Written as a Tumblr drabble prompt for Jubalii: #24, "I don't know."

This came with the added request for fluff, post-canon, and Imelda (I was originally thinking of doing the exact opposite)- this story wouldn't have been written without ya, Juju!

Big thank you to UnCuentoFriki for all the help with cultural notes (and providing a lovely translation found in the author's notes), as well as Picajc for betaing!

Pan Dulce

Imelda was having a nice, relaxing morning when her day was thrown into turmoil.

"Should I get anything for Héctor?"

Imelda blinked up at Rosita, standing in the kitchen with an empty basket looped on her arm and waiting for an answer.

"Hmm? What was that?" Imelda asked.

"Well, I'm just going down to the panadería and wanted to pick up something special for Héctor so he feels more at home. Do you know what his favorite pan dulce is?" Rosita asked again, all innocence and genuine curiosity.

"Oh. I… I don't know," Imelda said slowly, taken aback.

"No worries!" Rosita said cheerfully, unaware of the havoc she had just caused. "I'll just get the usual assortment. Be back in a bit!"

With that, she was out the door and the Rivera family continued its usual morning routines. But Imelda found her mind fixated on the simple question, and on her husband.

His favorite pan dulce…

She didn't know anymore. Like so, so many things, she had forgotten. It wasn't all that surprising after so many years of shoving any fond memories far away where they couldn't hurt her. She had shut him out of her life just as well as she had shut out music. Of course, things had been getting better, slow and painful at times it was true, but things were certainly better between them. It was almost overwhelming how many new things she had learned about him, about the person that he had become, and yet there was still so much she didn't know.

But this… this she should have known. What was his favorite pan dulce? It was such a small, useless thing, but she hated it. So much of their life together she had willingly forced from her mind in her anger, and now it was gone. Perhaps it didn't matter. Very likely it would have changed in the past hundred years, anyway. It wasn't something she needed to worry about.

Except by the time Rosita had returned, Imelda still hadn't stopped thinking about it. She watched her family pluck pastries out of the basket one by one, talking or yawning as they lingered about the kitchen, and she tried to remember. Was it conchas? That seemed too obvious, too boring. Did he like it sweet? Savory? Probably sweet. Was it with jam? Empanadas, perhaps? Possible, but somehow didn't seem quite right.

What was it?

It would have been far too easy to just ask. So that morning she kept an eye on him to see which he would pick, but he was too engrossed in a talk with Julio to even notice the quickly-emptying basket. But she found her heart comforted as he chatted so openly with his son-in-law, who seemed to fluctuate between laughing and rolling his eyes. It was good to see Héctor settling in more and more with their family, although she would still sometimes see a stiffness in his shoulders, a hesitation before speaking as if he was still afraid of doing the wrong thing. But he was getting better.

Slowly, they were getting better.

Soon enough it was time to open the storefront and most of the family drifted to the workshop. As Imelda rose from her chair, she noticed the only thing left in the basket was a sugar-dusted cuerno with one little end of the horn broken off. She frowned at it, no closer to an answer.

"Did you have any, Imelda?" Héctor asked, coming to stand beside her and also looking down at the crumb-filled basket.

"Oh, no, I didn't," she said, faintly surprised at herself. But then it hardly mattered, it wasn't like the dead needed to eat. "That's all right. You should take it."

Héctor frowned at her a moment, shrugged, and plucked it up before breaking it in half and offering Imelda the bigger piece. A glow of warmth kindled in her heart as she took it, curious how something so small and insignificant can have such an effect. But then, this was Héctor.

She had missed him so much, and sometimes the feeling came back so strong and sudden it almost hurt. It was so nice just being with him again. She slowly bit into the bread, glancing over at her husband and meeting his soft gaze before he quickly looked away as if suddenly shy, still nibbling his own smaller piece.

