Trip to the grocery store to get contacts for Mariana.

You hand her the towel first. She takes it with both hands, eyes still glassy, lips flushed. You dry your hair quickly, then wrap a towel around your waist and reach for another.

She fumbles with hers—maybe on purpose, maybe not—and you catch the faintest smile as you help drape it over her shoulders.

No words yet. Just steam curling between you, and the quiet patter of water as it drips off your skin onto the tile.

In the hallway, the air is cooler. Your feet leave damp prints across the floor. She pads behind you, her towel slipping slightly as she walks.

By the time you make it to the kitchen, your stomach growls loud enough to echo.

“Hungry?” she asks, already reaching for a pan.

“Starving,” you say, rubbing the back of your neck. “Worked the yard. Got mauled in the shower. It adds up.”

She snorts softly and grabs a skillet. “You sit. I make.”

“No argument here.”

You settle into your usual chair. She works barefoot, still wrapped in your towel, hair damp and clinging to her neck. It sticks there like a ribbon someone forgot to untie. The smell of butter hits the air, followed by the soft crack of an egg.

Fatty shows up like he’s been summoned by breakfast gods. He hops onto the counter with all the grace of a bowling ball wrapped in fur.

“Already ate,” Mariana says, without looking. “Don’t lie.”

Fatty meows in betrayal, then blinks at you like you might be easier to manipulate.

You aren’t.

“You’re both liars,” you tell him.

He blinks again. That means nothing and everything.

The eggs come out perfect. She adds a little salt, a little pepper. Toast pops. You devour it all like someone who hasn’t eaten in days.

She eats slower. More delicate. Watching you between bites.

“You’re happy,” you say, somewhere between toast and egg number two.

“I like quiet mornings,” she says.

You nod, chew, swallow. “Me too.”

She finishes and leans on the counter with her chin in her hand. Watching you like she’s trying to memorize the moment.

After the late breakfast, you lean on the kitchen counter, hands still damp from rinsing plates. She's across from you, drying the last dish. You watch her for a second—content, focused, peaceful—and you hate that you’re about to disturb it.

“I’ve got to head out tomorrow,” you say, steady. “To Houston.”

She stills. Not dramatically. Just enough to notice. Her fingers tighten on the dish towel, slow and small, but there.

You wait. Let it land. Let her process it however she needs to.

Her voice is quiet when it comes. “Is dangerous.”

You nod. “Yeah. I know.”

She sets the towel down, turns to face you fully. Her eyes search yours for something. Maybe a reason. Maybe a way to change your mind.

“Why?”

You don’t answer right away. The truth feels heavier when you say it out loud.

“I’ve got some contacts down there. People who might know something.” You pause, meet her gaze. “About your daughter.”

The breath she takes is sharp and shallow. Hope flickers in her face—barely—and it brings something like guilt with it.

“I don’t know for sure,” you add, quickly. “But it’s a lead. One worth following.”

She nods once, like it takes effort. Then again, slower.

“You go alone?”

“Yeah. I’ll be careful.” You try to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach. “I’ve done worse.”

She doesn’t believe that. You can see it plain on her face. But she doesn’t argue either.

You step away, head for the hallway closet. Top shelf, behind a dusty box of extension cords—your emergency stash. A battered tin, light but important. Inside, a few thousand in cash, a burner code card, and a folded scrap of paper.

You bring it back and set it on the kitchen table. The tin makes a soft metallic sound that fills the quiet.

“If I’m not back by midnight the day after tomorrow,” you say, calm, but not cold, “take this. Call Jeremy.” You tap the number on the paper. “He knows what to do.”

She walks over slowly. Picks up the paper like it might bite her.

“I do not want this,” she says, barely above a whisper.

“Neither do I.”

Her hands tremble a little as she sets it down again. But when she turns back to you, her chin is high and her eyes are clear.

“I will wait.”

You step close, lift your hand, and drag your knuckles gently along her jaw. Her breath catches, soft and warm against your wrist.

“I know,” you say.

You both stand there, not saying anything else. Just sharing air, body heat, and a moment that feels like it could stretch forever if you let it.

Eventually, her arms slide around your waist, and you pull her close.

"Now get dressed. We are going to go get you some contacts so you can see again."

The air outside smells like dust and ozone. Like the sun’s been baking the sidewalk since before you woke up and has no plans to stop. You keep the windows cracked as you drive, one hand on the wheel, the other resting near hers on the center console.

