"I called Cesar. He sent a fixer. Someone who handles things. They took care of the body, the room, made her just another woman who disappeared in Miami."
The confession pours out of me, eight years of silence finally breaking. "Three weeks later, Gabriel left for the priesthood. Said he needed forgiveness. Left me alone with the secret, the guilt, the room I can't walk past without…"
"You were eighteen."
"Old enough to know better. Old enough to call the police instead of helping cover…"
"You were a child who'd just lost her mother, and your brother put you in an impossible situation. You helped him survive a tragedy. There's a difference."
The words hit somewhere deep. In my head, I committed a terrible crime. The worst of crimes. And this man is saying I was… helpful?
"I've never told anyone. It just sits in my brain like a big pile of mud, and I've never…"
My voice breaks completely. The tears come, ugly and raw, years of secrets pouring out. He moves to the couch, pulls me against him. Doesn't speak. Just holds me while I sob until I'm empty, until there's nothing left but exhaustion and the strange lightness that comes from finally telling the truth.
His arms around me now feel nothing like when he pinned my wrists. This is careful, protective, like I might shatter. Like he's holding something precious he doesn't know how to keep.
I cry until I'm hollow. When the sobs finally stop, I stay pressed against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, waiting.
"You should rest." His voice is gentle but distant. "It's been a hard day."
I pull back, searching his face. It's caring, concerned even. But closed. Those walls still firmly in place.
"That's all you're going to say?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I don't know. SOMETHING. I just confessed to helping cover up a death. The worst thing I've ever done. And you're telling me to rest?"
"You need rest. That's not dismissive, it's true."
"I thought…" I take a shaky breath. "After everything I told you, you might share something too. About why you are the way you are. What happened to you."
Silence stretches between us.
"About why you locked yourself in the bathroom last night instead of…"
"That's not relevant." His jaw tightens on the word 'relevant' like it's bitter in his mouth.
"Not RELEVANT? How is it not…"
Nico stands, putting distance between us. "This isn't about me, Marisol." His shoulders square. "This is about you. Your trauma. Your healing."
I lean forward, hands gripping my knees until my knuckles whiten. "And what about YOUR trauma? Your healing?"
His eyes flick to the window, then back to me, face carefully blank. "I'm fine." The muscle in his jaw twitches once.
"You're NOT fine. You fucked me like you were following a manual then jerked off alone because you couldn't come with me there. That's not fine."
He flinches, the first real reaction I've gotten.
"I'm not the one who needs fixing."
"I didn't ask you to FIX me. I asked you to SHARE with me."
The silence that follows is answer enough. His face is stone again, professional distance restored. I reach for his hand and he pulls back. Just an inch. But that inch might as well be an ocean.
Something in me breaks differently than before. Not the release of confession but the crack of hope dying.