Then, right there, she decided she would figure out what his favorite was. She owed it to him. With a little luck and careful planning, she would be able to figure it out for herself and prove to both of them that not everything had been lost between them. Besides, Rosita made a good point: it might make Héctor feel more at home. That alone was worth it.

She thought about it as she talked with customers in the morning, and trimmed leather for huaraches in the afternoon, and then all through dinner. Thoughts of pastries and sweet breads sat in the back of her mind as she sat in the family room listening to the radio and her family's chatter. Every so often she would glace to Héctor, never very far away, and would try to summon up memories of him when they were alive.

It was harder than she would have liked. It was as if something tall blocked her path, something she had built up ages ago. She remembered often walking to the panadería down the street, especially on weekends or special days with Coco's hand in hers. But none of those memories had to do with Héctor. Well, none that were pleasant. Once or twice she had overheard neighborly chatter in the sweet-smelling shop, gossiping about her, and how her husband must have run off with some other girl, or that she must not have been a good enough wife to convince him to stay. Those were not memories she needed to dredge up. The good memories of him seemed gone, and she could only blame herself, some she only knew because she would overhear him telling stories to her family.

Yet while there was nothing she could do to fix the past or the pain she had caused, maybe this was a step in the right direction. Therefore the following afternoon Imelda offered to go and buy pan dulce. There had been the faintest hint of a raised eyebrow from her brothers, but it wasn't so strange, she thought peevishly as she walked down the busy street. She could buy pan dulce just fine, even if it was a bit rare. Although perhaps it was her tone of voice that gave her away.

The panadería was busy, the cool shade only a slight relief from the sun beating down from a clear sky, with many others doing the same as her and buying for their evening merienda. She found herself in the back of a long line, lightly fanning herself in the stifling heat and trying to peek around the throngs of skeletons. Normally the long wait would have annoyed her as a waste of valuable time, but that day she spent her time well, studying pan dulce. There were so many choices, fresh and colorful and sweet-smelling, and none of them were ringing a bell.

Perhaps novias? She squinted at the round, tiered sweet breads, crafted just enough to give the idea of a woman's flowing skirt. That was a real possibility. But she had a feeling it still wasn't quite right. There was a bright spread of galletas topped with sprinkles or chocolates, even some decorated like a smiling face, which he might have loved as a kid but now? Unlikely. But maybe a chocolate-sprinkled one…

In the end, she got a half dozen assortment including a novia, galleta, and a gallina: a sweet round pastry filled with cream and leaving powdered sugar everywhere. Maybe she would get lucky. Gallinas were very good, perhaps that was it. The shop was already closed when she arrived, and she had to bite back her tongue as Julio and Victoria jumped forward and plucked half of her carefully chosen assortment, and Imelda forced herself to smile as they thanked her. Meanwhile, Héctor was once again distracted, dicing up vegetables under the guidance of Rosita.

"Héctor, would you like any?" she asked, picking up the basket and carrying it over to him, peering at his little piles of fresh-cut onions and radishes.

"Hmm? Nah, I'm good," he said good-naturedly. "Rosita and I are going to have dinner ready soon, anyway. Don't want to ruin my appetite."

"Are you sure?" She glanced down at the basket, seeing the little round gallina sitting there in its powdered sugar, mocking her.

"Yep! Thanks for checking, though. You're welcome to have mine if you like." He grinned before turning back around.

Imelda was careful to make it to the hallway before she dropped her face into her hands with a little groan. Why was he making this so difficult? Then again, this was Héctor. "Of course he'd have to make it difficult," she muttered under her breath. It was fine, she reminded herself impatiently. There was no rush. He wasn't disappearing anytime soon.

She waited a few days before making another attempt (and once or twice trying to subtly get him to spill, with no luck), sending Oscar and Felipe to pick up groceries and watching them fade away into the thick morning fog. The sight of it stirred an unpleasant memory that she brushed off, rubbing her arms against the cold that morning. Imelda could feel the chill seeping into her old bones as she prepared a breakfast of molletes, open-faced sandwiches still waiting for their spoonfuls of refried beans, cheese, and salsa. Nearby, almost bumping elbows at times, Héctor kept busy watching a simmering pot of mole and chatting with Victoria while she made her usual coffee, the rich aromas filling the small kitchen.

