabel steps back, taking in Bruno’s whole body. His bare chest, his long limbs.

Bruno shifts as the camera clicks once more. There is a very obvious bulge in his pants.

Mirabel grins. “I bet you’re missing your girlfriend right now.”

Bruno meets her eye through the camera lens.

“My… girlfriend?”

“Yeah,” she says teasingly. “You know… because of the story! Two lovers, kept apart by tragic circumstances? You wish your girlfriend was here, watching it with you.”

“Oh!” Color rises into Bruno’s cheeks. “R-Right… Yeah, she… She’s far away. I haven’t held her in a while.”

“That must be really hard,” Mirabel says, putting emphasis on the last word. Bruno palms himself through his pants.

“So hard,” he whispers.

“You can’t help but think about her… Can’t help but imagine her lips… Her hands…”

Bruno groans. His hand slips beneath his waistband.

Yes. Perfect. He looks incredible, relaxed in his chair, one hand inside his pants. It’s like she caught him on a sunny afternoon, enjoying a lazy fap.

“Take it out,” she says, camera clicking.

Bruno obeys at once.

Wow. Wow, okay.

Mirabel doesn’t know where to focus. What to photograph. His open-mouthed expression? The hand wrapped around his shaft? Or maybe the way his waistband cradles his balls, putting them on display.

Mirabel wets her lip, zooming in on his fist, and the cockhead peeking out. She presses the shutter button.

But the camera won’t click.

“What? Wait—no! No, no!”

“What’s wrong?” Bruno asks, sitting up.

“I’m out of film!” Mirabel wails.

She shakes the camera, swearing loudly. Stupid old piece of junk!

“Hey, it’s alright—” Bruno says.

“Not, it’s not! You’re not even naked yet!”

Bruno laughs. Mirabel makes a face.

“It’s not fair. Things were just getting good.”

“Things are still good,” Bruno promises. “We have more film. Here, let me…”

He reaches for the camera. He doesn’t seem to care that he’s mostly naked. With his pants pulled down to his thighs, Bruno expertly loads a new roll of film into the camera. A smile lights his face the whole time.

“This really takes me back,” he says, passing the camera to Mirabel. “Photographing with film, jerking off in this chair… Just like the old days!”

Mirabel smiles, despite herself. “You ever do both at the same time?”

“What? Photograph myself jerking off?” Bruno leans back in his chair. “Nah.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno.” Bruno takes his cock in hand, stroking himself idly. “Maybe I was afraid of what I’d see.”

Mirabel brings the camera to her eye. “I like what I see.”

His smile softens. “I know.”

He shifts again, clearing his throat to denote a change in subject. He’s still stroking his half-hard cock. “So, um… I’m thinking about my girlfriend?”

“Right. And you’re missing her.”

“That’s not too hard to imagine,” Bruno says, staring right down the camera lens. Mirabel meets his eye inside the tiny frame.

“You… You want her to touch you,” she says, watching Bruno’s cock harden inside his fist. “You wish that was her hand on your dick…”

Bruno groans.

Warmth pools in Mirabel’s belly; tingles run along her scalp. It’s so different, being on the other side of this. She wants to touch him—wants to touch herself. But she has to focus. Has to be detached.

“If she was here…” Mirabel says slowly. “She would run her thumb along the tip.”

Bruno moans again. His thumb sweeps across his swollen cockhead, smearing a bead of precum. Mirabel photographs it.

“She would run a hand through your chest hair. Pinch your nipples, too.”

He squirms in his chair, obeying Mirabel’s instructions. His mouth is open; his eyes wrenched shut.

Mirabel captures it all. How he touches himself. How he arches his back. How he throws back his head in pleasure.

The camera clicks. Dampness seeps into Mirabel’s underwear.

“Take off your pants,” she says, before remembering the scene. “Your girlfriend would—would take them off.”

Bruno kicks his pants away, leaving himself completely naked in the chair. He leans back, legs spread, cock in hand. He looks straight ahead, right at Mirabel, stroking himself hard and fast.

Oh, damn. Oh wow, oh—

His face is flushed. His lips, parted. He’s on the edge of orgasm, gripping the armrest with his free hand. White knuckled, shameless, utterly exposed for her.

Mirabel lines up the shot.

“Say her name,” she whispers. “Your girlfriend—say her name.”

Bruno whines.

“Say it.”

“Mirabel.” He strokes himself desperately, staring into the camera. “Mirabel, Mirabel, Mirabel—!”

She photographs him over and over, not stopping once as her name pours from his lips.

“That it,” she says, tingling all over. Arousal trickles down her thigh. “Cum for Mirabel.”

Bruno cries out, spilling all over his fist. Release splatters his chest, his thighs; Mirabel takes picture after picture.

Holy shit.

Holy shit.

Bruno slumps in his chair, thighs shaking. His hair is a mess, his skin slick with cum and sweat. His chest heaves; he shakes his head.

“Stop.”

Mirabel hears him, but she doesn’t really— Just one more photo. She takes a picture of Bruno covered in cum, utterly undone.

He shakes his head again, face pinching. “Stop… I don’t want…”

“Okay.”

Mirabel lowers the camera, reassuring him with a smile. “Okay, I’m done.”

He nods, still struggling for breath. After a while, he swallows hard, and raises a trembling hand.

“Come here.”

As she closes the space between them, Bruno cups his hands around her face and pulls her down for a kiss. Several, actually. The kisses are rough and needy.

“Miss you,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“Can’t wait to be home.”

“Me too.”

“Gonna fuck you so hard, you won’t be able to walk.”

Mirabel whines at that, thighs clenching. She’s so fucking turned on, wants him so bad. Every day, every night without him is torture, alone in her childhood bed.

“We could just go,” Bruno says, staring up at Mirabel with round eyes. And that’s it, right there—his most naked confession, his desires laid bare. “We could leave right now. Be in our bed by tonight.”

Our bed. Mirabel whines again, aching inside.

“We… We can’t,” she whispers. “There’s the party tonight. And- And Christmas is in just two days. We can’t leave before that.”

Bruno tries to hide his disappointment. He doesn’t do a very good job.

“But as soon as Christmas is over, we’ll go,” Mirabel promises. “I’ll make up some excuse to leave early—and we’ll go.”

Bruno sighs. He looks smaller than he did just a moment ago, sitting naked before her.

“You promise?”

“Promise,” she says seriously. “As soon as the festivities are over—bam. We’re gone.”

She dips her head, sealing the promise with a kiss. Bruno leans into it.

“And then you’d better make good on your end of the deal,” Mirabel says lowly.

“My end?”

“Yeah.”

Mirabel takes his hand and guides it under her skirt. His eyes widen as he feels how wet she is.

“When we get home, you’d better fuck me so hard, I can’t walk.”

Chapter Text

Night falls, and as the music starts and the guests begin to arrive, the whole house is filled with magic.

Mirabel stands at the top of the stairs, admiring it all. The candles, the decorations, the lights. Music floats through the air, mixed with the smell of good food and the tinkling sound of laughter. As people mill back and forth, the house seems to move with them, wiggling with excitement.

Mirabel smiles to herself. She loves this. She really, truly does. The lights, the people, the familiar sights and smells. Though she was excited to leave for school, it’s clear to her now that this is her home. This is where she was born, and where she’ll return, someday.

Someday.

Smoothing the front of her skirt, Mirabel descends into the chaos. The crowd sweeps her up immediately, pulling her into a dozen conversations. Old women ask after Isabela (“Is she married yet? Does she have a beau in the city?”) and small children tug on her arms, begging for stories.

The kids want to hear about Camilo. About Isabela and Luisa and their amazing talents. Mirabel laughs.

“Alright, alright, relax!”

“It is physically impossible to relax!” cries one of the children.

“Tell us everything!” says another. “What are you famous for?”

“Uh… I made this outfit!” Mirabel gestures to her clothes. The kids look her up and down. Then they glance at each other, uncertain.

“I know, pretty cool,” Mirabel says, as if the kids were extremely impressed. “But that’s not even the best part!”

She twirls in place, making her skirt flare out. For a moment, she looks just like a princess in a story.

Or at least, she would have, if Isabela wasn’t ten feet away, twirling on the dance floor.

The kids look at Mirabel. Then her sister. Then back at Mirabel.

“That’s it?”

Mirabel’s smile wavers. “Yup. That’s it.”

“Are you sure you’re famous?” one of the kids says dubiously. “How many followers do you have?”

Mirabel resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she cups a hand around her ear.

“Oh, what’s that, Luisa? Free piggyback rides?!”

Across the room, Luisa looks up from her conversation. “Huh?”

It’s too late. The kids are already swarming her. Mirabel is left alone.

Finally.

She moves through the house, searching for the one person she never disappoints.

Tío Bruno is at the buffet table, eating buñuelos by the handful. He smiles at Mirabel’s approach, his cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk.

“I forgot how good your mom’s cooking is.”

Mirabel doesn’t say anything. She just wraps her arms around him.

Bruno staggers. “O-Oh! Um… Okay.” His arms fold around her. “What did I do?”

“Nothing,” Mirabel says. Then, after a pause: “You like my outfit, right?”

“What? Of course I do! You look—”

Bruno cuts himself short. Glancing around the room, he clears his throat and says, “You look nice.”

“Better than Isabela?” Mirabel asks. She doesn’t care how childish it sounds.

Bruno’s brows come together. “Why? What is she wearing?”

He cranes his neck, searching the crowd. Mirabel laughs. The fact that he didn’t even notice Isabela is answer enough.

They hang out for a while, talking, eating. Well, Mirabel does the talking; Bruno does the eating. He nods along, listening closely.

The only time his attention wavers is when Abuela steps into the room. She’s with one of her friends, deep in conversation. Bruno drops a half-eaten empanada, swearing under his breath.

“Ignore her,” Mirabel says at once. “She won’t even notice—AH!”

Mirabel startles as Bruno drops to his knees, hiding beneath the buffet table. Her heart jumps.

“Tío, what—?”

“Shh!” Bruno flaps his hands comically. “Pretend I’m not here!”

“Tío—”

“Shhhhhh!”

Mirabel stands up straight, peering across the room. Abuela is still there, talking with her friend. Mirabel vaguely recognizes the other woman; she has some grandkids about Isabela’s age.

“What is she doing?” Bruno whispers.

“Nothing!” Mirabel says. “Just talking.”

Bruno peeks over the edge of the table. He groans softly. “I can’t believe she’s here.”

“I mean, it is her party.”

“What?” Bruno glances at Mirabel. “No, not Abuela! Señora Villanueva!”

Who?!

Mirabel’s gaze snaps to the other woman, the one talking to Abuela. Draped in a heavy shawl, she looks no different than ninety percent of her grandmother’s friends. Her mind races, trying to remember how she knows the Villanuevas.

But she’s got nothing. Absolutely nothing. The Villanuevas are just an acquaintance. Mirabel only sees them at parties.

Bruno sinks to the floor, burying his face in his hands. “She hates me.”

“Why?” Mirabel’s heart races, half from excitement, half from fear. “What did you do to her?”

Bruno looks up, hurt written across his face. Mirabel shakes her head.

“Sorry—what does she think you did to her?”

Bruno swallows. His lips move, but he doesn’t answer.

Mirabel smiles kindly. “Let me guess. Dead fish?”

That earns her a laugh. A small one, but it feels like a victory.

Mirabel glances across the room again. An idea strikes her like lightning.

“Oh no!” she gasps. “They’re coming!”

“What?!”

They’re not. Abuela and her friend are standing still, their conversation unbroken. But Bruno doesn’t know that.

“They’re coming!” Mirabel says urgently. “Go, go, go!”

Bruno scrambles across the floor, crawling on his hands and knees. Mirabel follows after, giggling.

“This way, this way!”

She grabs Bruno’s hand, hauling him to his feet. He stumbles along as she drags him from the room.

“Mirabel?”

“Come on, come on! They’re right behind us!”

Mirabel dashes through the house, laughing. It doesn’t take Bruno very long to understand the joke. Once it clicks, he pulls alongside Mirabel, running hand-in-hand.

“Faster! They’re gonna catch us!”

“Look out! Coming through!”

They weave around the dance floor. The piano. The lively band. They run through the hallways, the kitchen, the den. They dart up the stairs and backdown again, giggling like thieves.

At last, they come to a stop on the landing, halfway between the first and second floor. A portrait of Mirabel’s grandfather hangs there, smiling at the pair.

Bruno doubles over, laughing between gulps of breath. “Do you think… Do you think we’re safe?”

“Oh yeah,” Mirabel grins. “It was a clean getaway. No one saw a thing.”

Bruno smiles. Downstairs, there’s the sound of applause—not for them, but for the band, who just finished their song.

There’s a lull of silence, but then the band starts up again. The next song is considerably slower. They must be winding down.

Mirabel hops down the stairs, heart still thumping. She leans in the doorway that separates the dance floor from the dark hall.

“It’s pretty,” she murmurs.

Bruno draws up from behind her. Light from the dance floor falls across his face. Mirabel nudges him.

“Admit it.”

“Admit what?”

“That you’re having fun,” Mirabel teases. “And that you’re maybe, kind of glad that you came.”

Bruno wrinkles his nose. The gesture says neither yes nor no.

In the other room, couples are pairing off. Young men offer their hands to young ladies, and sweep them across the dance floor. Isabela accepts a dance from a guy who looks like a telenovela star, though her smile looks very strained.

Bruno snorts. “That’s not gonna work out.”

Mirabel glances at him. Maybe it’s the adrenaline, but she feels… bold. And maybe a little reckless.

“I don’t suppose…” She clears her throat. “I don’t suppose you… want to dance?”

Bruno’s gaze snaps to Mirabel. “What?”

“You know… You and me. On the dance floor. Together.”

Bruno looks at his hands. “Is that… a good idea?”

Mirabel shrugs. “Maybe not. But it could be fun. What do you think?”

Bruno’s quiet. Mirabel holds her breath, feeling strange, suspended between the warmth and light of the dance floor, and the dark, quiet hall.

Suddenly, a voice calls out.

“Is that Bruno?”

Mirabel looks up. A man she doesn’t recognize is moving towards them, pushing his way through the crowd. Beside her, Bruno goes stiff.

“That is you!” the man says, slinging an arm around Bruno’s shoulders. “Wow! It’s been a while, huh?”

“Y-Yeah,” Bruno says. “Hey, Manny.”

The man chuckles. It’s not a pleasant sound. “It’s Manuel now, actually. We’re not children anymore!”

Bruno nods. His eyes are on the floor. “Right, yeah. Sorry.”

Manuel. Mirabel’s mind scrambles, trying to match names to faces. She’s met this man before. She must have.

And that’s when it clicks.

“Oh!” Mirabel cries. “You’re Manuel Villanueva!”

That’s right. The woman she saw earlier, Abuela’s friend—that’s Manuel’s mother. He’s Señora Villanueva’s son. And guessing from the look on his face, he likes Bruno just as much as his mother does.

Manuel blinks, surprised by Mirabel’s outburst. But he’s quick to recover, giving her a smile that looks a lot like Isabela’s. “That’s right. My mother and your grandmother are very close.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘close,’” Bruno mutters. Manuel jostles him.

“Oh, come on! We’re all friends here, aren’t we? Our mothers founded this town together! And my daughters went to school with your nieces. But I guess you weren’t around for most of that, huh?”

Bruno frowns. “Guess not.

“Thirteen years!” Manuel says. “Wow. Time flies. What have you been up to? Did you make it big in the city?”

“Not really,” Bruno mumbles.

“Come on, a talented guy like you? I don’t believe that.”

Manuel jostles Bruno again, chuckling. Bruno only gets smaller, arms around his middle.

Mirabel watches, feeling out of place. There’s something else going on here, hidden under Manuel’s smile. Jealousy, maybe? Resentment for Bruno’s talent, or for something Bruno did as a child?

“You.” Manuel turns to Mirabel. “You’re Julieta’s girl, right?”

“Mirabel,” she says flatly.

