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Assistant: Title: Las Mañanas
        Author: kiwisbell kiwisbell 
        Chapter: 1/8 
        Summary: She’s a waitress in a little café. He’s a DEA agent who likes the coffee.Just the coffee. That’s all.Slices of life (and sometimes pie) shared between Javi and his wife, including his tireless journey to making her his wife.
        Contents: Chapter 1: For All the Coffee Beans in Colombia
    

    


  

  
  
    
    
  The café, Las Mañanas, makes stellar coffee. Javier Peña knows this; everyone in Bogotá knows this. That’s why he comes in at seven o’clock every morning and pays 30 pesos for a cup. Black. Then he sits at a table and sips it while he watches her move. He leaves at seven-thirty and clocks in at the Embassy ten minutes later. He does it again the next morning.

  Two months ago, he would come in twice a week. Two weeks later, three times. Now, it’s daily. He thinks he might have an addiction, but so does every other b@st@rd in the city. It’s not his fault the coffee wakes him up just right, strikes his tired bones like hammers and makes him sit upright all day, alert as a rearing cobra.

  She’s got eyes like that: bright, sharp. They cut incisions into early-morning brain fog, part the haziness like curtains. Then she sutures the edges with that smile and turns every man in the café complacent, cheery, harmless. Javier goes for the coffee, but it’s nice to look at her. It’s not his fault she’s so nice to look at.

  She doesn’t own the place. Her boss is a family friend, doesn’t share her last name; knew her father, who died. The records don’t say how, and Javier had to sneak out before he could find out more. Technically, he wasn’t allowed to be snooping around in records that didn’t have explicit relevance to his job, but he was just being safe.

  He knows this because he likes to know things. He’s proactive. It reassures him to know that his thorough background checks on each employee and regular produced nothing of concern, that she’s around safe, innocent people all day. When she brings his coffee to him, she smiles at him, and her eyes shine. He knows that when he leaves for work, she’s safe. It’s real f@ck@ng hard to be safe in Bogotá these days.

  Javier drinks. The coffee goes down hot, always the same temperature, always strong. He lifts a cigarette to his lips, watches her, lights it. He keeps it in his mouth when she raises her eyes from her notepad at the counter and smiles. From this corner of the café, he has a perfect view of her. She’s relaxing to watch. She walks with a sway to her hips; she bags pastries so delicately it’s like they’re strapped with C4; she writes little notes on her customers’ receipts and her handwriting is impeccable. He keeps his receipts.

  She puts her lip between her teeth and worries it, like she’s debating something in her head, pen pausing over paper. Javier narrows his eyes playfully at her, and then she moves. She ties her apron tighter around her waist, tucks her hair behind her ear with the pen, and grabs something from behind the counter before she’s moving. Toward him.

  Javier panics for a moment, but he feels stupid when he does. He forces himself to adjust minimally, sitting up straighter and tucking his cigarette to the corner of his mouth. She’s carrying a pastry bag. “Here,” she says, “for when you leave.”

  Her honeyed voice seeps bone-deep. They speak in English, but he’s heard her use the local colour with her patrons. “What’s the occasion?” he asks her.

  “I want to see how long the poison takes to activate inside a human body.” She thrusts the bag out farther. “It’s a thank-you. Empanadas. New recipe.”

  Javier takes it, looks inside. “You poison all your customers, or am I special?” he says, inhaling the fresh burst of warmth. “These smell incredible.”

  “I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

  “God, no.”

  “More coffee?”

  He glances at his watch. 7:23. “I can’t,” he says, and it gives him pause when his voice comes out with a faint whine to it. “Work.”

  She bites her lip again. Instinct tugs his eyes down to it. “You’re certainly the most mysterious customer I’ve ever had.”

  He stands up so he can look down at her, puffing at his cigarette. She puckers her lips and blows the smoke away from her face with a teasing glare. “And the only one special enough to try the new recipe for free,” he says lowly. “Isn’t that right?”

  She shoves the bag into his chest and rolls her eyes, beckoning him back toward the counter. “Who said it was free?” she says, looking back at him over her shoulder. It stops him, stunned, in his tracks.

  He comes back the next day. He makes sure to learn her name this time.

  ~

  At some point in the seven months since he first entered the café, Javier makes a friend.

  He does not remember how it happened. His life is not conducive to friendship. But this half-hour routine inside the café doesn’t give a sh@t about his life. She’s begun to call his name when he steps through the door.

  
    “Javier!” She shimmied around her coworker as she hurriedly untied her apron. He barely had time to open his mouth before she continued, “I took my break early. Now come on, I made churros.”
  

  
    “F@ck, 
  
  cariño
  
    , I think I’ve gained ten pounds since I met you.”
  

  
    She just grinned at him and shooed him toward his usual table while she grabbed a plate with two sweet-smelling churros on it. “My father would say that’s a good thing. Go, go!”
  

  
    He obeyed her without further complaint and put out his cigarette so he could sip at the coffee that was already steaming on his table. She slid into the chair across from him. He knew churros for breakfast were a terrible decision for his digestive system, but he physically could not refuse her. Her leg bounced excitedly when he picked one up and took a bite. He closed his eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You’re f@ck@ng magic. Where did you learn to bake like this?”
  

  
    She grinned and took a bite of her own churro. He noticed she liked to hold her free hand underneath her chin to catch any residue that would make a mess of her apron; preventative measures. She was careful, meticulous. “My father lived in Spain most of his life; he taught my sister and I to cook from the second we were able to walk.” Her head tilted as she watched him eat, her smart eyes travelling in latitudes across his face like she was memorising a script, line by line. “I’m lucky to see other people fall in love with my food the same way I loved his.” She smiled suddenly, warm. “You’ve got churro dust in your moustache, 
  
  viejo
  
    .”
  

