The humidity in Bogotá always had a way of making everything feel heavier, the air, the silence, and especially the tension radiating off Javier. He was leaning against the hood of his Bronco, a cigarette dangling from his lips, watching you climb out of a white sedan.

You looked exhausted, your hair a mess and your clothes wrinkled from forty-eight hours in a safehouse with Agent Morales. The mission had been a success, the kilos were seized, the wires were pulled, and the local contact was in zip ties. But Javier wasn't looking at the mission report. He was looking at the way Morales lingered just a second too long near you, and the way you didn't pull away when Morales brushed a stray hair from your face.

"Report will be on your desk by morning, Peña," Morales called out, offering a smug, knowing nod before heading toward the sedan.

Javier didn't move. He didn't even blink. He just waited until Morales was out of the driveway before he finally looked at you. His eyes were dark, bloodshot from lack of sleep and something far more volatile.

"The fuck was that?" he rasped, his voice like gravel.

"A successful op, Javi. You should be happy," you replied, trying to sidestep him. You were done. Done with the longing looks followed by the cold shoulder, done with the "it’s just the job" speeches.

He moved faster than you expected, grabbing your arm, not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to stop you in your tracks. "Don't play cute with me. I saw the way he looked at you. And I know that look on your face. You didn't just spend two days talking logistics in that hole, did you?"

"You told me three weeks ago you weren't a 'relationship guy,'" you snapped, wrenching your arm back. "You made it very clear where we stand. We’re partners who fuck when the stress gets too high. That was the deal, right? No strings? No commitment in this godforsaken country?"

Javier’s jaw tightened so hard you heard his teeth grind. He stepped into your personal space, the smell of nicotine and cheap coffee clouding around you.

"That doesn't mean you go and throw it at the first gringo who looks at you twice while you're undercover."

"I didn't 'throw' anything! It happened. It was a long night, we were wired, and unlike you, Morales doesn't feel the need to give me a lecture on emotional detachment every time he touches me."

"So you fucked him." It wasn't a question anymore. It was a low, dangerous snarl.

"What do you want from me, Javi? You don't get to claim the territory if you refuse to sign the deed. You wanted casual? This is casual. I'm a free agent."

Javier slammed his hand against the side of the Bronco, the loud thwack echoing in the empty lot. He was shaking, a rare crack in the cool, calculated DEA exterior.

"You think I give a shit about the 'deal' right now?" he hissed, stepping so close his chest brushed yours, pinning you between his heat and the cold metal of the car. "I’ve been sitting here for two days imagining every way that op could go south, every way you could get hurt, and you’re out there letting some amateur climb all over you just to prove a point?"

"I wasn't proving a point," you whispered, your voice trembling despite your resolve. "I was moving on. Because you told me to."

"Well, I was wrong, okay? I’m a hypocrite and a son of a bitch... But seeing you walk back here with him..." He trailed off, his hand moving from the car to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair with a desperate grip. "It’s making me want to burn this whole city down. I don't care what I said. You’re fucking mine, and if Morales even looks at you tomorrow, I’ll send him back to DC in a box."

He didn't wait for an answer. He crashed his mouth against yours, not with the usual practiced smoothness, but with a raw, jealous hunger that tasted like anger and Terronico. It was a claim, messy and overdue, proving that Javier Peña was a lot of things, but "casual" wasn't one of them.