“Yes. Of course. Tell me, Mirabel, what’s your uncle’s life really like?” He flashes a grin at Bruno. “I bet he’s living the high life. Fast cars. Loose women. A different lover every night.”

Mirabel almost laughs. Fast cars? Loose women? Whoever Manuel’s describing, it’s not her tío.

But the way he says it—arms crossed, mouth tilted, like he’s just waiting for Mirabel to deny it… Something prickles at the back of her neck.

“Actually,” Mirabel says, “Bruno’s really successful.”

Bruno winces. “Let’s not—”

“He has his own company!” Mirabel insists. “His website gets millions of views! He makes good money and- and he has a penthouse!”

Manuel bursts into laughter. Mirabel jerks at the sound, heat rushing into her face. That sounded a lot more impressive inside her head.

All around the dance floor, people are starting to look. The music is fading; whispers have begun. Mirabel suddenly feels very exposed.

Manuel claps a hand on Bruno’s back. “Wow! Your own company, huh? That is impressive.”

“Manuel, listen—”

“No, I’m happy for you! Really. That’s why my father gave you that money, right? So you could leave? Start a new life?”

Wait.

Wait, wait—what?

Bruno sags under Manuel’s words. His eyes are round and pleading. “I never asked him to do that.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s fine.” Manuel laughs again. “I mean, that money could have put my girls through college, but a porn studio in the city… sure. That’s just as good.”

Mirabel’s stomach twists. What the hell did she step into?

She looks to her uncle for explanation, but none is forthcoming. Did he really take money from Manuel’s father? The way Manuel’s talking, it must have been a lot—enough to kickstart Bruno’s studio.

Bruno turns from Mirabel and tries to flee into the hallway, but Manuel blocks his path.

“How’d you do it?” he says urgently. “How’d you convince that old man to change his will?”

“I didn’t—”

“Say it.” Manuel’s smile curves into something far sharper. “We all know it. Just say it.”

“Bruno.”

A voice cuts across the dance floor, parting the crowd like a wave. Mirabel shrinks as her grandmother steps into view, with Señora Villanueva not far behind.

“Bruno, what’s going on?”

“Manuel?” echoes Señora Villanueva, frowning at her son.

Manuel brightens. “Oh, Mamá! You’re just in time. Bruno was just about to tell me what happened between him and Papá all those years ago.”

A murmur rumbles through the crowd. Abuela stands up taller. Señora Villanueva sets her jaw.

“Aren’t you curious?” Manuel presses. “Don’t you want to know how he convinced your husband to leave him everything?”

“He wasn’t—”

Bruno stops himself short. His eyes dart to Mirabel, but she has nothing for him. She barely knows what’s going on.

She can guess what happened, though. Bruno was friends with Manuel’s father—a man twice his age. The rumors about them would have been wild, ranging from ridiculous to downright scandalous. And all those rumors would have been nearly confirmed, when he left Bruno all his money.

Bruno swallows thickly. His gaze settles on Señora Villanueva.

“He wasn’t your husband anymore. You were divorced for years before he and I…” His words falter. “…became friends.”

Manuel scoffs. “Friends.”

“Manuel,” his mother says sharply.

“What?! Why are we acting like it’s a secret? We all know they were sleeping together!”

“THAT’S A LIE,” Abuela snaps.

Mirabel flinches. Everyone flinches. The whole room, dozens of bodies, dozens of mouths agape, dozens of eyes and ears keenly attuned to this moment.

And at the center of it all, Abuela, towering like a mountain.

“That’s a vicious, disgusting lie,” she says passionately. “How dare you bring it into my house.”

No one speaks. They don’t dare. Even Manuel is cowed. Mirabel risks a look at Bruno. His gaze is firmly on the floor.

“Javier Villanueva was a troubled man,” Abuela says. “I can’t imagine what he was thinking when he changed his will. But don’t you dare blame my son.”

An odd feeling churns in Mirabel’s gut. She’s never seen Abuela like this, so fierce and protective. It would almost be heartwarming, except…

…except for the look on Bruno’s face. Her hands shake, longing to reach for him.  

“For years, I’ve endured the rumors,” Abuela continues. “The slander. So many horrible stories about my son—but none of it is true.”

She fixes her eye on Bruno. Her expression is strange; half commanding, half pleading.

“Tell them it’s not true.”

Oh god.

Oh, please. No.

Mirabel’s hand slides over her mouth, terrified of what she’ll say if she doesn’t. Beside her, Bruno is still, his expression blank.

Everyone is watching. Everyone is waiting. And Mirabel…

Mirabel wants him to lie.

She hates herself for it. Hates how easily she bends, how easily she smiles and plays along. She hates how badly she wants to fit in this family, and how she never, ever will.

But Bruno could. He could smile and pretend and all would be forgiven. Abuela would welcome him back.

Bruno turns to Mirabel, drawn by her gaze. She stares back at him, silently pleading. Just lie. Please. It’ll be easier that way. For you. Everyone. Please.

Please…

“Bruno,” Abuela says again. “Tell them.”

Bruno holds Mirabel’s gaze a moment longer. His jaw tightens. His fists clench.

“I can’t,” he says.

The crowd murmurs. Abuela’s expression flickers like a flame.

“Bruno—”

“No,” he says, turning to face his mother. “I won’t. It’s true—Javier and I were together. We dated for a year before he died.”

The murmuring grows louder. Manuel lets out a pointed, “Ha!”

Abuela raises her hands. “No. It’s not true—”

“He was a good man. And when he came out, I- I knew I had to meet him, talk to him—”

“STOP.”

Abuela’s voice echoes around the room, but this time, Bruno doesn’t cower.

“I loved him!” he says, stepping closer to Abuela, to the crowd, to everyone watching, listening. “And there’s nothing wrong with that! It’s not wrong to love someone. It’s not slander. It’s not disgusting!”

Bruno draws himself up to his full height.

“I am not disgusting!”

Señora Villanueva slaps him across the face.

Mirabel gasps, startled by the sharpness of it, the ferocity. Abuela goes wide-eyes, frozen in shock. Bruno stumbles back from the blow.

“How dare you,” says Señora Villanueva, trembling all over. “How dare you stand there and lecture me! Javier lied to me! He humiliated me!” Her face is red, her lips drawn tight across her teeth. “I was his wife for thirty years, and what did he leave me with? Nothing but scandal. Ridicule.” She shakes her head. “How does that make him a good man?”

Bruno blinks slowly, rubbing his cheek. Manuel draws up beside his mother, and places a hand on her shoulder. Bruno looks at them both.

“He… He couldn’t live a lie anymore,” Bruno says. He sounds strange. Numb. “That’s why he left you. And that’s why… he gave me that money. So I wouldn’t end up like him.”

Mirabel shuffles, thumbing the hem of her skirt. This feels like her fault, somehow. Like she made all the wrong choices. Said all the wrong things.

Bruno’s quiet, too, looking across the room. At the crowd. His mother. His sisters and their children.

“I don’t belong here,” he says quietly. “Maybe I should… Maybe I should just go.”

Abuela smooths the front of her dress. “I think that would be best.”

Bruno nods. Once. Twice. Without a word, he brushes past Mirabel, into the darkened hall.

His mother watches him go, silent. People are murmuring, their voices low, as if afraid of drawing her ire. Her nostrils flare.

“Out,” she says. Then, louder, “Everyone out!”

Murmurs of confusion become a scramble, a mad shuffle of bodies and instruments. Mirabel shrinks into herself, afraid to move, afraid to speak.

She’s not the only one. Across the room, Isabela is frozen, a hand pressed over her delicate mouth. Their father touches her shoulder, and says something Mirabel can’t hear.

Pepa is frozen, too, wide-eyed with shock. Tío Félix isn’t there at all; he must have taken Antonio away when the argument started. Good. That’s probably… Yeah, that’s for the best.

But Mamá…

Weaving her way through the crowd, Mamá walks right up to Abuela.

“Mamá—”

“Don’t,” Abuela says, clutching her black shawl. “Don’t defend him.”

“Mamá, please. You don’t want him to leave, not really—”

“He humiliated me! In front of everyone—”

“Please. It’s Christmas.”

On and on they go. Abuela arguing; Mamá, pleading. At some point, Tía Pepa joins in, adding to the cacophony.

“What happened?” says Camilo, pushing his way through the crowd. “What did I miss?”

So many voices. So many people trying to be heard.

No one looks at Mirabel.

No one notices when she turns around.

No one notices when she flees up the stairs.

Mirabel all but runs to the den; the sorry, dusty little room that Bruno’s been forced to sleep in. She doesn’t bother to knock—the door is already open.

“Bruno!”

Her uncle doesn’t say anything. He’s packing his things, throwing dirty shirts and socks into a duffle bag.

“Bruno,” Mirabel says again. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Bruno says, eyes on his work. “I’m great.”

Mirabel swallows. “Listen, I… I’m sorry for what happened down there. Things got really out of hand. What Abuela said was awful—”

“It’s fine,” Bruno insists. “I’m used to it.”

Mirabel’s heart cracks straight down the middle. “Tío, no. No.”

She circles the couch, drawing up to his side. Bruno doesn’t look at her, doesn’t stop cramming things into his bag.

“Tío, stop,” Mirabel says. “Talk to me.”

“About what?” Bruno says, facing her at last. “What should I say? ‘I told you so?’ Is that what you wanna hear?!”

Mirabel flinches. “I don’t—”

“Because I did! I told you this would happen. I warned you, but you kept pushing—”

“I’m sorry!”

Tears well in Mirabel’s eyes. Everything’s happening so fast, crumbling, breaking. Except, no—it was already broken. Years ago, before she was even born.

“I’m sorry,” she says again. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.”

Bruno wavers. His face loosens; his shoulders go slack.

“I know,” he says, dropping his gaze. “It… It’s not your fault.”

He sighs deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. After a very long beat of silence, he shakes his head.

“My history… Everything with your grandmother… It’s not even real to you, is it? You were just a kid,” he murmurs. “I guess, in some ways, you still are.”

Mirabel’s throat goes tight. “Don’t say that.”

Bruno nods in answer. For a long time, he doesn’t say anything at all.

With a sigh, he turns back to his duffle, and zips it shut.

“I’m leaving,” he says firmly. “Are you coming with me?”

Swinging the duffle over his shoulder, Bruno offers Mirabel his hand. The room goes very, very still.

Mirabel stares at his fingertips. His upturned palm. She wants to take that hand and kiss it. Lace those fingers through her own.

She could do it. She could take his hand, and wake up in his bed tomorrow morning. On Christmas, there won’t be lights, or singing, or presents, but there will be coffee, and kisses, and cheesy telenovelas.

It’ll be… different. But nice. And warm. And loving.

Mirabel takes his hand.

“Tío,” she whispers. “Tío, please… please don’t leave.”

Bruno stares. “What?”

“Stay,” Mirabel says. Her vision is blurry, the tears in her eyes threatening to spill. “Please, stay.”

Bruno pulls his hand away. “After all of that—”

“Please—”

“After all of that, you want me to stay?!”

“Listen—”

“You want me to sit at the table with Abuela and- and- and what?! Smile?! Play nice?!”

“No!” Mirabel cries. Her face is hot; everything is burning. “No, it won’t be like that!”

“Mirabel—”

“Just listen! Mamá is downstairs right now, fighting for you! She still wants you here. I want you here! You belong in this family, don’t you see?”

Her voice is shaking. Tears stream down her face.

“I want to wake you up on Christmas morning. I want to drag you downstairs and make you shake all the gifts. I want- I want you to watch Antonio open his presents, see his face light up… I want you to hear Papá’s awkward singing, when he plays the piano after dinner, and- and I want you to laugh with me when Tío Félix joins in, drunk on wine…

“And when Christmas is over,” Mirabel says, feeling small and frail and childish, “and Abuela gathers everyone for a family photo, I want you to stand next to me.”

She forces herself to meet Bruno’s eye, begging him to understand.

“We could be in the photo. Don’t you see? We could be part of it. It won’t be perfect—there will be awkward questions, and tasteless jokes, and Abuela will be… you know. But shouldn’t we try?”

Bruno slowly shakes his head.

“No. It’s not right,” he says. “You shouldn’t have to- to prove yourself in order to belong to this family.”

“That’s not what I—”

“Why do you put up with it?!” Bruno demands. “Why do you pretend? Why are you so desperate to be something you’re not?”

Mirabel prickles. “Excuse me?”

Bruno’s eyes widen as he realizes what he said. “I didn’t mean—”

“This has nothing to do with my lack of talent! I want to be in this family because I love this family. And I know you do, too!”

Bruno wets his lip. He says nothing.

“You love our family,” Mirabel insists. “And you love me. Don’t you?”

Again, nothing. Mirabel wavers.

“Don’t you?”

Bruno looks away. His silence feels like a slap.

Mirabel wipes the tears from her face. Her mouth tastes like salt.

“Coward,” she mutters. “You can’t even say it.”

Bruno sighs heavily. For a moment, he says nothing—one terrible moment where everything teeters on the edge, one push away from the fall.

He turns and walks through the door.

Mirabel’s whole body runs through with knives.

“Coward!” she shouts, chasing Bruno into the hall. The house is dark and empty; they heave a clear path down the stairs and out the back door, into the starry night.

“This is what you do, huh?” Mirabel cries. “Run away when things get hard?”

“I’m not the one who’s hiding!” Bruno shouts, stomping across the lawn. His beaten-up truck lies at the foot of the hill, right where Mirabel left it.

“Yes, you are!” she says. “You’re hiding! You’ve always been hiding!”

She catches up to Bruno, circles around him to block his path.

“If I hadn’t asked you for a job, we never would have talked. You never would have called! That’s what happened with Luisa, right? And Camilo? Your sobrinos move miles away from home, and you don’t even check in on them, you just hide away in your filthy apartment! And you know what?” Mirabel sneers. “I think you liked it that way. I think you like being alone.”

“Stop,” Bruno says. “Let me go.”

“You like being unhappy. You’re comfortable with it. So comfortable—”

“Mirabel—”

“—that you don’t even care when your clothes smell like garbage, or that your truck is falling apart—”

“Stop—”

“—you’ll just keep doing the same things, never changing, never taking risks—”

“WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?!” Bruno cries.

“I want you to try!” Mirabel says. “I want you to stop feeling sorry for yourself, and try to have good things!”

Bruno flinches. His face wrenches tight. He shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “No, no, no, you- you just want to change me, just like everybody else!”

He backs away from Mirabel, clutching the strap of his duffle.

“I’m not good enough for you. I’ll never be good enough.”

“No,” Mirabel says firmly. “That’s not what I said.”

“Stop. Just stop.”

Squaring his jaw, Bruno ducks around Mirabel and opens the door to his truck.

“I can’t do this,” he says. “I just… I can’t.”

Mirabel’s heart stutters. What… What does that mean?

Bruno tosses his duffle across the fraying seats and crawls in after it. Mirabel suddenly feels afraid.

“Tío?”

Bruno pauses, one hand on the steering wheel, the other reaching for the door. Mirabel holds her breath.

“I’ll always be your uncle,” he says softly. “But I can’t be your boyfriend.”

The door shuts with a sickening thud.

Mirabel does nothing as the engine rumbles to life, as the broken headlights flicker in the darkness. She does nothing as the truck drives away… and then disappears.

Chapter Text

It’s Christmas Eve. And Mirabel is fine.

She’s fine.

She’s fine.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Mirabel blinks, turning towards her mother’s voice. They’re in the kitchen, getting everything ready for the feast before mass.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mamá asks again.

“About what?” Mirabel says coolly.

“About whatever’s bothering you.”

Mirabel shakes her head. “I don’t… Nothing’s bothering me. I’m fine.”

She smiles wide, as if to prove how great she is. But Mamá only frowns.

“Mirabel—”

“I’m fine,” she insists. “Please, don’t make a big deal about it.”

She turns away from her mother, busying herself with dinner preparations. There’s a million things that need to get done before tomorrow. She doesn’t have time to think about anything else.

