That was an eventful day. Time to go home to Mariana.

Yvette calls before you’ve even kicked your shoes off.

“Gallagher.” No hello. No easing in. “I’ve pulled what I can on Mariana’s girl. Nothing concrete yet. Few threads, but nothing I can tug on without paying in favors I can’t afford to hand out.”

You sink into a chair, toeing off your boots. “Meaning?”

“Meaning I can keep digging, but the people I’d ask next don’t work for free. And the ones who do? I don’t want to owe.”

You rub at your temple. “I get it.”

“So.” A pause. “How do you want to play it?”

You don’t answer right away.

Because you know what you’re about to do, and there’s no taking it back.

“I’ll think on it,” you say finally.

She doesn’t like that answer, but she lets it stand. “Don’t take too long,” she says, then hangs up.

You stare at your PocketWatch for a long time before you move.

This is stupid. Six years down the drain. She would stop you if she knew.

You’re an idiot. You’re going to blow up your entire life for someone you met three days ago. You took her in, you kept her safe. That’s enough. You don’t owe her this.

No.

Your thumb hovers over the Watch, skin damp. It feels heavier than it should, like it knows exactly what you’re about to do.

You steel your resolve and pick it up.

This isn’t a normal call. You flick through menus until you reach the one that doesn’t technically exist. Enter the passkey you swore you’d never use again. Wait for the familiar tunnel-vision hum as the connection shunts through a dozen hidden channels.

Type out the message:

Need to find someone. Aline Santos. 18, DP Fugitive. Got separated from her mother travelling east on 190 near Marble Falls.

It takes all of thirty seconds for the response to come through:

Deal. Sending someone. Welcome back.

You hesitate, fingers hovering, then type:

Just visiting.

The reply takes longer this time.

We'll see.

You catch Mariana in the kitchen, barefoot, one of your T‑shirts draped over her like a dress. There are shorts under there, technically, but they don’t do much to hide the shape of her.

She knows what she’s doing. She wants you to look at her.

“You smell sweat.” Her eyes flick over the stains on your shirt — the aftermath of getting worked over by a teenage girl in VR combat.

“Sorry,” you say automatically.

She shakes her head, almost too quick. “I like.”

The words hang there. She blushes and looks away before you can answer.

You leave it alone.

The garage is cooler than the house. Your gym — old racks, scarred plates, duct‑taped bench. Fatty’s curled up on the floor like your lazy, judgmental spotter.

You start with basics. Get the joints talking to each other. Warm up.

Then you try it.

You picture it exactly: Irene’s body coiling like a spring, the snap of her leg, how she used her hips like a fulcrum to throw **** through the air, her whole body a bullwhip.

Plant your feet. Shift your weight. Rotate the hips first — slow, controlled — feel the torque climb up the chain: obliques, shoulders, down the arm.

Stop before the strike. Reset.

Again.

This time you follow through. Quick, sharp. A snap at the end, hand slicing air.

White pain lances through your elbow. Tendons screaming.

You freeze. Let the sensation settle. Catalog it. That’s where the weak point is. That’s where it’ll blow if you’re careless.

Again. Slower. Strip it down. Engage the core earlier. Adjust the timing of the hip rotation. It feels like balancing on the edge of a breaking branch — one inch too far, and something snaps.

In VR, it looked effortless. In reality, every inch of it wants to kill you.

You like it. Like the danger of it. You push the thought down and reset your stance.

Back to what you know. Boxing. Tight, clean strikes. Movements designed for survival, not spectacle.

Between sets, you roll your shoulder, check the mirror. The bruises from the gunshots are almost gone. Yellow ghosts of what used to be. Your arm aches, but it’ll be fine tomorrow.

You try the whip‑strike one more time.

Smoother. Still ugly. Still dangerous.

But less so than before.

The shower runs longer than you need. You stand there letting the heat sink into your shoulders, working it into the sore spots where the whip‑strike tried to tear you apart. When you step out, the mirror’s a fogged blur and your skin feels raw in the way only too‑hot water can manage.

Dinner’s waiting in the kitchen. It's simple, but plated like it matters. Mariana sits at the table in that quiet, deliberate way she has, posture neat, like she’s been waiting for you.

You eat together without much talking. She keeps stealing little glances at your arm whenever you reach for your fork.

“You hurt,” she says finally, her English tentative but certain.

You roll your shoulder without meaning to, testing it. “It’s fine.”

Her eyes narrow — soft, but observant. “No.” she says, like it’s a fact.

You smirk despite yourself. “Yes.”

