Next Morning.

The chill wakes you before the sun’s even fully up. Not freezing, this is April in Texas, after all. But the kind of sharp fifty-degree bite that old houses don’t forgive. Your place was built a century ago when insulation meant “good luck.”

You lay on the sofa, listening to the groan of wood contracting in the cold. Then it hits you. Mariana. She didn’t have many blankets.

You grab a few from the hall closet. Soft, but mismatched, and head for the guest room. You knock and wait. It's quiet. No answer. You hesitate for a moment before deciding to open the door.

She’s a curled shape on the bed, knees tucked under her, arms wrapped tight. Still wearing your oversized shirt. One leg bare, stretched just enough to show a soft, pale curve of thigh where the sheet has pulled back.

You don’t look long. Just long enough.

She’s beautiful in that small, unguarded way that makes you feel too big for your own body. You could touch her. Wake her. See what that look from last night meant if you pushed it just right.

You gently drape the blankets over her instead.

She sighs, her fingers clutch at the edge instinctively, pulling warmth tighter... but she doesn't wake.

You close the door behind you and let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

The kitchen hums low as the stove kicks on. You crack eggs into a pan, fry up toast, and eat it standing. The bread’s stale but still edible. You chew thoughtfully, staring out the window at a dull sky that can’t make up its mind.

Then it’s coat on, bag slung over your shoulder, and out the door.

Your ancient Volt coughs to life, a weird little screech from the back wheel hub you keep meaning to fix. It’s a beast of a car. Nearly twenty years old, frame pockmarked with rust, but the new battery gives it legs. Over a thousand miles a charge. Not bad for something that rattles when you brake.

The heater spits dust in your face. You sneeze, curse, and laugh once under your breath.

The drive to Pflugerville’s short. North Austin sprawls in a way that used to mean money, but now just means long empty roads and half-built subdivisions. The oppressive heat waves have pushed the real money further north to more hospitable climates. The **** stayed.

The office is wedged in a two-story sandstone relic between a boarded-up barbershop and something that used to be a bakery. The burnished copper sign above the door reads --Iron Rose Investigative Services-- in gothic font, complete with an etched flower.

Pretty name. Sharp edges.

Fitting, given who owns the place.

Inside, Griggs is already marinating in the front chair, his beard tucked into his flannel shirt. He’s stabbing at his pocketwatch like it owes him money.

“Solitaire?” you ask.

He grunts without looking up.

You nod toward the desk. “Still no comm-line out front?”

“She won’t wire the lobby,” he mutters. “Says it's a luxury. Like my time ain't worth shit.”

“I mean, you are playing Solitaire.”

He looks up. Squints at you like he's calculating your market value by the pound.

You grin.

“It's horseshit,” he grumbles. “Phones used to be useful. Before the EU fucked it up. Now I’m stuck playing boomer games like some fuckin' grandpa. I miss porn on the toilet.”

“Classy.”

“Peak civilization. One-handed browsing. Full mobility. Endless poon from sea to shining sea. Now I get clicky cards and prayer apps.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“You’re too young. You can’t miss what you never had.” He jabs at his screen again. “Also, fuck off. Solitaire’s a classic.”

You lean against the doorframe. “You should just get Balatro. If you’re already playing relics, at least play something with style.”

Griggs grunts again. Might be approval, might be indigestion.

You glance toward the back hallway. Yvette’s office light is on.

You don’t have time to knock.

Yvette swings open the office door like she was eavesdropping the whole time. Probably was. She’s dressed in black slacks and a slate-gray blouse today, sleeves cuffed, collar sharp. Her hair’s pinned up into that careless twist she somehow pulls off like it’s tactical gear.

She eyes Griggs with the weariness of someone already regretting being awake.

“Nobody wants to hear about you jerking off on a toilet, I swear to God, Griggs—”

He looks up, startled.

“You’re buying everyone coffee as an apology. From the good place. And I want that cardamom shit I like. You remember?”

Griggs makes a noise halfway between a grunt and a growl. “So now I’m the gopher too.”

“Yes,” she says almost sweetly. “Now go, before I start assigning you real work.”

He mutters curses as he grabs his coat and shuffles toward the door.

“And bring back those little chocolate croissants if they’ve got them,” she calls after him. “I’m feelin' a little peckish today.”

The door slams behind him. You and Yvette are alone.

She eyes you for a beat, then raises an eyebrow. “You look like you slept in a rusted out Volt with a raccoon in the passenger seat.”

“I might've,” you say. “Minus the raccoon. Just me and my shame.”

She smirks and leans on the doorframe. “You good?”

You nod. “I’m good. Ready to work.”

“Glad to hear it.” She straightens up, dusts something invisible off her sleeve. “Slight change of plans.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

She crosses the room, opens the cabinet beside her desk, and pulls out a dull silver case the size of a shoebox. No markings. Just one red tamper-proof seal across the latch.

“I need this delivered today.”

You already know where this is going. “How far?”

She doesn’t say it right away. Just sets the box down on the table between you. Her eyes flick up to yours.

“Houston.”

You let out a slow breath. “Of course it is.”

“It’s important,” she says.

“I’m sure it is. But last I checked, half the checkpoints into Houston are shuttered or crawling with patrols. Not to mention the gang activity around the western approach. Lotta eyes.”

Her gaze holds yours. “And none of my other runners are smart enough to make it through or dumb enough to try.”

You rub your temple. “I’d rather leave it alone for a few days. Things are still hot. I can wait until the weekend—”

“It has to go today. Time sensitive.”

You don’t answer right away.

There’s Mariana, back at the house. Still bundled in your sheets, still not entirely safe. You don’t want to leave her there alone. Not yet.

You didn't even notice Yvette stepping closer. But there she is, hand on your chest, fingers slow and deliberate as they trace the edge of your shirt.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” Her voice drops to a bare whisper.

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re teasing me.”

She shrugs. “It’s been known to work.”

You smirk, but there’s heat behind it. “You’re gonna need more than a wink and a kiss if you want me to risk a dead zone run again, and this soon.”

She leans in. Close enough that her breath warms your throat. “You always say that. And yet, somehow, I always get what I want.”

You don’t respond. Not out loud. But your fingers twitch where they hang by your side, like they remember the last time too well.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Yvette drops slowly to her knees in front of you.

You glance toward the door. “Coffee doesn’t take that long.”

“I work fast.”

Your throat’s dry. She looks up at you, eyes gleaming, and for a second, you feel that familiar thing inside you stir. Not just awake, but interested.

You swallow it down. Barely.

“Don’t leave a mark this time,” you murmur.

“I think that's my line.”

The office is too quiet. The kind of quiet that hums. Just outside, the wind whistles through the sandstone buildings, and somewhere down the street, a delivery drone sputters to life.

You glance once more at the front door.

Then you let her get to work.