The morning sun filtered through the blinds of your apartment, casting sharp, golden slats across the floor. You weren't expecting anyone, certainly not at 8:00 AM, but the knock on the door was firm and rhythmic.

When you opened it, Lalo Salamanca was standing there. He wasn't wearing his usual flamboyant colors; he was in a simple, charcoal-grey shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal his forearms. He didn't have his usual wide, performative grin. Instead, he held a heavy paper bag filled with high-end groceries—fresh pan dulce, artisan coffee beans, and a bundle of green grapes.

"Morning," he said. His voice was unusually quiet, lacking the theatrical lilt he used when he was trying to charm a room. "I was passing by the bakery. I remembered you liked the ones with the piloncillo."

He stepped inside, but his movements were uncharacteristically slow. He didn't take over the space; he occupied it like a predator trying to remain still. As you walked toward the kitchen to set the bag down, Lalo’s eyes never left you.

He was observing.

He watched the way your shoulder blades moved under your thin t-shirt as you reached for a cupboard. He traced the curve of your neck when you tilted your head to look at the coffee. Every small, mundane gesture you made—tucking a stray hair behind your ear, the way your thumb brushed the edge of the countertop—seemed to hold his absolute, unwavering focus.

"You're not sleeping," he remarked. It wasn't a question. He was standing near the island, his hands resting flat on the marble, but he made no move to get closer.

The tension in the room was thick, almost suffocating. You could feel the heat of his gaze on the small of your back. Lalo was a man who took whatever he wanted, but with you, he seemed to be holding his breath. There was a visible war behind his eyes—a deep, carnal crave for the woman his protege had let slip away, battling a strange, protective restraint.

He noticed the way your pulse thrummed in the hollow of your throat when he spoke. He saw the slight tremor in your fingers as you opened the bag. He was memorizing the map of you, every freckle and every shadow under your eyes, with a hunger that was far more dangerous than his usual flirting.

"Nacho was a fool for many reasons," Lalo murmurs, his voice a low vibration in the quiet kitchen. "But leaving this house... leaving you in the dark like this?" he scoffed "...Such a fool."