  
    He raised a brow. “You learn enough Spanish for that, huh, smartass?”
  

  The bell above the door chimes when he walks through. She’s tending to a customer at the back of the room, but she looks over her shoulder. Smiles and waves. Gestures with her eyes to his usual table.

  His table, which now has a very new, very handmade sign on top of it: RESERVED.

  Javier sits down and touches the black ink. It smudges on his finger.

  “I almost had to rugby-tackle Jorge for sitting there during his break,” she says when she arrives.

  “All this for me?” He clicks his tongue. “Bad for business.”

  “You’re a paying customer, 
  
    viejo
  
  ,” she says teasingly. “You 
  
    are
  
   business.”

  Javier slides his sunglasses off his nose and stares her down, dropping his voice all low and mean. “You better knock that nickname habit quick, baby. Could get you in trouble.”

  “More trouble than the man who comes in every morning with a gun in his pants?” She bites her lip when she grins. “I think I’ll be okay. Oh, and here’s your coffee.”

  She places a mug in front of him, snatches the RESERVED sign from his hand, and carries it with her to the counter.

  ~

  “What is it you do at your big, scary, gun-totin’ job, anyway?” she asks as his coffee pours. He’s at the counter, waiting this time, knowing no one’s going to take his table. Not if they know what’s good for them, what with the leopard behind the counter.

  Javier lights his cigarette. “Don’t wanna have to kill you.”

  She c@cks her head. “Can’t kill me, 
  
    viejo
  
  . Who’d make your coffee?” She leans in real close and whispers, “Jorge can’t treat you like I can.”

  He does not focus on the way her breath knocks itself against each knob of his spine.

  “Janitorial services,” he blurts out, not so much suavely, “at the Embassy.”

  “Hmm. Didn’t know they let janitors carry guns nowadays, but I guess there’s always something new to learn.”

  “Tell me something about you,” he says.

  “My doctor says I’ll never be able to get the smell of coffee out of my nose.”

  Javier laughs, plucking the dish rag from her hands so she stops cleaning the counter and looks him in the eye instead. “Gonna need more than that. Tell me something I don’t know, 
  
    cielito
  
  .”

  She flushes. “You have to pay extra for that.”

  “Then pour one on me,” he says, sliding the coffee pot toward her.

  A wicked smile overcomes her face, one she tries to tame by chewing on the inside of her cheek. She spots a customer waving her down, so she turns quickly to Javier and says, “Give me two minutes. Pour it for me.”

  He fills the cup she’s just cleaned until it’s almost overflowing.

  ~

  The first day something goes wrong, Javier is unprepared.

  She’s all smiles and flowy skirts when he walks in the door, but he feels out of sorts when he spots the men she’s pouring coffee for—mostly because he recognises them, and they’ve never been in here before.

  His heart swoops down into his gut when he remembers where he’s seen their three faces before.

  It stings to watch her smile falter when he ignores her familiar greeting for him, pretending like he doesn’t know her. He heads straight for the counter, sits down, waits twenty seconds, and then 
  
    accidentally
  
   knocks a mug to the floor.

  A few people idly turn, but it’s her excusing herself to clean up the mess that matters. He lowers himself to the ground with her when she grabs the broom and dustpan. “Keep smiling at me,” he says under his breath. “Don’t let your face change.”

  “Javier…” His name is an exhale from her mouth. “What’s going on?”

  “Those men are involved in some bad sh@t, and I don’t want you in it.”

  To her credit, she does not look at the three men at the table, nor do her eyes widen, her mouth drop. He knows her mind is chewing on this, working it through, judging whether or not she can trust him. At last, still cleaning up the ceramic shards, she asks, “What do I do, Javi?”

  That’s his girl. “I need you to take your break until they’re gone. Can you do that for me?”

  She breaths out a 
  
    yes
  
   and looks up at him for one brief moment. “Don’t do anything stupid,” she whispers. “Paying customer, remember?”

  “Always and forever, baby. Now go on. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  She stands up with the dustpan and thanks him loudly, that bright smile still on her face. She takes the broken mug into the back room, and she does not reappear.

  Javier has backup waiting when the three narcos leave, filled with his waitress’s coffee and pastries. Javier stays inside, sipping his own coffee. They won’t know he called for backup. They’ve never seen his face. But they’ll be ambushed once they’re a safe distance from the café, and they’ll go away in handcuffs for the couple kilos of cocaine inside the trunks of their taxis.

  Javier comes in the next day and expects her to cuss him out. She’s had every opportunity to call the police, to report him for being somehow involved with 
  
    bad men
  
  , to ban him from her little safe haven. Instead, she just sets down the coffee at his table and shakes her head.

  “Janitor, my ass.”

  ~

  He wishes he could shut his mouth every now and then, but he finds himself telling her the truth about his job before he can think to stop.

  He rationalises. He owes her this much. The strange men may not have harmed her, but in a line of work like Javier’s, people have to learn to be cautious. In his case, he may have been uber-cautious, but his senses become a whirlpool when it comes to her.

  She takes it all in stride, same as yesterday. She’s a rapt listener, tuning out the world as he stumbles through the truth, and when he’s done, when he thinks he’s laid out all she needs to know for now, she nods. She understands.

  “Thank you for telling me,” she says, unusually sombre, brushing a knuckle under his chin the way he does her.

  “Can’t stand the thought of you mad at me, 
  
    cielito
  
  .” It’s the truth—he thinks he would forsake all his manliness and beg on his knees for forgiveness.

  But he doesn’t need to do that with her. “It was scary, Javi,” she says earnestly, “but it would’ve been a lot scarier if you weren’t there, talking me through it.”

  He grins up at her where she stands on the other side of the counter. “Any chance that means free churros for life?”

