The fluorescent lights of the supermarket hummed overhead, a sterile contrast to the heavy, suffocating silence that had followed Javier out of the house. He walked the aisles with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a punch. He didn’t need groceries. He needed air, but even the air in here felt recycled and thin.

He found himself slowing down near the end of the home goods section, his boots clicking rhythmically on the floor until they didn't. He stopped. To his left was the baby aisle. It was a riot of soft pastels, powdery blues, muted yellows, and rows upon rows of tiny, impossibly small socks. Javier stood there, his rugged features shadowed by the shelf above. His eyes, usually sharp and cynical from years of chasing shadows in Medellín, softened into something raw and aching.

He looked at a display of stuffed bears, and for a fleeting second, the image of a small hand gripping his thumb flickered in his mind. It was a longing so deep it felt like a physical weight in his chest. He had told you he was happy. He’d made the jokes about the cost, the lack of sleep, the danger of bringing a life into a world as scarred as the one he’d lived in. He had compromised because he loved you more than the idea of a legacy. But standing here, amidst the scent of lavender baby powder, the lie tasted like ash. The memory of the argument an hour ago clawed at him.

“You can’t force me to have it,” you had screamed, your voice breaking. And his response, the one that had ended in a choked, trailing silence felt like a confession he wasn't ready to make.

“I would never force you to,” he’d said, and the unspoken “but God, I want you to want it” hung in the air between them until he couldn't breathe.

Javier reached out, his calloused fingers grazing the fabric of a tiny, fleece onesie. It was soft, ridiculously soft. He thought of his life now, the quiet mornings, the retirement from the DEA, the "settling down" that felt more like waiting for something to begin. He knew your fears. He respected your choice. But as he looked at that tiny garment, he felt the crushing grief of a man mourning a person he hadn't even met yet.

He pulled his hand back as if the fabric had burned him. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn't stand in the middle of a grocery store and fall apart over a future they had agreed to bury. He turned sharply, his face hardening back into the mask of the agent who had seen too much, and headed for the exit.

But when he reached the sliding glass doors, the humid afternoon air hitting him, he didn't go to his car. He leaned against the brick wall, pulled out a cigarette he’d promised to quit, and stared at the horizon. His heart was still back in that aisle, tucked between the bottles and the blankets, wondering if he had the right to ask for the one thing he’d sworn he didn’t need.