Things cooled off pretty quickly after Bruno left. The Madrigals are reliable like that. Arguments in their house always end the same way; once the yelling stops, everything goes back in its box. The broken pieces are swept away, and the masks slide back into place. They smile. They pretend. And they don’t bring it up again.

But apparently, Mamá didn’t get the memo.

“I know you and Bruno are close,” she says, brushing Mirabel’s hair behind her ear. “And I know you had such high hopes for his visit—”

“Mamá—”

“But you shouldn’t blame yourself. The rift in this family started long before you were—”

“Mamá, please.”

Mirabel pulls away, face burning.

“It’s fine,” she says again. “I didn’t… I should have known, okay? It was a dumb idea, bringing him here.”

“It wasn’t—”

“Please,” Mirabel says. She blinks rapidly; her eyes sting with the threat of tears. But she can’t. She can’t. Not right now.

Julieta deflates. With a small, sad smile, she nods. “Alright. I hear you.”

She presses a kiss to Mirabel’s forehead. Squeezes her by the shoulders. Her touch is soft. Motherly. Mirabel’s heart aches, longing to sink into her embrace.

But she doesn’t. She stands up straight. She doesn’t cry.

She’s fine. She’s fine. She’s fine.

She’s fine when she sets the table. She’s fine when she sits down to eat. She’s fine when she smiles with the family, and talks to them, and laughs with them.

She’s fine when she thinks about Bruno. And when her cousin Dolores whispers about him.

“I still can’t believe I missed it,” Camilo grumbles. He and the rest of the grandkids are in the foyer, waiting for Abuela’s inspection before church. Luisa tugs at her starched collar; Isabela smooths the front of her skirt.

“It was awful,” Dolores says softly. “Tío Bruno looked so upset…”

Camilo rolls his eyes. “I don’t know why everyone’s acting so shocked. We’ve known for years that he was gay.”

“He’s not,” Mirabel says. She flushes as everyone looks at her. “I mean… Don’t assume things. It’s not nice.”

“Fair,” Camilo says. “I’m just saying, I’m not surprised.”

“I think he had a girlfriend when we were little,” Dolores offers. “So, that would make him bi, I guess?”

“Can we not?” Isabela says suddenly. “All this speculation—it’s none of our business.”

“Thank you,” Mirabel says, agreeing with her sister for probably the first time in a decade.

The room goes quiet. Antonio’s on the floor with his yellow cat, wrinkling his church clothes. Mirabel helps him up.

“C’mere,” she says, brushing cat hair from his front. Antonio looks at the floor.

“I liked him,” Antonio whispers, low enough that only Mirabel can hear. “He was nice.”

“I know,” Mirabel says. “Me too.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Antonio asks. A lump rises in Mirabel’s throat.

No.

No, he’s not coming back.

He’s gone.

Bruno’s gone.

Because he couldn’t smile. Couldn’t pretend. Couldn’t be a Madrigal.

Couldn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Abuela’s familiar footsteps ring across the foyer. The grandkids straighten up at once; even Camilo jumps to attention.

Mirabel stands next to Antonio, who quietly holds her hand. She watches Abuela fuss over her sisters and cousins, straightening collars and brushing hairs into place.

Mirabel’s throat tightens, watching them. The ideal grandchildren. Talented. Extraordinary. Perfect as a picture. Pristine as little dolls.

Abuela moves on to Antonio, smoothing the front of his shirt. She nods in approval and sends him off to find his mother. His little hand slips from Mirabel’s.

At last, Abuela steps in front of her. Her sharp eyes roam over Mirabel’s outfit, from her polished shoes, to the bow in her hair.

“Did you make this?” Abuela asks. Her hands are neatly clasped.

Mirabel looks down at herself. At her plain, sensible outfit. No, she didn’t make it. This isn’t hers.

Mirabel falters, unable to answer. But that’s okay, because Abuela doesn’t wait for one.

“You look nice,” she says kindly.

Mirabel blinks. That’s… That’s the first time Abuela’s ever complimented her clothing.

For an outfit she didn’t even make.

Abuela tugs on Mirabel’s sleeves. Straightens the bow in her hair. Mirabel swallows, but the lump in her throat won’t go down.

Why do you pretend? That’s what Bruno said. Why are you so desperate to be something you’re not?

Tears well in Mirabel’s eyes. Abuela doesn’t notice.

“Everyone, come!” Abuela says, motioning around the room. Mirabel’s parents, the whole family is here now, chatting excitedly as they move towards the door.

Mirabel takes a step. She can do this. She’s fine.

She’s fine.

Except she’s not.

She’s not fine.

She’s not fine.

But no one notices.

No one sees.

The tears in her eyes spill over. The lump in her throat bubbles up.

Bruno saw her. Bruno loved her. But she wouldn’t go with him. She wouldn’t take his hand.

She let him go. She let him leave.

And for what?

For what?

Mirabel covers her mouth. But a sob wrenches out of her; a small, childish sound.

And then everything pours out.

Hot, shameful tears stream down her face, faster than Mirabel can stem them. She presses her hands over her eyes, but the tears keep coming, flowing down her cheeks.

“Mirabel?”

“Mirabel!”

No. Please. Don’t look at her. Don’t look. Don’t look.

Mirabel shrinks away, trying to make herself small. She can’t stop crying, her body wracked with sobs. Someone lays a hand on her shoulder, but she flinches from the touch. She can’t.

She can’t.

“Shh. It’s okay.”

That same hand squeezes her shoulder. Brushes the hair from her face.

“You don’t have to go,” Mamá says. “You can stay here.”

Mirabel sobs again. She aches all over. Her bones are broken. Her chest is caving in. Her tears come in fitful bursts, unable to breathe, unable to stop.

She throws herself into her mother’s arms, clinging as tight as she can. She’s a child again, trembling, wailing. She buries her face in Mamá’s shoulder and weeps as she never has.

“It’s alright,” Mamá whispers. Her fingers card through Mirabel’s hair. “It’s going to be alright.”

No, it’s not. No, it’s not.

But Mirabel clings to her anyway.

***

All is quiet and Mamá guides Mirabel to the kitchen table. The rest of the family is gone, on their way to church. It’s Christmas Eve, after all. If the Madrigals aren’t in their pews, everyone will wonder why.

Abuela will make some excuse about their absence. “Poor Mirabel got sick,” she’ll say. It’s a lie, but at least no one will whisper. The Madrigals’ perfect imagine with stay intact.

Mirabel sniffles, watching her mother shuffle around the kitchen. Her glasses are foggy; she wipes them on her sleeve.

Finally, Mamá sits down. She slides a hot drink across the table. A plate of polvorosas, too. Mirabel isn’t hungry, but she sips on the drink. The warmth of it instantly spreads through her bones.

Across the table, Mamá sighs.

“You don’t have to talk about it,” she says gently. “But I think you’ll feel better if you do.”

Mirabel stares into her cup. Curls of steam brush against her face, fogging her glasses anew.

“I shouldn’t have brought him here,” she says. “I shouldn’t have pushed. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t— I didn’t know how bad it was, and I…”

Mamá places a hand on Mirabel’s.

“Your heart was in the right place.”

“No, it wasn’t.” Mirabel sniffles, wiping at her cheeks. “I was being selfish. I wanted Bruno here to help me feel like less of an outcast, and I…” Her throat tightens. New tears threaten to spill. “I ruined everything.”

Their photoshoots. Their phone calls. Their evenings on Bruno’s couch, watching telenovelas and drinking wine. All of it is ruined. All of it is gone.

Mamá squeezes her hand. “It’s not your fault.”

Yes, it is. But Mamá doesn’t know that. She didn’t see how Mirabel pushed him. How she begged.

What would Mamá say, if she knew the truth? If she knew about the photoshoot in the attic. Or those warm afternoons in Bruno’s bed.

Whose fault would it be then?

“Mirabel, Bruno lost his way in this family long before you were born. Things have always been hard for him. He doesn’t…”

Mamá pauses, carefully considering her words. “He never knew how to…”

“Fit in?” Mirabel supplies. Her mother nods.

“Yes. That’s a good way to put it.”

Mamá is quiet for a while. “How much do you remember about those days? When you were little, before he left?”

Mirabel sighs. She’s talked about this before. With Isabela. With Bruno. Those days are a blur. It’s really annoying, actually—like a vital piece of her life is missing.

“I dunno… I remember playing with him. Hide-and-go seek. Dressup. Stuff like that.”

“He adored you,” Mamá says with a grin.

“But then there was, you know… The fights. Him and Abuela, arguing for hours.” Mirabel thumbs the edge of her cup. “I guess… they were fighting about Javier?”

“Usually, yes.”

MIrabel sits up a little straighter. “Can you… Can you tell me about him?”

Mamá raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t look upset—just surprised. “What do you want to know?”

“Just, like… I dunno.” Mirabel squirms in her seat. “What happened, I guess. I know it’s old news, but… I want to understand.”

Mamá sighs. “I’m afraid I don’t know much. But…”

She pauses again, rising from her seat. She wipes both hands on her apron.

“But?” Mirabel prompts.

Mamá turns away. She doesn’t go very far; she simply finds a pot and sets it on the stove.

“Around the time you were born,” she says, moving around as she speaks, “Javier Villanueva came out. He was almost sixty—married for years. He had grown-up children, grandchildren… Divorce isn’t common in this town to begin with, but a situation like that…”

“Scandal?” Mirabel says.

“Huge scandal. It was all anyone could talk about.”

Yeah. That’s not hard to imagine. Small towns love their gossip; Javier would have been the headline for weeks.

Mamá adds milk and rice to the pot, stirring gently. “When the dust settled, and you were a little older… That’s when Bruno and Javier became friends.”

“Friends?” Mirabel says.

“It started that way,” Mamá answers. “I think Bruno was curious about him. We would have been, what… thirty-something by that time? And this town, you know… They’d already made up their minds about your tío.” Mamá glances over her shoulder. “He wanted to know more about the other outcast.”

The pot begins to simmer, sending little swirls of steam into the air. Mamá adds two cinnamon sticks to the mixture, and the room fills with their scent.

“I’d never seen him so happy,” she says. “He was different. Playful. I think, for the first time, Bruno must have felt like he belonged.”

Mirabel watches her mother cook, her gaze unfocused. She can see it in her mind; an old memory of Bruno, humming to himself, shuffling around in his bathrobe and slippers. He spotted Mirabel, watching him from the doorway. With a playful shout, he scooped her up. Spun her around. She laughed and kicked and squealed.

He was a man in love. That’s why he played with her. That’s why Isabela and all the other grandkids remember him so differently. It’s because they had a different tío. A tío who never played with them, who hid away and argued with their grandmother. But Mirabel…

Mirabel only remembers the brief in-between, when he was happy. When he felt loved and seen.

“He finally had someone who understood him,” Mirabel says. “But he couldn’t tell anyone. He had to hide it.”

“Yes,” Mamá says.

“Because… Because Abuela…”

Mirabel falters. Mamá quietly stirs her pot.

“Your grandmother doesn’t like scandal,” she says. “And when Javier and Bruno started growing close… It didn’t take long for the rumors to start.”

Mirabel’s fingers tighten around her cup. “So, that’s it? They fought because Abuela didn’t want her son dating another man?”

“No.” Mamá sets a lid on the pot and turns to Mirabel. “No, that’s not it. She didn’t know—none of us knew, officially. We suspected, but… Bruno’s always been so private.”

“Then why did they fight?”

“Because… he was in his thirties,” Mamá explains. “Unmarried. And with the rumors starting, Abuela thought that it was time for him to settle down. Get serious. Stop messing around with his… art… and make something of himself.”

She wanted him to live up to his potential. To his family name.

Mirabel curls her lip doubtfully. “So Abuela would have been fine if Bruno settled down with a man?”

“I don’t—”

“You saw how she reacted to Bruno’s confession! She seemed pretty unhappy about it.”

Mamá rubs her temple. “Mira, please. It’s not as simple as that. Bruno isn’t gay. Whatever his preference, he likes women, too. And your grandmother didn’t understand why he couldn’t just…” Mamá raises her shoulders and lets them drop. “Be happy.”

Mirabel stands up. Her face is hot, but for the first time in a while, it’s not from tears.

“He was happy!” she says. “He was happy with Javier! I was five, and even I could see that.”

Mamá deflates. Her shoulders sag; her eyes go round and sad.

“You’re the ones that wouldn’t let him be happy! You’re the ones that- that made him leave, all those years ago.”

Mirabel covers her face. Fuck. She’s been…

She’s been so stupid.

She thought… She thought she could bring Bruno here. She thought they could smile together, hide together, love each other in secret. She thought…

She doesn’t know what she thought.

But it seems so stupid now.

“I was happy,” Mirabel says. “With Bruno. I was happy.”

A crease appears on Mamá’s brow. “You mean… your modeling job?”

Mirabel laughs. Right. That.

“Yeah.” She lets her arms go slack. “My modeling job. It made me happy. But we all know Abuela wouldn’t like it very much.”

She wouldn’t like a lot of the things that Bruno and Mirabel have done together. The kind of scandal that would cause—oh, she’d beg for the days when Bruno was dating Javier.

Mamá takes a step forward. “Mirabel, I would never let her—”

“Don’t.” Mirabel shakes her head, hands raised to keep Mamá at a distance. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

Mamá stops. The look on her face breaks Mirabel’s heart—or, it would, if her heart wasn’t thoroughly shattered.

Mirabel cards a hand through her hair. “I love you, Mamá. But I… I don’t know where I fit in this family. And I’m not sure that I ever will.”

Mamá swallows. Her hands twitch, clearly longing to wrap Mirabel in a hug.

“I’m gonna go to bed,” Mirabel says. “I… I’ll see you in the morning.”

Mamá swallows again. Her eyes shine with tears. “Alright. Get some sleep.”

Mirabel nods. And without another word, she heads upstairs.

Chapter Text

I’m sorry—That’s how the text message starts.

I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have asked you to come home with me, and I should have gone with you when you left.

Mirabel sits on the edge of her childhood bed, the message still unsent. She’s been composing it for a while now, typing and deleting entire paragraphs. She has so much to apologize for. So much to explain. It’s tempting to send him an entire essay—an enormous, embarrassing wall of text.

She restrains herself, though. Barely. Mirabel rereads the text again, hoping that it sounds direct and honest, instead of robotic and cold.

With a sigh, she forces herself to send the message. It goes through with a little whoosh, so faint but heartstoppingly final.

Mirabel stuffs the phone into her pocket. A part of her wants to stare at it until Bruno replies, but he’s never been very reliable in that area. Scooping her bag off the floor, she heads downstairs.

It’s very early—early enough, in fact, that most of the family is still asleep. Christmas was yesterday, and now that the festivities are over, a certain lull has overtaken the house. Mirabel wanted to leave sooner, but she stayed for the sake of Antonio, smiling for him when he showed off his new toys. As Mirabel walks down the hall, his yellow cat skitters around her feet, paws soft on the carpet.

The smell of coffee draws her into the kitchen. Abuela is there, sitting at the table with Isabela and Papá. None of them notice her entrance.

“I don’t believe that,” Abuela is saying. “You’re such a beautiful girl. Surely someone has caught your eye?”

“Grad school is hard,” Isabela replies. She rubs her coffee cup with both thumbs. “I don’t really have time for romance.”

“No time,” Abuela scoffs. “How can you say such a thing? Julieta was still in school when she got married. A mother by graduation!”

Isabela smiles. It may or may not be genuine. “Well, not everyone’s as talented as Mamá.”

Mirabel knocks on the doorway, drawing their attention. Papá sits up straighter.

“Mirabel.” His eyes go to her travel bag. “Are you really leaving, then?”

“‘Fraid so,” Mirabel tells him. She sighs deeply. “I just… I need some time to myself, you know?”

Papá crosses the kitchen, wrapping Mirabel in a hug. She lets herself give into it, sinking deep into his arms.

His voice is soft. “Call if you need anything, alright? We’re always here for you.”

Mirabel nods wordlessly, her cheek pressed to her father’s chest. He’s tall, like Luisa—and strong like her, too. Maybe not in body, but certainly in spirit—an unfailing, unwavering support. “I know, Papá.”

