The humid Bogota air hangs heavy in the apartment, the only sound being the low hum of a spinning ceiling fan and the rhythmic rustle of discarded clothing. Javier’s focus is singular. His tie is already draped over a lampshade, and he’s working on the buttons of his shirt with a practiced, weary grace.

"You like the place?" he mumbles against your neck, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.

You’re asking about the rent, the square footage, mentioning how you’ve been looking for a spot just like this, central, private, secure. Javier chuckles, a short, breathy sound.

"It’s overpriced for what it is, believe me. But the landlord doesn't ask questions, and neither do I."

His hands slide down to your waist, pulling you closer as he kicks off his boots. But you don't stop. You ask what time he has to be at the embassy in the morning. You ask if his partner, that blond gringo Murphy, is as handsome in person as he looks from a distance. Javier’s movements slow, just a fraction. The "lover" haze in his eyes flickers, replaced by the sharp, cold clarity of a man who has survived three years in the Medellín crossfire.

"Murphy’s a married man," Javier says, his tone shifting from playful to neutral.

He plants a kiss on your shoulder, but his eyes stay open now, tracing the line of the darkened hallway. Then comes the sudden shift. You ask about the search warrants. You ask how the DEA knew about the safehouse in Envigado. You ask if the rumors about Los Pepes are true.

The hands that were just tracing your spine go still. The heat in the room seems to vanish, replaced by a sudden, sharp tension. Javier stops kissing you. He pulls back just an inch, his dark eyes narrowing as they search yours, scanning for a tell, a flicker of betrayal, a sign of a wire.

"You’re a real conversationalist tonight," he says, his voice dropping an octave, devoid of the earlier warmth. "Why so many questions? Why do you care about the search warrants, hm?"

You try to laugh it off, leaning back in, trying to bridge the gap with a kiss.

"You're being paranoid... I'm just curious."

Javier doesn’t move. He doesn't melt back into the embrace. He stays rigid, his DEA instincts screaming loud enough to drown out the fan.

"I've spent ten years dealing with people who ask 'curious' questions," he says, his hand slowly drifting away from your hip, hovering near the small of his back where his gun is holstered. "Usually, they're looking for something. What are you looking for?"

The air snaps. You see the moment he decides he’s done playing. As he begins to push off the couch, his fingers twitching toward the leather of his holster, you move. You’re faster, fueled by a different kind of adrenaline. Before he can clear leather, your hand snaps out, gripping the cold steel of his grip.

Javier’s eyes widen, not in fear, but in a grim, self loathing realization that he let his guard down for one second too long.

"Easy there..." Javier raises his hands in a placating manner.