As the molletes broiled in the oven under Victoria's supervision, Imelda let herself fall into a little wooden chair and relax a moment. She had not slept well the night before, jolting awake from a nightmare that was far too real, and she only relaxed when she reached out a hand into the darkness and felt the familiar presence beside her. In the dream, Héctor had been in her arms, golden light wracking his bones before turning to dust, as she begged and pleaded for him to stay. But it wasn't only that which had made it so terrible. Someone had spoken from the shadows- a cold, familiar voice. Someone in a beautiful white suit. He told her that it was her fault. She was the one who forgot him. She was to blame for his death. Her fault.

You're the one who tried to destroy his memory.

Dream or not, it was the truth. He had nearly been Forgotten because of her. It was nothing short of a miracle that he was still there with them.

The sound of the side-door opening snapped her back to the present, blinking as her brothers returned with heavy-laden bags. Immediately her eyes moved to Héctor to see if he might come over to the table and choose a pan dulce, but he only gave a quick glance over before returning to his task, whisking together something with chocolate and spice. She wondered if he was waiting on purpose, letting the rest of the family have first pick before him. Was that something he might do? Probably.

Imelda frowned into her knuckles, once again thinking many things about her husband. Many mornings she found herself idly watching him as he worked about the kitchen, seeming so at home in domesticity. It had been surprising, at first, how Héctor had so readily offered to help with cooking and just about everything else. Had he done so when they were alive? She was pretty sure she would have remembered something so… odd. Or it would have been odd back then. No, this, she was sure, was something new; something he had learned in their years apart. There was possibly a story behind it, and she reminded herself to ask him someday, watching as moved closer, cradling a mug almost overflowing with froth.

"Here you go, Imelda," he said, setting a softly steaming cup of hot chocolate before her. "How's that?"

She hid her smile as she took a sip.

"Mmm… perfect," she murmured, closing her eyes. Just the way she liked it, with just the right amount of spice and sweetness. "Thank you."

He grinned with evident pleasure, and then tumbled into the other chair beside her, his bones nearly sprawling apart. It was apparently his normal, although she still found herself holding back a wince.

"Oh! Hey, you should try it with some of the elotitos. Here!" Before she could answer, he plucked one from the basket and offered it to her. She dipped it half in the forth and took a bite. Even beneath the strong spice and chocolate, there was a faint taste of vanilla, and it was just the thing she needed. When she next glanced at him, he was watching eagerly, faintly nodding like a puppy.

"You're right, it is good. I guess those were a good choice?" she said, watching him carefully.

"For dipping, absolutely!" He beamed, and she decided to cross those off the potential list based solely on gut instinct.

He made no move to get back up and make anything for himself, and so she slid her mug towards him, silently giving him permission with only a small roll of her eyes. He leaned far over the table to pick up an elotito for himself, looking ganglier than usual and oddly young, especially as he dipped the soft sweet bread into the foamy chocolate, biting into it with obvious relish.

"Mmm! Ah, that hits the spot!" He leaned back, looking as content as a cat with a fresh dish of milk. It was good to see him smile, to look so at-home. It felt so... normal.

"I'm going to open the shop now," Julio called out from the other room, and a moment later there came the faint chime of the shop door opening. It was then Imelda noticed how empty the kitchen was, as the family had moved into the workshop without her noticing.

"Ah… I suppose you should get back to work," Héctor said, having realized the same thing, his shoulders slumping a little, his smile fading.

"Mmm… a few more minutes won't hurt," she said, pointedly ignoring the far-too-pleased look on his face as she took another sip of the hot chocolate he had made for her.

It really was very good.

