Go to sleep.

You wake up to music.

Not anything you recognize. It’s soft, rhythmic, some kind of acoustic ballad sung in Spanish, or maybe Portuguese. You’re not totally sure. You can't make out the words.

Then comes the smell.

Garlic. Chicken. Rice. Your stomach growls before your brain’s fully online.

You rub your face, shuffle toward the noise barefoot. Fatty is already there, tail swishing, waiting for a dropped scrap.

Mariana is in the kitchen.

Barefoot too. Wearing your oversized long-sleeve like a tunic, sleeves rolled high. Working two pans like she’s done it a thousand times. Rice in one. Chicken and diced vegetables in the other.

She doesn’t hear you right away. Humming along to the music. Swaying just a little.

You stop in the doorway.

It’s… nice. Warmer than your kitchen has looked in a long time.

She turns and jumps a little when she sees you.

“Ah! I—I’m sorry,” she stammers, reaching to turn the music off. “I hope is okay. I wanted to say... thank you. For last night. I cook. To thank you.”

You blink a few times. “You didn’t have to.”

Her shoulders lift in a small shrug. “It’s not much. Just what you had.”

She’s not wearing makeup, not even trying. Still pretty. Too pretty, honestly. Couldn't have been easy.

You could take her right here on the table and she’d probably thank you twice. Hell, look at her, biting her lip like that. She knows.

You sit down. Try to focus on your fork instead of your hormones. “Smells amazing.”

She places a plate in front of you, then hovers like she’s not sure she’s allowed to stay in the room.

“You’re not eating?” you ask.

She hesitates. “I... I didn’t want to take more. Is your food.”

“Mariana.” You meet her eyes. “You cooked. You eat.”

She looks at you for a beat, then nods. Grabs another plate. There’s a faint smile on her lips when she sits beside you. You catch yourself watching it too long.

You clear your throat and look down at your food.

She joins you. For a while, the only sound is the clink of forks and quiet music still buzzing faintly from the speaker. The food is good. Too good, actually. Warm, filling. Tastes like something you didn’t know you missed.

“Damn,” you say around a bite. “This is good. Really good.”

She smiles, shy again. “I used to make this for my daughter. When we had a stove.”

You glance at her. “She’s lucky.”

Her smile fades a little. She nods and keeps eating.

You don’t ask. Not yet.

After breakfast, you stretch, push back your chair. “Alright. You ready?”

She blinks. “For what?”

“We’re going out.”

“Out?” She stiffens, protective again.

You wave a hand at her. “You need clothes. A toothbrush. Maybe something that doesn’t smell like my laundry hamper.”

That earns the faintest laugh. A real one. She shakes her head, but stands anyway. “You’re serious?”

“I’m serious.” You gesture toward the door. “Come on. You’re doing me a favor.”

“Favor?” she asks, raising a brow.

“Yeah,” you say. “Now I have a reason to clean my car.”

She gives you a look like she’s still debating it, but she follows.

Shopping’s awkward at first. She sticks close to your side like she expects the floor to disappear. You let her lead. You don’t hover.

You do notice her studying the price tags on everything. Carefully. Quietly. She folds the same shirt twice before putting it back.

You slide it into the cart anyway when she’s not looking.

She doesn’t say anything, but you catch the flicker of a smile when she sees it there later.

Toothpaste, deodorant, a couple T-shirts, a hoodie. Some jeans. Socks. One good pair of shoes. Feminine products go in the cart like contraband. You don’t make a big deal out of it. Neither does she.

By the time you hit checkout, you’re about four hundred bucks lighter.

Inflation’s a bitch.

She stares at the total. “You sure?” she asks, voice small.

“Yeah,” you say. “I got it.”

“You must work very good job.”

You smirk. “Good-ish. Depends if I actually remember to invoice people.”

She tilts her head, confused.

“Private investigator. It’s like a detective, but with fewer rules and worse dental.”

She laughs softly. Her laugh is different than her smile. Lower. Warmer. Makes something settle behind your ribs.

On the way home, she finally opens up, just a little.

“I was nurse,” she says. “In Brazil. Before... everything.”

You don’t say anything. Just listen.

“I left when war start. Was lucky. Got north, across border, before they closed. Others not so lucky.”

She doesn’t say who. Doesn’t have to.

“Worked on farm in west Texas. With my daughter. The owner was kind. Paid in cash. But then...” She pauses. “No rain. No crops. No job.”

You nod. “Same story everywhere lately.”

She nods. “We walk east. Looking for something. Anything. Get separated from my daughter... Ana Maria. She is eighteen. Strong, smart. But... I don’t know where she is now.”

You glance at her. She’s not crying. But she’s brittle around the edges.

“I got chased. Lost my bag. Everything I had. I was hiding... when you found me.”

You nod once. “Right place, right time.”

She looks at you for a long moment. Something shifts. Just a little.

Back at the house, she unpacks methodically. Folds her clothes and places them in the linen closet like it’s a temporary shrine. You leave her to it. You’re not sure what to say that won’t come out too heavy.

Later, you watch her from the hallway as she leans against the counter, refilling the spice jars. She hums under her breath. Same melody from the morning. That warmth settles in your chest again, unexpected and dangerous.

You’re not stupid. You know better than to read into moments like this.

Who are you kidding, you were hoping exactly for moments like this.

But part of you, some quiet, bruised, swollen part... wants to. Yes, that part.

You don’t act on it. You just make a mental note.

Fix the water heater. Find her daughter.

...and bang Mariana.

"... Huh?"

Shh... it's okay. Just, bang Mariana.