ELENA
The words hung there—heavy, unyielding.
Not romantic.
Possession. Ownership.
Then his attention shifted.
His eyes scanned the beach slowly—taking in everything in one sweep.
The golden sand. The laughing families. The waves rolling in like a steady rhythm of applause from the sea itself.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
It wasn’t a harsh question.
But it was firm.
“I saw the sign while I was driving,” I replied, giving a small shrug. “Decided to stop.”
My fingers tightened slightly around his.
“I needed to clear my head.”
His eyes flicked to me again.
“But you’re not dressed for the beach.”
I looked down at myself.
The simple cotton dress. Still faintly wrinkled.
“Yes, I’m not.” I said quietly.
“Do you know what it’s like to be locked in a single room for four weeks? Losing track of day and night... I almost forgot what it felt like to move freely.”
“I needed this—driving through the city, letting my eyes take it all in,” I said, my voice quieter now.
The words lingered between us.
Something shifted in his expression.
“Would you... take a walk with me?” I asked, glancing up at him. “Just a little while, and then we can go home.”
His gaze held mine for a second longer than necessary.
Then he checked his watch.
A quick glance. Almost instinctive.
“I have a meeting with the Mexican cartel in ten minutes.”
The words were casual.
But the weight behind them wasn’t.
My stomach dipped slightly.
