Vampire Next Door ⋆⟡⋆ Miguel O'Hara x reader

Ch. 14 Damage Control ✣❦︎✣

NSFW 18+ NOT SUITABLE FOR WORK - absolutely not appropriate or suitable for minors or PEOPLE I PERSONALLY KNOW to read this please YOU HAVE BEEN so WARNED!

I'm backkkkk <3 -G☽˚

*ੈ♱‧₊˚

It's going to take a while for you to get used to your neighbor being... different, to get used to the images that have been burnt into your brain.

You're at a super obscure coffee shop Miguel insisted he bring you to; the beginning of him "making it up to you."

Before you take a sip, you subtly let it slip, muttering the invasive question,

"So have you... killed anyone?" like you don't know the answer.

"Jesus, Y/N, not— god, not here."

"Okay, damn. I never know when the right time is with you. Sorry, sorry," you exhale before taking a sip.

"Well not in a fucking coffee shop on a Sunday morning, let's start there,"

You roll your eyes and conceal your laugh.

He shrugs, "Yes. Obviously. I mean... obviously," putting it a bit too lightly.

You gulp, letting your superstitions get the best of you, "Jesus, where? Not at the apartment, right? Ghosts are real— Really Miguel, I mean seriously, that's not okay."

"I didn't invite them! You think I prefer they come to my home? Yeah, 'Hey guys, if you could come over to 502, shed some blood there, yeah that would be great,' Dios mío, Y/N. You're something else,"

You stare at him, waiting for him to finish. He takes a sip of his coffee, then looks back up at you. You laugh, then he chuckles, the kind of laugh that rumbles at the bottom of his lungs, and sends warmth to your chest.

"Yeah, yeah. That's what I thought," you shrug, nudging his leg.

"You irritate me," he mutters, before taking a lengthy sip. You smile, flattered.

****

"Let me cook for you," he mutters as you pick out the best bunch of broccoli. The butterflies in your stomach wake up. You look back at him, the mist from the veggie misters lightly coating his navy knit sweater. You instinctually swipe your hand over his chest, taking the moisture off of him, and spreading it onto your own jeans. You look up at him, and regret this random, little stupid thing, cheeks growing flushed, feels too soon. He's already looking down at you, smiling at this little stupid thing you cringe at, then takes a deep breath, takes the broccoli from out of your hands, and places it into the cart. "Okay. To the cooking," you mutter, as you turn your back to him and move on to the next section of produce. He follows behind you, pushing the cart.

It's domestic, makes you feel warm, protected, much needed after yesterday's events. He watches, admiring you, no cares in the world, all of his attention on you.

****

You arrive back at your apartment.

You note how he slips his shoes off, how his eyes follow you as you slip off yours and approach the kitchen counter. He joins you shortly after.

You face him, catch him off guard when you reach up to pull the tote bags from off of his shoulders, offloading the burden; he's not used to someone lifting some of the weight off. You sit the bags down on the counter, the bags full of groceries he fought to carry for you, and the groceries he also fought to pay for, both battles he won.