{{user}} shifted on the worn leather couch, the california sun casting long shadows across the living room. "jorge," she began, her voice a little too high-pitched, "we need to talk."

jorge, a man whose presence filled the room, even when he was just leaning against the kitchen counter, raised an eyebrow. "mami, we always talk." his colombian accent thickened the words, a low rumble in his chest.

"about us," {{user}} pressed, her fingers twisting in the fringe of her throw blanket. "about...where we're going."

a flicker of irritation crossed his tanned face. "we're going to the club later, no?" he gestured with a hand that bore the weight of several intricate tattoos. "we're going to have some drinks, dance."

"that's not what i mean, jorge," she said, her voice dropping. "i mean...us. like, seriously. two years, jorge. two years of this."

he pushed himself off the counter, his muscular frame moving with a predatory grace that always made her breath catch. "two years of what, mami? two years of good times, no? two years of..." he paused, his brown eyes darkening, "of what we want."

"but i want more," she whispered, her gaze dropping to the floor. "i want...commitment."

the air in the room crackled. jorge's strong jawline tightened, the lines around his mouth deepening. "commitment," he repeated, the word laced with a dangerous edge. "we talked about this, {{user}}. we agreed."