If only she could remember. Subtly glancing over at him, something tightened in her chest. She wanted to make him happy. To make him feel at home. She had to figure it out. It felt so important, and she didn't even understand why.

A few days passed after that, and on Sunday she sent Héctor and Victoria to go shopping, telling them at least twice to be sure to get whatever they liked at thepanadería. She was anxious for their return as she went over a new design with her brothers, more complex than she normally would have gone with, but certainly had potential. Or it would, if they weren't be so ridiculous. But it helped the time pass, and soon enough Héctor arrived with the long-awaited pastries- or it felt long enough to Imelda- as well as bananas, a tri-colored mango, and more, positively glowing with delight as he chatted about their trip, as giddy as a little boy.

"I got a great price on the guavas! They'd fallen off a cart on the way there, so a bit bruised… but still good! Plenty good! And I got a few black sapotes for us, too! Ay, haven't had one of these in forever."

"That certainly is quite a lot of fruit," Imelda said, a smile tugging at her lips. Maybe this was a clue. He probably liked something with jam. That would narrow down her list, but she still didn't know…

"Oh, Imelda!" Héctor said, beaming and waving her closer until she stood beside him, and continued in a rushed whisper, "Mira, I got you this one special!"

He pulled out a tied up napkin, revealing a pale square pastry filled with sweet cream: an abrazo. Her favorite, she thought painfully. He had remembered. Of course he had. Through his death he must have clung to those memories of their life together, keeping them close to his heart, while in those same years she had forced herself to bury any thought of him.

"Imelda?" he said softly. His voice held that same nervous tone, the faint breathlessness like he was afraid he had done something wrong. "Is it not right? It's no good, is it? I thought that you… you don't have to—"

"No, it's fine," she said quickly, pulling her hand back when he reached forward to take it. "It's… it's good. Thank you."

He leaned back, and his expression made her think her words had come out harsher than she had meant, and for a terrible moment she thought he was going to apologize. She moved away before he had a chance to open his mouth, keeping her head down. When she thought he wasn't looking, she slipped away from the kitchen, finding refuge in the empty workshop smelling strongly of leather and polish, a familiar, comforting smell that helped her spinning mind. Checking to make sure she was alone, she dropped herself into a chair and let her head fall back.

A familiar anger flickered in her, and it was so easy- far too easy- to blame Héctor as she had always done. She caught herself, and redirected that anger away from him. No, she was the one who had been wrong. Looking down at the beautiful little pastry, Héctor's own humble offering to her, still half-wrapped in a little white napkin, she felt a sharp, bitter pain. He had just tried to make her happy, and she had only hurt him. Again. With a shaky breath she pressed a hand to her forehead, and realized she had been doing it all wrong. It was time to stop being childish and just ask him. Except when she walked back into the kitchen, she couldn't, and was keenly aware of the stiffness of his shoulders, the quiet way he spoke. It was wrong. It was her fault.

Héctor kept his distance all through that day. Whenever he wasn't talking or joking around, a somber look came across his face, subtle enough that she wouldn't have noticed if she wasn't watching so closely. Like he was worried to say or do the wrong thing again. That evening he wasn't in their bedroom as she went through her nightly routine in front of her vanity mirror, instead choosing to sit outside on the balcony and play his guitar. It wasn't so strange, really; he often did so at night, and normally she found it comforting. But that night his music sounded… off. It was discordant, hesitant, almost lonely. How much of that was because of her?

After finishing unbraiding and brushing her wig, letting the dark hair fall around her shoulders, she rose and quietly moved to the open door. For a minute she simple leaned against the doorframe and listened to him play, seeming lost in thought. He paused, the music stopping as he let out a sigh, and only then did he notice her presence.

"Ah, Imelda!" He blinked at her a moment then turned his gaze upwards to the nighty sky, mouth slightly open as if having lost track of time. "Is it late? Should I, uh… if it's bothering you—"

"You're fine," she said, waving him down as he half-rose from the chair. "New song?"

"Hmm? Oh, eh, not so much. Just helps me think sometimes."

