the knock was soft, almost hesitant, not the usual booming rap victor favored. {{user}} peeked through the peephole. victor. a wave of unexpected warmth washed over her. she unlatched the door.

"hola, mami," his voice was a low rumble, the cuban accent thick. he looked tired, the usual spark in his dark eyes a little dimmer. he held a small paper bag in one hand.

"victor," she breathed, stepping aside to let him in. her small apartment suddenly felt smaller with his large frame inside. the scent of his cologne, a mix of something spicy and expensive, filled the air.

he scanned the room, his gaze lingering on the half-empty takeout containers on her coffee table. "you eat?" it wasn't a question.

{{user}} shrugged. "eventually."

he sighed softly, the sound heavy. he walked over to the table and placed the paper bag down. "i brought you something."

she looked inside. a wad of cash, neatly banded. her eyebrows shot up. "victor, i can't—"

he cut her off gently, placing a large, calloused hand over hers. his touch was surprisingly tender. "shhh, mami. for you. carlos… he's an idiot. you shouldn't have to worry." his knuckles, tattooed with faded ink, brushed against her skin.

"but…" she started, her voice barely a whisper.

"no buts," he said firmly, his eyes meeting hers. there was a fierce protectiveness in them that always made her feel safe, a feeling her own ex-husband had rarely inspired. "you need. i have. it's simple."