A few moments later, Mamá comes down the stairs. A hospital ID dangles from her pocket, her white lab coat draped over one arm. She’s going to drop Mirabel at the bus stop on her way to work.

“Ready to go?” she asks, digging around her purse for the car keys. She looks tired—there aren’t a lot of days off for Doctor Madrigal.

As they head for the door, Abuela comes to say goodbye. Despite the early hour, she’s already dressed, her hair pulled into its usual bun. A black shawl lays across her shoulders.

“You’re a good girl,” she says, placing a kiss on Mirabel’s cheek. The gesture is surprisingly affectionate. She’s been unusually gentle ever since Mirabel broke down crying, giving her compliments instead of ignoring her existence. Maybe she feels bad about what happened—or maybe she’s just afraid of another public outburst.

“Keep working hard,” Abuela says. “And stay out trouble.”

A lump rises in Mirabel’s throat. Her mouth stretches, not quite a smile. Not quite a frown.

Behind her, the door opens. The car keys jangle in Mamá’s hand. She should leave before she says something stupid. Something everyone will regret.

But she doesn’t move.

“I’ve been working for Bruno,” Mirabel says. The words come out quiet. Detached. Almost as if they came from someone else’s mouth.

Abuela blinks, like she didn’t hear her correctly. The lines on her face deepen. “What did you say?”

“I’ve been working for Bruno,” she says again, louder this time. “As a model. At his studio.”

It’s strange, how matter-of-factly she says it. When she imagined this moment, she said it with a smirk, all confidence and bluster, uncaring what her grandmother thinks. Now that the moment is here, however, she feels oddly empty. A hole where her heart should be.

Abuela shakes her head, disbelieving. “That’s not— That’s not possible.”

“The photos are online,” Mirabel tells her. “Anyone can see them. Well—anyone with a credit card.”

Abuela sputters. “No. That’s not—no. You can’t.” 

Anger mixes with her incredulity, furrowing her brows and tightening her lips. For perhaps the first time in Mirabel’s life, her grandmother is utterly beyond words.

“You’re saying you— You went to his studio— And you let him photograph—?!” Abuela gapes. “Why?!”

Why. Mirabel’s answered that question before. Her response always changes: For the money. For her resume. To expand her portfolio. To open new doors.

But there’s another answer. A deeper, truer answer. One she’s never been able to admit, even to herself.

“Because… I was tired of being invisible,” Mirabel says. “Tired of never being seen. Just once, I… I wanted someone to look at me. To see me. The real me.”

Not the Madrigal she tries to be, but… her. All of her. Silly and weird and unextraordinary, but no less worthy of love.

Abuela stares, disbelieving. “Attention. You did this for attention?”

Mirabel’s mother steps forward. “Mamá—”

“Did you know about this?!” Abuela whirls on Mamá and Papá. Isabela’s here, too, but faded in the background, lingering in the kitchen door. Mirabel doubts she’ll speak up.

“Don’t blame them,” Mirabel says. “I made my own decision. I went to Bruno and asked him for the job.”

“No.” Again, Abuela shakes his head. “No, this—this is Bruno’s fault. He was trying to embarrass me, trying to- to hurt this family—”

“No,” Mirabel says. “I did this. I chose this.”

Still, Abuela shakes her head, her expression stern, as if she can will the truth from existence. Frustration prickles along Mirabel’s neck. Even now, Abuela can’t see her real granddaughter. The one standing right in front of her, begging her to understand.

“Look at me,” she says. “Abuela, look at me.”

Mirabel steps forward, searching for the grandmother who loved her, who gave her a needle and thread and taught her how to sew. “I didn’t do this to hurt you.”

Abuela recoils. “No. No. You’ve gone too far this time, Mirabel.” 

Again, her mother tries to intervene. “Mamá—”

“Don’t,” Abuela says sharply. She shakes her head at Mirabel. “I can’t believe you’ve done this. Even at your worst, I never thought you would fall so far. You’ve let us all down, humiliated this family—”

“This family?” Mirabel prickles all over. As the words leave her mouth, she feels something shift, like the house itself is responding, anger seeping into the stones. She lets out a laugh. “This family isn’t what you think it is. What you pretend it is—”

Behind Abuela, Isabela’s eyes are wide. She looks frozen in shock, one hand pressed over her mouth. Papá stands in front of her like a shield.

“We all smile and play nice, never showing you our true selves, terrified of what you’d say if you really saw us—”

“No.” Abuela draws herself up, her black shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. “I won’t hear this. My children respect me—”

“No, they’re afraid of you,” Mirabel snaps. Her heart speeds, adrenaline rushing through her, like the moment you jump from a cliff and there’s nothing to do but fall. “And why shouldn’t they be? Bruno’s the only one who ever showed his true face, and look where that got him.”

She shakes her head. “You pushed him away. You push everyone away. And unless something changes, you’re going to end up all alone.”

Her words ring with awful finality, leaving Abuela stunned. Everything is silent. Everything is still. Mirabel’s heartbeat pounds in her ears.

Abuela sniffs. With a lift of her chin, she looks to Mamá. “This is your fault.”

Mamá makes an incredulous sound. “Excuse me?”

“She’s your daughter! You can’t let her speak to me like this—”

“Yes, I can,” Mamá says firmly. She lays a hand on Mirabel’s shoulder. “I wish I’d said it myself.”

Abuela gapes, furious. “Julieta—”

“Come,” Mamá says. “We should go.”  

Mirabel turns from the room, guided by her mother’s hand. Abuela shouts after them. “Julieta! Don’t you dare walk away from me—”

They’re already out door, already halfway down the path. With each step, her grandmother’s voice gets smaller and smaller, until it might as well not exist at all.

***

Mirabel lies on the couch, surrounded by Isabela’s plants and Luisa’s exercise equipment. On the television, a young woman is falling in love with a handsome man, unaware that she’s secretly his aunt. A bought of amnesia has erased that part of her memory, and the handsome man can’t bring himself to tell her.

Mirabel feels like she’s seen this episode before.

It’s been more than a week since she left her grandmother’s house. Bruno still hasn’t called her back. She spent most of the bus ride staring at her phone, waiting for confirmation that Bruno saw her message. When that checkmark finally appeared, her heart stopped—but there was no response, no bouncing dots in the corner of the screen.

A day later, he still hadn’t replied. Despite her better judgement, Mirabel messaged him again, adding more apologies and a plea to call her back.

Still nothing.

New Year’s Eve came and went. Mirabel lounged around the apartment, distracting herself with old telenovelas and increasingly stale pizza. As one week became two, she messaged Bruno again and again, growing more and more desperate each time. Days and nights blurred together. If she slept, it was only because she was too exhausted from crying.

Why won’t he call her back?

That’s the worst part of all this—the silence. If Bruno would just talk to her, let her explain—Why won’t he let her explain? She could fix all of this if he would just listen. If he’d only give her a chance.

Maybe she is just like her mother.

Mirabel sniffles, rolling over the press her face into the cushions. Everything hurts. Breathing hurts. She doesn’t want to move. She doesn’t even want to think.

That’s not really an option, though. Classes are starting up on Monday, and in just a few hours, her sisters will be home. As convenient as it is to wallow, she doesn’t want anyone to see her like this.

Somehow, Mirabel drags herself to the bathroom. She hasn’t showered in a while, hasn’t even bothered to change her clothes. Standing under the spray, Mirabel remembers what Bruno said when they were both naked, soapy and wet.

Tell me it’s gonna be okay.

Tell me… you’ll still want me, afterwards.

She leans against the shower wall, wishing she’d asked him the same.

***

By the time her sisters get home, Mirabel is at least somewhat presentable. The couch has reclaimed her, pulling her deep into the cushions, but at least she’s wearing clean clothes.

The door opens noisily, plants rustling in the hall. Luisa finds her a moment later.

“Mirabel.” She brightens a little, like she half expected to find the apartment empty. Dropping the suitcases on the floor, she flops down on the couch beside her. It groans a little under her weight. “How are you?”

“I’m alright,” Mirabel says, though she doesn’t sound very convincing. On the other side of the room, Isabela perches herself on the arm of a chair, wordless.

“I heard about your argument with Abuela,” Luisa says. “Everybody heard about it. She was so angry, after you left—she really ripped into Papá.”

Mirabel nods, eyes on her lap. She heard about that, at least a little. Camilo’s text messages painted a clear enough picture. 

Luisa goes on. “No one’s ever stood up to Abuela like that. I mean, except maybe Bruno.” She squeezes Mirabel’s arm. “I think you were really brave.”

Isabela scoffs. The sound is faint, but unmistakable. “Brave,” she mutters.

“You don’t think so?” Luisa says. Her tone is unusually stern.

“No, I don’t,” Isabela shoots back. “I think it was stupid. And reckless. She detonated a bomb, and left the rest of us to handle the fallout!”

Mirabel’s chest tightens, guilt mixing with her heartache. “I’m sorry,” she says sincerely. She hasn’t apologized to Isabela in a long time. “I know, I put you in a bad spot. I just couldn’t… I couldn’t hide anymore. It was too much, I couldn’t…”

Her words choke, her throat closing around them. The end of her sentence comes out as a whisper. Luisa wraps an arm around her.

With a shake of her head, Isabela rises, leaving as wordlessly as she entered. Mirabel allows Luisa to pull her close, laying her head on her lap. Luisa strokes her hair.

“It’s going to be alright,” Luisa says. “Mamá and Papá are on your side. You should have heard them defending you. After a while, Abuela tried to forbid anyone from talking about it, but Mamá wouldn’t let her.”

Mirabel sniffles, thinking of what her mother said on Christmas Eve. She promised not to let Abuela cast her out of the family, and maybe it’s good that she kept her word. But all Mirabel can imagine is the house divided in two, cracks splitting the foundation, everyone taking sides.

Their family is more broken now than ever. Even Isabela and Luisa are at odds.

“You’re right, you know,” Luisa says softly. “It’s not fair, how she treats us. Abuela expects us to do everything, be everything…” She lets out a sigh. “Under that kind of pressure, anyone would crack.”

“Even you?” Mirabel asks, surprise tugging at her brows.

Luisa smiles sadly. “Yeah. Even me.”

Mirabel blinks up at her sister, noting the slump of her shoulders, the tired look in her eye. This past week couldn’t have been easy for any of them, trapped in that house, emotions flying high—and Luisa, trying to hold it all together.

Reaching up, Mirabel lays a hand on her sister’s cheek. “You don’t have to be so strong all the time.”

Luisa closes her eyes. “Yes, I do.”

“Luisa, no. No. You’re not being fair to yourself.”

Mirabel frowns, thinking of this past week, her own desperation to set things right. She remembers Mamá, reaching out to Bruno year after year, and getting nothing in return.

“We didn’t break this family,” she says quietly. “It shouldn’t be our job to fix it.”

Luisa gives her a strange look, both pitying and sad. “But if we don’t, who will?”

Mirabel has no answer to that.

***

Monday comes. The new semester begins. Life goes on.

Mirabel tries to go through the motions, sitting in class and pretending to listen. She scribbles down a few notes, but mostly her notebook is empty, no doodles or daydreams filling their pages. It’s hard to concentrate on anything.

Bruno still hasn’t replied.

Alone in her room, Mirabel stares at her phone. A little alert on the screen reminds her that she has a photoshoot coming up. Bruno scheduled it back in December, before everything fell apart.

Mirabel bites her lip, wondering what would happen if she kept that appointment. Would Bruno be there? Would he even let her through the door? Maybe— Maybe he took her off the schedule. Maybe he told everyone what happened, and the whole crew hates her now.   

Taking a deep breath, she brings the phone to her ear.

“This is Visions,” a woman’s voice says. “Oh, hey Mirabel!”

“Hey, Pilar.” She doesn’t sound like she knows what happened at Abuela’s house, or that Bruno’s been ghosting her for weeks. Mirabel’s not sure what that would sound like, exactly, but she imagines Pilar would be a lot more awkward if she knew.

“How can I help?”

“Well, I… I’ve had a bit of a mix-up,” Mirabel says. “Can you tell me if I’m on the schedule for next week?”

“Sure, let me check.” Mirabel hears a clicking sound as Pilar scrolls through her computer. A few moments later, she says, “Well, you’re not on the schedule, but you are on the payroll. That’s a little weird…”

She’s quiet again, tapping a few more times at her keyboard. Mirabel’s grip tightens on her phone.

“You know what, let me go ask Bruno.”

“Oh, you don’t have to—”

It’s too late. She’s already on hold. 

Mirabel shuffles, feeling uncomfortable. Maybe she shouldn’t have called. Bruno obviously wants some space, and she’s tried really hard to respect his boundaries. Calling him at work feels like crossing a line.

The silence is agonizing, stretching on for far too long. She’s about to hang up when the call comes back online.

“Mirabel?”

After all this time, Bruno’s voice hits her like a wave. Her heart jerks at the sound of her name, as if pulled by invisible strings.  

“Mirabel? Are you there?”

“Uh—yeah.” She barely forms the word. “Y-Yeah, I’m here.”

“I took you off the schedule,” Bruno explains. “It seemed appropriate, given… everything. You’ll still get paid, though.”

Mirabel blinks. Her thoughts won’t focus. “What- What do you mean?”

“I mean, I won’t tell Pilar to take you off the payroll. You can receive checks for as long as you’d like.” He pauses briefly. “You shouldn’t have to find a new job just because we… aren’t together anymore.”

He sounds quiet. He’s probably in his office, away from prying eyes and curious ears. They can be honest with each other. Or, in Bruno’s case, downright frank.

We aren’t together anymore.

Mirabel sinks into the bedside, her strength gone. After weeks of silence, there’s her answer. It’s over. They’ve broken up.

She suspected this was coming, but it still catches her off-guard. When, exactly, did he come to this conclusion? Was he even gonna talk to her about it?

“Did you get my messages?” she asks. 

Bruno hesitates. “Let’s not—”

“I had a big fight with Abuela,” Mirabel says. “I told her that I’ve been working for you. I’m sorry that I didn’t listen before, and I’m- I’m sorry that I said all of those things, all of those horrible things…”

It all comes out in one long rush, tears welling in her eyes. She told herself that she wouldn’t do this, but here she is, doing it.

Bruno lets out a sigh. “Mirabel, listen… I’m glad that you were honest with your grandmother. That’s huge. But you and I… We…” He struggles with the words. “We can’t, okay?”

The phone is hot in Mirabel’s hand, though her face is even hotter. She can feel the heat spreading down her neck, frustration rising up like bile. He’s not even listening.

“So, I can’t even be your model anymore?” Mirabel asks. Her voice is thin, like a rubber band pulled tight, about to snap. “I don’t understand. You said you’d always be my uncle, and now you’re just… just cutting me out of your life?”

Bruno’s silence tells her everything.

“I love modeling. And I don’t want to get paid for work I didn’t do. Even if we can’t be… I don’t know…” Lovers. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Whatever they were and will never be again. “Can’t we go back to the way things were? Uncle and niece? Photographer and model?”

She feels awful, childish, clinging to him by any means possible. She hates this feeling, helpless and needy—but she already lost Bruno once in her life, and she can’t stand to lose him again.

“Please, Tío. Just… Just give me a chance.”

Again, Bruno is silent. He says nothing for so long, Mirabel is almost afraid that he’ll hang up.

“This won’t end well,” he says at last. Mirabel sniffles, wiping at her cheeks.

Bruno sighs. “Alright. Saturday. Three o’clock. I’ll try to find you a different photographer—”

Mirabel bites back a protest.

“But if I can’t find one, we’ll just… keep things casual. Alright?”

She swallows, nodding wordlessly. This isn’t what she wanted, but… It’ll have to do. At least he’s talking to her again.

“Alright,” she agrees. “I’ll see you then.”

Mirabel lies back on the mattress, phone cradled to her ear. She stays like that for some time, long after Bruno hangs up.

Chapter Text

For the first time in a while, Mirabel hesitates outside of Bruno’s studio.