"Thinking about what?"

He shrugged, gazing down at the old guitar in his lap. "This and that."

She didn't push, knowing that she would have given a similar answer. There was so much to think about, a great cloud of unspoken words roiling over their heads as she sat down beside him. For a minute neither spoke, Imelda holding herself stiff and up away from the back of the chair, while Héctor fidgeted and slouched.

He was the first to speak, and she wished he didn't.

"I'm sorry about this morning," he said, and Imelda looked at him sadly.

"For what?"

He screwed up his face a little, something of a wince. "I think I upset you. I must have done something wrong, but I'm... I won't do it again if you tell me what it is."

She let her face fall into her hand. That wasn't fair. He shouldn't have to say those things.

"Héctor, you didn't do anything wrong."

"But—"

"I was upset this morning, but not at you. I…" She pursed her lips, then let out a long sigh as she gathered her courage. "The truth is… there's something I've been meaning to ask you."

"O-oh? Uh, sure." Fumbling a little, he set down the guitar at his side, before turning to her, his hands clasped together in his lap to hide his fidgeting. He was clearly nervous, and she couldn't blame him. She had done this to him before and the last time had been, well, memorable.

"Yes, I wanted to know… what's your favorite pan dulce?"

"My… huh?"

"I was just wondering," she said offhandedly, with an actual wave of her hand for emphasis. "I want to make sure we're getting it so you feel most at home."

"Oh… oh right, that makes sense," he said slowly, still blinking a lot but looking relieved. "It's actually the same as ever. Ha, guess some things haven't changed after all!"

"The same… as when we were kids?" Imelda said, frowning.

"Yep!" he said cheerfully before looking away and leaning forward on the edge of his seat. "Although there are some really great ones here that I've gotten to try, stuff from all over Mexico. Oh! You know, there's a really great panadería near Shantytown that has these coyotas with peach, and my friends and I sometimes got these amazing berry campechanas from a baker who lived in Santa Maria del Rio, can't get more authentic than that! We can go try them sometime!"

Imelda listened to him go on in the same eager tone and tried not to scowl too obviously. Why did he have to be so hard to get a straight answer from? Was he being difficult on purpose? No, she was just frustrated.

"So? What do you say?" he asked, sounding like he probably did as a kid, which only twisted the knife further.

"That… sounds delightful."

He leaned back, his grin fading. "Hey, something the matter? We don't have to, of course. Sorry, I... I didn't mean to bring up—"

"No, no, it's fine," she said quickly, before he could apologize anymore. He had apologized enough. "It's nothing. I'd be happy to go. It's just that, well, you told me your favorite was the same as when we were young. But I… I can't remember what that is."

There was a strange pause as he straightened. "You… forgot?"

"I used to know," she said quickly, not looking at him. "But now…"

"Oh," he said, his voice low, and Imelda thought there was an edge of pain. "I... of course, it has been a long time. Right."

She bit back an apology, pressing her lips tight. It didn't really matter, she reminded herself. It wasn't that important. Yet she felt like she had hurt him, just now. No, she was sure of it. Worse: she didn't know why. Perhaps it would have been best to not bring it up at all. Perhaps she should have let the past stay in the past.

Héctor tilted his head upwards, squinting at the night sky as if double-checking that it really was black and speckled with stars. "Guess it's too late to go buy some now. Hmm.. how's this? Tomorrow morning I'll go buy some and we'll share it. Yeah? Eh, who knows, maybe it'll spark your memory."

She looked at him, and could see the olive branch he was offering her.

"I would like that."

"Good, good," he muttered, idly fiddling with his fingers and teasing at the spaces between the little bones.

Imelda stood, aware of the renewed chill between them, and just as aware that Héctor was trying to make it not so.

"I'm going to bed. Are you coming?"

"Ah… not yet," he said softly, and there was again that edge of melancholy, a reluctance. "I'll be in soon."

