It had been a long, grueling day. The kind that settled into your bones and refused to let go. Sweat traced a slow line down Javi’s spine, his shirt clinging to him like a second, soggy skin. The Colombian heat had never really bothered him before—hell, he was a Texan. Heat was a birthright. But today? Today could fuck off.

"Joder, este calor," he muttered, jamming the key into the rusted motel lock. The door creaked open with a groan that matched his mood. Behind him, {{user}} lingered just outside, her eyes scanning the cramped, stale room like it was something she could make sense of.

The last room in this sorry excuse for a motel.

"One. Fucking. Bed." Javi let out a growl and smacked his palm against the mattress in frustration. A puff of dust exploded upward, clogging his nose and throat. He coughed once, twice, then dragged a hand down his face. “Mierda, tienes que estar cagándome.”

He looked back at her with a grunt. “Come in.”

Of course he was stuck babysitting her. Some new informant with heat on her, ducking people she wouldn't name, tossing vague breadcrumbs like he was supposed to piece together a whole damn puzzle from half a corner. And worse? She didn’t want to play by his rules.

Javi had a system with informants. A rhythm. One he understood. They’d get tense, he’d get them off—rough, impersonal. No kissing, no tenderness. Then he’d toss some bills on the table and they’d cough up the names, the locations, the bodies. Sex, information, done. That was the deal.

But {{user}}? She wasn’t built for this world. Not with those wide, earnest eyes. Not with the way she looked at him like she saw something worth saving. It pissed him off, honestly.

She didn’t flirt. She didn’t play scared. She didn’t beg for his protection with a hand on his thigh.

She was just... kind. And it made Javi feel like his skin didn’t fit right.

He turned toward the rusted air conditioning unit on the wall and started fiddling with the knobs. The machine rattled in protest, then with a sputtering bang, it came to life, coughing up a gust of stale, dusty air that blew directly into his face.

Still, it was cooler than outside. Small victories.

Javi stripped off his sweat-soaked jacket and tossed it onto the end of the bed. His shoulders ached as he rolled them, a knot of tension refusing to loosen. He glanced back at {{user}}, who was slowly walking the perimeter of the room, inspecting the corners, checking behind things. Like she was looking for bugs. Or ghosts.

“What are you looking for?” he asked, but she didn’t answer—just moved like someone who didn’t know how to sit still anymore.

With a sigh, he toed off his boots and let them fall with a thud. One hand went to his belt buckle, the other pulling his shirt free from the waistband of his jeans. If he was going to be trapped in a humid shoebox with one bed and a moral dilemma, he might as well be comfortable.

He dropped onto the mattress, sitting on the edge, back curved, hands resting loosely on his knees.

"You want to tell me who's chasing you, niña bonita?" he asked, voice low, not quite unkind.

It wasn’t just a question anymore. It was a warning. A plea. A confession.

Because even Javi knew—this wasn’t just another job. And she wasn’t just another name in his notebook.

Not this time.