Her eyes roam over the neon sign. The blackout windows. The faded bricks. She feels just like she did on that first day, all jangled nerves and sweaty hands. She takes a long, steadying breath.

You got this, she tells herself. She doesn’t believe it any more now than she did back then.

Inside the studio, things are shockingly normal. There’s at least two other photo sessions going on, the hallways full of people moving around, talking, making jokes. They smile at Mirabel like nothing has changed. No whispers. No dirty looks.

Sitting in the makeup chair, she lets the prep team work their magic. Laura pulls her hair into two low pigtails, while Roberto paints her lips a girlish pink. He’s pretty happy today, gossiping about some guy he met at a New Year’s Eve party. Mirabel nods along, hoping they can’t sense how nervous she is.

A loud clatter interrupts their conversation. It comes from outside the dressing room, likely somewhere on set. Roberto glances towards the door. 

“Uh-oh,” he says. “Boss is here.”

Mirabel’s heart races. She can’t see Bruno, but she can hear him stammering out an apology. He must have run into something—or someone.

“Why ‘uh-oh?’” she asks. She thought Bruno and the crew got along. Roberto and Laura exchange a look.

“He’s been really out of it lately,” Laura explains. “Working too much. Obsessing over little things. His last three photoshoots—he couldn’t even finish them. He said the ‘vision’ wasn’t right.”

“It’s gotta be heartbreak,” Roberto says. When Laura frowns, he adds, “What? The guy has ‘messy breakup’ written all over him.”

He looks expectantly at Mirabel, as if hoping she’ll chime in. She’s Bruno’s niece, after all. She must know something.

“I don’t know,” she murmurs. “Bruno and I don’t talk very much.”

Mirabel heads out in her robe and slippers, heart thumping inside her chest. All around the room, crew members are chatting lightly, sipping on water bottles and fussing with lights. Bruno stands near the stage, his back turned. The floor tilts as Mirabel gets closer.

“It doesn’t look right,” Bruno says. “It’s not… Something’s off.”

Eduardo stands with him, regarding the set with a careful frown. It’s been done up to resemble a classroom, complete with desks and bookshelves. Eduardo crosses his arms. “Is it the props? The lighting?”

“I don’t know,” Bruno says again. “It’s just… It’s not right.”

Eduardo opens his mouth to reply, but he stops himself short. “Mirabel, hey.”

Bruno flinches a little, surprised by her appearance. Eduardo doesn’t seem to notice.

“What do you think?” he asks, meaning the set design. “You’ve been a classroom a lot more recently than we have.”

“Oh—I think it looks great!” Mirabel says. She feels strange, her voice too high. Keep it casual, Bruno said. “I swear, I’ve sat in a million classrooms just like it.”

“See?” Eduardo nudges Bruno’s shoulder. “You worry too much! Let’s just give it a try—we can make adjustments as we go.”

With a wink at Mirabel, he heads for the other side of the stage, leaving the two of them alone. Mirabel fidgets, conscious of the space between them and her own state of undress. She can’t remember how she used to act around him—how a normal niece acts around her uncle.

“It’s good to see you,” she says, which isn’t a lie, exactly. As strange as this is, it’s better than not seeing him at all.

Bruno nods, his gaze on the floor. He’s dressed in his usual green shirt, with little triangles patterned down the front. Unshaven, his hair pulled into a low ponytail, he looks more or less like he always does. Maybe a little more tired. The circles under his eyes are exceptionally deep.

“You too,” he says, his tone oddly neutral. “Should we get started?”

“Oh—” His abruptness catches her off-guard. “Don’t, um—Don’t you want to see my outfit?”

“Huh? Oh, of course…”

Mirabel removes her robe. Underneath, she’s dressed like a schoolgirl—or some perverse version of one. Her pleated skirt is much too short to pass a uniform inspection, and her white, button-down shirt is open enough to reveal her bra.

The look really suits her. Or at least, it did in the dressing room mirror. Her glasses and pigtails make her look bookish and cute, in the way only Bruno can dream up. Mirabel wonders if he had this particular “vision” before Christmas. When they were still together.

She stands still, watching his eyes roam over her body. He doesn’t say anything, but Mirabel notices a bob in his throat. This is the part where he fusses over her outfit, tugging on straps and flyaway hairs. This time, however, he only nods.

“You look good,” he says at last. Then, clearing his throat, he addresses the entire room. “Alright, let’s get to it!”

Mirabel takes her spot on stage. The lights are very bright—though perhaps not as blinding as they once were. Sitting down at one of the desks, she crosses her legs. The skirt is very short.

“So, um… What’s the scene?” she asks.

Bruno shrugs, toying with the settings on his camera. “It’s pretty straightforward. You’re a sexy schoolgirl. Classic.”

“Right…” Mirabel shifts in her seat. Usually, Bruno gives her a little more to go on—a prop to pose with, or a character to roleplay. She casts around for ideas. “So, what—I’m in detention? Or… trying to earn some extra credit?”

Bruno’s silent, thinking it over. After a moment, he begins to nod. “Yeah, let’s try the detention angle. You’re a rebel. Whatever you did—you’re not sorry. You’re sick of this school and everyone in it.”

A rebel… Yeah, okay. She can work with that.

She assumes a bored, jaded pose, trying her best to emulate Isabela and her spiked leather jackets. Bruno raises the camera to his face.

It’s slow going at first. The role of a rebel isn’t the easiest for Mirabel to play, and Bruno doesn’t offer much advice. The whole set is unusually quiet, hardly any praise falling from Bruno’s lips.

Mirabel tries a few different poses. “How’s this?”

Bruno hmm’s in response, uncertain. He’s hardly taken any pictures. He keeps moving around the stage, standing up and crouching down, like he just can’t find the right angle.

“Not bad,” he says. “Maybe try—try lifting your chin?”

She obliges, tilting her head in an aloof manner. The camera clicks a few times, but when Bruno checks the preview image, he makes a frustrated sound. “No, that’s not… damnit…”

He shakes his head, more upset with himself than Mirabel. She wets her lip.

“Should I moo?” she asks.

“Huh?”

Without further explanation, Mirabel lets out a low moo. It makes her cheeks heat, but it’s worth it to see the surprise on Bruno’s face.

The crew chuckles. Bruno seems startled at first, but then the joke finally sinks in. His face softens, a smile tugging at his lips.

Mirabel leans forward. “New idea. I’m not a rebel—I’m the girl every boy has a crush on.”

She describes the scene. She’s an average schoolgirl, the one you’d meet in the back of homeroom. The one who passes you notes. Who smiles shyly when you look her way.

“You stare at her when you should be paying attention. And when she giggles at your jokes, you’re not sure if she’s flirting with you or not.”

Bruno holds her eye, taking in the scenario. He’s intrigued, at least, regarding Mirabel the way he regards a spicy telenovela. She smiles hopefully. Come on. Work with me here!

Bruno’s mouth curves upwards, mirroring her own. “Show me,” he says at last.

It’s easier to play the schoolgirl than the troublemaker, especially with Bruno behind the camera. She slips seamlessly into the role, letting her poses become playful and flirtatious. She imagines that the viewer is an old friend, someone she’s begun to develop feelings for. Someone she wouldn’t mind seeing naked.

She doesn’t have to imagine very much.

“That’s good,” Bruno says, his enthusiasm growing. “Can you lean forward a bit? Let your shirt fall open.”

She plays along, a thrill running up her spine. The camera clicks.

“Perfect—just like that—”

Rising from her chair, Mirabel sits on the desk itself. With a playful grin, she toys with the hem of her skirt, lifting it up on one side.  

He inhales sharply. The camera clicks again, and again as Mirabel shifts her pose. Another picture. Another word of praise.  

Just like old times.

Bruno moves closer, and closer still, losing himself in the scene. Mirabel’s breath grows short. She wants him near her. Wants him to touch her. Wants him to say that he loves her and he forgives her and he’ll never let her go again.

No. She can’t want that. Pushing those thoughts aside, Mirabel sits up straighter. She grips the edge of the desk, her legs uncrossed, dangling towards the floor. Her skirt is so short that you could easily see her underwear, if her hands weren’t in the way. She looks right into the camera.

Bruno swears under his breath. He sinks down to one knee, like a supplicant, worshipping Mirabel with his camera.

A hot, familiar sensation races into Mirabel’s belly. She’s been here before. This is exactly how they posed when she was on his couch, the night of that terrible storm. When his old shirt fell down to her waist, and he accidently photographed her topless.

Bruno seems to realize it the same moment Mirabel does. His eyes lift. His face is unguarded, full of longing and regret.

It’s okay, Mirabel thinks. I miss you, too.

Bruno looks away.

“S-Sorry…” he says. Mirabel’s hand comes up automatically, but he’s already gone, slipping through her grasp.

No. Wait.

“Let’s, um…” Bruno clears his throat. “Let’s try something else.”

Mirabel shifts, feeling exposed. The lights are suddenly too warm, her skin too hot. She pushes through it. “Like what?”

Bruno’s silent for a moment, rubbing at his face like there’s something in his eye. With a sniff and a shake of his head, he’s ready to work again.

They try a few standard poses, the kind of things you’d see in any dirty magazine. Mirabel bent over the desk, her ass peeking out from under the skirt. Or sitting in the chair, her shirt fully open, leaning forward to display her chest.

Bruno moves in close. The lens dilates, focusing on her face and torso. She can see herself reflected in the glass.

“Oh—” Bruno looks up. “Your collar is crooked. Here—”

He reaches out, but stops himself before he touches her. “Sorry. If you could just—”

“You can do it,” Mirabel tells him. She doesn’t want to lose her pose.

Bruno’s fingertips brush against her neck, carefully tugging her collar into place. Warm, familiar tingles run along her scalp, making her dizzy, making her ache. She wants this, needs this, even as it quietly destroys her. Like a sickness and its salve, burning and cooling, hurting and healing.

Is this her life now? Smiling, playing pretend? Always close to him, but never close enough?

Bruno rubs at his face again. With a blink, Mirabel realizes that his lashes are wet.

As he lifts the camera to his eye, she notices other things—things she was too nervous to notice before. The obvious signs of exhaustion; the tremble in his hands and the sunken hollows of his cheeks. He hasn’t been sleeping. Hasn’t been eating. He’s hurting, just like Mirabel.

“Stop,” Mirabel says. Her voice is hardly a whisper. “Tío, I… I want to stop.”

Bruno looks over the camera, confusion written on his face. He thinks he did something wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Mirabel says, all too aware of other people around them. She keeps her voice low. “This was a mistake.”

She rises from her seat. Bruno rises with her.

“Mirabel…”

“It’s okay,” she insists. She feels lightheaded, realization breaking over her in waves. “I shouldn’t have… I shouldn’t have asked you to do this. It was selfish of me, and I’m really, really sorry.”

Bruno is silent, eyes roaming over Mirabel’s face. She doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but she shows him a smile.

“I won’t call you anymore,” she promises. “I was clinging to you, trying to have you in my life no matter what, but… I think it’s best if I let you go.”

She thinks of her mother, calling Bruno year after year. Of Isabela, smiling, pretending, always hidden, never seen. Of Luisa, desperately holding it all together, even as she crumbles beneath its weight.

She doesn’t want that. Won’t ask Bruno to do that. Won’t ask him to smile, won’t ask him to pretend. Won’t make him be her uncle, when the truth is, she’ll always want more.

With a squeeze of Bruno’s hand, Mirabel turns away. She walks off the set, out of the spotlight. The crowd parts automatically.

“What happened?” someone asks.

“What’s wrong?”

“Are you okay?”

Mirabel turns towards the hallway, leaving their questions unanswered. Tears are prickling in her eyes; tears she doesn’t want them to see. Her heart is breaking. Every step is agony.

The hallway is blessedly empty. Drawing her robe around herself, Mirabel wipes at her nose. If she can make it to the bathroom, she can let herself cry. Then hopefully she can sneak out of here without too many questions.

“Mirabel.”

She stops, frozen in place by the sound of her uncle’s voice. It jolts straight through her, like electricity down her spine. An arrow, aimed for her heart.

“Mirabel, wait. Please.”

She turns. Bruno is there, standing at the opposite end of the hall.

“I want to try,” he says.

Mirabel stands in place, unable to move, unable to think. She doesn’t understand.

“You were right,” Bruno tells her. “What you said before—I’ve gotten so comfortable being unhappy. I don’t know how to… how to…”

His hands open and close, grasping for the words. “It’s hard, you know? Loving someone. You gotta, you gotta open yourself up, risk so much. It’s easier to be miserable. Safer, I guess, to just be alone.”

He takes a step forward. Mirabel can feel her pulse throughout her body. She doesn’t dare hope. Doesn’t dare speak.

“But I… I don’t want that anymore,” Bruno says. “I want you. I don’t know if this will end well… but, please. I want to try.”  

He says it earnestly, his brows arched and expression pleading. In that moment, he looks every inch like a telenovela star. Perhaps not as glamorous, with lines on his face and greys in his hair, but no less love in his eyes. A half-laugh, half-sob rises from Mirabel’s throat.

They’re in each other’s arms a moment later, kissing deeply. Relief floods Mirabel’s body. She’s trembling so hard, she’s sure he can feel it.

A great cheer echoes around them, mixed with shouts and applause.

“No way!” Roberto cries. The whole crew is watching them, leaning through doorways and crowding into the hall.

“Someone needs to tell Pilar,” Eduardo grins. “She won the betting pool.”

“You knew?!” Bruno says breathlessly. His arms are tight around Mirabel’s waist, as if he’s afraid of what might happen if he lets her go.

Eduardo shrugs. “Some of us… suspected.”

“And you’re okay with it?” He sounds dazed. Incredulous. “I mean… I’m her uncle. Her boss. She works for me!”

A rumble of laughter passes through the crowd. Mirabel makes eye contact with Roberto and Laura. Roberto’s face is hungry, eager for gossip. No doubt she’ll have to tell him the whole story over drinks. Laura flashes her a smile and thumbs-up.

“I’ve known you a long time,” Eduardo says. “Most of us have. You’ve got a lot of talents, boss, but manipulation isn’t one of them.”

Still, Eduardo tilts his chin upwards, giving Mirabel a serious look. “But hey, if he ever pressures you, or hurts you, or so much as looks at you sideways—you come to me or Pilar. We’ll straighten him out.”

Mirabel’s head bobs up and down, barely holding back her laughter. Her heart is beating very fast; her cheeks hurt from smiling. She didn’t know it was possible to be this happy.

Bruno tugs on Mirabel’s hands, leading her to his office. The crowd whistles and cheers in their wake.

***

Bruno’s office is just as Mirabel remembers it, cluttered with takeout containers and dirty clothes. The couch where they first kissed is just as old and frayed; the carpet, stiff beneath her feet. Mirabel drinks in the familiar details. The smell of Bruno’s sweat.

As the door shuts behind them, they fall into each other’s arms. Their kisses come hard and fast, each one sliding into the next.

“I’m sorry,” Bruno says. His breath is hot against her lips.

“Don’t. It’s not your fault.”

“I should have called you. I shouldn’t have run away.”

They kiss again, and again and again. His breath is sour; his beard, rough beneath her palms. But Mirabel only pulls him closer, kisses him deeper.

“I missed you,” she whispers. “Missed you so much.”

“Me too,” Bruno says. “Fuck—I was such a mess without you.”

He nuzzles the place behind Mirabel’s ear, arms wrapped tight around her waist. Mirabel does something similar, hands sliding under his shirt. It’s like they’re trying to burrow into each other, the way you burrow into an old blanket.

“I wanted to call… I wanted to be with you so badly.”

“So why didn’t you?” Mirabel asks. “We could have worked it out. I wanted to work it out.”

“I was scared. Scared of— Scared of loving you. Of telling your parents, my friends… Of living in the open. Being seen.” He sniffles wetly. “I was a coward. Just like you said.”

Her heart twinges. “I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t fair.”

Bruno forgives her with kisses. Mirabel does the same. Each press of their lips offers absolution. Every touch tends their wounds.