As she slid into bed, she was keenly aware of Héctor's presence outside the door, and of the painful silence. Had she made a mistake in asking? Maybe it would be best if she hadn't brought it up. It shouldn't matter, right?

Héctor came in not long after that. Facing away from him, she heard the muffled 'thunk' as he set down his guitar upon it's stand in the corner before she felt the small weight of him bend the battress beside her, there but distant. There was a pause, like a held breath, and then he moved closer and lay a hand upon her shoulder.

"Good night, Imelda," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her cheek, "Sleep well, and dream with the angels." With that he lay his head down onto the pillow, and Imelda felt a smile on her lips, burrowing deeper beneath the sheets. It would be okay. He was still there. He wouldn't disappear.

But when morning came, he was gone. There was a quick, terrifying moment of fear when Imelda sat up and looked around the empty room. What if he had left her again, and the previous night had been the final straw? Or that he had been Forgotten and had disappeared, and she wouldn't even know?

She put a hand to her empty ribs and told herself to calm down, taking a deep, deep breath and letting it out. He would be back. This time around she would trust him, and not jump to every bad conclusion. Pushing down those worries, she rose, wrapped a pale blue rebozo around her shoulders, and stepped outside to the balcony.

He wasn't there, of course. Instead there was only the empty place where they had sat the night before.

The sight, the feeling it created, was worse than she could have anticipated. She had forgotten a great deal about Héctor, certainly, but not this: the ache of missing him. And she knew that, eventually, the hatred of his absence had become hatred of him.

Tucking her shawl closer around herself, she settled down upon the little seat and absently gazed out over the world lit up in the soft warm light of dawn. Everything looked so peaceful, and in the distance she saw a quick-flying alibrije soar from an open windon and disappear behind a tower of homes. From somewhere below she heard a door open and close, and a minute later there were slow footsteps up the narrow stairwell and then the faint sound- not quite a creak- from her door.

"Ah.. Imelda?"

"Out here," she said, turning her head but keeping her eyes fixed upon a rusted railing on the next building over, feeling oddly numb. Unsure.

"Ah, buenos dias!" he said, stepping outside to join her with a broad grin. "Sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, looking up at him, a bit apprehensive but relieved all the same at the sight of him. "I'm surprised to see you up so early."

"I had to go to the panaderia before all the good stuff was gone. Well, ok, I had to go to a second one because the first shop didn't have any. Ok, so it was actually the third one that I finally found what I was looking for, but doesn't matter, I got it!"

"You… Héctor, you didn't have to do all that," she said, uncomfortably guilty for making him go through such an effort.

"Well, yeah, but it seemed important." He gave a little shrug of his shoulders, looking down at the little paper bag in his lap, and for a moment there was that same look as before. Thoughtful. Almost pained. Then his lip quirked up and he grinned at her.

"You know, Imelda, I'm surprised. Well, one, because you actually cared about what my favorite breakfast is, which is sweet. Heh, sweet, get it? And two, well… I'm a bit surprised you could have forgotten."

His face took on a familiar mischievous look before he plucked something from the box and placed it on her palm. When she looked down, she held a pan dulce with sweet pink jam between two soft domes. A beso. A kiss.

She had just enough time to understand his meaning when he leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

"My favorite," he said softly. "A kiss."

For a moment she simply sat stunned, lifting a hand to her cheekbone, felt the familiar warmth creeping up her face.

It came back to her in a rapid flash, so quick and easy she wondered how she could have possibly forgotten. He had done the same thing all those years before, when he was a young, penniless kid, tall, gangly and not quite grown into his bones or ears. It had been so special, he had been so proud that he would be able to afford it for them. When he had shown her the little round besos, he had told her they were his absolute favorite.

He had been so shy when he had kissed her, and it had been so absurdly sweet and ridiculous that she had laughed and laughed, nearly crying from sheer joy and love. All the while he had sat beside her, blushing to his ears with a big, nervous grin. He had been so sweet. She had been so in love.

