27 - Marisol
The penthouse feels too small for two people who can’t look at each other.
I emerge from my bedroom at ten, having spent the night listing losses the way Nico lists threats. Father dying, maybe already gone. Brother disappeared into God's arms. Club sealed by police tape. Reputation shredded across every headline. And now the man in the guest room who holds my secrets but won't hold me.
He's at his laptop in the kitchen, spine military-straight, fingers moving across keys with the efficiency of someone who measures worth in completed tasks.
"Morning." His voice carries all the warmth of a weather report.
"Morning."
I pour coffee into a mug, noting how he doesn't look up from his screen.
We're strangers sharing an Airbnb, two people whose lease happens to overlap. The silence stretches, filled with the tap of keys and the distant hum of Miami waking beyond the windows.
Something in my chest finalizes. Not breaking; that happened last night. This is the scar tissue forming, the walls rebuilding themselves from habit and necessity.
I sit across from him, the marble island between us like a negotiating table.
"I need to tell you something."
His fingers pause on the keyboard. Just for a second. Then continue. "Go ahead."
"I'm leaving today. Alone."
Now he looks up, those hazel eyes assessing threat levels rather than seeing me. "That's inadvisable. The Zayas situation—"
"I don't care about the Zayas."
"Marisol—"
"You can follow if your assignment requires it." I stand, already moving toward my room to get my bag. "But I'm leaving this apartment. Without you."
"I'll drive you."
"No."
"I can't let you—"
"You can't LET me?" The words come out sharp enough to cut. "You can trail me around like a puppy dog but you don’t get to decide how I live."
I grab my purse, phone, keys. Move toward the elevator before he can deploy more arguments about safety protocols and threat assessments.
The elevator arrives immediately, like it's been waiting for this moment. I step inside, turn to face him standing in the doorway of the kitchen, laptop abandoned, something cracking across his face that he won't let fully form.
"Nico—" I start, then stop. What would I say? That I love him? That he's breaking my heart? That if he asked me to stay, I would?
The doors close on his silence.
In the lobby, the doorman nods his usual greeting. The Miami heat slams into me as I exit, thick and wet and real in a way the penthouse's controlled environment never is.
I walk alone, and the city doesn't care that I'm shattering with every step.
Little Havana pulls me in like gravity, my feet finding the familiar streets without conscious thought. Past domino tables where old men argue in Spanish about baseball and politics and whose granddaughter married better.
I order a cortadito from the window, sweet enough to hurt your teeth, strong enough to wake the dead. The girl serving it looks maybe seventeen, and I wonder if her mother knew mine, if these streets hold their shared memories like sediment.
My phone buzzes against my thigh. Nico. Twelve messages now. I counted, damn him for teaching me that too. I don't read them but I can imagine: Your location shows Little Havana. Confirm status. Security concerns require immediate response.
