You decide to check your comm before bed.

You reach for your Home-comm on the table. The screen flickers to life, a soft green pulse. You have a few messages. One is from Jeremy.

You lean back into the couch, thumb hovering over the glass, and read.

Jeremy: “You text Alex yet?”

You stare at the message, then glance down the hallway Mariana disappeared into.

After a moment, you type.

“I don't know if I'm really feeling it right now, I've got a lot on my plate.”

The response comes almost immediately.

Jeremy: "Awkward, cause uh... someone, likely a very well-intentioned friend who you love very very much, might have come across her at HEB tonight and possibly might have given her your number and told her how much you were into her."

You exhale through your nose and mutter Jeremy’s name under your breath.

Then you notice the other messages. An unfamiliar number.

You open them.

Alex: "You're a hard man track down, Ryan Gallagher."

You sit there for a second, then type back.

Sorry. Been a busy couple days.

You don’t expect a reply this late. It comes anyway.

Alex: "Wow. I thought you ghosted me."

You wince, then smirk despite yourself.
“Not my style. Work and classes keep me running around. Finally had time to connect to the net.”

There’s a pause. Then:

Alex: “So when do I actually get to see you again?”

You sink back into the sofa, eyes on the ceiling.
“Free for coffee tomorrow?”

Alex: “Coffee’s boring. Dinner.”

You chuckle quietly.
“Picky.”

Alex: “Pfft. Seven? There’s a place near campus. Good sushi.”

“Seven works. Try not to order half the menu.”

“No promises.”

And just like that, it’s settled.

You power the comm off and set it on the table, the faint glow fading to nothing. The house hums softly around you, pipes ticking, the distant whirr of something cycling on and off. You sit there in the dark, letting it all catch up.

What do you tell her?

That you met someone the same night you hit it off with her? That you now have a woman almost twice your age living in your house, someone who showed up **** and stayed because you let her... because you wanted her to?

That you crossed a line. Maybe more than one.

Does it matter that she seemed into it?

And what do you have? A 'situationship' that might become something more? Or is it something else? An arrangement. A trade. Safety in exchange for closeness. Shelter for silence.

You don’t know.

The questions pile up as you get ready for bed, each one heavier than the last. You don’t know how to start that conversation with Alex, only that you probably owe her one. In person. Honesty. No shortcuts.

It’s messy. But you made it that way.

Tomorrow at seven.

Sleep doesn’t come easily, but eventually it finds you anyway.

---

You wake up from a restless slumber to the sound of claws on the floor.

Then a weight lands on your ribs, followed by a pitiful, high-pitched yowl that could wake the dead.

“Jesus, Fatty,” you groan, cracking an eye. He’s planted himself on your chest like he’s been waiting for this moment all night. Emmy hovers near the doorway, tail swishing, her version of feline moral support.

“Can’t you two starve gracefully for once?”

Fatty blinks before nuzzling you aggressively. Translation: Feed me before I call the cops.

You swing your legs over the edge of the bed and shuffle toward the kitchen, scratching at your hair.

Mariana’s already there.

She’s perched on one of the kitchen chairs, legs folded under her, a mug between her hands. Her hair’s messy and unbrushed, falling in loose waves over her shoulders. She looks… content.

When the cats see her, they freeze, then slowly begin their cautious approach.

“They braver now,” she says, smiling.

“Hunger makes them brave,” you mutter, reaching for the kibble.

Mariana watches as you scoop food into their bowls, her expression soft. “They so beautiful,” she says quietly.

“Don’t let them hear that,” you say. “They’re already too vain for their own good.”

She laughs, a short, unexpected sound. “Can I…?”

“Pet them? You can try.”

You grab Fatty before he can bolt and hold him out like an unwilling teddy bear. He makes a low, wounded sound that suggests you’ll pay for this later.

Mariana doesn’t notice. Her fingers brush over his fur like she’s afraid he’ll disappear. She strokes him slowly, almost reverently, like she’s memorizing the texture. “So soft,” she whispers.

“He tolerates you,” you say. “That’s basically a love confession from him.”

She smiles wider. “I had cat. Before… everything.”

“What was their name?”

“Mariposa.”

You tilt your head. “Butterfly? Or moth?”

That makes her look up at you, surprised. “You know?”

You shrug. “Enough Spanish to keep me from embarrassing myself at restaurants. Sometimes.”

Her smile lingers. “Mariposa was… butterfly. She was white. Small.”

“Sounds nicer than Fatty.”

She glances down at him as he squirms in your arms. “Fatty… special name?”

You hesitate. “He’s named after a friend. Fatima. Had the same eyes. Thought he was a girl when I found him. By the time I figured it out, well—”

She cuts in, amused. “He already Fatty.”

“Exactly.”

“And Emmy?”

“Inside joke,” you say quickly.