She’s wearing your shirt again. Sleeves cuffed. Legs crossed. Hair pulled back in a loose, half-hearted attempt at order. It makes you want to do bad things to her, slowly and repeatedly.

“You sure you don’t want to wait?” you ask as the freeway exit approaches.

“No,” she says, staring ahead. “I want to see.”

The H-E-B looms ahead, all gray prefab and flickering green signage. You find a spot by the front and kill the engine. Inside, it’s air-conditioned and overly bright. The hum of electricity hovers just below hearing, like the building itself is trying not to draw attention.

The pharmacy section is tucked next to the health kiosks and protein drinks. Mariana walks straight to the contact lens display like she’s done it a hundred times—then stops. Stares. The options take up an entire wall.

You pick out a universal fit brand with a decent moisture rating, check the expiration date, and hold it up.

“These’ll work.”

She nods, but doesn’t move to take them.

“Want to try them here?”

She does. You pay at the counter, and she disappears into the restroom with the box.

When she returns, she’s blinking like someone who’s just been shown the world is, in fact, much sharper than previously believed. She squints at the lights. Then she looks at you.

And stops.

“You are handsome,” she says. “Good skin.”

You grin. “It’s the overhead lighting. Adds five rizz points.”

She laughs. Just once. Then steps in close and touches your jaw, light and reverent.

“I see everything.”

“Then let’s go see what we’re cooking with.”

The grocery run is domestic in the weirdest, warmest way. She leads. You follow, pushing the cart like a man who knows better than to interfere.

Beans. Smoked sausage. Garlic. Dried orange peel. Bay leaves. She finds them with the precision of someone tuned into a frequency you’ll never hear. You didn’t even know the store had a Brazilian section. You’re starting to suspect she’s got the place mapped out in her blood.

At the butcher counter, she points to pork ribs and speaks with unexpected confidence to the AI-assisted cut selector. The robot looks vaguely judgmental, like it disapproves of your protein-to-vegetable ratio. It slices the meat with robotic efficiency and seals it in tidy plastic packets.

“This one,” she says, cradling the ribs like treasure.

“You’re serious about this.”

She smirks. “Feijoada is not joke.”

By the time you check out, the cart is half full and she’s humming under her breath. You don’t recognize the tune, but it sounds like home.

Outside, the sun hasn’t let up. You load the bags into the car while she slips into the passenger seat with a small, satisfied sigh.

The contacts are still new in her eyes, but she doesn’t blink as much now. She’s adjusting. Seeing everything. You glance over at her and realize, for the first time in a while, she’s not tense. Not scanning for threats. Just… here.

“Now, go home,” she says, buckling her seatbelt. “I cook. You stay out of kitchen.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Not even allowed to help?”

“No help.”

“Sounds like a trap.”

She gives you a look.

And just like that, the car feels warmer.

Like home is something you might actually deserve.

Back home, the grocery bags land on the counter with a soft, purposeful thud. You kick off your shoes. She’s already untying the sleeves of your shirt, rolling them higher, claiming the kitchen like she was born in it.

“You sure you don't want any help?”

“No.” Then, after a pause, “You peel garlic. Only peel. No crush.”

You hold up the bulb like it’s a sacred offering. “Yes, chef.”

She hums something wordless and soft as she lines up her ingredients. Knife in hand. Shoulders loose. She moves like someone who’s waited a long time to cook for herself again, and longer still to cook for someone else.

The sausage hits the pan with a hiss. The scent follows immediately. Smoky. Rich. Fatty reappears, tail high and hopeful, meowing like he's starving.

“No,” Mariana says without even glancing his way. “You already eat. You not die.”

He hops onto the table anyway, makes eye contact, and lets out a tiny, pitiful chirp.

“He always hungry,” she says.

You reach out and scratch under his chin. “I mean, his name is Fatty. It wasn’t prophetic, it was observational.”

She mutters something in Portuguese, probably not a compliment, and tosses a pinch of dried orange peel into the pot like she’s trying to ward off spirits or flavor gods.

You peel garlic in silence and watch her. Your shirt is rolled past her elbows. She’s barefoot, standing on her toes to reach the spices.

“Stop looking,” she says, still facing the stove.

“I’m admiring.”

“Big difference?”

“For me? Yeah.”

She glances over her shoulder, lips twitching. “You like when I cook?”