  She hums like she’s pondering the thought. “For you, 
  
    viejo
  
  ? That’s only two more years at your tender age.”

  Javier leans in close to her and glares. “Keep it up, honey.”

  She drums her fingers on the side of his mug and smirks. “Plan to. More coffee, Agent Peña?”

  ~

  She’s talking to another man when Javier walks into the café. He’s average height and muscled, around her age or a bit older, wearing a black leather jacket that matches the beard and hair on his head (the stuff that’s not greying), and he’s speaking rapidly, tautly. She keeps shaking her head, her lips pressed tightly together, furiously wiping down the counter and nudging his elbows away when he tries to set them down. Javier tries to eavesdrop, but they’re speaking too quietly, interrupting one another, so he settles into his chair at the back with his sunglasses still on his nose. And he watches carefully.

  He's never seen this man before. He isn’t a customer, and his scowling face was not a face Javier had combed through during his dubiously ethical background checks. It unsettles him enough to lean forward in his seat when the man abruptly tears the rag from her hand. Javier instinctively reaches for the gun in his waistband, but he will not fire here. He bites down on his cigarette when she aggressively wipes under her eyes and storms into the back room. Moments later, she emerges with her purse, fishes out a wad of cash, and throws it square at the man’s chest. He leaves once the money is tucked inside his pockets.

  Javier approaches the counter with his coffee. She is visibly shaking, but she smiles at him like he’s a relief to see. “
  
    Javi
  
  ,” she says in one long exhale. “Good morning.”

  “Thought you might like some company,” he says, setting down his mug.

  He doesn’t press her to tell him about what he’s seen, even though he knows she saw him walk in. Her shoulders loosen. “I… I didn’t have time to make you something, Javi.”

  Her eyes are watering, and her irises undulate like they’re caught in a swell. For the first time in seven months, Javier reaches out and touches her. Lays a hand atop hers and squeezes her fingers. “You’re gonna make me fat, 
  
    cielito
  
  ,” he says softly.

  She doesn’t let the tears fall. She just laughs and rolls her eyes, her cheeks flushed pink.

  ~

  It’s another month before Javier sees the man again.

  Javier has been very good at keeping his life behind a wall, and while it’s obvious she notices, she doesn’t press him. He is profoundly stupid to give her the information he does; he’s told her about his father (she smiles like she’s remembering an old friend), b@tched about Murphy (constantly), and told her about his hobbies. He told her that he reads in his spare time, even though nobody expects him to and f@ck@ng backwoods-hillbilly Murphy gives him constant sh@t for it. She knows he likes Tolkien, that he’s a fan of Lewis and Fleming. She gives him sh@t for reading so many “manly” books, but she laughs while she does it, and the corners of her eyes crinkle.

  He knows he is older than her. She’s never read Tolkien. He finds himself promising things. He’s going to lend her his copies. He wants to share his interests with her, wants to watch her face light up with excitement when she tells him how much she loves Marilyn Monroe and Gloria Estefan and Selena.

  She moved to Colombia two years ago, but he doesn’t know why. There is the switch. He’s found it: the moment of closure, when her spine stiffens and her smile trembles in an effort to hold on. Everyone has their switches. Javier understands.

  But for the first time since he came to Bogotá, he wants to know someone. He wants to get attached. He wants a friend. Why the f@ck shouldn’t he have that?

  “Javi.”

  He looks at her over the rim of his mug. “Hmm.”

  She bites down on her smile. “It’s seven-thirty.”

  
    Sh@t
  
  . He says as much, downs the rest of his coffee (she watches him with a raised brow), and begins to haul his jacket over his arm. He’ll have to put it on on the move; he’ll be late if he doesn’t leave now.

  The bell above the door chimes.

  He’s dressed the same as last time, but Javier knows his clothes are expensive. When he doesn’t see her at the counter, he peers through the employees’ door, then scans the café until he spots her, sitting across from Javier.

  He stalks over and goes off immediately. “Whoring around, 
  
    guapa
  
  ? Haven’t you learned your lesson?”

  He doesn’t even spare a glance toward Javier.

  She looks more angry than embarrassed. “Nicolás, you need to leave.”

  Javier settles back into his seat. No way in f@ck@ng hell he’s leaving her alone with him.

  His dark eyes blaze at the woman, and he crowds her space, frowning. “I’m not signing.”

  The tips of her ears redden beneath her ponytail. “We’ve talked about this,” she says calmly, though her knuckles are white as her hands clasp each other.

  “You don’t just get to leave me.” The man’s scowl deepens, and when he grabs her by the wrist, she yelps, slapping a free hand over her mouth so nobody notices.

  Well, Javier sure as f@ck notices.

  Last time, he stayed back, let the situation diffuse. He didn’t want to make a scene, didn’t want her to be uncomfortable. This time, he doesn’t give a sh@t.

  This time, Javier sees red.

  “Get your f@ck@ng hands off her.”

  He stands up and clasps his own hand around the man’s wrist.

  “I don’t see you letting her go,” he says gruffly. “Let’s try again.”

  “You f@ck@ng son of a b@tch, trying to tell 
  
    me
  
   what to do with 
  
    my
  
   wife,” grunts the man, letting go of her wrist with a jolt. She stands up and pushes him squarely in the chest.

  “I am not. Your. Wife,” she says, spitting a large glob of saliva in his face. “Sign the papers, Nicolás. I don’t love you. I don’t even give a sh@t about you.”

  Nicolás moves like he plans to smack her across the face, but Javier is quick—and itching to knock him unconscious. The punch cracks his jaw and he howls, while the owner emerges from the back room and another customer helps drag Nicolás out the door. They throw him on the street and cuss him out. Javier shrugs on his jacket and sniffs, feeling accomplished.

