"The best."
We pull into her building's garage. The elevator rises toward her penthouse, and with each floor, the air between us thickens. Not with dread or fear. With possibility.
Inside her apartment, she kicks off her heels, suddenly smaller. More fragile. But also more real than I've ever seen her.
"I need to shower," she says. "Wash this day off. But… will you stay? Not in the guest room. Just… stay?"
"Yes."
She disappears into her room. I hear the water start. I stand in her living room, looking out at the city lights, knowing I'm about to cross a line I can't uncross. Knowing that tomorrow, everything will be different. Knowing that Cesar is out there, planning something, and I'll have to stop him, and it will destroy her.
But tonight?
Tonight the soldier can wait.
When she emerges, she's in simple pajamas. No silk, no performance. Just soft cotton and clean skin and eyes that know exactly what she's asking for.
"I don't want to have sex," she says, direct as always. "I just… I don't want to be alone. Is that okay?"
"Yes."
She holds out her hand. I take it.
Her bedroom still smells like vanilla and coconut, but now there's something else. Her. Not the perfume or the products. Just her.
She climbs into bed, pulls back the covers on the other side. An invitation.
I should go to the guest room. Change. Maintain some boundary.
The soldier in me wars with something else. I stand there, frozen between discipline and desire, between what I should do and what she needs.
Instead, I lie down beside her, fully clothed. She curls into my side immediately, her head on my chest, arm across my stomach. I can feel her heartbeat against my ribs. The warmth of her tears soaking through my shirt, the texture of her grief becoming part of me.
"Your heart's racing," she murmurs.
"Yours too."
Eventually, her breathing starts to even out. She's exhausted. Emotionally, physically. The day has taken everything from her.
She falls asleep like that, curled against me, trusting me to keep the monsters away. Not knowing I might be one of them. Not knowing that tomorrow or the next day or soon, I'll have to break her heart to save her life.
12 - Marisol
Istand outside his door, one hand raised to knock, the other pressed against my stomach where heat coils low and urgent. Too many damn minutes of my pulse throbbing between my legs because it’s better than thinking about my father’s words.You’re killing her memory. Every disaster, every headline, you prove she wasted her last breath on you.
After we got home, he stayed with me like I asked. Held me while I cried myself empty in my bed, his arms around me, him fully clothed and me in simple pajamas. But when I woke in the middle of the night, he was gone. Back to his room, his controlled space, leaving me alone with the indent in my pillow where his head had been.
I tried to go back to sleep. Failed.
My hand drifted between my legs twice, but I stopped myself. I don't want my own fingers. I want his.
I don't want to be alone. The thought pounds through me like a second heartbeat. I don't want to be alone with these ghosts and this ache.
Before I could think, I was up. Padding across the floor in bare feet, my reflection in the hallway mirror showing exactly what I am: desperate. Eyes still swollen from crying, hair wild.
My knuckles hit wood before my brain catches up.
The door opens immediately. He was waiting. Standing there like a fucking Greek statue, shirtless, every line of muscle carved in the dim light. Those low-slung sweatpants hang off his hips, and I can see the outline of him, already half-hard.
