I have been doing it.
Most days Atlas meets me here.
Sometimes we talk.
Sometimes we stand shoulder to shoulder, staring at cargo like two people pretending they aren’t thinking about ripping each other’s clothes off.
He was here earlier.
Leaning against a container like he owns gravity.
Looking at me like he’s studying the weaknesses in my armor.
Then he disappeared.
Or I guess I didn’t see him leave.
Not unusual.
Not alarming.
Lawyers are always the last ones around.
We’re the ones double-checking signatures, verifying cargo manifests, making sure the world doesn’t implode because some intern put a decimal in the wrong place.
Numbers are the devil.
I stand by that statement.
Anyway.
It’s late.
The sky is one shade away from pitch black.
The docks are almost empty—quiet except for the hum of the cranes settling into their sleep cycle.
And I’m still here.
“Cece, you good?” Nico asks for the seventh time in an hour.
Before I can answer, Sammy chimes in, “You sure you don’t want us sticking around? Just in case?—”
I snap.
“Oh my fucking God—if you two don’t get out of here, I’m calling both your wives and telling them you had lunch at the strip club on Tonnollee Avenue.”
Sammy freezes, gum halfway to his mouth.
“What the hell, Cece?”
“That’s cold, cuz,” Nico says, laughing like the menace he is.
He leans down and kisses the top of my head—annoyingly big brother–coded even though we’re the same damn age.
“You’re mean when you’re stressed, you know that?”
“Then leave before I get meaner,” I warn, narrowing my eyes in the exact way Abuela taught us.
