I look up. Meet his hazel eyes. Give him nothing but empty efficiency. My face a mask of professional competence.
"I'm fine. I'm handling it."
Something flickers behind his eyes. Not anger. Recognition. And underneath that, fear. Real fear, the kind I've never seen from him before.
Evening falls, painting the penthouse in gold and shadow. He comes to sit beside me on the couch. Close. His body angled toward mine, knee almost touching my thigh. The heat of him raises goosebumps on my arms, but I don't shift away. Don't shift closer. Just continue working.
"You need to stop."
"I need to prepare for tomorrow."
"You've been at this for ten hours."
"There's a lot to prepare for."
"Marisol." His hand covers mine on the keyboard, stilling my fingers. "Look at me."
I look. Calm. Empty. Patient. Waiting for him to say whatever he needs to say so I can get back to work.
"You're shutting down."
"I'm strategizing." I pull my hand back, place it precisely on my lap. "Isn't that what you do? Assess threats, compartmentalize emotion, maintain operational efficiency? This tactical approach. You taught me how."
Something happens to his face. A micro-shift that transforms him completely. The fear intensifies, mixed with something that looks almost like grief.
"I've been relying on you too much," I continue, my voice reasonable, measured. "For protection, for emotional support, for everything. That's not fair to you, and it's not sustainable. I need to handle this myself."
I mean it as maturity. As strength. As finally becoming someone who doesn't need constant saving.
His hand drops from where it was reaching for me. Falls to his side like something severed.
The air changes between us. A temperature shift so sudden it's almost physical. Like someone opened every window in January. The warmth drains from his eyes. The openness, the tenderness, the careful way he's held me for days, all of it retreats behind something hard and impenetrable.
The soldier from Day 1 is back. The one who looked at me like an asset to manage.
"Nico?"
"You should get some rest." His voice is even. Professional. The voice he uses for phone calls about operations, not the voice that groaned my name last night.
"What did I say?"
"Nothing. You're right. You should handle this yourself." He stands, and the distance feels infinite even though he's three feet away. "I'll be in the other room if you need security assistance."
Security assistance. The words land like ice.
He moves toward the guest room. The narrow bed he hasn't touched in weeks, the space he abandoned to curl around me at night, to wake me with his tongue between my legs, to hold me through nightmares.
"Nico." The tremor in my voice betrays everything I'm trying not to feel. "Did I do something wrong?"
A long silence. His back to me. I see the tension in his shoulders. Coiled, rigid, a man at war with himself. His hand grips the doorframe hard enough to whiten his knuckles.
"No, ma’am." The words comes out quiet, final. "You didn't do anything wrong."
He closes the door.
The sound echoes through the penthouse. I stare at the closed door. At the silence on the other side. My chest feels hollow, scraped clean. I gave him everything. Every secret, every wound, every shameful truth I've never told another soul. Trusted him completely. Last night he was inside me, saying my name like a prayer. Tonight he can't even look at me.
What did I say wrong? I replay every word, searching for the fault line. I was being strong. Competent. Strategic. Self-sufficient. Everything I should be. Everything he is.