“Can I show you something?” Bruno asks.

He opens the desk drawer, drawing out a sheaf of papers. As he hands them to Mirabel, she realizes that they’re actually photographs—the old fashioned kind, developed in a darkroom, not printed off a computer.

Her breath catches. It’s the photographs that she took in the attic. The ones of Bruno naked, sitting in a high-backed chair.

“You kept them?” she says. Bruno rubs the back of his neck.

“Yeah. I developed them when I was missing you. They helped me see things more clearly.”

Mirabel flips through the photos, awestruck. Grainy, unfocused, and overexposed, they look a lot like Bruno’s amateur work—only the boy staring back at her is now a grown man. His large, round eyes stare straight at the viewer. Exposed. Vulnerable. Loved. Seen.

“This is how I feel when I’m with you,” Bruno confesses. “This… This is who I want to be.”

Mirabel looks up from the pictures, into Bruno’s eyes. A smile tugs at her mouth. “It came from you,” she says, echoing the words he once said to her. “All I did was take the picture.”

He chuckles softly. As their lips come together, Mirabel drops the photographs blindly on his desk. She feels warm, tingling all over. Her thoughts are still on the attic; that wonderful, downright pornographic photoshoot.

“Tío,” she says between kisses, “you promised.”

Bruno looks at her quizzically, before remembering what she said.

When we get home, you’d better fuck me so hard, I can’t walk.

“What, here? Now? With everyone waiting outside?”

Mirabel snorts. “They think we’re doing it anyway.”

She pulls out her silly pigtails, letting her hair hang loose once more. Bruno glances at the door, still uncertain—at least, until Mirabel opens her robe.

He sucks a breath through his teeth. “That outfit…”

“What, this?” The silky fabric slides to her feet, revealing the schoolgirl uniform underneath. “You didn’t have much to say about it before.”

“I was trying to play it cool!”

Gripping Mirabel by the waist, Bruno lifts her onto the desk. She squeals in delight, papers and coffee cups scattering to the floor.

“Professor Madrigal!” she says dramatically. “What are you doing?”

“Uniform inspection,” he returns. His voice is low, rough with desire. “You’re in violation of dress code.”

He slides to his knees, perfectly situated between Mirabel’s thighs. Her short skirt hides nothing. Bruno runs his hands along her legs, reverent, worshipful.

“These shoes—” His hand glides to her ankle. “They’re not the district standard. I’m afraid they’ll have to go.”

He removes her slippers like some fairytale prince in reverse, leaving her barefoot. With a dip of his head, he brings his lips to her ankle. He lays a hot trail of kisses all the way up to her lower leg, to her knee, her inner thighs.

Arousal jumps into her belly, hot and tight and twisting. She can feel Bruno’s breath on her most intimate places.

“Bruno…” The sound comes out like a whine.

“Professor Madrigal,” he corrects. His mouth curves dangerously. “Careful. You’re in enough trouble as it is, young lady.”

Mirabel giggles. She can barely contain her excitement. It’s been so long since they’ve done this. Since they’ve played together, pleasured each other. Her whole body is aching, pulsing with desire. She wants him so badly it almost hurts. 

Bruno makes a tutting sound, like a disappointed teacher. “Tsk, tsk. Your underwear…”

Mirabel lets out a gasp as his thumb swipes along her slit, separated only by a thin strip of fabric. Her underwear is already damp.

“These’ll have to go as well.”

Bruno reaches under her pleated skirt, pulling her underwear down her thighs. Mirabel grips the edge of his desk for balance.

Discarding the offensive item, Bruno’s gaze never wavers, fixated between Mirabel’s legs. Her slit is just inches away from his mouth. He runs his thumb along her folds, making her shiver and gasp.

“Tío… I- I mean, Professor…”

Bruno grins between her thighs. “Good girl.”

And then—oh—his tongue is inside of her, his face buried beneath her skirt. Mirabel cries out, toes curling, eyes rolling back. Her fingers fist through Bruno’s hair.

His tongue moves slowly, languidly. Gliding along her folds, savoring every inch of her. He licks his way to her sensitive clit, circling it with the tip of tongue. Mirabel gasps—and then gasps again, as his lips wrap around the sensitive nub.

Yes—there!

Her thighs tighten around his face, her mouth open in pleasure. Bruno licks and sucks until she’s shaking, teetering on the edge. She’s so close already, so painfully, desperately close. Almost there. Almost there.

She cums much too fast, weeks of pent-up frustration all breaking over her at once. It crashes down like a wave, pleasure spilling into her toes, her fingertips. It’s too much all at once, too hot, too sharp—she clings to Bruno, all but bowed over his head.

Bruno pulls back. Her skirt slides down his nose as he withdraws. His lips are swollen, damp with a mixture of saliva and Mirabel’s own arousal. He doesn’t break character for an instant.

“Now that you’re in proper uniform… It’s time to discuss your grades.”

“Grades?” Mirabel says breathlessly. Her head is spinning; her thighs, still quaking. She hasn’t cum that hard in a long time.

Bruno wipes his mouth. “Yes. They’ve been slipping lately.”

He rises to his feet, standing between Mirabel’s legs. Seated on his desk, she’s only a few inches shorter than him, but the way Bruno looks down his nose gives him an air of authority.

“You’ve been distracted in class,” he says. Mirabel chuckles lowly.

“I can’t imagine why…”

Bruno’s fingers glide up her arms, making her shiver. Fresh arousal twists in her gut, and she feels herself throb between her legs. One orgasm wasn’t enough. She wants to feel him inside.

Toying with the collar of Bruno’s shirt, Mirabel flashes an impish grin. “Isn’t there anything I could do for extra credit?”

Bruno groans. Her lips are already on his neck. “I’m sure we can think of something.”

Mirabel pulls him down, until she’s flat against the desk. There are papers and photographs underneath her, all about to be ruined with sweat and sex. She kisses him hard.

Mirabel can hear the click of Bruno’s belt buckle, feel him fumbling to shuck off his pants. She wraps her legs around his waist. His cock presses flush against her slit.

“Will you cum inside me this time?” she whispers, kissing his lips, his nose, his cheeks. Bruno’s head bobs up and down.

“Yes—want that—”

He reaches between them, guiding his cockhead to her entrance. She can feel him throbbing against her, hot and smooth and eager. She’s so wet, so open—her uncle easily slips inside.

She sighs gratefully, enjoying the stretch, the fullness. Bruno bows over her, hands pressed flat to the desk. Loose curls swing around his face.

“Tío,” she whispers, struck by how beautiful he is, how perfect this moment. He grins in response, pressing a kiss to her lips.

His cock pulls out—and then presses back in. Her legs tighten around his waist, wanting him closer. Deeper. Fuck me so hard, I can’t walk.

Again he pulls out and again he presses in, over and over, hard and fast. Almost immediately, his thrusts become rough and primal, grinding Mirabel against the wooden surface. The desk groans beneath them; a few remaining stacks of paper topple to the floor.

Mirabel can only gasp, practically hanging on for dear life. She grips the back of Bruno’s shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric. Her eyes roll back; her mouth hangs open in pleasure.

Can everyone hear them?

Does she care?

Bruno’s cock slides against her inner walls, filling her up, driving her wild. His cockhead slams against something inside of her, and it’s like sparks go off behind her eyes.

“Oh!”

Bruno finds that spot again, driving into it over and over. Mirabel’s back arches. There. Please. Please, please please please—

She cums with a third and final cry, everything hot and fast and bright. She loses herself, all sense of sound. There’s only the weight of Bruno’s body and the pleasure drumming through her, right down to her belly, right down to her bones.

Mirabel comes back to herself slowly, one piece at a time. She’s aware of her pulse, her heartbeat pounding against Bruno’s chest. Of his hot breath against her neck, grunting and groaning above her. Of her cunt, still throbbing, clenching around him, pleasure ebbing and flowing with the slide of Bruno’s cock. She fists the back of his shirt, her fingers stiff from clutching too hard. He’s gonna— He’s gonna—

Bruno cums inside of her, spilling hard and deep. He groans from the force of it, fingertips digging into her waist. Mirabel can feel every inch of him, every twitch of his cock, every drop of release. His cum feels warm inside of her; warmer than the sweat on her skin or the breath in her lungs. She marvels at the sensation.

“Mirabel…” Bruno whispers, and she thinks distantly of that afternoon in the attic, when she told him to say his girlfriend’s name. “Mirabel…”

They stay like that for a long moment, still intimately joined. Mirabel kisses the side of Bruno’s face, coaxing him back to himself.

As Bruno draws out, she can feel his cum dribble out of her. It’s so wonderfully perverse, so delightfully forbidden. Mirabel admires the sight, her pathetic little skirt wrinkled around her waist.

“H-Here…” Bruno gives her a discarded shirt to clean up with, before doing the same for himself. He pulls up his pants but doesn’t bother to buckle them, flopping bonelessly onto the couch.

“Damn, kid,” he whispers. “I really needed that.”  

“Me too,” Mirabel grins. Pulling on her silk robe, she follows Bruno across the room. He pulls her on top of him like a blanket.

Neither of them speaks for a while. Bruno’s breath goes slow and even, possibly dozing; Mirabel closes her eyes and lets herself drift. She’s a child again, stretched out on the couch, using her uncle’s chest for a pillow. He rubs her back as he flips through the channels, lulling her to sleep.

“Are we really doing this?” she says softly. “I mean, are we… together?”

“Until you wise up and dump me,” Bruno replies.

“But are we, like… public? Are we going to tell people?”

That’s the point of all this, right? Living in the open? Being seen?

She lifts her head, looking Bruno in the eye. He’s quiet for a long time.

“I think…” He wets his lip, carefully weighing his words. “I think we should take it slow.”

“What do you mean?”

Again, Bruno is quiet. The room is oddly still around them, the sounds of the studio muffled and far away. Mirabel can just make out the padding of footsteps, the murmur of faint chatter.

“I’ve lived behind walls for a long time,” Bruno explains. His hands are soft, rubbing a strand of Mirabel’s hair between his fingertips. “Too often, I’ve made it all or nothing. Either you’re in my life, or you’re not. But I think it’s time to try something different. Something a little more… forgiving.”

Mirabel nods, though she still doesn’t quite understand. She wants to tell him that it’s okay to have boundaries—and that she’ll try harder to respect them from now on. But Bruno continues.

“I don’t think I could ever go back to that house. But our family, your parents, all my sobrinos… I want them in my life. Our life.” He takes a deep breath through his nose. “I could even make room for Abuela. Maybe. Someday.”

Mirabel almost laughs. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

She lays her head on his chest once more, feeling soft and warm and content. She likes the idea of taking it slow—of building a life together, brick by brick. Like a house. Their own casita.

“Do you remember that shower we took together?” Mirabel traces the triangles on his shirt. “You kissed me afterwards, and you started to say something—but you couldn’t finish. What was it?”

She knows what he was going to say. Or at least, she’s pretty sure. Still, she’d really, really like to hear it out loud.

Bruno chuckles, low and sweet. His arms tighten around her, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

“You know… I really do love you.”  

Mirabel smiles. Yeah, that sounds about right.

Chapter Text

It’s a beautiful Saturday, and five-year-old Mirabel is squirming with excitement. She’s going to the park today! With her tío!

“He's never been!” Mirabel says passionately. “I’m gonna show him everything. The swings, and the slide, and the sandbox, and- and- AND!” She bounces in her seat. “He said we can get ice cream after!”

Across the kitchen, Mamá chuckles. “That sounds like quite the afternoon.”

“He said we can stay all day. He said-”

“I know, I know,” Mamá laughs. “But go easy on him, alright? Your tío doesn’t go out much. He might have a hard time keeping up.”

Mirabel wrinkles her nose. “But he said.”

“She’s right, you know.” Bruno's voice cuts across the room. “I did say.”

“Tío!”

Mirabel nearly jumps out of her chair. Her uncle is leaning in the doorway, arms crossed. He gives Mirabel a conspiratorial wink.

Mamá wipes her hands on her apron. “Oh, wow. You look nice.”

Bruno looks down at himself. “Do I?”

“Yeah. Is that a new shirt?” Mamá steps closer. “It is! You shaved, too. And is that...” She sniffs the air. “Cologne?”

Bruno swats her away. “Alright, you need to stop sniffing me.”

“Why are you dressed up?”

“I’m not!” Bruno insists, but his cheeks are red. Mirabel giggles as he ducks around Mamá.

“Mami’s right! You look handsome!”

“Oh, not you, too!” Bruno sinks into the chair next to Mirabel. “Can’t a guy take a shower without getting the third degree?”

Mirabel giggles again. She doesn’t know what the ‘third degree’ is, but it sounds funny when Bruno says it.

Bruno ruffles Mirabel’s hair.

“Alright, are you ready to go?”

“Not until she finishes her lunch!” Mamá says.

Mirabel looks at her plate. She has a few bites left—and a whole mountain of carrots. She pouts at Bruno.

He grins knowingly. As soon as Mamá turns away, he shovels the carrots into his mouth.

Bruno and Mirabel walk to the park together, hand in tiny hand. Mirabel chatters happily, telling him about her toys, and her favorite cartoon, and the dog she saw yesterday, and the mean thing Isabela said. She tells him every little thing that’s on her mind, and he listens to it all.

Finally, they arrive. Mirabel runs the last few feet, dragging Bruno behind her. The park is bustling with energy, kids laughing on the swings, playing tag, building sandcastles.

Mirabel looks up at Bruno, beaming. “What do you want to do first?”

Bruno doesn’t answer. He’s distracted, standing up on tip-toe to scan the crowd. Mirabel blinks with confusion.

“Tío?”

Again, he doesn’t answer. He cranes his neck, searching; Mirabel tugs on his arm.

“What are you looking for, Tío?”

“Huh?” Bruno glances down at his niece. “Nothing, I... Oh!”

Bruno’s hand shoots upwards, waving eagerly. Mirabel follows his gaze to a man on the other side of the park, sitting on a bench. The man smiles in recognition.

“Do you know him?” Mirabel asks, clinging to Bruno a little tighter. He squeezes her hand reassuringly.

“Yeah. He’s my friend.” Bruno smiles at Mirabel. “Let’s go say hi.”

What? No. She doesn’t want to.

But Bruno’s already walking over. Mirabel trails behind him, sticking close to his side.

The man on the bench raises his hand in greeting. He’s a big guy, broad-shouldered and square-jawed. Streaks of grey run through his beard, and probably his hair, though it’s hard to tell from beneath his wide-brimmed hat.

“Hola,” Bruno says. His voice wavers.

“Hola,” the man replies. “Nice day, isn’t it?”

Bruno’s head bobs. “Yeah. I- I brought my niece. To play, I mean. Because it’s so nice. Here. Outside.”

The man chuckles. “What a coincidence. I’m here with my granddaughters.”

He waves again, this time to a pair of a girls playing across the yard. They’re older than Mirabel, and for some reason, that makes her press even closer to Bruno. Her uncle nods, but he doesn’t say anything.

The silence lingers for a while. A long while. Mirabel doesn’t like it.

She tugs on Bruno’s hand. “Tío...”

Bruno jumps, like he forgot she was there. “Oh! Right. Mirabel, this is Javier. I- I mean, Señor Villanueva.”

Mirabel shuffles. “Hola.”

The man takes off his hat and holds it over his heart.

“Señorita,” he says. Mirabel was right; his black hair is streaked with grey.

Javier leans backwards, spreading his arms across the backrest. One leg crosses over the other, and a smile quirks his lips. There’s something in his smile that Mirabel can’t place.

“Would you like to sit?” he asks. Bruno stammers at the question.

“W-Well, I—”

“Tio.” Mirabel tugs on his hand again. Her heart is beating fast. “You said we could play.”

“Yes! Right, yes.” Bruno shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear his thoughts. “I’m sorry. Of course we can play.”

He smiles for Mirabel, before turning to Javier. “It was nice seeing you.”

“Likewise.”

Mirabel glances over her shoulder as Bruno leads her away. Javier is still smiling.