“I like when you smile.”

That gets her. She shakes her head, but it’s soft. The kind of gesture people make when they don’t want you to stop what you’re doing.

Eventually, the prep is done. The beans are simmering. The ribs are submerged in a dark, rich broth that smells like memory and something older than comfort.

Mariana wipes her hands and turns to you.

“We wait now. Two hours. Maybe more.”

You open your arms. “Then come here.”

She doesn’t answer. She just walks over and climbs into your lap like she never considered doing anything else.

You don’t rush it.

One arm wraps around her back. The other rests lightly on her thigh. Her skin is warm from the stove, her breath even warmer against your neck.

She exhales and melts into you.

For a while, there’s only quiet. The gentle bubble of beans in the pot. The creak of the ceiling fan doing its best. The sound of her heartbeat pressed against your ribs.

Then her fingers slip under your shirt.

Not greedy. Not rushed. Just touch. Just weight.

You tilt your head and murmur, “Needy today.”

She makes a small sound in her throat. Not quite a denial.

Your hand drifts down her thigh, slow and deliberate, stopping just before the point where meaning changes. She shifts slightly, tension under the skin.

“Say it.”

“I like being close,” she whispers.

“That’s not what I asked.”

She pauses. Then lifts her head to meet your eyes.

“I needy,” she says, soft as a secret. “I want to touch.”

You nod once. Not permission. Agreement.

Then you shift your hand up her thigh, not far, just enough for her to feel the promise of more. She presses into you like she’s trying not to.

“You ask when you want more,” you say. “Understand?”

She nods against your collarbone. Her voice is a whisper. “Yes.”

And that’s it.

No more words. Just the weight of her in your lap, the warmth of her skin, the gravity of being needed in a way that doesn’t demand, just lingers.

Your touch doesn’t move again. But she leans into it, grounding herself there. A finger hooked lazily in your belt loop. One cheek pressed to your shoulder.

You rest your cheek on her hair. She smells like steam and spice and something gently floral that probably snuck in from your shampoo.

She doesn’t try to take more. She doesn’t need to.

Eventually, your hand slides beneath the hem of your shirt where it drapes over her back. Just skin to skin. That’s all she needs.

“You good,” she murmurs.

“Good at what?”

“Make me quiet.”

You kiss her temple. “You’re not quiet. You’re still.”

She nods. Doesn’t argue.

The kitchen simmers. The house holds its breath.

You hold her like that until the smell of feijoada starts to curl around the corner of the hallway, rich and dark and impossible to ignore.

When the scent finally becomes too much, smoke, meat, heat, and something deep that makes your stomach ache... Mariana stirs against you.

“Time to finish,” she says, but her voice is slower now. Softer. She doesn't pull away right away.

You don’t let her.

Your hand curls around the back of her neck. Not hard. Just firm enough to remind her who she came to.

“Go on,” you murmur. “Finish what you started.”

Her eyes flutter closed for a second, and then she nods.

She slips off your lap and heads for the kitchen, bare feet whispering against the tile. You watch her go. Her spine straightens a little. More upright. More focused. Like she’s slipped back into the rhythm she’d only loaned to you for a while.

“Pervert man. Come and eat,” she says without turning.

You smile and follow.

Fatty has returned, of course. This time dragging Emmy behind him like an underqualified intern. Emmy moves with theatrical suspicion, ears twitching at imaginary ghosts in the baseboards.

Mariana sighs like a woman resigned to her station in life. She opens the fridge, pulls out a dish of shredded chicken, and spoons it neatly into two little piles. One has rice. The other does not. Fatty gets the rice. Of course he does.

“Sit. Eat,” she says.

Fatty obeys like it was his idea. Emmy sniffs the bowl six times, circles it like it’s radioactive, then finally sits and eats like she’s being watched by a government agency.

You plate the feijoada while Mariana sautés the collards. The stew is dark and glossy now, full of flavor and time.

She sets your plate down in front of you, then sits across with her own. Her chin is tilted up just a little, proud, but quiet about it.

You take a bite. Then another.

Then you set your fork down and look at her, completely serious.

“I’d marry you for this.”

She laughs, rich and easy. “You say now. Wait until I make pão de queijo.”

“I will marry you harder.”

She shakes her head and keeps eating, smiling between bites.