She tilts her head. “Inside?”

“Long story.”

Too long. Too dark. You don’t tell her what it stands for. Don’t tell her how easy it is to eat a cat when you’re starving. Or that Emmy was the first one you didn’t have to.

You set Fatty down before his protestations get too dramatic. He stalks to his bowl, dignity in tatters.

Mariana crouches to watch them eat, chin on her knees, almost childlike. “You lucky,” she says.

“How do you figure?”

She gestures toward the cats. “You have them. You have house. Quiet.”

You don’t answer. Just pour coffee you don’t really want.

You then show Mariana where you keep the cat treats. Top shelf, left of the sink, and tell her if she wants, she can spend the day bribing the cats into loving her.

She brightens at that.

“Bribe,” she repeats, rolling the word around like it’s new. Then:

“I like.”

She kneels by the cabinet, shakes the tin, and two tails appear in the doorway like magic. Her face lights up, open and unguarded, the happiest you have seen her since she arrived.

Breakfast is simple. Eggs. Toast. Quiet.

The cats eventually lose interest and wander off, tails flicking as they claim a warm patch of sunlight near the window. Mariana rinses her fork, sets it carefully in the sink, then leans her hip against the counter like she is waiting for you to say something.

You clear your throat.

“There’s something I need to tell you.”

She turns, attentive but cautious, hands stilling on the towel. “Yes?”

“I’m supposed to meet someone tonight. Her name’s Alex.”

She does not react right away. Just nods once. Slow. You watch her face for something sharp that never comes.

“You tell me why?”

“It felt like the right thing to do.”

She sets the towel down, smoothing it once with her palm.

“You like her?” she asks.

The words are simple. Direct. No accusation in them.

You hesitate. Just enough.

“I don’t really know her,” you say. “We met once. Talked. And then things changed.”

She studies you, eyes narrowing slightly. Not angry. Reading.

“Because me,” she says.

You nod. “Yeah.”

She exhales quietly, then steps closer, stopping just short of touching you.

“You want see her again?”

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I don’t want to mess this up. What we have. You matter to me.”

That makes her frown, just a little. Thoughtful.

She shakes her head. “Você é jovem,” she says softly. Then corrects herself. “You are young.”

“That doesn’t mean...”

She lifts a hand, gentle but firm. “Listen.”

You stop.

“You should take her,” she says.

You blink. “Mariana.”

“No, no.” She shakes her head again. “Proper date. You take her. You talk.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m choosing someone else,” you say. “I don’t want to lose this.”

Her expression softens. She steps closer now, her fingers brushing your wrist.

“I not jealous,” she says quietly. “And I don’t want you stop living because of me. That not fair.”

“You’re important to me,” you say.

She smiles at that. Small. A little sad. “I know.”

Then, gently, “But I am old. You… you just start.”

“You’re not old,” you say.

She lets out a breath that might be a laugh. “Mesmo assim,” she murmurs. “Still.”

Her thumb presses lightly against your wrist, grounding.

“You connect with her,” she says. “I don’t want be reason you walk away from something good.”

You search her face. There is no resentment there. Just resolve.

“Take her,” she says again. “Explain. Be honest. Nothing change between us.”

You swallow.

“…Okay,” you say.

Her shoulders relax, like she has been holding something up and finally sets it down.

“Good,” she says.

The moment settles. Not broken. Just shifted into a new shape.

She reaches for her coffee, the ordinary motion grounding the room.

Only then do you speak.

“Mariana,” you say softly. “There’s something else I need to talk to you about.”

She looks up, alert.

“This one,” you say, “is about your daughter.”

Her gaze lifts for a moment, then drops again. “No news.”

“I know.” You lean forward, forearms on the table. “But I’m a PI. This is what I do. And this might be your best chance at finding her before someone else does.”

She studies you like she is looking for the trick. “No one help,” she says, voice low. “No one care.”

“I do.”

The words hang there, heavier than you meant them to be.

She holds your stare for a long moment, like she is measuring whether you are bluffing. Then she exhales, shaky, and disappears into the guest room.

When she comes back, she is holding a photo, its edges worn soft with handling. A girl, maybe eighteen. Mariana’s eyes. A jaw that will not bend easy.

“Where’d you last see her?”

She tells you. You take a picture of the photo with your PocketWatch and slide it gently back across the table.

“I can’t promise anything,” you say. “But I’ll try. I’ll talk to my boss. Get more eyes on it.”

She nods once. Hard. Like she is bracing herself. And then she breaks anyway. Silent tears, the photo pressed to her chest like sheer will might keep her daughter close.

You reach across the table and cover her hand with yours. No big speech. Just pressure. Steady.

“We’ll try,” you say.

That is all you can give her.

She squeezes your hand once in return. Small. Fragile. Grateful.

You leave her with the cats, their tails winding around her ankles, and head to work.