She shakes her head once, dismissing that. “No.”

You leave it at that.

Later, on the couch, the TV hums with some nothing program neither of you are watching. She’s curled against you, light as a blanket, her fingers idly tracing along the veins of your forearm like she’s cataloging them.

It’s comfortable. Too comfortable.

The kind of quiet that makes you forget who you are.

But then she shifts.

It’s small at first — the way her knee brushes yours, the way her head tilts just so, her breath hitching when your fingers trail along her thigh.

You glance down. She doesn’t look away.

You kiss her.

At first she’s still, lips cool against yours. Then she melts into it, soft and hesitant, like she’s still deciding if she’s allowed to want this. A small sound escapes her throat — surprised, almost fragile.

You pull her closer.

That’s when she stops you.

Her hand presses against your chest, not forceful, just enough to halt you. She shakes her head, words spilling out too fast in Portuguese, then slowing as she searches for English:

“No pill… not safe… dangerous time.”

Her fingers brush her stomach, eyes dropping away like she’s waiting for judgment.

You lean back, exhaling slowly, then reach up and catch her chin between your fingers. Firm. Enough to make her meet your eyes.

She flinches, small and instinctive. “Sorry,” she murmurs.

“Don’t be,” you say, voice low, leaving no room for argument.

Her breath shudders out. She doesn’t look away this time.

You keep her gaze, hold it until the fidgeting stops — until she goes still.

Something shifts in her. Subtle. Unmistakable.

She takes your hand like it’s an answer and leads you to the bedroom.

Her movements are deliberate but hesitant, every step a quiet negotiation with herself. You let her guide you until she presses you down onto the bed.

You don’t look away. Not once. She still won’t meet your eyes.

"You don't have to do this."

"Yes, want," she whispers, so soft you almost miss it.

She’s trembling. You reach up, touch her face. She softens under your hand, some of that tension bleeding out.

“Mariana,” you say, quiet but sharp enough to cut through her thoughts.

She freezes. Breath caught in her throat.

“Eyes on me.”

Slowly, like she’s obeying something she doesn’t fully understand, she lifts her gaze.

You hold it. Long enough for the air between you to thicken, for the overthinking to drain out of her until she’s just breathing.

“Good,” you murmur.

Her throat works as she swallows, and then carefully, almost reverently... she sinks to her knees between yours.

She hesitates for a heartbeat, palms resting lightly on your thighs. Testing the weight of the moment.

You don’t move. Don’t rush her. Just stay there, letting her feel the weight of your eyes.

She lowers her head between your legs.

You exhale, a slow release, as heat and warmth take you in.

“Good girl.” The words are barely audible, rough velvet, and she shivers like you’ve struck a match against her spine.

Her breath hitches, hot against your skin, before she takes you deeper. Not all at once — just an inch, then retreating, her tongue tracing a slow, deliberate line along your length. Testing. Exploring.

Your thumb brushes her cheekbone, tilting her face up.

“Eyes,” you murmur, firmer now.

She obeys, pupils blown, the flush on her cheeks deepening as she struggles to hold your gaze while her mouth works you in slow, slick strokes. A string of spit glistens when she pulls back just enough to breathe, her tongue darting out to wet swollen lips before it slides down again.

Every motion is cautious at first, like she’s still convincing herself she can do this. But the longer she goes, the more certain she becomes. The hesitance fades into rhythm.

Your hand slides into her hair, not pushing, just holding — a quiet claim.

“Just like that,” you breathe, and feel her pace falter for half a second at the sound of approval before she finds it again.

"Look at me."

Her lashes lower, but she forces them back up, gaze locked on yours with **** obedience. Spit spills down her chin as she draws back again, lips slick and parted, before sinking onto you with a quiet moan that vibrates against your cock.

Your grip tightens in her hair, forcing her mouth back onto your cock with a slow, deliberate pressure. She chokes slightly—just a soft, wet sound—before relaxing her throat and letting you sink deeper. The heat of her surrender is intoxicating, her eyes wet as she struggles to keep them open, fixed on yours.

It builds until you can’t hold back — your grip tightening, your breath catching — and then you let go, the sound you make lost somewhere between her name and a curse.

She stays with you through it, taking it, until you finally ease your hold and release her.

Silence, save for your breathing and the faint creak of the mattress.

She wipes at her mouth with the back of her hand, shy again, the blush creeping up her throat.

You reach out, catch her wrist before she can shrink away, and pull her up beside you. She curls into your side without a word, like she belongs there.

She does.