You practice some aftercare, you dick.

The couch is too small for both of you like this, but neither of you moves.

Mariana is half-curled under your arm, knees drawn in tight. She’s quiet. Still. Like she’s afraid if she speaks, the room might shift again into something she’s not ready for.

Your arm is around her shoulders. She’s tucked against your chest like she’s trying to disappear into it, her fingers clutching the edge of your shirt. Her cheek rests just under your collarbone. From this angle, you can feel her heartbeat. Not fast, but not slow either.

The TV’s low in the background, some channel you don't really remember turning on. They're all the same these days anyway. Something the Allfather said or did. Lots of flag waving. Footage of children saluting.

The chyron reads: Suspected EU Interference in Labor Uprising.

“—historic vote in Canada just two days away. With Prime Minister Dube stepping down, all eyes are on the conservative frontrunner, Peter Matheson, whose pro-American, pro-integration platform is expected to strengthen continental ties—”

You don’t speak.

Neither does she.

That wasn’t supposed to happen. Or maybe it was, depending on who you ask inside your own skull.

You turn the volume down. Not because of what they’re saying. Just because it’s too loud.

Mariana shifts slightly. You feel the tension ripple through her body. A bracing, not a relaxing.

She hasn’t looked at you since you carried her in here.

You don’t know what to say. Or maybe you do, but it doesn’t feel like yours to say anymore.

You glance down at her.

She’s not crying.

But she’s not entirely here either.

“Mariana,” you say softly.

She looks up at you. Briefly. A flicker of something in her eyes... fear, maybe. Or confusion. Or both. But it passes quickly.

“I’m okay,” she says, almost before you can ask. The words are quiet. Too fast. Too smooth.

You nod once. and let it sit.

Back on the screen, they’re now debating border security. A grainy drone clip shows refugees crowded near a southern checkpoint. Barbed wire glints like spiderwebs in the desert sun.

“—despite the closure, enforcement remains inconsistent along certain stretches of the Rio Zone. A temporary labor permit bill is expected to be tabled this summer, though critics claim it incentivizes more illegal crossings—”

Mariana tucks her knees up a little tighter.

You can feel her breathing change. Slow, then shallow.

You shift the blanket around her. Make sure it covers her feet.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” you say, finally.

She doesn’t answer right away.

Then, after a moment: “You... you were different.”

A beat.

You nod again.

“I don’t know what came over me.”

That’s a lie and you both know it.

She presses her lips together, still turned partly away. You watch the way her fingers fidget with the edge of the throw blanket, tugging the threads loose. Her knees are pulled up, but her foot brushes your thigh now and then when she shifts.

You don’t move away and neither does she.

“Are you angry?” you ask.

“No.”

A moment of uncomfortable silence.

“…Scared?”

A pause.

Her gaze drifts toward the window, where the rain still taps the glass like a metronome. “A little.”

You exhale through your nose. “Me too.”

That gets her attention. She turns her head slightly, brows drawing in.

“I didn’t plan that,” you say.

“I know.”

You look away. “You could’ve said no.”

“...I was afraid to.”

She finally turns to face you. Just barely. But enough that her gaze lifts to yours and then hovers just beneath it. Her eyes are darker now, less open. Guarded. Like she’s trying to rebuild something that cracked.

But her leg stay pressed against yours.

“I don’t know what you want,” she says.

You swallow. “Neither do I.”

Another silence. This one lingers deeper.

The segment on TV ends, fading into a recruitment ad. You don’t even need to look to know the cadence: brass band music, boys in uniform, the word “duty” every few seconds scattered like punctuation.

“…when it’s your time to serve, will you rise to the call?”

Some toddler in a commercialized Patriot costume salutes the camera in slow motion. Behind him, an airbase. A drone launch. A title card: Become Something Greater.

You mute the TV entirely.

When you look back down, you notice she’s watching you again. Closer this time.

There’s a moment where her eyes drop to your lips. Just a flicker.

She notices you noticing and immediately looks away.

You exhale slowly. “Do you want me to leave?”

Her voice is quiet. “I don’t know if I do.”

That hits something low in your stomach.

