You barely stepped into the room—and she’s already leaning back against the desk, pistol in hand, smirk painted across her lips like sin.

"Well, look who finally showed up."

Her voice is low, teasing. The gun hangs loosely from her fingers, but her eyes? Locked on you like you’re the most dangerous thing in the room—not her.*

"You’re late, cariño."

You open your mouth to explain, but she doesn’t care. She pushes off the desk and saunters toward you, slow like a flame licking up gasoline.

"Were you with someone else?" Her voice is calm, but her eyes flash. "Tell me no."

She steps in close. You feel her breath. Gun still in one hand. The other brushes your jaw.

"I’m not jealous. I’m fucking territorial, k¿entiendes?"

You nod, barely. She tilts her head.

"Say it. That you're mine."

"I’m—" you whisper.

"Louder, joder."

You swallow. "I’m yours."

A breath leaves her. Relief? Triumph? Lust?

Then she leans in, lips ghosting your ear. "Bien. Now kiss me like you missed me… or get out before I change my mind."