  “
  
    Cielito
  
  ,” he mutters, offering his hand. Trembling (more with rage than fear, he suspects), she holds out her wrist and he gently prods around the area, feeling for disturbances. She winces, but it will only bruise. Still—

  “I should have been faster.”

  “Javier,” she whispers. “Don’t start.”

  He lets out one frustrated sigh through his nose and nods. “Is it a judgment against your character if I say you married a complete f@ck@ng @ssh@l@?”

  She laughs softly, like sad little bells. “Wasn’t my choice in the first place.”

  He frowns down at her. “
  
    Cielito
  
  —”

  “You’re already late for work, Javi. They’re gonna chew you out.”

  “Don’t worry about me,” he says, brushing a knuckle over her chin. “I’ll lay on my charm.”

  She hums. “Maybe you’re the @ssh@l@, Javier Peña.”

  ~

  It’s been a year since he met his waitress. Tonight, for the first time, he pictures her face to make himself come.

  He’s in the shower when it happens. Standing under the stream of hot water, he's unable to quell the image that bubbles up in his hindbrain. He imagines her lips around him as he hardens, and when he takes himself in his hand and juts out his hips roughly, he grunts, pretending he’s pushing past the seal of her pretty lips. Her face—so beautiful, so smiling and kind—sweaty and ruined, more radiant than ever. Her body: its curves and its delectable softness, its taste like coffee beans and flowers, if he can imagine it. The tempting, unknowable skin under that waitress’s uniform. He wants to make her feel good. He wants to lick every inch of her, savour every drop of her wetness when he gets her ready to take him. Tangy sweetness, twilight and the calm of the water at dusk. Flashes of teeth, lips, skin. 

  
    That's it, baby. You can take me. I’ll make you feel good
  
  . 

  
    Javier…
  
   A rush of breath, the distant cry of a swan over the water. 
  
    Please
  
  . 

  He doesn’t think until he’s spilling over his hand and the wall, harder than he’s come in a long time, of how wrong this is. How wrong of him to imagine a claim on her body, her life. Underneath the steaming hot water, his mind sharpens. He wants her, and he feels so filthy for it.

  He turns up the heat some more and lets himself scald. 

  Seeing her in the little café after f@ck@ng himself to the thought of her naked is a surreal experience. He’s never even seen the more intimate areas of her; she wears an apron and a dress, and he can only ever see her knees, her arms, her collarbones. But now he wants to trace them with his fingers, watch them hollow out when she inhales, watch the curve in her throat as she swallows and sighs. He wants to get on his knees and lift up her dress so he can make her fall apart on his tongue. He’s f@ck@d everything up.

  Him and his stupid g@dd@mn d@ck.

  “I’ve figured it out,” she says triumphantly, sitting down at his table across from him. There’s a cup of coffee for both of them; he figures she’s taken her break. Which means she likes to spend this half-hour with him. Which means she 
  
    likes
  
   him.

  “What have you figured out?” he asks, pushing his sunglasses further down his nose to peer at her.

  “That DEA disguise might work for you, but I see all.” She reaches for his glasses and puts them on her own face, pantomime-lighting a cigarette. “You’re a spy, Agent Peña,” she says mischievously. 

  He really, truly, desperately wants to kiss her.

  The sunglasses slip down her face, so he pushes them onto the top of her head. Stares her in the eyes. “You got me, honey. What are you gonna do, huh? Lock me up?”

  “How much money can I get for a spy?” she muses. “Guess it depends how good you are.” Her eyes narrow when a grin slithers up the corner of his mouth. “Javier, do 
  
    not
  
  —”

  “Oh, I’m 
  
    very
  
   good,” he says, toasting his cup of coffee.

  With a roll of her eyes, she lifts her own cup in toast, and takes a sip. The sight of her lips on the rim while she meet his eyes is enough to make Javier wish he owned looser jeans. What the f@ck is wrong with him?

  Her eyes ask the same question, but she phrases it sweetly, the way she always does. She’s a f@ck@ng tonic to his bones and the reason he’s so g@dd@mn tense. “Blinking is very important, you know.”

  He does just that, clearing his vision and letting her come back into sharp focus. The morning sunlight adorns her skin like jewellery. She’s a vision. Even someone with a single sense out of the five could tell how beautiful she is, but it doesn’t make his life any easier. It doesn’t lower his heart rate, doesn’t cool him down, and it definitely doesn’t help the tightness in his pants.

  He f@cks his hand in a bathroom at the Embassy, and then he brings an informant home and f@cks her, too. He makes sure she enjoys it when she’s on her hands and knees, because all he’s doing is picturing his waitress. He hates himself for the way it makes him grasp her a bit tighter, pump her a bit harder: imagining her syrupy whines, her flushed chest, her smooth skin all for him. He tunes out the noises she makes and pretends it's 
  
    her
  
  . When he makes her come, he pictures 
  
    her
  
   brows scrunching up, 
  
    her
  
   eyes squeezing shut when she can't take the pleasure he gives her. He’d make his girl real happy, make her satisfied and dazed and f@ck@ng drooling.

  Javier completes the transaction and cleans up in the bathroom. He stares at himself in the mirror for a long while, at his dishevelled hair and his tired eyes. S@x didn’t help.

  She’s still in his blood. She’s in his system for good.

  He doesn’t want a quick f@ck. He wants 
  
    her
  
  : his friend, his secret. His girl, whether she knows it or not.

  The next day, she’s working on the books when he comes up to the counter, a pair of glasses perched on her nose, so engrossed she doesn’t even notice he’s arrived until he sits down.

  She’s so f@ck@ng cute, he thinks, with her glasses and her thinking face, brows pinched together. But she smiles up at him like always. “Good morning, Javier.”

