We sit like that, watching the ocean, her hand in mine, not speaking. The sun bleeds red across the water. Her fingers are small in mine, but her grip is strong. Holding on like I'm the only solid thing in a world that's dissolving.
"I don't want to be alone tonight."
The words are soft, barely audible over the waves.
"You won't be."
"I mean…" She swallows. "I don't want to be alone. In my room. Staring at the ceiling. Thinking about everything he said."
"What do you want?"
"I don't know. Something. Someone." She turns to look at me, and her eyes are devastating. "You."
The word hangs between us. You.
"Marisol."
"I know. I know you have rules. I know you said 'not like this.'" Her voice is steady, clear despite the tears drying on her cheeks. "After the training session, after you walked away from me on that floor two days ago, I didn't think you'd ever want me."
"That was different."
"How?"
"You weren't choosing. You were reacting. Tonight you're choosing."
She looks at me, really looks at me. "But I'm not drunk. I'm not high. I'm completely sober. I'm just… I'm so tired of feeling empty. And when I'm with you, I feel something. Anything."
She turns more fully toward me, and the last of the sunlight catches in her honey eyes.
"Please."
Please. The word hits hard. Unexpected, devastating, no defense prepared. This woman who fights everything, who turns deflection into art, who armors herself in chaos. She's saying please. Not demanding. Not performing. Just asking. Sober, clearheaded, choosing.
I should say no. Should remember she's vulnerable and grieving and this is exactly when people make mistakes they regret. Should maintain the distance that keeps us both safe.
But she's looking at me like I'm the only solid thing left, and maybe that's exactly what I need too. To be solid for someone. To matter beyond the mission.
"Let's go home."
I start the car, but I don't let go of her hand.
The drive back is quiet. Not silent. Quiet. The difference matters. She's not drowning anymore. She's floating, letting me anchor her. Her thumb traces small circles on my palm, andeach touch sends heat through me that has nothing to do with Miami's climate.
"I'm not asking for forever," she says suddenly. "I know you'll go back to Chicago eventually. I know this is just… a job for you. But tonight, can we pretend it's not?"
The truth fights its way up my throat. I should lie. Should maintain distance. But she's looking at me with those honey eyes, and the walls I've spent years building crack.
"It stopped being just a job the night you said my name in your sleep."
She looks at me, surprised.
"I did?"
"You did. And then you called me Horse Man."
That pulls a small laugh from her. The sound loosens something in my chest.
"I have excellent taste in nicknames."