She’s still curled up. Still defensive, but the heat between you hasn’t gone. It’s in the way her breath catches when your thumb grazes her wrist. It’s in how she doesn’t pull away, not really, just shifts enough to let you know she might if you go too far again.

You don’t. Not yet.

Instead, you adjust your arm, easing her in closer. Her head ends up on your chest but she doesn’t protest.

“You okay?” you murmur.

Her voice, muffled against your shirt: “I’m tired.”

“Sleep, then.”

“You’ll stay?”

“Yeah. I’ll stay.”

She says nothing, but her hand slides across your ribs, anchoring lightly there. Like she’s testing if you’ll vanish.

You don’t move.

The quiet settles in again. Heavier this time. Not tense, but charged.

You know she feels it too.

Even half-asleep, she doesn’t quite relax. Her breathing evens out, but her fingers stay curled in the fabric of your shirt like she’s waiting for something else to happen. Or not happen. Something she doesn’t have the words for yet.

To be fair, neither do you.

The quiet hum of the television fades into static ad filler. Something about hydroponic lettuce subscriptions and next-gen ration credits.

When your home-comm buzzes on the coffee table, you reflexively flinch. You had almost forgetten it was there.

Mariana lifts her head slightly, just enough to glance at the glow. Then she retreats again, cheek brushing your chest.

You blink down at it. It's Yvette.

“Sorry,” you mutter, shifting just enough to answer.

"I have to get that. It's my boss."

Mariana doesn’t flinch, but you can feel her spine tense slightly like she’s bracing for the world to start spinning again.

“Yeah?”

“Morning, sunshine,” Yvette’s voice crackles through the receiver, sharp and amused. “Hope your birthday hangover didn’t kill you.”

You glance at the digital clock. 2:42 PM. “Still alive.”

“Good. Meet me at the office first thing tomorrow. We’ve got something lined up.”

You shift your weight, careful not to jostle Mariana too much. “What kind of something?”

“Client wants surveillance. Might be a long one. Bring the full rig. Mics, optics, battery packs. Think stakeouts and billable hours.”

You nod. “I’ll be there at eight.”

“Bright-eyed, bushy-tailed. You still have a tail, right?”

“I sold it for whiskey last night.”

You hear the familiar chuckle on the other end of the line.

“Then get some sleep. You’re on the clock tomorrow.”

The screen goes dark. The unit hums, then clicks off.

You rest your arm on the armrest. Mariana doesn’t ask right away, but you can feel the question simmering in her.

“You work tomorrow?”

“Yeah. New case. Surveillance.”

She shifts, cheek brushing against you. “Surveillance?”

You don't know how to respond, so you look for the translation into portugese on your comm.

"Vigilância? Like babysitting, but for grownups who cheat on their taxes or sleep with their neighbors.”

She lets out a quiet huff of air that might be a laugh.

The silence that follows isn’t uncomfortable. Just… delicate. Like both of you are waiting for something to shift.

“Where are you from?” she asks eventually.

“Minnesota.” You glance down at her. “Real winters. Ice fishing, sledding, shoveling snow until your lungs burn.”

She smiles faintly. “I never see snow.”

“Don’t worry. You’re not missing much unless you like wet socks and frostbite.”

That earns a quiet laugh. She shifts a little closer, settling her head more firmly against your chest. Her hand curls against your ribs again, the way it did earlier—light, uncertain.

“I grow up in São Paulo,” she says. “Big house. Always noise. Music, shouting."

You glance down. She’s watching the muted television screen, but her eyes aren’t really on it.

“You miss it?” you ask.

She hesitates. “I miss the people. Not the rest.”

“Sounds… interesting.”

She hums softly. “It was big. Everything fast. Always something happening.”

You nod, thumb tracing idle circles against the curve of her shoulder. She doesn’t shy away, but there’s a pause. A shift in her breathing.

“You’re good at this,” you say.

She looks up, confused. “At what?”

“This. Making things feel normal. You make it look easy.”

Something flickers in her eyes. Surprise, maybe. Doubt.

“I don’t feel normal,” she murmurs.

“You hide it well.”

There’s another pause. And this one stretches for a while, filling the space between you.

Then she pulls back. Not far, just enough to sit up straighter, arms folding across her stomach like a shield.

“I should clean,” she says suddenly. “You let me stay. I should… do something.”

