desiderium | m. o'hara

one

Let's be real we all knew this was coming

once again my Spanish is very rusty bc I'm teaching myself and boy am I a bad tutor

It's a stormy Thursday evening when Miguel O'Hara looks at me as though I'm a stranger.

He stands on the stoop of our brownstone, plastered with rain and bewilderment. He stares at me like I'm an oddity - as if his behaviour isn't the strange one. His russet-brown eyes cross my face, committing it to memory.

I, however, am unimpressed. Unimpressed and concerned, because my husband is standing at the entrance of our house like a drowned rat, having just rung the doorbell. As if we haven't been paying mortgage for this place for half a decade - as if it's not his own home.

"Where have you been?" I demand over the pouring rain and the cars passing down the street. "Do you know what time it is? I had to pick Rosalina up from soccer practise after she called me saying you didn't show. It's ten, Miguel, ten! We've been worried sick!"

Miguel continues to stare, eyes wide and unresponsive. It's like talking to a brick wall.

"Are you just gonna stand there?" I say incredulously. When he doesn't move, I grab the front of his wet jacket and drag him inside. Despite his strength on me he follows easily, letting me haul his soaked self over the threshold of our doorway. I shut away the storm.

Miguel stands, dripping on the rug, and looks around the entranceway as though a stranger to it all.

"I tried to call you - I don't even know how many times," I exclaim as I lock the handle. I turn back to him and struggle to contain my relieved fury. "If you stay late at work, you have to let me know, Miguel! You usually do! Where was your phone, huh? Why didn't you answer?"

Miguel's unfocused eyes drift back to me. "... my phone? My phone. Ah, right." He rubs the back of his neck and grimaces at the chill of the raindrops that have his dark hair waterlogged. His gaze snags on a framed photo of the three of us. "It died."

My brows knit together at the way he avoids my eyes. "Are you okay?"

Miguel turns his head further away and peels off his jacket. "Yeah... yeah. I'm fine." When he hangs it on the coat rack I notice the dirt caked beneath his nails. He smiles at me, though it lacks warmth. "Just tired. Long day."

I look him up and down, concern toppling my tower of anger. There are deep bags beneath this eyes and an exhausted set to his shoulders. He looks like he'd just ran a marathon and is still in the process of regretting even signing up for it.

"Your dinner's in the fridge," I say, slightly worried. "Go warm up. I'll nuke it in the microwave."

Miguel's eyes jump to mine. In the shadows of the barely-lit entranceway, their colours darken to a startling maroon, and I have to stifle the involuntary flinch my body makes. He touches my shoulder in thanks and turns to ascend the stairs, leaving a trail of water as he goes.

The spot where he touched me stings with heat. My fight or flight instinct pops up out of nowhere, and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.

I watch him go, equal parts confused and uneasy.

••🕷️••

On the same stormy Thursday night, he doesn't sleep in our bed. Instead, he takes the couch.

I stare at the ceiling as the midnight hours tick on, unsettled by this sudden, nervous energy. The storm doesn't cede.