The cats are on the floor now, curled up in twin puddles of smug satisfaction. Emmy is half-asleep. Fatty is pretending to be asleep so he doesn’t have to admit he’s still digesting.

You eat like a man reborn. She eats slower, watching you between bites. Her smile isn’t big, but it stays.

No music. No television. Just the quiet scrape of forks and the smell of something good.

The kitchen feels smaller in the right way. Like a held breath. Like something folded around the edges.

You look up. She’s watching you, but not with the weight she had earlier. Her gaze is soft now. Just soft.

For once, nothing needs to be said.

---

The dishes are done. The kitchen wiped down. The leftovers tucked into neat little containers that probably won’t survive past lunch tomorrow. Fatty is asleep on a windowsill. Emmy is inside a canvas shopping bag and refusing to come out. This is normal.

Mariana pads barefoot across the living room, hair loose now, a little frizz curling up at the ends. She disappears into the bathroom, comes back with two glasses of water, and sets one beside you without a word.

You’re on the couch, half-sprawled, sockless. There’s a blanket nearby, but no one’s using it. The ceiling fan clicks faintly overhead like it’s counting down to something.

She doesn’t sit on the other end. She settles in beside you, close, thigh to thigh. You lean back. She leans with you.

Outside, the occasional car hums by. There’s nothing urgent left in the house. Just time.

“You packed?” she asks eventually.

“Not really. Don't need to, it shouldn't take more than half a day.”

“You take food?”

You shake your head. "Won't need to."

She doesn’t argue. But her fingers tug lightly at the hem of your shirt. Not pulling, just touching.

There’s a pause.

“I not like this,” she says quietly. “Waiting.”

You nod. “I know.”

Her head tilts to your shoulder. “Is like before.”

You don’t ask before what. She wouldn’t answer. And you don’t need to know.

You rest your hand on her thigh. Her breath slows.

“You don’t have to wait,” you say.

“I will.”

She says it like it costs her nothing. You know better.

The room feels too big and too small at the same time. The kind of evening that stretches long and thin and tries to prepare you for something you’re never quite ready for.

You reach over and take her hand.

“Tomorrow’s just a drive,” you say.

She nods, but her other hand curls lightly in your shirt.

She doesn’t say anything when you finally stand and stretch. She just watches you from the couch, eyes soft, legs folded beneath her like she’s not planning on moving unless invited.

You offer your hand.

She takes it.

The bedroom’s dim, the window cracked open just enough to let in the sound of night. Leaves rustle. Somewhere, a dog has opinions. The fan hums overhead like it’s trying to be discreet.

You pull your shirt over your head and toss it onto the dresser. She doesn’t look away. You don’t either.

She unbuttons her jeans one-handed, toeing them off with a kind of practiced ease that makes you think she’s never once had a single doubt about her body. You’re glad for that. She deserves that.

You slip into bed first. The sheets are cool. The mattress creaks the same way it always does when you shift. Familiar.

She slides in after you and fits herself into your side like she’s always belonged there.

Your arm wraps around her bare shoulders. Her leg hooks over yours. Her fingers trace slow, idle shapes against your chest, like she’s trying to draw a map she already knows by heart.

For a long time, neither of you talks. The silence is full, but not heavy. It settles around you like the comforter—soft and a little too warm, but better than being alone.

You let your fingers drift across her back. Light pressure. No agenda.

Her breath catches once.

Not in a way that asks for anything. Just a small sound. A reminder that she’s there, and she feels this too.

“You’re quiet,” you say eventually.

“I feel quiet.”

You nod.

She shifts slightly, drapes her arm over your stomach, and presses her cheek to your chest. “You feel safe,” she says. “Even now.”

You run your hand down the curve of her hip, slow and careful.

“I want you to feel that tomorrow too,” you murmur. “Even when I’m not here.”

She doesn’t answer. But her hand curls into your side, holding just a little tighter.

You tilt her chin up with one finger, and she meets you there. The kiss is soft. Just the one. She exhales against your mouth and doesn’t ask for more.

You rest your foreheads together.

This is enough.

No grinding, no urgency. Just her breath on your skin and the weight of her body pressed against yours like a promise.

Eventually, the tension in her legs eases. Her breathing evens out.

You think she might be asleep, but then she whispers something in Portuguese, low and nearly soundless.

You don’t ask what it means.

You just hold her like you understood it anyway.

The night goes still around you.

And for once, you don’t dream.