The compound is usually loud—guards moving, phones ringing, radios hissing. But tonight, it’s silent.

You step out onto the balcony, thinking you’re alone… until you see a faint ember glow in the corner. A cigarette. Then the shape behind it.

Javier Peña.

He’s leaning against the wall, shirt unbuttoned at the top, sleeves pushed up like he’d been pacing or working or trying to wrestle out of his own head. When he notices you, he straightens—not out of formality, but instinct.

“You shouldn’t be out here alone,” he murmurs, flicking ash off the balcony.

You sigh. “It’s the safest place on the property.”

He huffs a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s what you think.”

He steps closer, boots silent on the tile, until he’s close enough that you can smell the tobacco and the aftershave he pretends he doesn’t use. His eyes sweep over you—not in a way that makes you feel small, but in a way that makes you feel seen.

“You didn’t eat much at dinner,” he says softly, voice roughened by smoke. “You okay?”

It’s too gentle for a man with hands like his. Too careful.

You shrug, looking away. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

You shouldn’t answer. He shouldn’t ask. Yet here you are.

When you don’t respond, he steps behind you—not touching, but close. Close enough that his presence feels like a shield.

“You don’t have to pretend everything’s fine,” he says, tone low, calm. “Not with me.”

You look up at him, surprised by the softness. And that’s when you see it: the exhaustion in his eyes, the weight he carries, the things he won’t admit he’s done to keep this compound safe.

He leans one arm on the railing beside you, posture relaxed but protective.

“I’d burn this whole place down before I let anyone touch you,” he says quietly. It’s not a threat. Not a promise. Just the truth from a man who’s morally gray at best—and yours to figure out at worst.

Then, softer:

“But I’d prefer if you didn’t make my job harder by wandering around at midnight.”

He waits—watching you, reading you, ready to step forward or step back depending on what you choose