  His mind is really a b@st@rd. He knows it because he’s being fed flashbacks of his own wet dream last night. She was on her knees, taking him so well, so perfect, on her back while he left marks that would let everyone know who’d f@ck@d her good, then on top of him, writhing and gasping and collapsing next to him. In his dream, he kissed the top of her head, laced their fingers together, and mumbled how well she’d done until they both fell asleep.

  “Morning,” he says. “Don’t you have people for that?”

  She huffs. “We’re short-staffed. Which means there’s me, one other cook, and Jorge. So I’m stuck making sure we won’t get audited.”

  Javier whistles lowly. “Jorge’s got a real soldier working for him.”

  She tucks her hair behind her ear. He likes making her blush. “Maybe if you say that to his face, he’ll give me a raise.”

  “You need money?”

  
    F@ck@ng moron
  
  , he thinks. 
  
    Way to scare her off
  
  . Her eyes widen, but then she’s saying, “
  
    Oh
  
  , Javi, no. I’m doing all right. I promise. Just some… marital strain.”

  His jaw may snap off if he clenches it any tighter. He can’t meet her eyes when he asks, “He been bothering you?”

  It doesn’t p@ss him off that she’s married. She hates the guy, never wants to see him again. She’s been trying to get him to sign the divorce papers for over a year. What p@ss@s him off is that any mention of her husband sucks her cheer away like blood from a wound. Javier has a real problem with someone making her frown.

  She rests her cheek in her palm. “Every time I try to pay him off, he comes back saying it wasn’t enough, that he can’t afford a lawyer. Which is b@llsh@t, by the way. He makes a hell of a lot more than me.”

  “What does he do?”

  She shutters off again, looks back down at her books. “It’s not a moral sort of work.”

  Javier would know all about that.

  “Oh!” she says suddenly, whirling around, the glimmer in her eye back again. “I forgot—I made you something.”

  His chest feels tight. “
  
    Bonita
  
  —”

  She slides the books aside and places down a piece of blueberry pie. “You can’t say no,” she says, producing two forks, “because I’m helping you eat it.”

  He’ll ask about her sh@tty husband later. For now, Javier enjoys the half-hour he has with her. They finish the pie in minutes.

  ~

  Steve Murphy is a d@ck.

  Javier knows it was a mistake to bring her up to him, because now Murphy has forgotten all his paperwork for the night, and now he’s got his eyes set on making his partner’s life hell.

  “Does she know you got those narcos arrested a few weeks ago?”

  “She’s not stupid, Steve.”

  “Do you know her last name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that because you told her, or because you stole her personal file?”

  “Murphy, if you don’t shut up—”

  “You’re not f@ck@ng her, are you?”

  For some reason, that p@ss@s him off the most. Javier grits his teeth. “Knock it off.”

  He raises his hands in surrender. “All right, all right. Jesus, Javi.” When he leans back in his chair, he’s still watching Javier with a smile spreading slowly across his face. “You really aren't.”

  Javier puffs his cigarette and tries not to fly across his desk at his partner. “And how do you know that?”

  “’Cause if you didn’t respect her so d@mn much, you wouldn’t get all defensive.” Murphy whistles lowly. “You’re so f@ck@d, Peña.”

  Javier doesn’t look up from his typewriter. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, man. You don’t wanna f@ck any random girl.” Murphy hides his mocking laugh with his hand. “You want to f@ck your 
  
    friend
  
  .”

  Javier flicks his cigarette and it smacks Murphy in the cheek. “
  
    Pendejo
  
  .”

  Murphy’s still laughing when Javier grumbles about going somewhere. He doesn’t even know where he’s planning to go, but it’s his lunch break and he needs fresh air. He definitely doesn’t want to linger on the reality that Murphy is right.

  There’s a market across the street and down a block from the Embassy, which itself is a block away from the café. It’s not strange that she’s there, browsing apples like choosing the wrong one will poison her customers, but Javier’s heart still kicks up, watching her as he waits for the traffic to clear.

  She’s real f@ck@ng pretty in the daylight. Her hair is down, no longer in its clean ponytail, and the breeze picks it up like it’s watching her, too. She smiles at the vendors she passes; some call out to her, trying to sell or flirt. Javier crosses the street and gets giddy at the thought of seeing her outside.

  He strolls up behind her and watches her inspect an apple. “If you stare any harder, it’ll wither.”

  A little gasp leaves her mouth. “Javi!” she says brightly, eyeing him without a modicum of shame, her hand over her brows to shield herself from the sunlight. “So this is how you look in the light.”

  She’s dressed in a flowy skirt that forms around her thighs when a breeze rolls by, and her shirt shows more of her cleavage than he’s ever seen before. He knows she notices his gaze lingering, but he doesn’t particularly care to look away. Watching her roll her eyes above his sunglasses delights Javier to no end. “You’ll get arrested walking around like this, 
  
    cariño
  
  ,” he says, leaning in real close and feeling her shiver when his breath reaches her ear.

  She steps backward and holds onto the lapel of his jacket. “If you’re going to flirt with me, Javier, do it while you help me shop. I don’t have all the time in the world like you and your fellow superheroes.”

  It only spurs him on. He lifts the canvas tote off her shoulder. “Fine by me,” he says. “What are the apples for?”

  “Pie,” she says, picking two more apples from the cart. “You ever bake?”

  “I cherish my place too much; don’t wanna see it burn down.” He steps in front of her when she reaches into her pocket to pay the vendor, slapping his own pesos into the man’s hand. She slowly lowers her hand and smiles at him in thanks. He lets her put the apples in the bag. “You want to teach me?”

  Her face glows at the thought. “You’d really want to learn?”

  It feels so good to make her happy that Javier doesn’t give a sh@t if Murphy finds out he offered to 
  
    bake
  
   with this girl. “Will you put your hands over mine to show me how to knead the dough?”

  Her hand trails across his stomach when she passes him. “Anything you want, honey,” she says.

