Nico's fingers flex at his sides. "I've given you protection. Safety," he finally says, his voice low and controlled.
I stand up, my legs unsteady beneath me. "That's your job." I wrap my arms around myself, feeling suddenly cold despite the Miami heat. "That's not YOU."
He doesn't respond. Won't even try to defend himself, which somehow makes it worse. This is who he is: someone who can hold me while I break but won't let me see him crack even a little.
"I'm going to bed." I need distance from his steady presence that gives nothing back.
"Marisol…"
"Goodnight, Nico."
I don't slam my bedroom door. Don't have the energy. Just close it quietly and lean against it, feeling emptier than before I confessed.
I gave him everything tonight. My body last night, every orgasm, every sound. My worst secret today, the thing I've carried alone for eight years. And he gave me… technique.Comfort. His professional presence. Nothing real. Nothing that costs him anything.
Maybe this is my pattern. Give everything to people who take what they need and leave nothing behind. My mother, dying with my brother's name on her lips. Gabriel, using me to cover his sins then running to God. Now Nico, who'll fuck me perfectly but can't share a single crack in his armor.
I'm the woman people use but don't keep.
The thought should make me angry. Instead, I just feel tired. Empty. Like I've been poured out completely with nothing left to give.
But the worst part, the absolute worst, is that I still want him anyway. Still want to be the one who finally breaks through those walls. Want to matter enough that he'll risk being real with me.
I curl up in my bed, still dressed, and close my eyes. Through the wall, I hear him moving around the apartment. Checking locks probably. Being tactical. Doing his job.
Always, always just doing his job.
The footsteps pause outside my door. My breath catches. Is he going to knock? Come in? Give me something, anything, to show he's affected too?
The silence stretches. I can feel him there, just feet away, separated by wood and walls and whatever trauma he won't name. My nipples harden against the silk of my blouse, and I want to scream at my body for betraying me like this. For wanting someone who can make me come four times but can't come once with me watching.
The footsteps move away.
I slide my hand between my legs, finding myself soaked through my panties. I hate myself for this. For needing him even in memory. For touching myself to the thought of his mechanical perfection because even that's better than nothing.
I circle my clit through the wet fabric, biting my lip to stay silent. He can't know I'm doing this. Can't know that even after everything, my body craves his touch. I think about last night: his cock stretching me, his thumb on my clit, the way he watched me fall apart with those cold, assessing eyes. I think about his voice through the bathroom door, desperate and raw as he came. The only moment he let himself be human, and he had to lock me out to do it.
I come silently, my body shuddering as I muffle my gasps in the pillow. It's not enough. Not even close to what he gave me. But it's all I have: the memory of his perfect control and my pathetic need for someone who'll never need me back.
15 - Nico
The silence after she closed her door is the loudest thing I’ve ever heard. Hours pass without counting, without applying tactical precision to my own failure. I sit in the dark living room, her confession still ringing in my ears, before finally retreating to the guest room that’s become mine, my monk cell in her chaos. The room’s clean lines and bare surfaces satisfy something in me—I’ve shoved the crystal vases and porcelain figurines under the bed where their fussiness can’t intrude on the emptiness I need.
She gave me everything tonight. Her secrets, her guilt, and she asked for one thing in return. Tell me something real. And I said, "You should rest."
I sit on the edge of the bed, head in my hands. My fingers dig into my skull like I can physically extract the memory of her face when I failed her. That moment when she realized I wouldn't, couldn't, give her what she'd given me.
I need to protect her, keep my darkness contained. Standard operational security.
But even I struggle to believe that. The self-loathing tastes gritty, like Afghanistan dust that never really cleared.
At some point I must have changed into sleep clothes. Sweatpants, t-shirt, the automatic routine of a soldier even when his mind is elsewhere. Sleep drags me under into familiar nightmares, exhaustion finally winning despite the rage at myself. My body goes down fighting, muscles twitching with phantom combat readiness even as consciousness fades.
Afghanistan, Helmand Province. 0300 hours. The compound squats in the darkness, concrete and shadows. Sixty pounds of kit on my back, rifle ready, team in position. The breach point marked, charges set on the east wall where intel suggested civilians might be.
"Collateral is acceptable," my CO's voice in my ear, tinny through the comm. "Mission priority."
Breach sequence initiated. Four seconds to detonation. The weight of the detonator in my hand. Three. The taste of cordite already in my mouth. Two. Desert cold cutting through my gear. One. Contact.