They go to the sandbox first. Mirabel feels strange, but things snap back to normal pretty quickly. The shy man from before disappears, and Mirabel’s tío returns.

They build a sandcastle with a moat, and a sand-stable for their unicorns, and a sand-vacation house for when they want to go to the beach. They play on the jungle-gym, and Bruno helps Mirabel on the monkey bars and pushes her on the swings.

It’s the best afternoon she’s had in a long time. Just the two of them, laughing in the sunshine.

But after Mirabel’s third, fourth, fifth piggy-back ride, Bruno starts to get tired.

“Okay,” he says, breathing hard. He plants his hands on his knees. “Tío needs to sit.”

“But you said!”

“We don’t have to leave,” Bruno promises. “But I need a break.”

He gestures to the girls from before. They’re sitting in the grass, braiding each other’s hair. “Why don’t play with Javier’s granddaughters?”

Mirabel frowns. She’d rather play with her tío.

But she can see the sweat on his brow. His chest, falling and rising. And Mamá did say “go easy on him.”

Mirabel sighs. “Okaaay.”

“That’s my girl.”

Bruno ruffles her hair again. Mirabel watches him walk away.

His friend at the bench is laughing. Bruno smiles as he sits down beside him. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up!”

That’s all Mirabel can hear. Soon enough, the two men are lost in conversation. Bruno doesn’t look at Mirabel at all.

She frowns. Javier seems nice, but... Mirabel kind of wishes he hadn’t come.

Mirabel trudges over to the patch of grass, where Javier’s granddaughters are playing. They don’t look up at her approach.

“Hi,” she says, putting on her best smile.

The girls glance in her direction. They’re way closer to Isabela’s age than Mirabel’s—and like Isabela, they look at Mirabel like she’s a baby.

“I’m Mirabel,” she says, lifting her chin. She points to the bench, where their grandfather is laughing with Bruno. “That’s my tío.”

The girls follow her finger. They look at each other.

“Is his name Bruno?” one of them asks.

“Yes.”

The girl whispers to her sister. They both giggle.

Mirabel’s face heats up. “What’s funny?”

“Nothing!” the girls say in unison. Then they burst with fresh laughter.

Mirabel’s face grows hotter. Tío told her to play with them, but she doesn’t want to anymore.

She walks away, sitting down on her own patch of grass. The girls ignore her.

Mirabel crosses her arms. The sun beats down on her neck. She wishes Luisa was here. Luisa would play with her. Or even Camilo. He’s mean sometimes, but at least he wouldn’t leave her to talk to some old abuelo.

Mirabel glances over her shoulder. The other girls are pulling dandelions from the grass and braiding them into necklaces.

Mirabel looks at the ground; the dandelions near her feet. She pulls them up and tries to make a necklace of her own.

It’s hard. The older girls make it look easy, but Mirabel’s fingers keep fumbling. The heat in her face spreads down her neck and back.

“Tío!”

Mirabel goes running across the playground.

“Tíooo!!!”

Bruno looks up. His smile drops; his brows arch with alarm. He reaches for Mirabel. “Mira, what’s wrong?”

She shoves a fistful of flowers into his face. “I want one!”

“You want one?”

“A crown!”

“What?”

“Pleeease!” Mirabel wails.

Bruno blinks rapidly, eyes darting between the flowers and his niece’s face.

“I don’t understand.”

Javier laughs. “She wants a flower crown. You know—a daisy chain.”

“Ohhh.”

Bruno pulls Mirabel into his lap. He holds her close. “I’m sorry, kid. I don’t know how to make one.”

Mirabel hiccups. She buries her face in Bruno’s neck. His palm smooths across her back, up and down, up and down.

“Here, let me see.”

Bruno shifts, adjusting Mirabel on his lap. He turns her to face Javier.

“Let me see,” Javier says again. Mirabel sniffles, clutching the flowers to her chest.

“I can help,” the old man says warmly. Mirabel looks at Bruno. He smiles and nods.

Slowly, Mirabel places the flowers in Javier’s hand. They look so small in his large, square palm. He lays the flowers on his lap and begins to braid a chain.

“They weren’t very nice to you, were they?” he asks.

Mirabel shakes her head.

“I’m sorry about that,” Javier says. “They’re good girls, but... they’re a lot like their father.”

“Manuel’s not that bad,” says Bruno.

“Manuel’s a shit,” Javier replies.

Mirabel gasps. He said a bad word! Her eyes meet Bruno’s. He looks equally thrilled.

“I can say that now that he’s all grown up,” Javier grins. “A wife, a family, kids of his own... Damn, when did I get so old?”

“You’re not old,” Bruno tells him.

Mirabel lays her head on Bruno’s chest, watching Javier. His hands are wide, like Tío Félix’s, but he handles the flowers gently.

It doesn’t take him long to finish the crown. He lays it on Mirabel’s head.

“Oh, wow!” Bruno says. “You look just like a princess!”

Mirabel touches the flowers in her hair. “Really?”

“Really really. The most beautiful princess I’ve ever seen. I should take a picture!”

Bruno lifts a hand to his face, like he’s holding a camera. He takes a moment to frame the shot. “Click! Click, click!”

Mirabel laughs, squirming happily. Bruno tilts the imaginary camera towards Javier.

“What do you think?”

“I think you both look perfect,” Javier says. Then, with a small, secretive smile, he tucks a dandelion behind Bruno’s ear.

The touch is soft. Fleeting. Bruno’s hair sways as Javier pulls away, leaving the dandelion behind. Mirabel can feel her uncle go very still; his breath, held in his lungs.

Bruno holds Javier’s gaze for a moment. Javier leans on the bench like he did before, stretching his arm along the backrest. It’s like he’s wrapping an arm around Bruno’s shoulders. Almost. But not quite.

Mirabel blinks. What just happened? Why is Tío quiet, all of a sudden?

“Tío?” she says. “Can we go get ice cream now?”

“Oh, um...” Bruno breaks Javier’s gaze at last. “Not yet. Javier and I were... talking.”

Mirabel frowns. “About what?”

“Oh, well...”

“I was telling your tío about the city,” Javier says firmly. “And how he should go there sometime.”

Mirabel perks up at that. “My papi’s from the city. He told me about it.”

“Oh, yeah?” Javier pushes up the brim of his hat.

“Yeah! He told me about the buildings. They’re really tall. And there’s lots of cars. And famous people.”

“Oh!” Javier nudges Bruno. “Famous people!”

“Don’t,” Bruno says softly. “She doesn’t—”

“I think your tío could be famous,” Javier insists. “The most famous photographer in the world. Don’t you think so, Mirabel?”

“Yes,” she says instantly. Tío could be famous. He could live in a skyscraper like a princess in a tower.

“See? Mirabel believes in you.”

Bruno stares at Javier. His eyes are sad. “You’re playing dirty.”

“Yeah, I know. One of the perks of old age; you get to say exactly what’s on your mind.”

Bruno sighs, allowing himself to sink against the backrest. He pulls Mirabel to his chest; she wraps her legs around his waist and tucks her head beneath his chin.

The three of them are quiet. Mirabel feels warm and comfortable; the playground sounds very far away.

“I just...”

Javier sighs. His voice is softer than before. “I just want you to know... It’s never too late to start living your life. You can do anything you want. Anything at all.”

Bruno’s hand rubs along Mirabel’s back. His cheek presses to the top of her head. “I know.”

“Don’t wait, like I did,” Javier says. “Don’t become an old man, wishing you’d done it sooner.”

Bruno doesn’t reply. Mirabel blinks slowly; she can feel his heartbeat, thumping against her chest.

“It’s not that simple,” he says at last. “There’s a lot of people who care about me. People who... who I care about, too.”

Mirabel smiles. He’s talking about her.

Javier hums with agreement, but says nothing else.

Slowly, very slowly, the arm draped across the bench begins to move. His fingertips brush against Bruno’s shoulder, stroking gently. Mirabel watches it all.

It’s a small gesture, like the flower tucked behind Bruno’s ear. It makes no sound, elicits no reaction. Under all the noise and bustle of the playground, Javier’s fingertips might as well be a butterfly, beating its wings.

And yet Bruno’s heart beats faster.

After a while, Javier stretches and groans. “Alright, I should probably take the girls home. Manuel’s expecting us for dinner.”

“Right, yeah,” Bruno says. He pats Mirabel on the back. “Should we go get our ice cream?”

“Nuh-uh!” Mirabel clings to her uncle. “One more squeeze!”

Javier chuckles. “She’s a cuddlebug, huh?”

“‘Fraid so,” Bruno replies.

There’s another laugh. Javier lowers his voice. “Guess it must run in the family.”

Bruno sputters. “J-Javi!”

More laughter. The sound goes faint as Javier walks away.

“What did he mean?” Mirabel asks.

“N-Nothing!” Bruno says. His face is red. The dandelion is still in his hair.

Mirabel smiles. “He was nice. Can he come over for dinner sometime?”

“Oh! Um... Maybe. I dunno.” Bruno makes a doubtful noise. “But we’ll see him again, okay?”

“Okay.” Mirabel’s head bobs with agreement.

Bruno sighs. He suddenly looks very tired. But he smiles anyway. “Alright. Ice cream?”

“Ice cream!” Mirabel cheers. Bruno starts to set her on the ground, but she clings to him again. “Nuh-uh! Carry me.”

Bruno laughs. The sound rumbles deep in his chest. “Alright, alright. I did say.”

With an exaggerated groan, Bruno rises from the bench. He balances Mirabel on his hip.

“You hanging on?” he asks. Mirabel winds her arms and legs around him.

“Yup!”

And so, with Bruno holding her tight, they head down the street together.

***

Many years later, Mirabel wakes in her uncle’s bed.

She shifts against the mattress, not quite yet herself. Her thoughts are soft, and the sheets are softer still, warm against her bare skin. She must have fallen asleep naked.

A gentle click brings her to consciousness. Blinking slowly, Mirabel finds her uncle at the edge of the bed, camera in hand. He twists the lens, zooming in on her face. She gives him a dreamy smile.

“Good morning.”

This isn’t the first time she’s woken in Bruno’s bed. As she peers into the camera, Mirabel remembers the night of the storm, when Bruno carried her here in his arms. How she asked him to stay, and how she touched herself when he didn’t.

That seems so long ago now.

Behind the camera, Bruno grins. “Morning,” he returns. 

He shifts against the mattress, adjusting his shot. Now that Mirabel’s more awake, she’s conscious of her messy hair and the crust in the corners of her eyes. She rubs her face, laughing dryly. 

“Is this everything you imagined?”

His smile softens. “You have no idea.”

It’s been a few months since they got back together. Several months, actually—the semester is over, and so is Mirabel’s first year of college. After she finished her last exam, the crew took her out to celebrate. There was drinking, and dancing, and loud music—and Bruno, looking super uncomfortable, tucked away in a corner table with Eduardo and Pilar. Mirabel grinned at him from the dance floor.

No way, his expression said, but enough prompting got him on his feet. He looked embarrassed but pleased, taking Mirabel by the waist and swaying in time with the music. Roberto whistled; the crew cheered in delight. Laura immediately pulled out her phone and started recording.

And all Mirabel could do was smile, swept up in her uncle’s arms. It was wonderful to see him like this, finally letting himself be happy.

After the party, they came back here, to Bruno’s apartment. And his bed. Mirabel made Bruno carry her across the threshold, the way he’d done so many times before. Her heart beat fast as they undressed each other, and even faster as she pulled Bruno down onto the mattress.

Mirabel takes her time getting out of bed. The room is fuzzy without her glasses, everything golden and soft. She can only imagine how she looks right now, with the sheets rumpled around her waist and sunlight spilling across her breasts. Bruno moves around her, camera clicking.

He photographs her as she rises. As she climbs into the shower and turns on the spray. Small things, intimate details; the rivulets of soap running over her stomach; her silhouette in the foggy mirror. He photographs her wrapped in a towel, digging one of his shirts out of the laundry hamper. Then wearing that same shirt a few minutes later, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

“Damn, these turned out great.”

Bruno sits on the couch with Mirabel, flipping through the photos on his laptop. Their breakfast dishes lay on the coffee table, while some gameshow flickers in the background.

Mirabel smiles over the rim of her cup. “I’m glad we got to do this,” she says. “I know you’ve wanted to for a long time.”

He hums in answer. “You said that I should take more pictures that tell you what I’m thinking.” Bruno tilts the laptop, his grin playful. “Well? Can you tell what I’m thinking?”

The photograph shows Mirabel stepping out of the shower, reaching for a towel with one hand. Her hair is wet, random curls sticking to the side of her face. It’s a simple image, but earnest and sweet. Bruno’s love for her practically radiates off the screen.

Her lips curve upwards. “Yeah. I think I do.”

As Bruno clears away the dishes, Mirabel reaches for his laptop. “Can I borrow this?”

“Sure. What for?”

Mirabel sits back on the cushions, balancing the laptop on her knees. “Well, now that finals are over, my grades should be posted…”

She holds her breath, as if that might affect the outcome, somehow. Bruno helps by drumming his knuckles on the counter, then crosses his fingers for extra protection.

Mirabel worked really hard this semester. She always works hard, but after getting back together with Bruno, she attacked her schoolwork with renewed vigor. Diligent note taking. Late night study sessions. New designs for outfits.

And after all of that…

Mirabel frowns at her transcript. There’s only one A—in Pattern Drafting, surprisingly—and a C in Fashion Design. The rest of her grades are Bs.

Bruno sits down beside her. His face is hopeful. “So?”

“Eh… Not too bad,” Mirabel says. “But not too great, either.”

Story of her life.

“I’m sorry,” Bruno says, but Mirabel only shrugs.

“I’m not. I worked hard for my grades. And hey—I got an A in Pattern Drafting! I guess I’m alright at constructing an outfit, even if I’m so not great at designing them.”

Bruno arches his brows. “I think you are! Your style is so unique. The way you take ordinary pieces and doodle on them like a sketchbook—”

“I know, I know,” Mirabel laughs. “I like my style, too. But it’s obviously not what my professors are looking for.”

“Then they’re idiots,” Bruno says with a huff.

Mirabel chuckles at that, sliding across the couch to climb onto Bruno’s lap. He wraps his arms around her waist.  

“Do you think you’ll go back next year?” he asks.

Ah, yes. That’s the big question, isn’t it? Mirabel’s been wrestling with it for a while. Is that hard work, all the stress really worth it?  

She takes a deep breath. “Yeah. I think I will.”

When Bruno doesn’t reply, she tilts her head. “You don’t think I should?”

“I think there’s no shame in walking away from something that doesn’t make you happy.”

“But it does make me happy!” Mirabel says. “I mean, yeah, it’s hard, but… I love fashion. I love creating new designs. Who cares if I’m not ‘exceptional’? What’s so wrong with being average?”

“Nothing,” Bruno says with a smile. “Nothing at all.”

“There’s more than one way to join the fashion industry. Maybe I’ll take some photography classes. Art classes, too! There are so many things I haven’t tried yet. So many possibilities I haven’t explored.”

She nods slowly, liking the idea more and more every minute. She’s tired of trying to be extraordinary. She wants… She wants more than that. She wants to learn about herself. Surprise herself. Who knows what she could discover?

Bruno gazes up at her, full of adoration. There’s something nostalgic in his expression, almost wistful.

“What is it?” Mirabel asks.

“Nothing,” Bruno says. “You just remind me of someone, that’s all.” His hand slides along Mirabel’s back, up and down, up and down. “It’s never too late to start living your life.”

The way he says that—Mirabel’s pretty sure she’s heard it before. A faint memory curls inside her mind, bringing images of dandelions and a bench under a tree.

Mirabel traces the pattern on Bruno’s shirt. Straddling his lap like this, the two of them are pressed very close.

“Did I ever meet him?” she asks softly. “Javier?”

Bruno hesitates. They don’t talk about him very much. Though Bruno’s gotten better at opening up, there will always be things that come too close, hurt too deep.

He nods slowly. “Yeah, you did. A few times, actually. Mostly at the park, but… your mom brought you to his house, once.” His throat bobs. “He was really sick by then.”

