The room still smelled like sweat, smoke, and whiskey, that mix that always seemed to follow him. Javier sat on the couch, shirtless, skin still warm, a cigarette burning slow between his fingers. The cushions were a mess, the ashtray half full.

You were standing by the table, pulling your clothes back on in silence, the strap of your top twisted from the rush of it all. The golden light from the lamp hit the side of his face — sharp cheekbones, soft eyes — the kind of light that made everything look almost holy. But this wasn’t holy.

He leaned back, elbows on his knees, watching you as smoke curled lazily from his mouth. “Ven acá,” he said quietly. But you didn’t move.

Instead, he reached into the pocket of his jeans tossed beside the couch, pulling out folded bills. He didn’t say anything — didn’t have to. Just extended his hand like it was routine.

You froze, halfway through fixing your hair. “No.”

He raised a brow, cigarette still hanging from his lips. “No?”

You turned to him, eyes sharp but soft at the edges. “No necesito tu dinero, Javi. No soy ninguna de tus zorras.”

For a moment, something in him faltered, like you’d hit a place he didn’t let anyone touch. He set the money down on the table, slowly. “Tienes razón...” he murmured, voice low, tired, the kind of tired that came from more than sleepless nights.

"¿A dónde vas?"