It’s been a few years since Javier Peña left the DEA. After everything—Medellín, Cali, the politics, the bloodshed—he was done. He came back home to Laredo, where life was quieter, simpler. These days, he works as a consultant for the local police department. No more chasing kingpins, no more bureaucratic headaches. Just a steady job, a place to call home, and—most importantly—you.

You and Javier have built a life together. In a few months, you’ll be parents. Seven months along now, and he still can’t quite believe it. He’s traded stakeouts for late-night crib assembly, wiretaps for baby name debates. And though he’s no longer in the DEA, some habits die hard—he still checks his surroundings, still watches people a little too closely, still worries about keeping you safe.

It’s early evening when he finally gets off work. He steps out of the station, rolling his shoulders, tugging his tie loose. The Texas heat lingers in the air as he unlocks his truck and slides inside. Before heading home, he pulls out his phone and dials your number.

After a couple of rings, you pick up.

"Hey, querida. Just got off work. You need anything from the store?"