"Okay?" She pulls back enough to look at me, confused. "That's it? No interrogation? No tactical assessment of my psychological state?"
"When you're ready. I'll be here."
She stares at me like I've spoken in tongues. "Why?"
"Because I don't look away. Remember?"
Something shifts in her eyes. Like she's seeing me for the first time.
I walk her to her bedroom door, her hand in mine. She hasn't let go since the pool, like I'm anchoring her to the present.
"You broke the rule," she says at her door. "Twice now. My bedroom, and then… the kiss."
"You can report me to management."
"I don't think tactical kisses are in your contract."
"Probably not."
She looks up at me, and there's something fragile in her expression. "Was it just tactical? The kiss?"
I could lie. Should lie. Keep the boundaries clear. I haven't kissed anyone in three years, and when she couldn't breathe, I couldn't either.
"I don't know what it was," I say, which is almost the truth.
"That's not very comforting."
"I'm not a comforting person."
"No," she agrees, and something shifts in her eyes—something warmer, more dangerous than the panic. "But you're here. That's something."
She nods like that makes sense, though we both know it doesn't. "Goodnight, Horse Man."
"Goodnight, Marisol."
She goes into her room, closes the door soft as a whisper. I stand in the hallway, the taste of her still on my lips. Salt from tears, something sweet underneath. Vanilla maybe, or just her.
I should go to the guest room. Maintain distance. Remember what she is: an asset. A mission. Someone else's daughter in someone else's war.
Instead, I sink down outside her door, back against the wall. The Glock presses against my hip, a reminder of what I am. What this is supposed to be.
Through the door, silence. No nightmares. No thrashing. No screams about Gabriel. Maybe she's finally sleeping. Maybe she's lying awake touching her lips, wondering what the hell just happened.
Marco's words echo: She's not Sofia. Don't make her a replacement.
She's not. She's nothing like Sofia. My sister was ice and steel, a weapon I helped forge. Marisol is chaos and sunshine and something broken that keeps trying to bloom anyway.
She's not a replacement. She's something else entirely.
And sitting here guarding a threshold I've already crossed twice, tasting her tears on my lips, I realize I've stopped counting the days since Sofia left.
6 - Marisol
I’ve been staring at his forearms for twenty minutes.
I woke at noon with his name on my lips and wetness between my thighs, then avoided him for two hours until he cornered me in the kitchen with that commanding voice: "Get dressed. We're leaving." No explanation. No asking. Just that tone that makes arguing feel pointless.
Now he's driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, and I can't stop watching the way the muscles flex when he turns. The veins that stand out against tanned skin. The way his fingers grip with casual certainty, like everything he touches belongs to him.