  Javier feels like he’s in high school again. He shuts his eyes for a moment to reset his brain, since the imprint of her hand on him shut it off. When his eyes are open again, she’s three vendors away. Javier scrambles to catch up with her. “So,” he says, “come here often?”

  “Don’t you have a job to get back to?” she says. “You and your big, scary bloodhounds.”

  “They only allow one bloodhound for a partner, and he’s p@ss@ng me off. Besides, how could I just let you walk around by yourself out here? It’s dangerous.”

  She pokes him in the stomach. “
  
    You’re
  
   the dangerous one, Peña.”

  She stops between two vendors’ carts and stares up at him with her hands on her hips. For a moment, Javier worries he’s in trouble, and he’s about to open his mouth to apologise, when she asks, “Are you free tonight?”

  It is frankly humiliating how fast he blurts out a 
  
    yes
  
  .

  “Good,” she says plainly. “I’ll teach you how to bake.”

  ~

  Javier is practically salivating when he arrives at her door for dinner. There are two reasons for it.

  One: whatever she’s cooking smells incredible. It’s a lot f@ck@ng nicer than the sh@t he eats at home—on the rare nights he remembers to eat after all the long nights at work.

  Two: she’s dressed in loungewear. It’s a pair of shorts and a too-large sweatshirt. It should not make him half-hard. But she’s adjusting the bun on top of her head when she opens the door and beams at him and 
  
    Christ
  
  , he’s going to be lucky if he lasts the night without excusing himself to his car to relieve his situation like a h@rny teenage boy.

  A grin splits her face, and she leans on the door. “You brought flowers.”

  He did. He thrusts them out in front of him and grimaces, his face warm. “You like lilies.”

  “Yeah,” she says softly, squeezing the hand that holds the bouquet of white flowers, “I do. Come in, Javi.”

  He thinks of himself as a gentleman where it counts, so he bites his tongue when he takes in the state of her apartment. She isn’t messy—she’s clearly done her best to keep up appearances, despite the fact there are leaks bleeding down the walls and peeling wallpaper and her bed is mere feet from the puny bathroom. Javier feels suddenly embarrassed by his own swanky place, set up for him by the DEA. He’s h@t with a burst of cold air when he enters the room, and she crosses the room, flowers in hand, to fiddle with the thermostat.

  “I’m sorry it’s so chilly,” she says sheepishly. “This thing needs fixing. Unless the problem is behind the wheel.” She tries to dial the heat up by two degrees, but the dial falls off and lands next to her feet. She just sighs. “You ever go undercover as a handyman, by any chance?”

  He chuckles, closing the door behind him. The broken chain lock worries him; there’s nothing but the lock on the door to stop someone from breaking in, and picking this sort of lock is too simple. “I don’t go undercover,” he tells her, “but I can smack your landlord around.”

  She hums. “They’ll trace it back to me. Gotta be careful about those things, Peña. There should be a vase in that cupboard behind you.”

  He finds it, fills it with water (which sputters for a while before it runs), and places it on the dining table (barely big enough for two). She places the flowers inside and smiles fondly. “You have an eye for décor.”

  “Wrong,” says Javier, “I have an ear, and it listens to what the woman likes.”

  She swats him gently in the chest. “Flattery doesn’t excuse you from helping 
  
    the woman
  
   in the kitchen. Get an apron on those hips.”

  ~

  Javier decides he hates baking. But she makes it tolerable.

  His job is full of tedium. He likes to leave that behind in his personal life. She’s so easy to be around, to talk to. He likes leaving the Embassy, leaving behind the narcos, and knowing she’ll be the first person he talks to the next morning. There’s no politics, no bureaucracy, no b@llsh@t with her. He trusts her.

  Baking is tedious as sh@t. It’s precise, all about waiting, timing, and the end result is only good if you’ve worked like hell for it. It’s too much like work.

  She has flour on her nose, and he lifts his thumb to wipe it away. The look she gives him makes him forget why he hates baking. 
  
    Javier tried to knead the dough for the pie crust but ended up treating it like an interrogation suspect, so she did as promised and placed her hands over his.
  
   He remembers her cheek resting against his arm as she leaned around him, felt her br@@sts on his back, her impossibly soft hands, her warmth. 
  
    “Be nice to it,” she whispered. “We don’t want our food to bite back.”
  

  “It’s delicious, Javi,” she says, finishing her last bite of the apple pie. They made it, together. Javier is proud of that no matter how much sweat he wasted slaving over that oven. “Worth all the pain and swearing?”

  “
  
    F@ck@ng
  
   malparido,” 
  
    he hissed. She whipped around, eyes wide. He rubbed his elbow. “Burned myself.”
  

  
    “Oh, honey,” she said, wetting a cloth with cool water and wrapping it around his arm. She was always quick to react, quick to soothe. 
  
  “¿Mejor? (Better?)”

  
    He liked the way Spanish rolled off her tongue. It was sweet and smooth, not quite fluent but proficient enough to fake it. He grinned down at her. 
  
  “Eres demasiado buena para mi, bebita (You’re too good to me, baby).”

  
    She looked away and he pretended not to notice her blush.
  

  “Yeah,” he says. “Worth it.”

  It 
  
    is
  
   a d@mn good pie.

  ~

  He’s still in her apartment four hours later, and she hasn’t given him a hint she wants him gone. It’s the longest he’s spent at a woman’s home without getting into bed with her. Sure, he wants to, but Javier’s content here, on her small sofa, sharing a bottle of wine.

  “So. Want to tell me how you ended up working in a café in Bogotá, married as far down as someone can possibly go?”

  She shoves him lightly. “Don’t rub it in, Javier.”

  “Just can’t get my head around a guy like that marrying a woman so far out of his league. You’re 
  
    you
  
  , 
  
    cariño
  
  . He’s—”

  “A moron?”