You want to stop her. Tell her she doesn’t have to earn it. But you don’t.

Instead, you nod. “You don’t have to. But if it helps, go for it.”

She nods again, more to herself than you, and pushes to her feet. She crosses the room barefoot, her movements small and efficient, and disappears into the kitchen with the quiet resolve of someone who’s already had to survive too much to ask permission anymore.

You watch her go.

Your comm buzzes on the armrest again. It's a text.

Jeremy: “Still hungover or what?”

You smirk, thumbs tapping. “All good. Just catching up on stuff.”

Jeremy: “Cool. So. You text Alex yet?”

You pause, glance toward the hallway. It's quiet except for the faint clink of Mariana doing something in the kitchen.

“Nah. I'm not sure if I should.”

Jeremy: “What the hell is wrong with you. She was all over you. This is like a rom‑com if the main character was concussed.”

You pause for a moment before responding. “I’ll text her Monday. Post‑case. Professional.”

Jeremy: “You’re a sad little man.”

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself.

Jeremy: “Also... why weren’t you at training?”

You hover over the keys.

“Had stuff to handle.”

You can see the dots pulsing on your screen that shows you that Jeremy is typing a response, but it takes a while for his next text to come through.

Jeremy: “Whatever. Next Sunday. No excuses. Bring your balls.”

“Deal.”

You set the comm down. Click off the now silent TV and sit alone in the empty room, heavier now that she’s not in it.

The warmth from her body lingers on your chest. Her scent’s still on your shirt. The house smells a little different now. More alive.

You stretch your legs out on the couch, exhale slowly, and let your eyes close and listen to the sound of running water, the clink of ceramic, the faint scrape of a chair leg. It all folds into the low hum of the house.

The air still carries the scent of cooked rice and garlic. A domestic kind of quiet, fragile and new.

You hear the kettle click off. Then the soft clatter of two cups.

When you open your eyes again, Mariana’s standing in the doorway, two mugs in her hands. Steam curls from the surface of each one. She hesitates, then crosses the room and hands you one.

“Tea,” she says.

You take it. “Thank you.”

She sits beside you, leaving a hand’s width of space between your knees. Her hair is still loose, her eyes softer now. The mug trembles slightly in her hands, but her voice is steady.

“I used to make this for my daughter when she could not sleep,” she says. “It helps the stomach. And the heart.”

You take a sip. The tea’s faintly sweet, a little floral, the warmth bleeding through the cup into your palms. “It’s good.”

“She always said that,” Mariana murmurs, half to herself. “Even when I made it wrong.”

You glance at her. The corner of her mouth twitches upward, not quite a smile but close.

She sets her mug on the table and leans back against the couch. Her eyes wander toward the window where sunlight still catches on the glass.

You follow her gaze.

She exhales softly. “I like this house. It feels… calm.”

You nod. “It’s a good place.”

“Do you feel... lonely here?”

The question catches you off guard. You think about it. The silence that fills the rooms when you come home. The hum of the old fridge. The cat’s slow patrols.

“Sometimes,” you say. “Less now.”

Her eyes flick to yours at that, but she doesn’t press. Instead, she picks up her cup again, takes a sip, then sets it down carefully.

“You could grow things here,” she says quietly. “Tomatoes. Peppers. Maybe flowers.”

“You're right. I think I'd like that.” you tell her.

She smiles a little. “I hope so.”

The quiet folds in again.

You lean your head back and close your eyes, the warmth of the tea settling somewhere behind your ribs. Mariana shifts next to you, tucking her legs up under herself. A moment later, you feel her lean gently into your shoulder.

You don’t move.

Her breathing evens out after a while. You can tell when her body starts to go slack. The tension in her hands fades, her head tipping against you until her hair spills over your chest.

You set your cup down carefully and let your arm rest around her, the light touch of fingers pulling her into a quiet embrace.

The air feels still, heavy with warmth.

Her scent, faintly floral and human, fills the quiet between you.

You breathe in once, slow. Then again.

When her breathing deepens, you know she’s asleep.

You stay where you are, eyes half-closed, the sound of her heartbeat steady against your ribs.

You don’t try to sleep yet. You just stay still.

It's the kind of stillness that feels like forgiveness.