Looking at him then, the almost shy look on his face, the slight hesitation, the little bit of hope… she thought how little he had changed, even with his old weathered bones, even with everything that had happened. And she remembered again how much she loved him, and had missed him.

"Hmm, I remember now," she said, feeling as shy as she had when she was still that little girl, almost too afraid to hold his hand.

"That so?" he said, his eyes softening as he smiled back.

"Mm-hmm." She gently pulled his face closer and kissed him, reveling in the feel of him, his presence, his very being. Her husband, her amor.

"Thank you," she whispered, pulling away a little and feeling like she might cry. There in her heart, mixed in with her joy and a newfound peace… there was a deep ache, more bitter than sweet. She stared at the little beso nestled in her bony white hands, and bowed her head. "I'm sorry, Héctor."

"Hey, it's okay," he said, dipping his head to better look at her, his voice soft and earnest. "It was a long time ago. It's all right, I understand. You thought that… you just wanted to protect your family. Our family," he quickly corrected.

"Still, I shouldn't… I shouldn't have forgotten so much."

I shouldn't have forgotten you. I shouldn't have destroyed your memory. I wish I hadn't caused you so much pain.

She didn't know how to say those things aloud, things she had thought over and over. That moment, more than any other, she wondered if she deserved his forgiveness. She shut her eyes tight, curling her shoulders forward.

"Héctor, I…"

" Esta bien," he murmured, an arm pulling around her shoulders, steadying her as she faltered for words. "Esta bien, Imelda."

It's okay. I understand.

Looking to him, meeting his brown eyes, she touched his jaw and kissed him again, wishing they were still young and whole, wishing so much hadn't gone wrong. But he was there now. Despite everything, he forgave her. He was still there, still in love. Perhaps things weren't so different. A little thought came to her, and she let out a faint huff, breathing against his lips.

"At least this time I didn't laugh," she said, reveling in that memory, feeling it seem to seep into her spirit, like color and life seeping into the desert after a rain.

"Aw, but I like your laugh," he said teasingly, pulling back to better look at her. "You used to squeak."

"W-what... I did not!"

"Sure you did! You sounded like an ungreased wheel," he said, beaming wide.

"Héctor!"

"It was the cutest thing."

She opened her mouth to say something but instead had to look away, unable to hide her growing smile, and wouldn't be surprised if Héctor could see a visible glow on her cheeks, they felt so warm. That warmth kindled when she dared look back and met his eyes, so full of life and love.

The sky was steadily lightening, the shop would be opening soon, and she had work to do. But for a time, she leaned against him, enjoying his familiar, steady presence, his arm wrapped around her, holding her close. Sitting there together, it felt like when they had been young, back in a different world.

She wondered if they had done this same thing a hundred years ago, and thought perhaps it didn't matter so much. They could create new memories. They had time.

Time to talk, and to listen.

Time to sit and enjoy a morning sunrise together, a little box of sweet things between them instead of a lifetime of bitterness.

The beso was good. It was fresh and crumbled lightly in her mouth, the jam sweet and tangy. It tasted like home.

"It's good," she said, taking another bite and savoring the moment.

"Like I said," he murmured, and gave a soft kiss to her hair, pulling her a little closer. "It's still my favorite."

Author Notes:

Héctor is such a dork, I love him. Also Imelda is bad at communication, and so is Héctor, and they're somehow perfect for each other.
This actually takes place after the events of Who Tells Your Story (although you can't really tell).

Research for this fic was a blast (and delicious). If you'd like to take a look at some pan dulce described in the fic, here are some resources (with pics!) Source 1 Source 2

Cultural note from UnCuentoFriki: A common goodnight saying is "Y que sueñes con los angelitos," meaning: "And may you dream with the little angels."

Also fun fact: Abrazo (Imelda's favorite pan dulce) means 'hug' or 'embrace.' So yeah… the two of them together are 'hugs and kisses."

XOXO