  “You said it, honey.”

  She traces her finger around the rim of her wine glass. “Javi, I trust you. I honest-to-God trust you more than I’ve let myself trust anyone in a long time.”

  He lifts a brow and ducks his head to meet her eyes. “That’s a good start.”

  She lets out a shaky sigh. “I came to Colombia to help take care of my sister. She was sick. Nicolás approached me one night while I was out for her medication. He offered me work, told me it would pay more than anywhere could. I was desperate and stupid enough to buy it.”

  Javier doesn’t like where this is going. Still, he places a hand atop her knee and lets her continue. “He turned me into a wh@r@, Javi. I don’t care about that, not really. It paid, it gave me work. But the things he would make me do…” She breathes in harshly, like the memory pains her. “He made me believe he loved me. I married him, and my sister died anyway.

  “My brother-in-law is a lawyer. When I served the papers, Nicolás took all the money and ran off. He only started coming back a few months ago, trying to make me believe he’s broke.”

  Javier brushes a knuckle across her chin. His rage, horror, and sadness are a cocktail in his aching head. Her husband was her pimp. He forced her into s@x with men and then put her money in his pocket. Javier wants to act—he 
  
    needs
  
   to help her, to pull strings with folks outside the DEA and get the @ssh@l@ to sign the papers. If not, a restraining order could work. But there are tears falling down her cheeks, and Javier’s plan of action retreats to the back of his mind. He smooths back her hair and places a kiss on her forehead. “Thank you for telling me,” he whispers, nearly chokes out, voice strained. “
  
    Thank you
  
  .”

  She sniffles. “I can see your wheels turning, Javi. What are you thinking?”

  “I know how it feels to be trapped in a marriage,” he tells her. She frowns.

  “You were married?”

  “Nearly,” he amends. “The kid wasn’t mine.”

  “Ah.” She nods in understanding, like that’s all the explanation she needs. “We’ve both been truly f@ck@d over, huh?”

  He lifts his glass in toast. “That we have.”

  She clinks their glasses together. “To making bad decisions.”

  He chuckles. “I can toast to that.”

  ~

  “Like… none?” Steve peers at him from across their desks. It’s times like these Javier hates being forced to sit right in the bullpen with Murphy. “None at all? How long?”

  “You wanna play this game, Murphy? Really?” Javier glares. “When’s the last time you got f@ck@d by your wife, huh?”

  Murphy throws a pen at him, but Javier catches it. “Don’t talk about my wife, Peña. And since you’re curious, last night.”

  Well, f@ck@ng good for Steve Murphy. Javier hasn’t cared to get in bed with a woman for weeks; even in the weeks before 
  
    that
  
  , the s@x was nothing inspiring, nothing good enough to make him forget about how badly he wants his waitress’s sweet body beneath him.

  “F@ck your hand later, man,” says Murphy, “we got doors to knock on.”

  Javier rubs his hand over his jaw. “I’m sitting this one out. Got another lead to look at.”

  Murphy grunts. “Sure. Make sure you pay her well.”

  “F@ck you.”

  Javier waits outside the unassuming house, drumming his fingers beneath the driver’s side window with his sunglasses pushed down to the tip of his nose. He has triple-checked the address, memorised the routine of the man he’s watching, but it still unnerves him when he finds himself waiting for a long d@mn time for him to emerge.

  When he does, Javier steps out of his car and walks right up to him. “Nicolás.”

  The man curses when he sees Javier, surging forward. “You want to assault a DEA agent?” Javier challenges, choosing Spanish. “I just want to talk.”

  “You assaulted me, you son of a bitch,” says Nicolás. “She send you?”

  “No. But you’re going to sign the papers.”

  Nicolás scoffs. “Just because you’re f@ck@ng my wife—”

  Javier itches to pull his gun and press it to the @ssh@l@’s forehead until he sh@ts himself in fear. “I’m not f@ck@ng your wife,” he says, “but it doesn’t seem like you are, either.”

  Nicolás snarls. “I’m not signing the papers.”

  Javier feels dirty when he reaches inside his vehicle and pulls out the divorce papers he stole from her bedside table. Nicolás’s brows come down in a furious line. “This is coercion,” he says.

  “It’s a warning.” Javier’s patience is waning. “She’s not going to be nice forever, and neither am I. I won’t lose sleep if you go to jail.”

  “Let me tell you something,” says Nicolás. “I own her. I have owned her from the moment she signed her contract and I will own her even if she’s not my wife. I have sh@t on her that will destroy any chance she has at a life, a career. You’ll have to do a lot better than f@ck@ng divorce papers.”

  Javier’s jaw ticks, but he’s already tucked away the information he needs. He’s going to get her out.

  ~

  That night, she shows up at his home.

  Javier opens the door when a soft knock sounds. He’s not expecting anyone, which is why his gun is tucked into his waistband.

  Her face is puffy with tears, and Javier is on red alert. His hairs stand on end and he steps into the hallway, crowding her gently so he can place his hands on her shoulders. Her lower lip trembles when he touches her. “Oh, 
  
    cielito
  
  ,” he murmurs. “Baby, what’s wrong?”

  She shivers. It’s raining outside, and she’s soaked to the bone, her pretty skirt clinging to her thighs and her knit cardigan a blanket of sopping fabric. He knows she doesn’t have a car, that she walks everywhere, but he feels like an @ssh@l@ for not tracking her down and picking her up anyway. “Went to the Embassy,” she says, teeth chattering. “I found your friend Steve; he gave me your address.”

  “Oh, sh@t, honey.” He grimaces. “I’m sorry. He’s an @ssh@l@.”