“I’m sorry,” Mirabel says. It comes out like a compulsion, but she means it. Her heart aches for Bruno, and for the man she barely knew. “That must have been so hard.”

“It was worse after,” Bruno says. His throat seems to tighten around the words. “Losing him, dealing with his family… I mean, you met them. You know what they’re like. And when we found out that he left me all his money, they…”  

He shakes his head. “Abuela wanted me to give it back. That’s why we fought. We’d had our disagreements before, but this was a blowout. I knew… I knew I had to use his money for something. I had to get out. For him.”

Mirabel’s hands are soft, sliding along Bruno’s collarbone in a soothing motion. “You must have loved him a lot.”

She says it kindly, without a trace of jealousy. Still, Bruno looks a little surprised, as though perhaps he’s never heard it out loud.

“What would he make of all this? Our relationship, I mean.” It’s a weird question, but she asks it anyway. Bruno chuckles.

“I think he’d be happy for us. He might have a few questions, but overall… He’d be glad that I’m finally living for myself.”

Mirabel smiles, and again she thinks of her childhood. Of flower crowns and sandcastles; warm afternoons and ice cream. She tucks a strand of hair behind Bruno’s ear.

“Yeah. I think so, too.”

***

It’s past noon by the time Mirabel gets home. Bruno drops her off in his old green truck, leaning across the seats to kiss her goodbye. Their lips only meet for a moment, but Mirabel still feels a forbidden rush.

As Bruno pulls out of the parking lot, Isabela’s car pulls in. They pass each other briefly, Bruno waving to his niece through the window. Mirabel watches them from the sidewalk.

“Hey,” she says, heart thumping. That was way too close. If Isabela had arrived a minute sooner, she would have seen their kiss. They haven’t told the family about their relationship yet. This would have been a pretty dumb way to get caught.

Isabela climbs out of the car. Her hair is colorful again, streaked with green and orange and blue.

“Hey,” she replies, pulling a bag of groceries from her trunk. “Did you just get home?” 

“Oh—yeah. Tío Bruno dropped me off.” Mirabel tilts her chin towards the groceries. “You want help with those?”

Isabela hesitates, looking dubious. She never trusts Mirabel to do anything right, not even a simple chore. Eventually, though, she relents, and the two of them head inside.

“How was your party?” Isabela asks. The two of them move around the kitchen, putting things away on shelves. The question catches Mirabel by surprise.

“Oh—it was a lot of fun!” she says. “Bruno’s crew is really great. You should meet them sometime. There’s this one guy, Roberto—he was a fan of yours when he was little. He’s not weird about it, though. I think you would like him.”

Isabela hmm’s at that, but doesn’t say anything else. Things have been awkward between them for a while—since Mirabel’s argument with Abuela. Isabela more or less ignores her these days, which Mirabel probably wouldn’t mind, if she didn’t feel so guilty.

Mirabel shuffles. “Did you get my text? About staying over at Bruno’s? I didn’t want you to worry.”

Her sister snorts. “I wasn’t worried. I knew exactly where to find you.”

Mirabel’s brows come together. “What does that mean?”

“Nothing.” Isabela shakes her head. “Forget it.”

Mirabel stares at her sister. At the spikes on her jacket, the colorful streaks in her hair. She looks like something dangerous, some sharp, poisonous plant. If Mirabel was smart, she’s stop right there. Walk away. Leave it alone.

Mirabel swallows. She’s going to regret this.

“You know, don’t you?”

Isabela glances over her shoulder. “Know what?”

“About… About me and Bruno. That we’re… That- That he and I…”

She can’t. Her throat closes up, refusing to say any more.

At the counter, Isabela goes still. Her back is turned. Mirabel can’t see her face.

“Yes. I know,” Isabela says.

Mirabel’s knees go weak. She feels a strange sense of unreality, like she can’t possibly be having this conversation. This is weirder than telling Abuela about her modeling job; more personal, somehow. She feels unguarded. Exposed.  

“How long?” Isabela asks.

“A while,” Mirabel admits. “Since before Christmas. We broke up for a few weeks, but we got back together in January.”

Another snort. “Yeah. It was really obvious.”

The way she says it reminds Mirabel of Eduardo; how he suspected their relationship but never said anything. “When did you figure it out?”

“Later that I should have.” Isabela turns, facing Mirabel. She crosses her arms imperiously. “I knew something was off, but then you and Bruno came home smelling like lavender shampoo. My shampoo. After that, the pieces fell into place.”

“But you didn’t… you didn’t tell anyone?”

Isabela makes a face. “Don’t thank me. If I’d had any solid proof, I would have nailed you in a heartbeat.”

Mirabel isn’t sure she believes that. Isabela is mean sometimes, but she isn’t cruel. She wouldn’t just spill someone else’s secrets. “Are you angry?”

“Angry? No, I’m…” Isabela shakes her head. “I don’t know what I am.”

She rubs the side of one cheek, her expression fraught. She might not be angry, but as usual, Mirabel found a way to get under her skin. Even if she knew about their relationship, it must be weird to have it finally confirmed. She can’t ignore it anymore.

“So, you’re… what? His sugar baby? His niece-with-benefits?”

Mirabel bristles. “No, it- it’s not like that.”

“God, you’re so—” Isabela makes a low sound, less disgusted than irritated. “You’re full of crap, you know that? Telling Abuela about your job, all that stuff about wanting to be seen? It was all just to hide the bigger secret.”

Her words land like a blow. Mirabel staggers a little, feeling guilty and hot and defensive. Her gaze finds the floor. “It’s not that simple.”

She finds herself stepping towards the counter, her feet moving on their own. Across the kitchen, Isabela watches, her jaw set.

“We’re not hiding,” Mirabel explains. “Not completely, anyway. The crew knows about us—about me and Bruno. It’s just the family that we’re… taking our time with.”

She sighs, bracing her hands against the countertop. She’s imagined this conversation before—rehearsed it, even, with Bruno and Pilar and Laura. The words didn’t come any easier then.

“I want to tell them. It’s just hard, you know? Once we tell the family… that’s it. They’ll never look at us the same. Even if Bruno and I break up, or drift apart, it won’t matter.”

Like Pepa’s wedding day. Sure, they might smile, they might say, It’s in the past, but they’ll never truly forget it.

“I just… I want to be sure,” Mirabel says. “I want to know what Bruno and I are to each other, and what kind of future we want to build together. We have a lot to figure out, and to do that, we need time.”

Mirabel glances at Isabela. Everything is quiet, save the low hum of the refrigerator. Her sister stands very still.

At last, Isabela sighs. The sound comes from deep inside her chest.

“Yeah,” she says. “I get that. It can be hard to… figure yourself out. Who you are. What you want.”

She lifts her chin, giving Mirabel a serious look. “It won’t go away, if you don’t tell the family. Even if you and Bruno break up, and agree to never speak of it again—you’ll still know. And you’ll wish… You’ll wish you’d been braver.”

Surprise arches Mirabel’s brows. “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

Isabela looks away. “Maybe I am.”

Mirabel thinks of all those handsome men, sweeping Isabela across the dance floor. Her strained smile. Bruno’s snort. That’s not gonna work out.  

She thinks of Isabela’s horrified expression, after Abuela told Bruno to leave. How defensive she got when Camilo speculated about him. It’s none of our business, she said.

She thinks of her grandmother, sitting with Isa at the breakfast table. Asking about her love life. Wondering why she hasn’t gotten married. You’re such a beautiful girl. Surely someone has caught your eye?

Mirabel blinks rapidly, as if seeing her sister for the first time. Really seeing her. The tremble in her jaw. The pain behind her eyes.

“It’s okay.” Isabela’s tone is oddly passive. “You can say it if you want to.”

“What, um…” Mirabel clears her throat. “What’s her name?”

Isabela shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. We broke up a while ago.”

Oh. Mirabel looks at her hands, feeling guilty. Isabela guessed her secret a while ago, but Mirabel was so wrapped up in her own life that she never wondered about Isabela’s. Her sister is so strong, so confident—or at least, Mirabel thought she was. She thought she knew everything about her.

“I’m sorry,” she says.

“It was my fault.” Isabela crosses her arms again, but instead of looking lofty and superior, Mirabel now realizes how protective the gesture really is. Like she’s guarding herself. Raising a shield. “I wasn’t ready to tell anyone, and she was tired of waiting.”

Isabela shakes her head. Then, with a sniff, she looks Mirabel in the eye. “I’m glad that you and Bruno are figuring it out together. And for what it’s worth… I hope that it turns out okay.”

Mirabel smiles at that, though her lower lip trembles ever slightly. She reaches for her sister. 

“That’s worth a lot,” she says earnestly. “It’s worth so much more than you know.”

She crosses the kitchen in two quick steps, pulling Isabela into a hug. To her great surprise, Isabela returns it. The metal studs on her jacket don’t hurt as much as you’d think.

Just then, the front door opens. Luisa comes in, sweaty and dressed for a run. She halts at the sight of her sisters.

“I feel like I missed something important,” she says.

All Mirabel can do is laugh.

Chapter Text

“Javier! Javier, look at Papi!”

Bruno kneels on the living room rug, a camera held at the ready. As Mirabel steps from the hallway, she watches him pick up a toy and jiggle it hopefully—but their two-year-old son ignores him, completely engrossed in a tower of blocks.

“Give it up, Papi.” Mirabel balances herself against the wall as she pulls on her high heels. “Your son’s just not a model.”

Bruno shakes his head. “Apparently not. I don’t have a single photo where he’s actually looking at the camera.”

Bruno grins at Mirabel. His eyes go wide. “Oh, wow. You look great.”

Mirabel looks down at her dress. It’s a slender, daring little thing, the kind that hugs her curves in all the best ways. “Well, you know… It’s a party. I thought I’d dress up.” She tugs on the skirt. “Is it too much?”

Bruno answers with a playful growl, crawling towards Mirabel on his hands and knees. The look in his eyes makes her face go red, and redder still when he slides between her legs.

She stifles a moan. “Bruno… We’re already running late…”

He ignores this comment, pressing his lips to her thighs. His hands run up the back of her legs; his nose slips under her skirt. Across the room, their son plays with his toys, oblivious.

Mirabel lays a hand on Bruno’s head. “Down boy,” she says.

Bruno whines, like a dog denied a treat. He looks up at Mirabel from between her legs, a playful pout on his lips.

Mirabel strokes his hair. “Later. I promise. But for now, we really gotta go.”

They load Javier into the truck. The Rat Mobile 2 is bigger than its predecessor, with a row of passenger’s seats behind the driver. Bruno bought it shortly before Mirabel graduated from college, which—coincidentally—was around the same time she got pregnant.

Mirabel remembers those days so well. The excitement of finishing school, and then the completely different excitement of finding out that she was going to be a mother. It was such a special time, full of changes. And now, three years later, things are about to change again.

When they get to the studio, the party is already in full swing. The lobby is crowded, tables and chairs pushed against the walls to make room for all their guests.

“Mirabel!”

Luisa pushes through the crowd. She throws her arms tight around Mirabel, squeezing the air from her lungs. Mirabel sways a little when she lets her down. “Damn, now that’s a dress. Hey, Tío!”

Their uncle comes in from behind, Javier balanced on his hip. Luisa hugs them, too—gently.

“Everyone’s here,” Luisa says. “Everyone,” she emphasizes.

Mirabel’s brows go up. “She came?”

“Mm-hm. With Mamá and Papá.”

Mirabel scans the room. She finds her grandmother at the edge of the party, seated on a backless chair. Her face is passive, her hands folded neatly in her lap. Tío Félix breaks from the group to offer her a plate of food, but she declines with a shake of her head.

Mirabel glances at Bruno. He either didn’t hear or is choosing to ignore Luisa’s warning, his attention fully on Javier. He bounces the child playfully.

“Thanks Luisa,” Mirabel says, looping her arm through Bruno’s. As they move into the room, she keeps her voice low.

“You don’t have to talk to her,” she says softly. “If you get stuck in a conversation, just say you have to go change the baby. It works every time.”

Bruno chuckles. “I know. It’s okay. I’m actually—I’m glad that she came.”

“Are you sure?” Mirabel lays a hand on Bruno’s shoulder. She doesn’t know why she’s so nervous. It’s not like they didn’t know that Abuela might come—Mirabel invited her, after all. It’s just that they only see Abuela once or twice a year, and Mirabel never really knows how to support him.

“I’m fine,” Bruno insists. His smile is warm and reassuring. “Really. Let’s just enjoy the party!”

Mirabel winds through the crowd, letting herself be hugged and kissed, adored and congratulated. The whole crew is here, mixed in seamlessly with the Madrigals. Mirabel spots her parents, chatting with Isabela and her girlfriend. Pilar and Tía Pepa, laughing over glasses of wine. Roberto and Laura, grins on their faces, gossiping with Dolores and Camilo.

“Hey, boss.” Eduardo smiles at her approach. His husband is there, too, laying a fresh tray of cookies on a long table.

Heat rises into Mirabel’s cheeks. “You don’t have to call me that.”

“Nonsense.” Eduardo waves a dismissive hand. “You’ve been running this place for years. It’s about time we made it official.”

Mirabel smiles, her gaze going to Bruno once more. He’s standing across the room with Antonio, showing off the baby pictures on his phone. Now a teenager, Antonio stands almost as tall as his uncle. He’s just one growth spurt away from towering above them all.

Bruno points at the screen, laughing. He’s retired now—well, kind of. Though he still takes on the occasional photoshoot, his official job is Stay-At-Home Dad. But even that is something of a misnomer; if they’re not at the park or with a playgroup, Bruno and Javier are here, visiting Mirabel or taking naps in her office. Javier knows the crew as well as he knows his tías. He took his first steps inside these very walls.

Mirabel wanders to the edge of the crowd, watching the group with a smile. A sense of warmth comes over her, both welcome and familiar. She feels now as she once did, standing in her childhood home. If she closes her eyes, she could swear these were the same walls. The same music. The same magic, tingling through the air.

She comes at last to the back of the room, where someone else is sitting, watching the party in silence.

“Abuela.”

Her grandmother looks up, as if roused from deep thoughts. Mirabel holds out her hands. “Thank you for coming.”

Abuela reaches back, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet. “Thank you for the invitation,” she replies.

She’s dressed simply, looking out of place in the stylish studio. She probably feels that way, too—like a stranger. The odd one out.

Mirabel knows that feeling.

“This is nice,” Abuela says, looking around the room. She doesn’t specify if she means the party, the people, or the studio itself. She’s probably just being polite.

Mirabel’s mouth twitches upwards. “Well… It isn’t perfect,” she teases, unable to resist.

Abuela smiles at the joke.

It’s been a long road, getting here. It took a lot of talks, a lot of tears. It took nearly losing her children, her grandchildren, for Abuela to realize that she’d rather have an imperfect family than no family at all.

But she’s here now. And she’s trying.

Mirabel squeezes her hands. “Come on. Let’s take a picture.”

Everyone gathers outside, standing in a big group in front of the studio. A neon sign hangs above their heads.

VISIONS, it says in bright, green letters. Then, in smaller text: by los Madrigal.

Mirabel stands in the middle, Javier squirming in her arms. As Bruno sets a camera on a tripod, her heart begins to race.

“Hey! You gotta be in the picture, too!”

Bruno laughs. “That’s what timers are for, mi vida.”

He presses a button on the camera, before taking his spot next to Mirabel. His arm goes automatically around her waist.

“Ready?” Mirabel calls. She takes one last look around, making sure they’re all here. “Everyone, together!”

The camera goes off, and a chorus of voices call out as one. At the last second, Mirabel looks at Bruno—just as Bruno looks at Mirabel. She sees the flash reflected in his eyes.

That’s it. Right there. The moment that hangs on the wall forever and ever, printed on glossy paper and mounted in a frame. It’s the perfect picture, their whole family smiling, cheering—even Javier is facing the camera.

And at the center of it all, Bruno and Mirabel, gazing at each other. Happy to be home.

*