"You'll regret this," she manages.
"I regret most of my choices," Lena agrees. "But at least this one makes me come with the reliability of evidence-based medicine. Now fuck off before I call security. Or worse—before I tell everyone about that rash you came to the ER for last month. The one you claimed was from 'new laundry detergent' but was definitely chlamydia based on the discharge color."
Candy runs. Actually runs. Her heels clicking down the hallway like a medical code being called.
Lena closes the door, locks it, then turns in my arms. "I didn't actually treat her for chlamydia. HIPAA violations aren't my style. But she doesn't know that."
"That was..." I search for words. "Fucking incredible."
"That was disaster management," she corrects, but she's smiling. "My specialty. Well, that and making terrible life choices with medical precision."
My phone buzzes. Then hers. Then mine again.
Unknown Number:[Photo of me entering Lena's building]
Unknown Number:[Photo of Candy at Lena's door]
Unknown Number:Miguel knows
"Fuck," we say in unison, staring at our screens.
The silence after this revelation is a diagnosis neither of us wants to read. Her phone shows seventeen unread messages in what I assume is her family chat—every holiday plan, every dinner invitation she'll no longer receive. She's medically orphaned again, this time by choice.
"Who's texting?" Lena asks, her medical brain clearly calculating scenarios like dosages.
"Could be anyone. Club has eyes everywhere." I'm already running scenarios, none of them ending without bloodshed. "We need to—"
"We need to not panic," she says, but her hands are shaking with what her medical training would classify as acute stress response. "We need to think. Plan. Figure out who's watching and why. Also, I need to put on underwear because your cum is literally dripping down my thigh and it's distracting."
Her phone rings.Miguel.
She stares at it like it's a positive pregnancy test—inevitable but terrifying.
"Answer it," I tell her. "If you don't, he'll come here."
She answers on the third ring. "Hey."
"Where are you?" His voice is loud enough that I can hear it.
"Home. Day off. Why?"
"Alone?"
The pause is too long. We both know it. "Yes."
"Mentirosa," he says softly. Liar. "I'm ten minutes away."
He hangs up.
"Ten minutes," Lena says, her medical brain clearly calculating scenarios. "That's approximately how long it takes to hide evidence, fake an alibi, or have really quick desperation sex. You need to go. Now."
"I'm not leaving you to face him alone."
"Yes, you are." She's already pushing me toward the bedroom, her hands still shaking. "Because if you're here when he arrives, someone dies. Maybe you, maybe him, definitely meemotionally. My psyche can't handle fratricide before noon. Get dressed. Go out the back. I'll handle Miguel."
"Lena—"
"This is my brother. My family. Let me handle it my way." She kisses me, quick and desperate. "Trust me. Also, I can smell your cum on my breath so I need to gargle mouthwash for the next nine minutes."