  She tries to laugh, but tears are still rolling down her cheeks. “I—I’m sorry, Javier. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  Javier ushers her inside and she stands timidly on the mat while he closes the door behind them. “C’mon, take your shoes off. Can I…?” She nods, and he helps her shrug off the heavy wet cardigan while she slips off her tennis shoes, still hesitant about stepping onto his hardwood floors. “A little water never hurt me, honey. I don’t pay for this place. C’mere, I’ll get you some clothes.”

  She holds herself reserved and taut as she follows him, but does not step beyond the threshold into his bedroom. He roots through his closet and refuses to look at the bed. Javier does not let himself imagine her lying there, both of them rolling around in hazy desire, morning laziness, and close talks while squinting against the morning sunlight. He finds a pair of sweatpants and an old, sh@tty sweatshirt emblazoned with Texas A&M spirit. She smiles down at it and says in a wrecked voice, “It’s gathering cobwebs, 
  
    viejo
  
  .”

  He wants to fire something back about her smart mouth, but he doesn’t have the heart. Not when she’s crying. “You can change in here,” he says. “I’ll make you some coffee. That okay?”

  “You don’t have to—”

  “I’ll make some for myself, too. How about that?”

  Finally, she nods. “Okay.”

  He leaves her just as she’s beginning to pull off her shirt, and he warns his heartbeat to settle before working on the coffee pot. Javier doesn’t let himself think much when he’s working. He tries to get the job done, accomplish what’s necessary. If he 
  
    thinks
  
  … Well, if he thinks, he’ll think about why she’s crying. He’ll wonder what happened to her that was so bad she didn’t have anywhere else to go. He’ll want to track whoever did this to her down and the things he’ll do to them will be horrific enough to land him in jail, let alone fired. No. He’ll make coffee. He will assure that she’s comfortable. He will not—

  
    F@ck
  
  .

  Javier’s brain goes blank, like he’s wiped all the chalk off the board, when she emerges wearing his clothes. Her feet are bare, the sweatshirt too big, her arms hugging herself as she pads over to him. It’s almost 
  
    domestic
  
  ; it’s his f@ck@ng dream, seeing her in his home like this, and he can’t enjoy it because she’s in trouble.

  He hands her a mug and waits for his brain to restart. They sit together on his sofa and she watches him for a while, scanning his face.

  He doesn’t realise until a minute passes that he’s f@ck@d up. Royally.

  Her gaze is soft. “I don’t blame you, Javi. Please don’t blame yourself.”

  Javier pinches the bridge of his nose and curses at himself in Spanish. “I… 
  
    F@ck
  
  , I just wanted to help. I promise you.”

  She reaches out and grasps his hand. “I know,” she says. “He didn’t hurt me.”

  “Yeah,” he says, his voice raspy, “he did.”

  She shuffles closer, and he can feel her fresh warmth, smell her dewy hair, watch her irises shimmer in the dim light. He clenches her hand tighter. “I’m okay,” she says, reassuring him even though he’s the one who brought the wrath of her husband down upon her. “Just had to see you.”

  “Tell me what he did to you.”

  “Knocked on my door and told me off for getting involved with a 
  
    hijo de puta
  
   like you.” She smiles wryly, looking down at their joined hands. “His words. Then he told me you showed up at his house, threatened him.”

  He tries a joke and feels even more rotten inside for it. “Couldn’t help it. He’s easily threatened.”

  Now, as the initial panic subsides, Javier begins to think.

  There isn’t a noise inside his home besides the sound of their breathing. He’s wearing jeans, a button-up, and he still feels like he’s on fire. 
  
    She’s on his f@ck@ng couch.
  
   Her legs are tucked underneath her and she’s sipping his coffee, and she’s so close to him her arm brushes against him whenever she shifts. Her face is a foot away from his; there are little specks in her eyes, tear tracks on her face; she parts her lips to say something, and his ears begin to ring. He needs her. He needs her close.

  Javier cups her face in his hand and brushes his thumb along her chin. She leans into his touch like it’s the most natural thing he could do, like they aren’t crossing a hundred lines. Both of the mugs are set down on the coffee table. She turns her body to face him, looking up at him with doe’s eyes, and his entire body hums for her.

  “He knows, Javier.” Her voice is a whisper. “He knows what you mean to me. He said if I don’t start working for him again, he’ll kill you.” She licks her lips, curling her fingers around his forearm. Her eyes are welling up again. “I can’t…”

  “Shh, 
  
    cielito
  
  .” He wants her out of her head, wants his girl back. He drops his voice, too, and tucks her hair behind her ear. “Gonna get you out of this.”

  She’s butter beneath him, soft and sighing. “Javi, I—”

  “I know.” His other hand slips around her hip, fingers teasing the skin beneath the hem of his sweatshirt. She’s so 
  
    soft
  
  .

  He drinks in her little gasp. “We can’t—”

  “I know.” He brings his hand forward, pressing gently into the small of her back and enjoying the way her warm body curves to him. He slides his hand back around the curve of her waist, memorising, relishing, making a map of the places he wants to explore.

  She whimpers when his hand leaves her skin, only to rest between her hip and thigh. “He’ll use it against me.”

  “I know, baby.” She’s close enough now that he can brush his lips to her temple in the mere suggestion of a kiss. “We’re gonna do this right,” he says, trailing his hand back up her side so he can grab her other hand and squeeze. “Hey? You and me.”

  She nods fervently. “You and me.”

  “That’s my girl,” he says into her ear.

  “What do I do?”

  “It’s already done. I just need you to do the final step for me.”

  She traces her fingers along his jawline and he feels the tremor through his spine. He’s at home, here, melting under her touch. He nudges the pads of her fingers with his nose, and she smiles at him like he saved her life. “Anything,” she whispers.'
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
User: Summarize the chapter based on the content provided, ensuring to follow the set format and emphasize key aspects within the specified length.
Assistant: