"Nothing happened yesterday."
"I KNOW nothing happened. That's kind of the point. I just wanted to say—"
"There's nothing to say. We trained. That's it."
"Nico—"
"That's it, Marisol."
The words land like ice water. But his hand on the table is clenched into a fist, knuckles white with the effort of… what? Not reaching for me? Not explaining? Not caring?
"Got it," I say, my voice flat. "We trained. Nothing else. Crystal clear."
I throw the Thai food in the trash, containers and all. He flinches at the sound. Actually flinches. But keeps typing on his laptop like I'm not having a complete breakdown three feet away.
The afternoon stretches endless. He's physically present but completely absent. Takes calls in rapid-fire professional speak, lots of "copy that" and "maintaining position" and "no visual confirmation yet." Military words for military problems that don't include me.
Then he's doing pull-ups in the doorframe of the guest room, shirtless again because now he doesn't even bother covering up, because I'm not worth the effort of modesty.
I watch him from the couch. Fifty. One hundred. He doesn't stop. The discipline of it, the relentless control, it's like watching someone perform surgery on themselves. Precise. Cold. Necessary.
But at three hundred and twelve, his rhythm stutters. He drops from the bar, and for a second, he grips the doorframe like he needs it to stay upright. His eyes find mine across the room.
The look lasts maybe two seconds. But in it, I see everything he's not saying. Want. Fear. Something that looks like apology before he shuts it down.
What's wrong with me?
I've had men want me. Lines of them. But I've never had a man look at me like I'm everything he wants and can't have. Not when I'm trying. Not when I'm right here.
At four PM, I crack.
"I'm going to La Sirena tonight."
"No."
"Excuse me?"
He's at the window again, that spot he keeps returning to. His hand rests on his hip where his gun sits. "You're not going out tonight."
"You don't get to tell me—"
"It's not safe. You're staying here."
The casual authority in his voice makes me want to throw something. But there's something underneath it. Genuine concern, maybe. Or orders he can't explain.
"I OWN La Sirena. I have responsibilities—"
"Your staff can handle it."
"I want to GO."
"And I said no."
He doesn't even look at me. Just keeps scanning the street below like danger might materialize any second. His phone buzzes again. He checks it, jaw tightening.
The rage that floods me is almost a relief. Rage is better than hurt. Rage I know what to do with.
"You're not my father. You're not my boyfriend. You're not even my friend. You don't get to—"
